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chaptersleftunwritten · 4 months ago

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Demanding more

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Blurb: After Chrissy’s unfaithfulness to Eddie, Eddie realises that maybe he has been harbouring feelings for you for longer than he ever cared to notice. Is it too late for him to make it up to you?

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Friend!Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+, slight angst (I know, I’m sorry!), mutual pining, cursing, alcohol consumption, trust issues, claustrophobia, some out of character anger from Eddie, reckless fire usage, pet names, kissing. Characters are 20+

divider by @sxmmerberries & @reveriesources

“I need to know that you’re okay.”

Silence. A deep void of idle and infinite dark.

“I need to know that you’re going to be okay, at least…”

A plead. Bruised knees. Quaking breath. Clasped hands shaking. No rest.

“What do you want me to say? Tell me word for word and I’ll say it.” Eddie’s voice is a hoarse croak and the small light that you harbour in your chest dampens further at the sound, “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t understand why you keep coming back to see me.”

“Because I love you.”

“Because you’re my friend.” The blade wedged into the bone of your sternum plunges further and twists mercilessly; so agonisingly paralysing that you almost wince aloud at the pain.

Red, tear burnt eyes meet yours and you internally flinch at the sight. You’ve never seen Eddie this way. So broken… so defeated.

It’s as if nettles sting at your own eyes and you blink away any moisture that threatens to gather on your waterline, “We are friends, right?” You ask again. Breathless and uncertain.

Before the chaos of the fight at the party you couldn’t remember much, so it scared you to know that you had contact with Eddie and you couldn’t remember what you had said to him. Or what he had said to you…

“Correct.” He forces a smile, just for you.

The relief that washes over you dissolves the palpable tension that smothered the air and Eddie feels his own rigidness melt away at the realisation that you weren’t the one who hurt him. Yes, you were Chrissy’s friend, but you weren’t her. You weren’t Chrissy. And you didn’t deserve this cold shoulder that he was dishing out to everyone.

He could be himself around you.

“I’m gonna be okay. You don’t have to worry about me so much.” He offers you a tight lipped smile and you return one similar except that it was full of sincerity and warmth.

“I get that I can’t change what happened, but I can be here with you and hold your hand through the storm,” you sigh softly, adverting your gaze to a nearby decaying rose. It’s petals have turned a dark wine colour and its stem has moulded, “I know what it’s like to watch someone that you lov- admire, turn their attention to someone else. Someone that isn’t you.” Your mouth sours and you feel your lips pinch downward at the corners faintly, “It gets easier with time. I’m sure you’ll find someone who’ll love you until their dying breath.”

The cool breeze lifts your hair from your knitted sweater clad shoulders, allowing the strands to flow freely behind you. You embrace the feeling of the freshness upon your skin. There was something so comforting about it. Something so freeing: like being reborn. Rejuvenated. You allow your eyes to close momentarily as you replenish yourself, letting your spirit breathe.

You quickly clam up at the sight of Eddie’s hawk like gaze fixated on your face when your eyes reopen and your cheeks flush furiously; your body’s way of punishing you for being so open and vulnerable around him.

“You seem like you’re busy,” you gesture knowingly to the scrap pieces of paper laid in front of him that had a bunch of sloppily written lyrics scored across it, “I’ll leave you be.” You punctuate your words with a brisk rise to your feet and you flatten out your jeans mindlessly that had become wrinkled from being perched cross legged on the grass. Eddie’s eyes never leave you. Not for a second.

“I’ll see you around, then?” He asks, his voice is a croak.

“Of course. I’ll see you later, Eddie.” You sling your heavy book bag over your shoulder as you prepare yourself to walk away.

He stops you in your tracks, “Call me Ed’s.” It’s evident that Eddie didn’t intend for his words to sound as desperate as they did and you try your best to ignore the plea in his voice. Out of respect for him and his situation.

“Okay.” You breathe softly with a nod and a sweet but sombre smile, “Bye, Ed’s.”

Eddie’s eyes warm as they watch you walk away and he even chuckles lightly to himself at how you look bashfully back at him over your shoulder; only to quickly dart your vision in front of you at the realisation that he was also admiring you.

And in that exact moment, Eddie can see a light at the end of this endless dark tunnel. In the form of a friend. An honest, loving and cherished friend…

You.

‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.’

William Shakespeare

Part of you felt sickeningly grateful that this had happened. As much as you hated the fact that Eddie was wounded, it gave you a feeling of opportunity. To be there for him and for him to realise how great you can be. How perfect you are for him.

However, upon witnessing his stinging red and bloodshot eyes that could only have come from his penetrative sadness you realise that you couldn’t see this as an ‘opportunity’. You couldn’t throw yourself at his feet and hope for his love to finally be requited. Not with him being so deeply hurt. So vulnerable and delicate.

Not delicate like a flower. Delicate like a bomb.

These silly ideals only happened in the fairy tales. The prince saves the princess from the wicked villain and they run off together to live happily ever after. But this was real life…

And there was no one coming to save you.

So instead, you settle for just being his friend. The friend that he has always had. The friend, that is all you’ll ever be to Edward Munson.

There comes a tricky time in your life where you just have to accept that some things will never be. They weren’t written in the stars the way you had always dreamed. Your prayers weren’t answered and all of your attempts at happiness and perfection fail.

You have to accept it. And move on.

No matter the cost. No matter how agonising. You had to ignore the gaping hole in your chest that laid bleeding all over the earth beneath your feet. Your sky tainted red with blood and fury and your tears and skin were flames. You had to endure this Hell.

For him.

And you could do it. You had walked through fire before— you were numb to the blistering heat.

But what you couldn’t handle was the claustrophobia you were feeling at The Hideout whilst you watched Eddie rock his feelings out from his bones. From his quaking soul. The low lit hall was captured in a Hellish red glowing aura and reality begins to distort around you.

“I wrote a song for a girl that wasn’t really worth my time,” Sweat glistens on Eddie’s body, dripping down the curve of his neck and from his face. His drenched black unruly curls stick to his forehead and you watch a drunken and sinister smile possess his face as he pulls a few sheets of paper from the back pocket of his distressed jeans, “And what’d you do when people waste your time?” He is handed a petrol lighter by Gareth, “You burn that shit to the fucking ground!” He screams in a rage you have never heard come from his sweet pillowy lips as he flicks the flint and engulfs the pages in hot red crimson. A strum from his guitar screeches through the space, rattling your ears and causing your heart to palpitate heavily.

The crowd goes ballistic, like wild animals and you are suddenly in a mosh pit of adrenaline surged metal heads. All banging their heads and leaping around. People grab your shoulders to try to propel themselves upward and into the band’s line of vision all whilst unknowingly forcing you down toward the linoleum ground.

Black spots fill your vision and your knees threaten to give out beneath you as you struggle to suck air into your lungs. An avalanche of sweaty body’s drowning you until you are nearly crouched onto the floor and you accept your fate as your hands brace themselves— stuck to the tarnished pattern beneath your sneakers.

“Woah, woah, woah!! Guys, c’mon! Open up! Open the fuck up! Let’s be respectful!” Eddie leaps from the stage platform and the crowd parts like the Red Sea at his presence, “Not cool man, this isn’t what we do here.” Gareth continues to drum on a beat as Eddie’s silhouette looms over you like a dark angel sent from above. His palm outstretched toward your cowering frame and you take it hesitantly; caught off guard by his strength that springs you to your feet.

“Y’alright, sweetheart? You good?” Your chest heaves for air as Eddie leads you back through the crowd and to the front of the stage, his hand clutching yours like there’s no tomorrow, “Stay right here where I can see ya.” One of his chocolate brown eyes wink at you and you feel as if you could levitate.

“Where was I? Oh, yeah! Let’s fucking do this!!” And the song continues to shock and shake the room with every pulse and strum of an instrument. The crowd returning back to how they were moments ago.

Feral.

And Eddie meant what he said. He was looking at you the entire time. Making sure you were okay.

“So…” you twirl a strand of your hair around your index finger. It wasn’t intentionally flirtatious, it was something you found great comfort in when you were feeling particularly on edge and Eddie had the scary capability of always putting you there: teetering on possibility of falling from the cliff side, “You really wrote a song for Chrissy?”

The stalky man hums, “Yeah. It was garbage, though. It wasn’t real… in the end.” His gentle eyes harden, “The lesson here is that not everyone deserves a song written about them. I don’t know how all the bigger musicians do it all of the time. So faux. So deluding.” He sips at a can of beer he has held loosely between his fingers, “Thank you for coming tonight. It got a bit rowdy in there.”

A set of traffic lights above your head capsulate you and Eddie in a ghoulish green haze, sharpening your features and turning Eddie’s chocolate eyes to look more like deep and black bullet holes. No light was reflected in them. They gaped and swallowed every speck.

“You have such raw talent, Ed’s. It would silly of me to not come and see you play.” You offer him a toothy grin, “Besides, when you make it to be big and famous I can say ‘Hey, I know that guy!’ And everyone will swoon and ask me for stories about you.” Your comic words cause Eddie to laugh and shake his head.

“You won’t have to tell people that you know me, Hon. I’ll be there in the flesh to solidify your fairytales.” The way Eddie spoke enchanted you. It didn’t matter what he was saying— he had this magical enticing lull to his voice that sent you into a trance of total calmness. You were incredibly smitten by him.

The pizza place across the street engulfs your nostrils with the perfume of freshly baked bread and burnt cheese. The lights on the building flicker in your peripheral and you watch as people pumped full of toxins waddle and sway their way over to it from The Hideout. Drunk and in desperate need of some grease and salt.

“You saved me tonight, Y’know? If it weren’t for you I think I would’ve been crushed to death in there.” The chilly night air around you stills, “Truly. You are my knight in shining leather, Eddie Munson.” You pinch at the sleeve of his leather jacket with a giggle and Eddie crushes his beer can with a soft smile and tosses it into a nearby trash bin.

“You’re welcome, M’lady,” He bows down in front of you, almost curtsying, “It was a treacherous journey indeed and an act of cowardly courage but it ensured your safety. So, it was a risk worth pursuing.”

He was such a nerd and his dorkiness made you laugh a little too abruptly. But it was something you loved so much about him. His ability to stay creative and to stay in touch with his inner child. His vulnerability and his strength. You admired it. You were enamoured by him.

“How are you getting home tonight? Do you have a ride?”

You shake your head, “Oh, no. I was probably going to walk and take in the night air. It’s not too late.” You give a tiny shrug of your shoulders and Eddie eyes you knowingly, his head tilted to the side.

“I can drive you. If you want?” His ringed fingers plunge into the pockets of his coat and you chew your lip in thought.

Of course you wanted him to take you home. But it was best for you to remain two steps away from him. For the safety of your own heart.

“You’ve been drinking tonight… I don’t think it would be wise for us to climb into a piece of heavy machinery together.” Eddie’s eyes flicker from you to over his right shoulder as he peeks at his van that is parked across the street a few paces away. A small yellow ticket adorns his windshield and he curses under his breath at the sight of it.

Eddie’s head bounces in the form of a nod, “You’re right. Safer that way,” He palms the back of his neck in a wringing motion, “I’ll see you soon then? Maybe you can call me when you get home… to let me know you’re okay. Obviously.”

A side of Eddie you had never seen before was beginning to unveil itself to you and you were sceptical of if it were a good thing or bad thing. He was being overly cautious and protective of you and your whereabouts. He was showing you such care and consideration. Was he using you as a rebound? Or did he genuinely worry for you?

“Yeah. Maybe.” You bite back the acid ridden annoyance in your tone, trying your best not to jump to any conclusions about Eddie’s intentions with you. But with the way he was looking at you, how were you supposed to truly know?

“I’ll wait by the phone.” He smiles so sweetly it could cause your teeth to decay— but that paranoid part of you wouldn’t allow you to enjoy this moment. The bruised pieces of your heart were telling you to run far far away. And to never look back.

“Goodnight, Eddie.” Your voice was rushed and monotonous.

“Call me, Ed’s—“

Your back is turned swifter than the gust of wind whipping at your face and hair and Eddie watches you, helplessly, as you disappear into the thick of the night with a slightly dampened heart and a small frown on his face.

‘Love is friendship that has caught fire.’

Ann Landers

“Hello?” Eddie’s voice sounds through the phone receiver, groggy and hoarse. Your heart does somersaults in your chest and excitement finds itself burying between your thighs.

“Did you wait by the phone?” You reply, slightly embarrassed and meek. It was now 1:30am and the night was beginning to spill into the morning. You were becoming delirious with lack of sleep and it was bleeding through every word you spoke.

“It’s you,” He chirps much more perkily now, “Did you get home alright?” You can hear a shift of fabric on the other end of the line, like a duvet cover rustling and you can only assume that Eddie was repositioning himself in bed.

“Yeah, that’s why I called, actually. I wanted to let you know I was okay. I didn’t want you to worry…” You don’t quite understand why you said it, but you did. Over the past couple of weeks Eddie had hinted at caring for you. He had given you more attention than ever before and so naturally… you thought he really did care. And that he might actually be worried about you making it home in one piece.

“Thanks.” The line goes quiet for a quick beat and it gives your paranoia every just cause to bubble to the surface.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” You finish your sentence with an unintentional gulp as your mouth longs for hydration.

“I was only dozing off a little, don’t worry about it. I’m glad you called, sweetheart.” There’s that nickname again. The one you have come to adore. You can hear his sleepy smile through the phone, “You are probably the only person who has ever called me this late,” His quiet laugh is fatigued and careful as to not alarm his uncle who is destined to be sleeping close by, “Did you enjoy the concert tonight?”

You hum, “I did.”

Eddie hums a tune back, like a bird singing you to sleep, “And what was your favourite song?”

You are quiet for a moment, reminiscent and concentrated.

“I would have to say the one about the rose. I hadn’t heard it before,” You grin to yourself, “Can you sing it for me?”

There is a shocked waver to Eddie’s deep voice, “What— like, right now?” You can sense his jitters through the telephone.

“Only the chorus…” Although he can’t see your face, you pout out your bottom lip pleadingly, “Please?”

There is another shift of movement on the other end of the line and Eddie clears his throat, full of hesitance, “Alright.” His voice is clipped, “Just remember that this debuted today so it is basically still a work in progress…”

You couldn’t exactly pinpoint his emotion, but you could tell that he was experiencing some sort of shyness and there was a slight withdrawal. He was no longer as confident as he was talking to you moments ago.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, I was only joking around—“

“No no, I want to. I’m glad you liked it… it means a lot to me, darling.”

Darling. That’s a new one.

Vibrations hit your ears as Eddie skilfully hums the tune to the song, manipulating his voice to lyrically match his beautifully dark words.

“And even if you were nothing but a wilted flower with a shrinking stem, I would still hold you close and preserve you in the worn pages of my blackened heart. The reason that I’m breathing, the love that keeps me reaping… oh.. oh oh,” He pauses for breath, “And you keep on bleeding, Oh… oh oh.”

As his words disperse into deafening silence on the phone you sit completely statue still. Almost too afraid to move. Petrified to disturb the moment. His songs were like poetry and it nearly brought you to a flood of tears.

“That was… wow…” You release a deep breath out through your nostrils, “You should consider recording an acoustic version, Ed’s, because that was… epic.”

“You think so?” He asks with shock laced in his tone and you swear you can see his brown puppy dog eyes looking right at you. But maybe they were just seared into your memory. He was embedded into your soul.

“One hundred percent.” Your fingers shakily toy with the hem of your cotton sleep shorts, the pads of your finger tips tracings the small pink love hearts that have been sewn into the light fabric and you feel a sudden surge of energy. Excitement. Adrenaline. Happiness.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You really are too kind to me.”

Before you can respond Eddie is yawning into the cavity of your ear and you can hear him struggling to keep the expression silent.

“It’s getting late,” Your eyes follow the coiled wire attached to your phone as they search for the clock on your night stand. It now read 1:55am, “I understand if you want to try and hit the hay. Early bird gets the worm, right?”

“We can chat a little longer, if you’d like?” He suggests casually, “I’m usually a night owl anyways, it’s the booze making me a little drowsy but it’s wearing off. Can feel it.”

You bite back a shit-eating smile.

“I’d like that. How about we stay on the line until 2:15am and then we can call it quits?” You come to sit up on your mattress in a cross legged position, your legs comfortably sitting in a basket as you move yourself closer to the phone receiver, “Deal?”

There’s a brief pause.

“Deal.”

The blood orange rays slicing through your bedroom curtains awoke you rudely and you rapidly blink away the sunlight, almost blinded by its intensity. The sound of bird wings flapping into fight filled the eerily quiet atmosphere of your room and a loud groan vibrates from your tired throat as you force yourself up into a stretch with your arms extended above your head.

You were optimistic about the day until you caught a glimpse through the glass and saw the rain dancing devilishly against the concrete. It’s was as though the water mocked you. With every hellish dance it thundered against the ground your feelings for Eddie only grew fonder. It grinned evilly in your face with every feeble attempt you made to forget him. A reminder that no matter what you did, he would always be there. He would always possess your soul. Your efforts would always ultimately fail.

By the time you burst into your morning lecture you are soaked to the bone from head to toe. Your hair sticks in drenched ringlets to your shivering goosebump covered skin and the fabric of your clothes cling for dear life to your limbs. No corner of your body was left unseen. Every curve prominent and protruding.

“You’re late.” Professor Hunter snarls distastefully beneath his breath, his Dublin accent bleeding through as you pass by his large dark oak stained desk to a free seat. He smelt of lingering coffee breath and musk; almost like he had smoked a cigarette moments before entering the room and washed it down with an americano. His black hair was pinstriped with grey, patterned like a skunks tail and his face was covered in messy prickly looking stubble. His blue eyes were heavily lidded as they searched your face in annoyance, longing for a poor excuse for your short coming with his square glasses braced on the bridge of his slender nose.

“I’m only 3 minutes late—“

“Still. You showed up late to my lecture.”

“I’m sorry, I—“ He cuts you off, again.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

You bite your tongue, swallowing your backbone alongside every word you wished to say. As you sunk further into the green plush pillow of the velvet seat beneath you and your clothes slowly dried to be somewhat bearable you felt a heat growing on the back of your head and your mind filled with the inkling that someone was looking at you.

Mustering the strength to look back over your shoulder your breath catches in your throat at the two chestnut eyes that are staring right back at you. Eddie is shameless with his gaze and you fumble beneath it. Your cheeks heat to boiling point and your legs twitch toward the auditorium door; prepared to run, if needed.

Eddie’s lips twitch at the corners and you can tell within that very moment that he is biting back a laugh. It triggers something within you, a spontaneous and contagious response that causes your own shoulders to tremble as you try and contain a chuckle. Normally, you would take a scolding from a lecturer seriously but something about the whole situation humoured you in an abnormal way. You were giggling at something totally mediocre and you blamed Munson.

“What’s so funny, doll?” Your urge to erupt into a fit of laughter like a volcanic explosion subsides and dies quickly as your eyes settle on the male next to you.

Shaggy ringlets fall effortlessly to frame his perfectly blush cheeks and intense blue eyes narrow in on your features, making you retract and become comically still. His eyes were fire in water, filled to the brim with raging anger bubbling below their surface— like a tormented ocean battling against jagged rocks.

Billy Hargrove.

Billy fucking Hargrove had parked his denim clad ass right next to you.

You had heard the things about him. The craze surrounding his reputation. You knew what it was like to have his knuckles fracture your jaw— all because someone had told you about it in explicit detail.

You would never forgive Chrissy for explaining to you in intricate analysis what his dick felt like and what it looked like after their hook up before she sunk her claws into Eddie. She always felt the need to boast about those things to you— to make you feel inferior. And it worked a large majority of the time.

Billy smelt soil-rich with a hint of apple blossom and you found yourself fixated on the dark thickness of his eyebrows. So sharp and clean, like a knife, “Fine, don’t tell me.” He rolls his eyes at you and begins to tap the end of his pencil against the arm of his chair, “Better hope you weren’t laughing at me, though, sweetie.”

“No, I wasn’t laughing at you. I would never— why would I?” You wheeze nervously, your arms crossed over your chest as your finger nails dig into the plush flesh of your bicep.

Billy shrugs his massive meaty shoulders, his crystal like hues focusing on the hints of rain that still lingered in your hair and on your clothes, “You must be freezing, sat there in damp clothes. You want this? I’m not gonna wear it.” You stare doe eyed at the denim jacket he holds clutched tightly in his grasp, his fist outstretched toward you.

You eye him cautiously for a moment, waiting to see if he will withdraw his offer and laugh in your face but he doesn’t. In fact, he smiles at you and now you are left to question every piece of information you thought you knew about Billy.

Shakily, your own fingers wrap around the rough fabric as you take the jacket from him. A burgundy settles on your cheeks and you whisper a meek, “Thank you.” Which Billy only nods in response at.

You know it was just an innocent gesture and that there is no way Billy Hargrove would be remotely interested in you like that but still you couldn’t stop the ridiculous dark colour from painting your cheeks maroon as you slid your arms through the sleeves of his coat. A hushed sigh of relief washes over your body as warmth envelops you kindly.

And as Eddie watched from a few rows behind you, like a stranger looking through someone’s window. He knew. In that very moment, Eddie knew. Every whisper that his heart made that he quickly shut down because he was afraid and foolish. Every beaming smile that nearly split his face in half the moment he saw you from across the room. His sweaty palms and his over protective nature around you. It all finally made sense. Puzzle pieces clicking together effortlessly, almost mocking him with their clarity. He had overlooked them for so long. These signs that all pointed in the same direction; to you.

It angered him. His stupidity, immaturity and ignorance raged him in a way he had never felt before. His fury came like an impossible build up of steam which burnt his insides on its way out. And he deserved it. Every scolding piece of black tar that stuck itself to his flesh.

Anger, sadness, pain— so intertwined that perhaps their names ought to be tweaked to reflect the origins of those emotions. To show their raw authenticity and truth.

Eddie had lied to himself. He had led himself a stray. He had pulled the wool over his own two eyes and completely missed the angel that had been in front of him this entire time. Even when he was in a relationship with Chrissy, he felt that something had shifted that day at the movie theatre. Something unchangeable and unshakeable. He just wasn’t sure what it was.

This was the epiphany. His world stood still and everyone else seemed to fade from his vision into total nothingness as he admired you from afar.

But was he too late to tell you? Did you still feel anything for him? Because from where he was standing, it seemed as if you were ready to move on to someone new. Someone better than he is.

The saddest part was that he just wanted to see you happy. To see you smiling genuinely. For your eyes to light up and scrunch at the corners. For you to be as loved as much as you love others. As much as you loved him.

He had to tell you. Even if it would break his heart to hear you say that you didn’t want him anymore. Even if it felt like he was on the brink of death, walking barefoot along the sharp blade of a lengthy sword. He would bleed for you. He would paint himself scarlet in exchange for your love.

Thunder clapped the sky and lightning lit the murky clouds momentarily with lavender purple as it zapped through the air. Water was still pelting heavily onto the concrete and you dreaded the idea of having to walk 20 minutes to get back home. Classes had flown by and now you were waiting by the large glass exit, staring aimlessly out at how ferocious Mother Nature could truly be. That’s when a shadowy reflection appeared next to you.

“In need of a chariot ride, M’ lady?” As you turn to look over your shoulder you are met with Eddie’s signature Cheshire Cat smile and your heart does leaps and bounds in your chest, “This time around I am totally 100% sober, so the journey should be a pleasant one. No one’s lives are at risk...” Your mind flicks back to the night of his gig and how uncontrollable your powerful feelings multiplied for him. You were reminded of the sour fact that Eddie would never feel this way about you— he wouldn’t feel as tortured as you did with his close proximity. It was agony. Having him so close and yet so far. Your fingertips just out of reach.

Eddie was gazing at you like you were miles away but in reality you're only a few feet in front of him. His stare is hard, intense, but also melting and blank. As if he were on another planet and you somehow were the one who transported him there.

“I would really appreciate that, Ed’s. But only if you’re sure? My house is pretty out of the way…” You were currently living at home with your parents but you had been searching online for apartments closer to the campus grounds, considering you’ll be attending classes for the next three years of your life. Some of which looked as though they were pulled from your wildest dreams. Warm and whimsical. You just had to save up enough for the deposit and luckily you had started work at a close by diner as a waitress. The hourly rate was shitty but the tips were great; especially from the regulars who liked you.

“I would never leave you to walk home in that storm, love. Besides, it’s been a few days since I’ve seen you so I thought we can hang out for a little bit,” You watch as Eddie’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down nervously, “I’ll let you pick the music?”

An offer he knew that you couldn’t refuse.

“Even Kate Bush?” You always had a cassette tape of hers in your backpack with your walk-man.

A dramatic pause embraces Eddie.

“Yes. Even Kate Bush.” He offers you a tight lipped smile.

And just like that, you were sold.

It was a torrential race to get to the car without getting totally soaked but once you were both inside you burst into a fit of giggles, laboured breaths filling the small space as you watched the water stream down the front windscreen endlessly, “Wow, it really is chucking it down!” You try to smooth out your rain streaked hair and you tuck it behind your ears, shivering at the mere sight of the trees swaying back and forth with the strong wind. The sound of Eddie clipping in his seat belt draws your attention over to him and you ultimately find yourself unable to look anywhere else. You were a crow to Eddie’s shimmer. A moth to his flame. You were a girl who was freezing a moment ago and now it’s as if sunshine has met your skin and you no longer felt a thing.

“Remember your seatbelt.” Boldly, Eddie decides to reach over your frame and click you securely into the plush passenger seat, his fingers running under the belt across your lap as he pulled the strap tightly over your body. Corseting your into place. His touch lingers near you for a moment and you could have sworn you saw Eddie’s eyes flash with something foreign. Something distant and hidden. But whatever it was, he kept it tucked away.

He killed it.

“Are you warm enough? I can crank this bad boy up a notch if you want.” He plays with the AC thermostat, the tip of his tongue darted out to rest on his bottom lip in total concentration as warm air eventually starts blasting toward you and instantly your tense muscles relax.

“That’s lovely, thank you.” It was already beginning to get dark outside and there was something oddly comforting about listening to the rain pour down onto the metal roof of Eddie’s van as you both sat in total silence with one another. In the low light, just basking in the peace of one another’s presence, “I could stay like this forever.” Your thumbs fumble with each other.

“Yeah,” Your eyes meet his, “Me too, sweetheart.” It was strange to think that one singular persons existence could bring you so much fulfilment and happiness. As you looked at Eddie now, your soul smiled along side your mouth. Everything leading up to this simple moment felt right. Prophesied. Etched into ancient stone. Your love for Eddie would die with you. And even from the grave, you would push up roses that would bloom to spell his name.

“Eddie…” You had been here before. Confessing. Pleading. Rationalising. Chasing. You were sure he would listen this time— you were almost certain that he would actually talk to you about your feelings for him. Maybe his opinions of you had changed. Maybe… maybe he felt the same way.

“Yeah?” Masterfully, Eddie hid the hopeful jitter in his voice. And unfortunately, it was just enough for you to back step fully and keep your thoughts to yourself

“You… you remember where I live, right? I can totally give you directions if not. No biggie.” The three words you longed to say burrowed themselves back down into your chest, your heart spluttering and coughing as they forced their way back inside; where they’d remain for the foreseeable future.

Unbeknownst to you, Eddie’s chest also tightened with disappointment and devastation. But he had faith, and he knew that the right moment would come. Even if he had to initiate it.

“Of course I do— sort of… maybe? Okay, you may need to direct me a tiny bit.” His index finger and thumb pinch together momentarily to signify the minuscule amount of direction he may need from you and you smile knowingly at him. Content.

“Shall we see to it?” You gesture toward the road.

“We shall.” Eddie grins cockily as he shifts his rust bucket into gear and speeds off into the road, chuckling at the quick intake of breath he hears come from you as you gasp at a nearby car beeping at Eddie’s abrupt merge into traffic, “Relax, I’m a great driver. Promise. I could do this with my eyes closed—“

“Don’t you dare!” You squeal and Eddie’s nose crinkles as he laughs full heartedly beside you.

“Sweetheart, relax!! I would never endanger you like that…” He winks slyly at you and you shake your head with the hugest smile adoring your face. Adrenaline floods your veins from your near panic attack moments ago and you run your fingertips through your damp and tangled hair; slightly stressed.

That’s when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the winged side mirror and your heart plummets quickly to the pit of your stomach. Your mascara had streaked down your face and your hair was a bird nest upon your head from the wind and rain. Your clothes looked tattered and ruined and you couldn’t believe you hadn’t sorted yourself out sooner. Eddie was right next to you and you looked like a hot bag of dogshit.

“You could’ve told me I had mascara under my eyes,” You try to joke it off with a feeble laugh, wiping your fingers furiously across the delicate skin of your under eyes in an attempt to make yourself look half presentable but you knew that this wasn’t an easy fix, “God, I look a mess.” You gnaw on your bottom lip to contain your sudden urge to cry.

“What? No you don’t, not at all!” Eddie’s thick eyebrows knit together on his forehead, “I thought that was the look you were going for, honest! You were rocking it!” Eddie’s attempt to lighten the mood fails and a newfound panic washes over him, “You are beautiful all the same, hon. Cross my heart.” Eddie’s ears are met with a ringing silence as your eyes fixate on the road ahead and he swears in that moment he can hear your heart shatter.

You recognised the street and you knew that your house was now close by. Just a little further. Any minute now you would be able to feel despair openly and free of judgement; all you had to do was make it home and get far away from the curly haired man next to you.

“Sweetheart?” Eddie’s voice is so soft, like silk being brushed across your skin as he pulls the van into your driveway. It makes you want to vomit.

“I’ll catch you later, Ed’s.” Your words shake as they leave your throat and you dive from the passenger seat at an alarming speed but Eddie is just as quick to follow after you. Hot on your heels with his engine left grumbling in the distance behind him.

“Wait— please stop!” His ringed fingers hook hastily and strongly around your wrist, stilling your movements as he whips you around to meet his towering frame.

You jerk your arm away from his grasp gently but he remains planted, “Please let me go inside, Eddie,” Your tears mix with the tears falling from the clouds above you and Eddie swallows thickly, trying to remain as calm as he possibly could but his raging heart and the frog in his throat was heavily preventing that, “Please—“

“You need to hear this.” Your dripping lips part in total awe as you watch Eddie become restless in front of you— his inner turmoil mirroring the storm beating down onto the pair of you, “I… fuck.. I..” He grapples with himself and you watch him search frantically for the right words. Eddie wanted this to be perfect. But that’s the thing— he wasn’t perfect. And he would never be perfect.

“Fuck it. Fuck it!!” His inky eyes ignite and suddenly he is so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, “I’m in love with you. I’m so desperately in love with you.”

“There is no perfect lover. We are all flawed, but knowing those flaws and still loving with all of your heart creates perfect love. I will never look further than you. If my heart is a flower waiting to bloom, your love is the only breath of sunshine it needs.” Both of your hands end up rested in Eddie’s palms as his thumbs stroke over each of your knuckles, “I have been foolish. Completely moronic— because I hadn’t noticed this before. I hadn’t acknowledged my own feelings for you. And you don’t have to say anything… but you should know, love.”

You have gone into complete shock. Your limbs feel as though they are weighed down by chunky chains and your throat doesn’t allow you to speak. But your eyes… your eyes are blown to the size of teacup saucers. Gaping open wide.

“I’ve tried to bury it, to push you out, but even the ground beneath me trembles with your name! I love you… I’ve loved you for a long time, I think, and I understand if you no longer feel the same about me. I have left you waiting— I have starved you of love and I only wish you happiness. I want you to be so fucking happy, baby.”

Baby. He called you baby. And now you are floating above your body like a ghost trapped between heaven and earth.

“Are… are you sure?” You’re crying now and your vision blurs with the salty water. Your mascara stings your eyes and you have to battle the urge to collapse to your knees in front of him. This is all you have ever wanted for the longest time. You have counted down the milliseconds leading up to this. And now it’s here… and you don’t know if Eddie is being sincere or not.

"You don’t get it, do you? Every time I walk away, the ground pulls me back toward you like I’m tethered to this place, to you!" Eddie let’s go of your hands and you feel like your only form of support has left you defenceless. His heavy black leather boots slap against the concrete as he paces in front of you, “‘Am I sure?’ Of course I am! Of course I’m sure, sweetheart. I am drawn to you in a way that can only be described as witch craft. I am under a spell that I never want to awake from. You are the only person I ever want to talk to— the only person I want to be around. You are all that matters to me. I want to know what you do in the mornings and what perfume you like to wear. I ache to know your every thought and what makes you laugh— and what makes you cry.” Eddie is breathless as his body swoops back toward yours and his palms find your face as he cups your cheeks steadily, his eyes dart all over your face, trying to figure out which part of you he want to set his eyes on the most but it's impossible.

“My heart belongs to you. It always has; I was just too blind to see it. And if you never want to see me again I will respect that. But you had to know.” Eddie breaks down into a sob, the thought alone of losing you causes his heart to crumble into dust inside of his chest, “You had to know that I love you.”

Both of your eyelids fall closed and Eddie rests his soaked forehead against yours. His breathing is erratic and your fingertips cling to the denim his overcoat. Grasping on for dear life, “I love you, Eddie. Oh Eddie, My Eddie— you have no idea how long I have prayed for this moment. To hear those words. Those three fucking words.” You let out a noise that can only be described as half a cry and half a laugh and Eddie joins you, “I love you more than words can explain.”

Eddie recoils his face away from yours and for a moment you are frightened as you watch his expression harden into something more serious, “Sweetheart, can I kiss you?”

And as the words emit past his lips, your worry dissolves into total ecstasy.

“Please— kiss me and never stop.”

You had never imagined this is how your first kiss with Eddie would play out. In your drive way and in the pouring rain. It was beyond perfect. Something that you could watch on a movie screen. The old romance you loved to read about—but this time, it was yours.

Yours and Eddie’s.

You never wanted this fever dream to end; and thankfully, it never had to.

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers @rainybloo28 @munson-enthusiast @godcreatoreli @littlefreckles4 @what-the-jams @tlclick73 @ameliapond1995 @thepurplelovewitch @somethingvicked @costellation-hunter @munsonzgf @emxxblog @ingridvasquez @sadbitchfangirl @im-julessssss @munsonburn3r @unclecrunkle @cierra222 @ziggeddie @yarafae @sidthedollface2 @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @purplewitchcauldron @manitskatrina @georgeweasleyslostearhq

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie stranger things #beauty is a beast that roars #down on all fours #demanding more #stranger things fanfiction #fanfiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #chapter talks #chaptersleftunwritten

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the-fiction-witch · 9 months ago

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You are not a Queen. You are The Queen. My Queen.

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aegon Targaryen Couple - Aegon X Reader Reader - Alysanne Targaryen (Daughter of Rhaenyra, wife of Aegon) Rating - Sweet AF Word Count - 2437

The carriage bumped and bustled through the king's landing streets, the crack of the whip of the horses echoing in the mad rush.

Alicent sat across the carriage in her impressive green dress, with golden chains and symbols of the faith of the seven. The crown she has always worn as queen nettled in her brown hair with her veil trailing down her back. She sighs and hardens herself for what must be done.

Aegon sits dressed in his finery even if he shivered and he slightly cried trying to think of any way he could escape this fate. "Do you love me?" He asked his mother his voice plaid it like a joke but she didn't know the strength it took for him to utter those four words, and the deep tethers within him that those words and her answer would hold.

"You imbecile," she shook her head,

Her answer was enough of an answer for him to understand, but he felt compelled to speak once more, "Where is Alysanne?"

For a moment there was silence, and it spoke more than her words ever could, but after a time she speaks, "I send word for her but she could not be fetched. We couldn't wait."

He chuckled, "She is my wife." He glared, "We couldn't wait five minutes for her?"

"every moment we wait risks the wrath of dragon stone."

"Yet you had time to change your dress?" he glared,

"She would remain where she is safe, with the children."

"So if Rhynera comes to burn the red keep we will all be in the dragon pit, except my wife who is in the red keep."

"That is not what I intended-"

"Maybe not but its a helpful circumstance,"

"We should not speak of this,"

Aegon tried to protest but they arrived at the dragon pit, before anyone had much time to think Aegon was forced from the carriage and taken inside no matter his arguments.

The High Septom prepared the oils as the smallfolk were forced through the streets and ushered into the dragon pit until it was full, A small stage was set up with Alicent, Otto, Cristen, Helena and Aemond all waiting, preparing for this moment.

Otto steps out to address the crowd, "King's Landing! Today is the saddest of days! Our beloved king, Viserys the peaceful... is dead!"

Muttering of shock comes from the crowd,

"But it is also the most joyous of days!" he continues, "For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his firstborn son Aegon should succeed him"

more muttering but soon applause echos through the dragon pit,

Members of the city watch rush the dragon pit pushing smallfolk as they do, they make a path to the stage half to keep smallfolk out, and half to keep aegon in. Horns ring out in royal tones as the armoured men raise their swords.

Aegon does not wish to do this but he is forced out, so he takes slow and gradual steps a tear slipping from his eye as he begins the walk, the swords dropping behind him one by one, Each step makes him want to run, makes him want to fight his way out but with each one he is cementing his fate.

His family's fate.

His people's fate.

His city's fate.

His realm's fate.

He glances back and sees the swords are preventing his way, he really has no way back now.

He holds

"It is your good, great fortune to be here, to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. a new king to lead us."

He looks up and meets eyes with his mother a rage boiled inside him, that all this was her doing.

When he climbed the steps she came and held his cheeks kissing his forehead, leading him by the hand to the Steptom of the faith of the seven.

He looks to Otto who two gives him no choice he simply nods to him,

So Aegon kneels,

silence rings out,

"May the warrior give him courage, may the smith lend strength to his sword and shield, may the father defend him in his need, may the crone lift her shining lantern and shin his way to wisdom." the Septom says and with each anoints his head with oil,

The crown is then taken from its pillow. The crown of Aegon the conqueror, sharp spikes of Valyrian steel with gems and jewels of finery.

"The crown of the conqueror, past down through generations." Sir Criston takes the crown and places it on Aegons head even if the crown doesn't fit him right, "Let the seven bear witness, Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the iron throne."

For the first time in what feels like hours, Aegon lets out a breath, feeling the weight of the crown on his head, he gets to his feet and looks to everyone in attendance seeing how each bows to him,

"All hail his grace! Aegon second of his name, king of the Andals the Roynar and the First Men. Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm!"

The bells toll out as cheers erupt for him,

Aegon looks out to see the faces of all those who cheer, all those who look at him with joy, none of them know the death and destruction he brings. But even so, he can't help but feel a pride, and a swell of his ego as he takes Blackfyre from his belt and thrusts it into the air. For a moment he is swept up in his own family's pageantry and feels a joy to be king.

But it doesn't last, as a rumble comes from below and suddenly dust and stone erupt up from the floor of the pit, people scream and try to run but there is no way to get away as the floor crumbles under their feet the red queen comes though the floor the dragon crushing smallfolk and killing hundreds in her wake otto tries to demand the doors to be opened but people are already dying, as Rhaenys sits on top of her dragon as the dust clears.

Alicent jumps in front of Aegon putting herself between the dragon and him,

The Red Queen screeched at everyone before turning and flying out and away into the sky.

Aegon remains in the dragon pit, the pageantry of the moment long faded, the true death toll of his day hitting him, the weight of the sword in his hand and the crown on his head causing him to ache. He had such conflict in his heart, as he truly thought it all though.

He never wanted this... and yet it was done.

He never thought he was the heir... yet now the crown rests on his head.

His coronation... left hundreds dead.

This moment... had surely begun a war that would tear apart his family, his realm, his house and all that he held dear.

And in all of it, he stands alone, or so he thinks.

Alysanne walks the up the stairs he walked up, her eyes looking only at him. Her gown is a body of green velvet, with silver threat lacing the bodice, black leather sleeves tight to her skin all the way to her wrists, a large skirt of green velvet with black flames embodied on the bottom, a long cape from her shoulders of a sheer black fabric cut like dragon wings. Her hands behind her back as she reaches the stage, she bows to him dipping her knees and lowering her head before her eyes meet his once more.

His wife, in this moment, she is the light in this darkness. but there is so much sadness in him as he looks at her starlight eyes.

"I am sorry Alysanne," He told her,

"I hardly believed it to be true," she began, "Once word reached me."

He felt unable to speak,

"Oh Aegon..." she said, "what have you let your mother do to you?"

Aegon looks at her with a mixture of guilt and shame, his throat tightens with emotion as he takes in her words. "I didn't have a choice,"

"I know." she nodded, "You are the king," She said almost not believing her own words,

He looks away, his mind filled with sorrow and anger, he is king, but he isn't happy. "This... already ways heavily on me... I cannot carry it alone."

"If you are a king... I suppose that makes me a queen,"

He feels the weight lift a little, to know that she is beside him in this, "I am not a King. I am the king. You are not a queen. You are The queen. My Queen." he gives her an affectionate smile,

"so it would seem," A smile escapes her, but soon fails, "what- What is to happen to our children?" Her voice was full of fear,

Aegon's heart sinks as she asks, he knows his children are in danger, he feels already like he has failed them and his wife, he knows no matter what he can't protect them from this. "I do not know..."

"Forgive me, I should not sour your victory with my concerns."

"You should, concerns are now my most important matters." He told her, "I am sorry Alysanne, truly, I wanted to share this moment with you more than anyone. I am so sorry you were left behind,"

"... well, it's over now. it doesn't matter."

"It does. you are my queen and the fact you where not beside me for this moment... it breaks my heart."

"I admit... I am upset. that your mother had called this, not just for the politics and the show of the realm but... she wore her finest dress, her gold and her jewels, brought your family here, coronated you in front of thousands, gave you a crown, a sword, and the title of king... and I. Was left at the red keep with our children. Like a nursemaid." she explained, "I wish I could have been here is all..."

He felt his blood boil that she felt this way, he took her hand and squeezed it, "I wish you could have been here, I wanted this to be for us. I wanted to take the crown with you by my side to take your own. I wanted our children to be here to witness the crown that may one day be theirs. and my mother robbed us of that... I am sorry, truly sorry. and I know I can never repay the injustice done to you." he explained, "You are my queen... and... you do not even have a crown."

"I do." she said, as she revealed her other hand, "She gave me this when they arrived back to the red keep." she said and in her hand sat a small tiara of gold and green. No larger than a hair clip, and for a moment he remembers the crown his mother had worn today a large headband of gold and emeralds His own wife. His queen. Was tossed a crown, Without even being given a coronation. "I... I hardly wish to wear it at all... seems... foolish,"

Aegon stares at the tiny tiara and feels an intense surge of anger at the treatment his wife has received. It is a reminder of her insignificance in his mother's eyes, and it hurts him deeply. But he doesn't want her to be sad, he wants her to be proud of her new station. He looks at her, her face filled with a mixture of anger and sadness, and he doesn't want her to feel that way. He wants to make her happy and to make her feel wanted and accepted. "Wear it." He says, firm but gentle. His voice is a command, but also an appeal. He wants her to wear this crown, to let the world know that she is his wife and his Queen and that he is proud of her. He wants everyone to know that she is the Queen, no matter what his mother says or does.

"There's no point..."

"Here," He takes her by the hand and tugs her with him to stand in front of the banners, he takes the small tiara from her and smiles, he gives it a clean on his shirt to make sure no fingerprints are on it before he does is most epic and dramatic voice for her, "May the warrior give her courage, may the smith lend strength to her sword and shield, may the father defend her in her need, may the crone lift her shining lantern and shin her way to wisdom. May the mother be an ever-sweet light in her life, may the maiden keep her safe, and may the stranger's visits be few," He explained, "The crown of ... uhh... the most beautiful of queens," he makes up as this crown had no name,

she chuckles at him and he gently but sweetly presses the tiara into her hair, crowning her as his queen, his hands run down her hair and he kisses her lips softly,

"Let the seven bear witness, Alysanne Targaryen queen of the seven kingdoms." he proclaimed, "All hail her grace! Alysanne Targaryen, queen of the Andals the Roynar and the First Men. lady of the seven kingdoms, protector of the realm, beloved bride and mother. My queen. My sweet queen," he cooed,

"Thank you Aegon," she smiled,

"You're welcome, and I promise you. You shall have a crown more worthy of your beauty and title." He smiled,

"I think we have more pressing matters than a crown Aegon," she said,

"True," He nodded as his heart sank, "... you said once, not long after our children were born, that perhaps it would be best to cut or losses, to fly to Dragonstone with the children to meet with your mother, to cleave to your mother and beg for her mercy."

she shook her head, "... it's too late for that Aegon, no matter what side we are on. Blood will be spilt, and the only way to keep our children alive is to be on a side of our own."

He nodded and briefly smiled, "You took to talking queen fast," He chuckled,

She smiled, "Aegon darling, I have been talking and acting like a queen for as long as I can remember. Our family ensured that. Come. The children wish to see their new king, and we have much to do." she explained taking his arm, he nodded and squeezed her hand happily walking with her even if the two were beyond scared of what now was to be done.

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empthy1 · 3 months ago

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request^ reader helps Cate cope with her lost arm. angst, hurt/comfort. a lot of cuddles

cate is casually a biter and you cannot convince me otherwise. give that girl an arm while you're watching a movie and you'll have teethmarks by the end of it. 1.1k words.

“Fuck!”

Here we go again.

Cate’s vexed voice, in your ears and stinging like nettles, echoes across your Vought provided apartment, right in the tower. It’s too big for the two of you. The ceilings, high as Cate’s hackles, are unnerving compared to the comfort of your dorms. There, the ceiling pressed down at an appropriate height, the space enclosed and cradling you in painted drywall. Now you’re surrounded by concrete and polished stone, everything gleaming unnaturally under cool lights.

Another hiss from Cate echoes through the space, spurring movement from your prone form. This had never been a problem before—hm. The incident. A curling of shivers collects at the base of your neck and scurries down a taunt spine. Breathe. One, two. Help her.

You’ve made a habit of counting. Breaths, steps, meals.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven until you reach the generic door to your joined bathroom. It’s about four too many for comfort. Four too many than you’re used to.

“Catey?” Rings out with your knock, through the reenforced door to startle a tangled mess of clothes and human inside. “You okay?”

“Uhm—” The anxious note, echoing defensively is commonplace at this point. Her voice keeps its shake through most days—today no exception, unfortunately. “N—yea-yeah. Totally… fuck.”

The door clicks open to invite you in. Totally not okay.

Pushing through, you find her fumbling with her bra—trying to be rid of the garment, bath already filled and steaming. Her one hand, non-dominant, too, makes it a clumsy motion. Her arm is tiring, pale fingers struggling to undo the simple front clasp. What’s more pressing, though, is silvery tracks blooming along rosy cheeks—one tear drip-drip-dropping down to darken a circle on the cotton of her undergarment.

Oh, this sight is much more familiar than it ought to be—this time plagued with asymmetry and smooth, sensitive scar tissue. (Should you even touch it?)

“…you need help?” Comes your softening murmur. It’s no good trying to help her without permission—her freedom’s the most important thing to her, and it’s shitty taking that away just because she’s disabled. It shouldn’t be one thing after another, from her mother’s fear to Indira’s control to, now, this. You’re determined to be better.

“…” She hesitates for a long time—ten, twenty, thirty seconds spent contemplating your offer before she acquiesces.

“…yeah. Sure.”

Your hands reach out slowly. A step closer, and your fingers meet the plastic clasp. A visible shiver runs up her shoulders. Her pink mouth parts around a breath; black eyelashes, heavy with tears, flutter at the warm graze of your fingers against the skin of her chest. It almost seems she'll cry again, just at the touch. Her waterline is almost overwhelmed by a thick emergence of tears before she blinks them away and averts her eyes towards the sterile-looking ceiling.

The bra comes apart with a soft snap. Your hands are overwhelmingly warm as they push it off her shoulders, coaxing it over the remnant and her one whole arm.

"Good?" Your words are so gentle, reaching her ears as a muted murmur. She can only nod. She's not good. You both know it. But she can do this.

What panics her is when you turn to leave. Her shoulder shifts forward, like she tried to reach with the arm that no longer remains. She reaches out the other, catching your wrist.

"Stay? Please." Her voice is quiet. She sounds pained, asking for your presence. For her, company was a luxury, not a given—and something that was taken away from her at any whim.

Your silent nod makes her exhale with relief. You're staying. When you start to join her in nakedness, she realizes you intend to bathe with her.

The idea startles her. She hadn't done it since she was in her mother's porcelain tub, splashing around with her brother and washed by caring hands. She was their angel, then, all toothy-smiles and chubby cheeks.

Now she has no family. She's lost her friends, her boyfriend, even a part of herself. Everyone but you. So she realizes she's grateful for your presence.

Aiding her into the tub, you slip in behind her. Despite Vought's endless budget, it's not the largest tub—big enough to comfortably fit her lengthy limbs, at least.

She settles back against your chest with an exhale. This was new, intimate. She'd never been so open with you, even after three years of friendship that survived her rampaging genocide and bloodshot eyes. You stuck with her, even then.

She finds she relishes in your touch. It's unsurprising. She was always so starved for contact, and you don't make her wear her gloves.

Your motions are leisurely as you wash her hair, wash her body, wash away her sorrows. The soft hand you bring to her skin also tips the cup, washing suds and sadness from her form with a rush of warm water.

She looks a bit like a cat out in the rain, sitting pliantly in the full, steaming tub. All water-darkened, flattening hair and wet eyelashes, a few drops of water flicking from them when she blinks. You kiss her eyelids and call her beautiful, in your perfectly soft timber.

Her center of gravity is still off, not quite recovering after her injury and subsequent surgeries. Your palm is warm when it presses into her lower back, aiding her up and out of the slippery, draining tub.

You swing a towel over her shoulders, dry her tenderly. Ruffle her hair maybe a bit more than necessary, the messiness you soon smooth out making you smile widely.

She follows closely behind you as you guide her to her room. She's taken to sleeping with you more nights than not—the high ceilings, white walls and open air only bringing nightmares of bright, bloody explosions and trapped girls in small, small rooms.

She lets you dress her, help her arm through the soft long-sleeve (that's tailored to only have one arm, the fabric gently cupping the abrupt mass of scar tissue,) and pull a pair of panties up her legs. She's quick to tug you down onto the plush mattress, to burrow into your side like a territorial tortoise and gently bite at your collar.

The feeling of your skin carefully held between her teeth and the warmth of your arms around her reminds her that she's alive, and there's someone with her that trusts her. Trusts her touch and her raging mind. Trusts her to keep them safe, to not take advantage of any and every vulnerability.

She finally lets herself cry, silent sobs into your neck soothed by your gentle hands and comforting, sweet coos.

#kiera's fics ₊˚⊹ ࿔#cate dunlap #cate dunlap fic #cate dunlap x reader #the boys #the boys fic #gen v #gen v fic

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darklinaforever · 1 month ago

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My god. What did you smoke to think that was well written ?! At what fucking moment ?! And lol ! If people really think that this kiss will have an effect on the Daemyra couple, people are completly dreaming. That Rhaenyra will have a serious relationship with Mysaria ? Even less ! It is very likely that this stupid kiss will not even be discussed in the future. Also... at one point in the video, the girl tries to say in relation to those who would have reacted badly to the kiss : "But don't straight people also kiss when they are sad ?" THE FUCKING CONNECTION ?!

And the rest is WORST !

Except that fucking yes ! There could have been official sapphic content in HOTD without these shitty relationships that are Rhaenicent and Rhaesaria ! Why ?! BECAUSE THERE ARE CANONICAL LGBTQ+ COUPLES IN THE HISTORY OF DANCE ! INCLUDING SAPPHIC ! But obviously you're not complaining about the non-adaptation of canonical queer relationships which are therefore not doomed to go nowhere or break up like Rhaenicent and Rhaesaria ! Why are you happy with representation that won't go anywhere and the erasure of canonical queer relationships ?! Are you stupid or what ?!

And yes, Rhaenicent is what we call queerbaiting ! Pure and simple ! How can you even dare to say otherwise with such aplomb ?! The writers and actors are constantly contradicting each other about the Rhaenicent relationship ! Open your fucking eyes !

Pigeons, that's what everyone who supports these two shitty ships are ! And no, I'm not sorry to say it, and I will never sorry. Wake up people, damn it !

And you know what could have been good to confirm Rhaenyra's possible bisexuality, even if I don't think she's bi in the source material ? LAENA VELARYON ! HER FUCKING BEST FRIEND ! AND NOT WITH THE TWO WOMEN WHO RUINED THE BEGINNING (ALICENT / yes yes, in HOTD, Alicent is still Rhaenyra's abuser, because Daemon, outside of the OCC strangulation scene, never really abused her) AND THE END OF HER LIFE (MYSARIA) ! BUNCH OF IDIOTS !

Also, instead of fundamentally choosing to make Rhaenyra a bi person when she probably isn't in the book objectively speaking, well just adapt the true queer characters of the dance ? No ?

No one complains that the real queer characters and relationships aren't adapted ?

You prefer that we transform a potentially straight character into bi to make her be in relationships that will go nowhere because she will never leave her man ? Well you really are pitiful.

I'm so tired of the attempts to defend Rhaenicent and Rhaesaria, two shitty relationships that were poorly written in HOTD but when you take Fire and Blood become downright insulting.

Also, another thing I find ironic. The fact of always trying to say in defense of these two ships that we don't care about the source material that is Fire and Blood. Listen to me, you idiot, without Fire and Blood there is no HOTD. So you shut up about the neglect of the source material because you just come across as even more stupid than you probably are. But strangely, to talk about the so-called infidelities of Daemon, present precisely in Fire and Blood and not HOTD of these same fans, well there are people ! While these infidelities did not take place in HOTD and may never take place. And beyond that, at no time have these so-called infidelities been proven. At no time. And if you have a functioning brain in terms of reflection and analysis, it is necessarily probable that these infidelities of Daemon with Mysaria and Nettles are purely false. But of course, the fact is that most of these people are condemning Daemon for something he hasn't done yet and may never do, in the only material that matters to these people, namely HOTD. But strangely, Rhaenyra's infidelitie, no one cares about that. On the contrary, it's apparently great because it's sapphic "representation". Rhaesaria is representation ? An improvised scene that comes out of nowhere and has no impact on the storyline ? Let me laugh. And apparently, Rhaenyra would be justified, because Daemon strangled her at the end of season 1. You know, that other scene that came out of nowhere and made no sense. But obviously, critical thinking is dead in this type of person.

Put Fire and Blood aside if you want to justify these two shitty ships, but the reality is that they don't need Fire and Blood to be bad. They are simply poorly written in the context of HOTD alone.

These two ships make me so fucking sick.

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gffa · 6 months ago

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One of the biggest hurdles with the Lockwood and Co. books is that they're set entirely from Lucy Carlyle's point of view and there is a whole lot of body shaming that really set my teeth on edge when I first read it. Some of it is still just awful, but I've come around on that I can read a lot of it as Lucy's unexamined issues from childhood rearing their heads in some nasty ways.

Her relationships with all the characters around her are contentious and full of conflict even just in her thoughts, she's so nasty to George, to Holly, to the Skull, to Kipps, to Barnes, etc. It most especially comes out with Holly (and Kat Godwin before her, then Flo Bones as well) and it's very easy to read Lucy as reacting badly to her own attraction to women, her envy of them and her inability to let herself be attracted to them, because she's closed off so tightly.

But it's also her relationship with the Skull, who she constantly argues with and says she hates, she has nothing but poison for it in her thoughts, but as soon as it goes missing, she's desperate to get it back.

It's also in her relationship with George, who she constantly nettles and thinks mean thoughts about, but it's obvious that she cares about him deeply and has grown to love him as a friend, even if she can't necessarily admit that to herself.

Her entire dynamic with Holly is centered around how feminine Holly is, how pretty she is, how Lucy just cannot stop thinking about how Holly dresses, how she does her hair, how soft her skin looks, how her little hand motions are so delicate and proper. And, yeah, some of it is envy and feeling insecure, that other people will like Holly more than her, but it's also just so much attention on all the little details that it comes off as unrealized physical attraction.

And then suddenly, I'm looking at all of the relationships Lucy has with people, where almost all the people she likes and respects are ones she's nasty to. Which clicked into place for me when she went back to visit her home town and was miserable there, the poor relationship she had with her family suddenly making so much sense in the way she rejects people before they can reject her, that she's so terrified of being vulnerable that she schools her thoughts and actions and words into prickly meanness so that she doesn't get hurt when they don't want her.

Lockwood is the exception to this, because he's the one who took all her nastiness and kept being mostly kind to her, he allowed a certain amount of vulnerability to himself and Lucy slowly started to come around on him and thought nicer of him. Sure, part of it is that she has feelings for him and so her thoughts are kinder, but I think it goes hand in hand with the way Lockwood is the one that never really sniped back at her or egged her on in any way, he started to feel safe to her, he started to feel secure to her.

And then she breaks his trust! She sneaks into the locked room to find out about his history, in a moment of anger and frustration, she breaks the thing that he asked them not to poke into, and she knows he would have every right to be angry enough at her to kick her out! But he's nice to her about it! He says, no, it was time to tell you guys about it anyway. He's open and vulnerable about something that she desperately feared rejection over!

Which is of course why her feelings reach a certain point and she has to acknowledge them, she can't deny them anymore, so the slightest push (the ghost wearing Lockwood's face, saying that she would do this to him, get him killed) has her running off from the agency and going independent, because she's terrified that she'll get Lockwood killed/terrified of actually stepping across that line into having feelings that could really hurt her if she's not accepted.

She's complicated and messy and I love her, she's a great character with a great, dynamic arc--but it does require reading into some of the more problematic elements of the character and taking a more generous view of them, even when I know much of the real answer is that the author probably didn't see the problem with the way he would have her describe characters (especially anyone that was overweight) and you have to find the mental line you're willing to walk with that. But if you're okay with wincing through some of the earliest stuff, I think there's a really cool Hot Mess Lady character waiting on the other side.

#lumi.txt #lockwood and co #lucy carlyle

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cherubispunk · 1 year ago

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THANK YOU, MR. MILLER - bfd!Joel Miller x Reader

summary: caught up in the devistation of you parents ever crumbling marriage, you seek help and comfort from your older neighbour.

a note from lucy: this is one my faves i've written so far. I hope you enjoy because I did.

playlist

wc: 7789 warnings: 18+ MDNI! no outbreak au! bfd!joel, angst, fluff, smut, p in v smut, fingering, oral - fem receiving, light choking, age gap (reader is twenty one, joel is in his forties), swearing, mentions of infidelity and divorce.

Most days you wished you could tie your fluctuant thoughts together in a neat little bunch with a ribbon, maybe yellow or blue, knot it into a bow. Like a bouquet of flowers. Except they were not flowers. They were brambles and stinging nettles and those weird little dandelions that only stay pretty until a gust of wind strips them bare to their stalks.

To spite this, you had an avarice for perfection. As a result of all the times life seemed to spiral out of control. Like ivy up the trunk of the oak tree in your back garden. You cried the day your father had to saw it down; Only being Eight and watching through the sliding glass doors of your living room. Your treehouse came down with it. All that was left was a stump now smothered by your mothers prize winning hydrangeas. Tonight seemed to be one of those moments. One of those life altering experiences that are jarring even if you see them coming.

Deep down, in the pit of your gut that formed first at the family dinner table through awkward conversation, you knew it was coming. Your brother who left home a year before you, yet to return even once from the army, knew it. Everyone else on the street did too. Heck, maybe the whole of Austin’s suburbia knew? Knew about the pathetic crumbling foundations your parents’ marriage sat on. It was tilted at an alarmingly steep angle as pillars of salt corroded, eroded, dissolved. It was jarring in a way that knocked air out your chest and winded you. A way that blew your eyes wide. Now, without you or your brother in the house, they had no reason to keep up appearances behind closed doors as well as in the open, and they slipped.

It's why you found yourself staring at the front door of the Miller household. Praying that the only friend you had in close vicinity, heck in Austin, full stop, could hear you rant about the shit you encountered barely mere moments ago. The same shit that was happening under the roof of your childhood home. In your parents’ marital bed.

Just like the decay of a loving vow, It was no secret you had changed over the time away. You filled out your clothes more, despite losing a little weight from how skint college made you. Long gone were the awkward blemishes to your skin, and growth spurts that made your jeans too short in the leg, and growing pains of puberty. You had a little skip in your step. One that was no longer weighed down from the dull life you lead when back home. Your first year of college was difficult to begin with. But you slipped into routine there. And you found your people. A few friends, some on your course, some not. But coming back after your third year…it was…new again.

And the way Joel’s eyes roved over you for a split second upon seeing you at his door— it made an invisible shiver of something jolt down your spine. A shiver that rattled each vertebrae. It had you smoothing over the hem of your shirt into your stupid little gym shorts. You chose to wear them because it was comfortable to travel in. But now you felt cold and small under his gaze, like an ant under a. His face softened when he saw the shimmering streaks of tears run down your pretty little face, eyes red while you reached up to wipe your nose and sniff. God, the ground should just open in a gaping hole and swallow you, bones and all.

“Uh, sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Miller.” You choked, closing your eyes and holding in breath, cursing how easy it was for you to cry. Your mother often chided you for it. Said ‘no one likes a crybaby’. And your father would butt in with ‘stop having a bubble’. Words that still sting as they yelled out in echoes in your mind while you stood on his doorstep. “Is…” another sniff, “is Sarah in?” Joel’s head tilted to the side slightly, only askew as he tutted slightly and offered a sympathetic smile of pity, “No. She’s with her boyfriend. Ain't been back yet.”

“Oh.” You nodded. How foolish you had been to think that your end of term dates aligned with hers. “Okay. Thank you anyway.” You turned to leave, only getting about ninety degrees in your turn on his doorstep before he stopped you.

“Do you want me to give her a message when she gets back tomorrow?” He watched as only your head turned back towards him, your feet staying firmly planted to the floor. Jesus Christ, you missed the sight of him. Missed seeing him in the mundane setting of suburbia. It made it so much more interesting. His shirt, it hugged his torso, the sleeves clinging to his large biceps like a second skin and stretching the dark fabric taut. A deranged part of you slipped back to your 18 year old self, peeking through the window to see him pushing the lawnmower across his front lawn in the dry heat, a dark patch of sweat collecting on the dip of his lower spine and across the wings of his shoulder blades.

“No. That, uh…it's not urgent.” You tried, the corners of your lips tugging a smile, a sad little one that made you look far worse. A lie smeared across your now pale face.

“You look tired, Sugar.” He said, the words seeping into the very marrow of your aching bones, wrapped up in that southern drawl you missed hearing through your open bedroom window. In the morning’s when he called out to his brother if he picked him up for work. Tommy, you remembered, was his name. “You got somethin’ weighing on your mind?” You willed yourself to shake your head, but you couldn’t bring it within yourself to lie right now. So instead you just nodded. “You wanna come in for a second?” He asked, glancing between you and the house across the street. The one unspeakable acts of infidelity were currently happening just beyond the white picket fence, and the manicured green lawn. It made your stomach twist into knots and your belly churn in a queasy mix of bile and the muffin you got at the airport that early morning. His eyes, however, stayed on you when you too glanced back, swallowing dryly when he saw the soft curve of your ass hang out the bottom of your bunched up shorts, the soft, malleable skin teasing him, making him hot beneath the collar. He had to adjust his jeans slightly as they got a little tighter, the nasty thoughts of how the swell of your rear would ripple with the dents of his fingertips if he was rough enough. Would they leave bruises on your skin?

Fuck. Joel cursed himself in the tangled confines of his mind. Damining for the sexual frustration that caught him off guard. He hadn’t had a good fuck in years, but the way your tear stained cheeks glowed in the dim light of his porch had him caught up; Wondering if you’d cry like that for him as he bent you over his kitchen counter, tits pressed to the linoleum, cheek smushed under his hands, your body jolting from erratic thrusts, his hips sapping into your behind. Would you cry out his name? Or would you resolve into whimpers and whines? Joel would admit, using the sight of you as a way to set his dick wet was the lowest of low, a depth he didn’t think he’d reach even in the throes of painful, biting sexual frustration. But it seemed to have boiled down and condensed together over the years. And being parched of the sight of you, your innocence over the time you were away — to then have you flung back at him? It had him growling in his own mind. Clawing at the yellow wallpaper. Just shy of a year since seeing you last over the street. That’s all it took for desire to light a fire in the pit of his belly and set up camp. And it wasn’t a traveller anymore. It was there to stay until satiated. The length in his jeans wanted him so gravely of that.

Pervert. He thought to himself bitterly, laced with a vehement venom. It neighboured his lust for you.

“Okay.” He found himself blinking once, twice, a sharp inhale of air waking him up as it shot through his nose. You replied with the affirmative!

“Okay.” He nodded back, jaw ticking, the muscle in his neck flexed under the pressure of his teeth biting together, making you want to mimic it with your thighs— to ease the ache just slightly.

He stepped to the side.

With an audible gulp, one that made you cringe, you tiptoed on a proverbial tripwire, a livewire, into the foyer of his house, past him. A breeze followed you through with gusto, making a mockery of your senses as it blew his scent into your face when you turned back round to face him. He closed the door and you felt a relief, one that was short lived because you were now surrounded by him. His smell, his sight. Everything about him, it was clinging to the walls, painted a white that you imagined glowed a warm, mellow yellow in the morning light. An oddly domestic thought to be having given you were thinking of all the ways he might just make you fall apart just two seconds ago, drooling over him his tight fucking t-shirt.

It did look so warm, though, a faded black from being washed so often, the Rolling Stones album cover printed on the front was cracked, like the canvas of an old oil painting. Specks of white fluff clung to the fabric, a normal sight. But it did nothing to help your want for him. It would smell so richly of him, so lavishly of Joel. You knew it.

‘God, this was so inappropriate!’ You scolded yourself in your head, letting him lead you into his kitchen. If you had a tail that little fucker would be folded shamefully between your legs, curled in sin.

The only sound in his kitchen came from a fan that hummed weakly as it oscillated on the counter. It reminded you of a thought you had when leaving university for the summer. Would I miss the cool rain of Colorado? You felt a lot like that fan. Pathetic. Swinging meekly between left and right. Never able to stick to one side due to the instability you grew up around. Smothered in.

“College good? People treatin’ you well?”Joel asked as he filled up a glass of water for you and slid it across the counter your way. You nodded tentatively, wetting your lips with your tongue before raising the glass to them. He watches with a secret hunger as the cool glass met your lips and you take a small sip to soothe your parched dry throat.

“Yeah.”

“Where'd you go again? Washington, right?” “Colorado.” You corrected him.

“Colorado. Right.”

He paused after nodding…and the air was once again stagnant due to the fall of conversation.

“What major?” He asked again, making you look up at him in a skittish movement. Like a fucking deer in headlights. You wanted to bolt like a rabbit at the sound of a shotgun instead. I’m your disgust, your feet stayed firmly planted into the linoleum tile of his floor.

“Uh, I'm studying education.” He nodded, pursing his lips as he mulled the thought over in his head with a nod.

“You wanna teach then?” He inquired. You nodded, “Sounds about right. You were always so giving. Very selfless of ya.” You set the glass down, swallowing down the sip you took just before. You can’t help but smile a little at that, eyes closing as you let yourself feel — for just a moment — that you were meant to be laced up in his words; Wrapped and held in place by a little bow. Like a birthday gift, or something under the decorated tree at Christmas.

This little second to yourself didn't go unnoticed by Joel. It made his heart thrum rapidly, pinch behind his lungs in the cage of his ribs. It had him up in arms again over his riling thoughts. They stuck to the walls of his mind, clinging to them like a rabid animal. If you’d let him, he'd sink his claws and teeth into the action upon those images. Spur it into play. Maybe sink his teeth into the plush of your skin too. Would you like that? To be carnally desired. Would you consent to that horror born of lust? He thanked the separation of the kitchen counter hiding his cock that pressed to his thigh under his jeans, blood flowing south as you held back tears again after a wave of short lived relief.

“What’s up, pretty girl?” He asked. Making your eyelids spring open again to meet the dark chestnut of his irises. The warm hue from the under cabinet strip lights illuminated the individual honey gold flecks in them. You swore your knees buckled, joined groaning. “You got a lot running round that head of yours.” He pointed out, noticing the tight scrunch of your brow. It would curl like that out of pleasure, give him half a chance. He was sure of it. Fucked out and overstimulated, limbs sprawled out beneath him like a wire in a snare trap.

Your silence was deafening and he sought out to fill it when giving you another once over. Her rounded the kitchen counter, praying your eyes stayed on his because the way your shirt swallowed you whole had him wishing he was the one doing that instead, covering you with himself. Holding your naked self to his chest. Feel.

“You wanna sit for a bit and talk about it?”

You gnawed at the tip of your thumb, a nervous habit that had Joel wrapping his large hand around your wrist and pulling it back. His digits engulfed your wrist completely. His size compared to yours was startling. His smile was kinda, masking the thoughts of what those tiny hands would look like, wrapped round his dick as he hissed at the friction your smooth plans would give him. Would it wrap round the girth perfectly? Would your thumb meet your middle finger as you took hold onto him? Probably not.

He swallowed, trying not to think the same for your lips as you once again darted your tongue out to draw the plush pink of your bottom lip between the whites of your teeth.

Instead, he settled for pulling you gently forward, cheating you round towards the living room with a steady palm to the small of your back. He felt the jolt you made, and then the way your muscles eased, the arch of your spine soothing and straightening out.

With a gentle touch, he led you to the sofa, sitting beside you. Waiting for you to speak.

“E-everyone saw it coming.” You croaked out, an annoyance and intolerable hate for yourself and your dumbfounded stupidity pinching at your sides. “Even I saw it coming! I just don’t understand why I had to find out in such a-“ Joel watched your eyes dart around the carpet of his living room, as if the answer would lay right there, nestled between the threads and fibres, “a messy way…” you continued with a small voice. He titled his head towards you, raising his brows with gentle ardence for what you had to say.

And so you spoke. Told him of the messy tangling of your fathers limbs with another woman’s. The sound of them. Disgusting. Gut wrenching. How they mingled with the bedspread in a frantic assembly of passion and appendages.

Joel’s face turned into a grimace. He knew. He saw the two of them enter your home together when washing the dishes of his meal for one. Drunk, cheeks flushed with the secret they carried. An infidelity. He’d seen your mother commit a similar sin earlier this very week. He cleared his throat, resting a careful hand on your thigh, one that would make him lose control had it not been for its place just above your knee. Any higher and he was in hot water. He knew it.

“Sweetheart,” he started in a soothing, sympathetic but also telling manner, “Adults don’t always get it right. We…we ain’t perfect either.” He tried. He felt like he was having a conversation with Sarah. A torture of de ja vu. Way back when. Years ago she asked what happened to her Mummy. And he had said the same line of truth. A bitter, harrowing truth. But one everybody discovered sooner or later. He wished you knew it before and he wasn’t the one to twist those pretty features into pain instead of pleasure. He was silently begging to whatever higher power that was watching, that he wasn’t being perverted. That you didn’t see this is some little trick to get you vulnerable, in a headspace where he could fuck you until you felt better. Or until you entirely forgot. Forgot all but the way to mouth out his name in a shrill cry.

If you even knew in first place all the things he wished to do with you. To you.

“Sometimes you just find someone who ain’t right. They might be at the time. And you feel so sure ‘bout it that you make promises.” You listened, relayed it in your mind while you bit the inside of your cheek in futility. It wasn’t easy. Not by any means a conversation you wanted to have. But it was needed. The two of you knew it. A twisted part of you was glad it meant you got a chance to talk to him. To have him touch you gently.

He reached forward, tucking a single lock of hair behind your ear to see the hues of your irises. The way they gleamed slightly with tears. It was the prettiest sight of total devastation he had seen. Joel was no man of hubris, but he’d be damned if he didn’t think that getting you on all fours, crying a little for him in pleasure would boost his ego.

You glanced up at him, grinding your teeth together nervously while the ghosting of a calloused fingertip skimmed the top of your right cheekbone. If it weren’t for your thighs sticking uncomfortably to the leather of the sofa in this heat, you would have decayed to submission and slipped to the floor.

Joel let his knuckles that he cracked together to feel the grounding of physical pain, feel a comfort instead as they skimmed down your jawline. Physicality was so much tamer to him than emotion. There was the promise of knowing when you’d feel better that came with the ache to his joints and lower spine.

'`Thank you, Mr. Miller. It’s okay.” You sniffed, “I- I’ll be okay. I think.” Joel let a kind smile spread over his face.

“I know you will. You're a strong little lady. But please, call me Joel” Your eyes closed again and you swallowed. But opening them – that was the damning part. Because the moment they did, you saw how he flickered between each of your eyes. It must have been the intimacy of having the permission to use his first name, because it had you inhaling deeply in need of him.

You were surely frozen to the spot, his hand moving slightly higher up your thigh in a gentle caress before dragging back down to squeeze your knee. You let yourself have the pleasure of gazing at his lips. A mistake because it made you yearn to kiss him more. How would rough hairs of his upper lip feel against your cupid's bow?

It seemed your body moved of its own accord, for your lips met his. It was unlike anything you could have imagined when in bed, two fingers buried in your pussy, imagining they were his. His hot breath fanned over your lips, making you want more. But it was cut short when he pulled away with a groan.

Your skittish nature took hold of the reins and you jumped back, springing to your feet, hands tugging in your hair. “Oh, god- Joel- I…” You stammered, tears once again welling in your bloodshot eyes, “I’m so sorry. I thought…”

What? What did you think? That something would come of kissing your older, very age inappropriate neighbour? Fuck.

He stood up quickly after you, fists balled as if he was holding something back. Joel watched as you paced the floor once, twice, stopping at the far end of the room by the wall, distance yourself from the magnetic pull you had to him. “Hey, it's okay.’ He assured, taking a tentative step closer, hands now flat, fingers spread slightly as he tried to calm you down. “I’m not mad, sweetheart, okay?’ You took a breath in through your nose. Let it out again in a tremble of breath.

Another step closer. He was closer than needed, but you weren't the one making that call. He was. So you took it as a good sign, still pleading for his forgiveness though.

“Sorry.”

“You don't have to apologise for nothin’, Sugar.” He assured with that slow southern drawl again. It stretched out his syllables and smoothed out his vowels with it. God, it was a beautiful sound. One you wanted to muffle with your lips, with your legs over his ears. He was now an inch away from your chest, leaning closer to whisper in your ear. “I’d be lyin’ if i said I hadn’t wanted it.”

The sentence sent a jolt throughout you.

“Look at you.” He mumbled into the crook of your neck, the junction of your throat. A swallow passed through it, the cartilage of your windpipe flexing under his lips. “Too beautiful not to be touched.”

Those words struck a certain chord on your heartstrings. Plucked away at them like a harp. Made the beating of that very organ thrum in song. A tuneful symphony he felt through your pulse.

Too beautiful not to be touched.

No one had said that to you before. No one. And it was like a life altering experience. A mere ‘thank you’ didn’t feel like enough to respond with. It felt pathetic to say in comparison. And silence was so much more pathetic. But you couldn’t really articulate anything to say back. You just…stood there in awe of him as he continued to place careful, open mouthed kisses to your neck.

“How would you do it?’ You asked breathlessly, eyes closing, lashes fanning out over the tops of your cheekbones, “T-touch me?” You stuttered through fragmented, beating breaths. His kisses, they grew messier by the second now, and he hummed in amusement into your skin. Into the heat of it that crept up your throat. This was so wrong. So perverse it hurts is what he thought. But the pleasure from just his lips — it stung at the backs of your eyes like a prickling of tears; Oh god, it felt right. Right. Real. So, so…real- it was real. Repeating the word in your mind had it losing its meaning for a second, a jumbled up sound in the voice of your inner ear, your articulatory process working overtime just to feel into him. Feed the need for him.

“First.” He started, pushing you gently by the slope of your shoulders, until your back collided softly to the painted plaster of his living room wall, “I’d push you up against the wall.” He paused, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your collarbone, the shallow skin that was teased into view for him as he hooked a finger into the crewneck of your large t-shirt. “And then, I’d pin you down.” The thought made you whimper, a pulse of pleasure aching between your legs. Unquenchable, not able to be soothed by anything that wasn’t the touch of his rough fingers, the calloused pads of his digits. Middle and forefinger.

“You want that?” You nodded frantically in reply, breath catching your throat as he tugged at your shirt more. “Words. Use that pretty mouth of yours for words, sweet thing.”

“Y-Yes, Joel.” You stammered. Pathetic. Embarrassing. But it was impossible when his whole weight, his broad frame, toned with years of manual labour, pressed you into the wall. “Yes.” He let out another amused hum, except it tailed off into more of a growl now. A guttural one that rumbled in the back of his throat and reverberated in your ears. Rattled your ribs until they ached. It pinched them. The skin over them too and the lungs under them as well. Lungs that shivered from his touch.

“You wanna feel pretty.” It was not a question. A statement of understanding. One that made you think he once cracked open your skull and read each thought. The pages of your diary, even. Back to front. Cover to cover. Scour each word, ravage it of meaning the same way you wanted him to do with you. To your cunt that pulsed and soaked the fabric of your underwear. It made the skin of your inner thighs sticky as it dripped down gluttonously. “You want me to make you feel pretty, hm?”

“Please.”

He pulled back, a gleam in his eyes, and an almost evil smirk to match curled at the corner of his chapped lips. “I can do that, sweet thing.” He cooed, lulling you into a false sense of security. “I can make you feel pretty. Matter of fact, doll. I can make you feel fuckin’ beautiful.” You were now waving a white flag over your head to him. In that battle between your morality and lust, the turmoil of your needy, disgusting thoughts that echoed in your bones. It filled the hollow space between them. He stole away into it. He would make you feel pretty. Beautiful. He said so himself into the skin of your neck that now prickled violently with goosebumps. They made his words physical, scribing them out. A beautiful collision. And a stunning one it would be if he defiled you with the thrust of his hips. He’d make space for himself anywhere and you'd let him. Let him make roots in your mind. And not just the thought of him that you conjured up. No. He’d anchor himself there. Without your help. He’d make them himself. Without your involvement or investment.

It was no longer a question of how much you were willing to let up to him. How much of yourself you’d give up to him and set in his possession. It was now the complete certainty of how much he wanted. Or needed. You saw in his eyes he needed it. A comfort, a release of clashing teeth and viced limbs to his waist and back. It frightened you how easy it was to give that to him. To let him take that pleasure and make it his. His. His, his, his. Carve out a chunk of yourself from your arms that you hoped would surround him in the throes of messy heat. Give it to the man on a silver platter, surrounded by pomegranate, cherry and apple. Sweet fruits of you. Your fruits of your labours to him.

“We should stop—” Joel said into the skin of your neck, hands grasping at your hips, upper thighs. His fingers sank and embedded into flesh. He kept changing his mind, you kept changing your mind. But the actions he bought on, pressed to your skin by crafted lips, a little too far away in his own head — they went against his inhibition. Perfectly encapsulated the erotic stimulation as his hand slipped down your side to tangle messily with the hem of your shirt.

“We should.” You agreed breathlessly, immediately, chest in tandem with his, it’s rise and fall as they beat ceaselessly together, touching up to one and other.

“—But I can’t.” He continued.

“Neither can I. So please don’t.”

Being wanted. Wanting too much. It fed the idea of him but left you starving as you found those roots you made of him in your head being overgrown and overtaken by his own now. It was happening. In his own living room. Behind the closed curtains as he drew closer, closer, the windows seemingly fogged up to the outside. The suburbia that held its messy and primitive life, guarded by picket fences. Greying and peeling picket fences. Not white. Not pure. Not anything but decaying. Oh, you’d decay into him in a heartbeat. Give it all to him. Let him take it. Going through to the beating of your heart and crashing through your ribs. Rip it out your aching, pinching chest. A gaping hole left behind.

He didn’t stop. And thank god he didn’t. Because the way his hand smoothed between your thighs, between the seam of your shorts. Maybe it was something that was so taboo no one spoke of it? Maybe you too wouldn’t even speak of it after this. But it was too addictive to bother you. It seemed to flare your synapses, send shockwaves of rolling pleasure, cascading from your slouched shoulders as you slumped slightly more into him and off the wall. Your head spinning in circles loosened your chemicals. An endorphin rush. Pulled out your centrefold, staples bent and mauled as your pages fell from the book and onto the floor in front of him. Letting him tear you apart column by column.

“Lean back, pretty girl.” He commanded softly. Deftly. It made you feel like fine art, sculpted veins of his hands that flexed as they palmed your cunt through the two thin layers of fabric, slick clinging to them. You obeyed so well.

Joel’s curved, rigid nose ran along your carotid artery. The one that thumped with your quickening pulse. This anticipation and forbidden pleasure made him realise he was always more comfortable in chaos. In something a little out of the ordinary and unstable. Unhealthy. Joel gave into the temptation of low hanging fruit because it was there. And you got so little from anyone that what small intricacies you were handed, you let him. Let him as he snatched it up and bit a hunking chunk out of your soul. A souvenir for himself. Pulled the apple from the tree in the garden of Eden, sank his teeth into it, let the sweetness seep out of the core onto his tongue as it unravelled into addiction.

You were his apple now, and your teeth were bared to him, like his were to the delicate, shallow skin of your neck, the ridges one slopes of your collarbones. While his fingers, long and thick, slipped past the hem of your shorts, deeper past the little bow in the centre of the hem of your underwear. The crown of your head fell back gently to plaster, and mouth fell open with a small high gasp as he finally made contact with your clit. He hummed again. The slick you offered him made it so easy to give an experimental circle of his fingers.

Middle and forefinger pinching it slightly, circling it the way you felt you circled each other before now.

“Don’t wanna break you, sugar. Gotta be careful.” He said as his fingers coaxed you into bliss. Toes curling in your socks and high top converse.

“Please- I don’t care if you do- just—“ More. You needed more. Nothing, no matter how much you dreamed of this, seemed to be enough yet. “More. Please let me have more.”

“How much more?” He growled, rolling his hips into your thigh as he lost a little composure. It was just as he thought. Your begging was so sweet. Did God feel this way when he heard prayers?

“Inside. I want to feel you inside.”

His breath hissed in his throat as it caught between the walls of his windpipe and the strings of his vocal cords. With a slow, dragging pace of rough fingertips, he moved further down your slit, spreading your lips apart and holding a single pad of his digit to your hole, teasing you at your entrance. He growled again, teeth and mouth parting as he sank them into your shoulder. It made you cry out in a sharp wail when he slipped a single finger into your fluttering heat, cunt suffocating his digits. He was up to his middle knuckle deep in you, pulling out to do the same with two now. Middle and forefinger, curling them. Physically be king you towards a release. Your legs tensed and relaxed as each wave of pleasure rumbled through you. Hips bucked slightly into him and his free hand grapes at the flesh of your hip once more to slam your ass back into the wall.

“Good girl. Such a pretty little lady. Beautiful little cunt for me.” He cooed after unlatching his mouth from the purple bruise of a bite mark on your shoulder. His hot breath kissed the shell of your ear and made the ache settle into pleasure deep in your walls. Right at the end. Right there. “Is it all for me?”

“Yes!” You whimpered, “Yes— all for you, Joel.”

“Mhm. Good girl. Beautiful little lady.”

His fingers seemed to pick up a pace, but it was hindered by the tight material of your clothing. So he opted to shove it over the swell of your ass, down to your mid thigh. Not bothering for want and need of pressing his fingers back into you. Plunging them back into your tight heat. The warmth and wetness lead to lewd sounds squelching between your quivering thighs, the meat of your flesh.

“Good girl.” He whispered again, grasping your chin in a vice grip and pulling you closer, crashing his lips to yours in a clashing of teeth and mingling of moans. “So fuckin’ needy. So fuckin’ Love it.” Joel growled, “And it’s all for me. Makin this old man feel so special, doll.”

Tears burned your eyes with the white hot pleasure that coarser through you like a racehorse. They slipped from the threshold of your waterline, and the moment he tasted them against your lips, he pulled from them, licking a hit stripe up your cheek. He lapped them up, inhaling deeply through his nose, caught up in everything your body gave him. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ beautiful. Make you forget about it all. Only want you to remember my name.” You nodded, his fingers now up to the hilt in your tight little hole that clamped around him, threatening to spasm as you lost control.

It burned in your lower belly. The crying, shrill screaming promise of climaxing.

“You’re so close. Can feel it.”

“Yes, Joel.”

“Want you to come for me. Let that pretty little cunt of yours come on my fingers.” It was purely debaucherous, disgusting how fucking good it felt. It made you angry for some reason unknown to your mind. But your orgasm was so tangible at the time you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You cried out, your slim fingers gripping at his hair, fisting the curls between your nails and palms. It burned you up inside. Or was that from his fingers? Fuck, the thought of his cock and what pleasure it would unfold inside your anatomy had your mouth watering.

“Good fuckin’ girl.” He growled obscenely into your ear as the most animalistic howl you had made yet tore through your bronchioles and rattled in his ears; Bounced from the walls.

The moment your walls stopped squeezing him he pulled his fingers from your messy heat and shoved them past your lips, teeth scraping at his knuckles. “Taste it. Ain’t it beautiful? Ain’t you just the prettiest little gift to me?” You nodded, eyes locking zealously with his while you cleaned his fingers of your release. The tang of your juices had your eyes rolling back in your head. And Joel wanted more. So he pressed them further into the cavern of your mouth. His blunt nails passed the hard palate of your mouth, pressing into your soft palate nod. And the gag you gave out had his already angry cock twitch viciously in protest behind his zipper.

“Gonna get you naked now, Sugar. Gonna see what pretty little body you’ve been hidin’ away from me all this time.”

You nodded frantically, these moments of oblivion being all that you needed now. The infidelity of your parents’ now a thing of the past, cast to the attic of your mind palace. The walls are now painted in colours of him. Lifting your arms to aid your own undressing, he yanked the hem of your shirt up, tossing it aside, large hands now hooking into your bottoms and pulling from your still quivering legs. Those same hands, ones that you were convinced were crafted and out into this very earth for your pleasure, hooked under your thighs, lifting you up into him. Legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation while he carried you to his stairs, ascending them with haste burning in his stomach. Your hands tugging at his hair and your lips to his neck made his strides larger, taking the steps two at a time.

You were well into the belly of the beast now. Consumed and swallowed, wallowing in a haze of postcotial bliss.

His foot kicked open the door of his bedroom, and you felt the spring of the mattress under your back, pushed down from the rebound as he found himself once again on top of you. His hips now met yours, still clothed and he could feel your wetness seep through the waters of clothing.

“Please, Joel, wanna feel you.” He was slowly going at you with a stitch picker, pulling you apart from the seams of your fabric. And he relished in it. You both relished in it. “Wanna see you. All of you. Please?”

A hand of his hooked behind your calf, pulling each of your shoes from your feet, followed by your socks and he smirked devilishly down upon you. “Oh, yeah?” He asked, chuckling evilly to himself. A sound that made you writhe atop his bedspread; Made you want to creek into his skin and barks yourself between his spine and ribs. Any free space of him.

“Yes! Please.” You begged, reaching out to grasp the hem of that shirt he wore. It’s faded fabric bunching in your meagre handfuls. He growled, dragging you closer by the swell of your thighs, pressing the hard and defined line of his dick through his jeans into your wanting slit. Pink and puffy cunt swiping against denim. The friction made you jolt.

“Sure thing, Beautiful.” – ‘I’ll make you feel fuckin’ beautiful.’ It echoed again in his words and wanting, hungry actions. – “As soon as I taste that gorgeous pussy of yours.”

He sank to his knees, joints not clicking because he felt young. Fucking Alive. A hot stripe made by the flat of his tongue made you mewl, a hand in his hair once again. The other splayed out on the covers, propping you up to get a view of him buried so deeply between your thighs, nestled into their apex, tongue fucking into your fluttering hole and the tip of his nose pressed to you clit. Your brow scrunched, jaw unhinged. Like him. With every slight roll of his head, the defined curl of his nose brushed your clit deliciously, each nerve ending of the bud was alive, live a livewire. It rattled in your bones, steam through your blood. Tingling as the sensation spread through your limbs, almost like pins and needles.

The angle was altered ever so slightly as he hooked both of your knees over his shoulders, inhaling the sweet musk of your cunt. He growled into it, lips smothered in your juices that gushed onto his tongue.”Come on, little lady. Wanna taste you gushing over my tongue.” Joel mumbled drunkenly between your parted thighs, his eyes boring deeper holes into your already blown pupils. Dilated and wide.

It was all the coil needed to burn brighter and tighten in its twisted knot, snapping clean in half as you reeled. You shoulder blades crashed back down to the mattress, back arching, strung tight in a deep curve while you writhed. He tugged you closer, moaning lowly into the seam between your thighs, slurping needily at what your body gave him. He hummed, addicted now. That taste was fatal. He had his forbidden fruit and he’d jump to far higher branches to get another taste if it came to it.

“Taste so good. So fuckin’ good, doll. Like sugar.” He cooed again, pulling back once he had his fill for the time being. A good thing because the way the scruff of his chin rubbed at your thighs was starting to become harder to ignore.

You watched through heavy, half lidded eyes as he pulled off his shirt to reveal sweet skin, the slight pudge of his stomach. You followed the smattering of hair in his happy trail down to his jeans, just as he popped the button.

“Gonna fuck you real good, now, Sugar. Gonna make you feel so beautiful.” You believed him. Every word as it became gospel to the pair of you sinners. “Gonna me you want it even after this.”

“Always wanted it, Joel.” You mumbled, hypnotised by his fingers as they hooked into his jeans. He tugged them down over his hips, dragging down his adonis belt, softer, less harsh compared to the contours of the rest of him, such as his arms. He pulled them down in one swift motion with his boxers, his heavy cock slapping onto his lower abdomen, thich, red, the tip swallowed and leaking, drooling gluttonously with a rivulet of precum down the underside of his length.

His hand wrapped around it, the large splay of his palm did nothing to dwarf its size with he jacked himself once, twice, three times to the sight of you. Fucked out from merely his tongue and fingers. He squeezed the base of his cock with hiss, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth after cursing under his bated breath.

“Promise it’ll only hurt for a bit, Sugar.” He swore sweetly at the sight of your anxiety. How you shifted slightly atop his covers. He was able to read you so well, like a book he had scoured the ages of every night before bed. It made you feel special. Sacred. The way he did it so easily. It was everything you wanted. Someone to tell you and assure you of your safety even when you didnt voice a single concern. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

He ran the tip up and down your slit, having to hold back from slamming into you when the bulbous head notched at your entrance.

“You on birth control, beautiful?” He asked as he leaned over you, bent at the waist, wrapping your legs around him securely.

“Y-yeah.”

Joel took that as a go ahead to push into you, pressing his hips flush to yours as you swallowed him inch by deliciously thick inch.

“Good girl.” He crooned, spelling both of his psalm over your hairline sweeping the hair that stuck to your forehead in the sheen of sweat atop your skin. His large hands dragged over the top of your skull to the crown of your head, down the back of your neck. The delicate dragged of roughened skin made a trail of goosebumps rise over your skin, blazing in his touch’s wake. He trod a path with his hands down to your breasts, kneading each one between his palms, still buried to the hilt inside you. How he had so much restraint, he didn't know. And neither did you. But the needy roll of your hips into his showed just how desperate you were. He groaned at the start of the friction between you, and slowly dragged back out of you, moving just as slowly back inside.

The motion turned into a needy clash of his hips to yours. Again. Again. Again. Somewhere along the sting of passion and heat, his hand wrapped around your throat, feeling the flex of it as you swallowed under his palms. He bit down into your neck, reaching out from you as his hips slammed erratically. His heavy balls slapping against your ass.

Your cunt drooled down his shaft, down to the base, down the sensitive skin of his cock. He growled and ground and hissed in your ear, grip tightening in your neck. You felt it tighten. And tighten. Right in the pit of your stomach, deep in your sopping wet cunt. Suckong him back in as the angle of his hips snapped up into the spot that had you seeing entire constellations. They darted to and fro across your vision. It blurred the edge, spotted slinging over the back of your eyes that now burned with tears of pleasure.

His fingers gripped tightly at your hip, thin brushing over your hip bone down your mouth to toy with your clit. And action that sent you spiralling, babbling his name nonsensically among a string of curse words. So pretty and fucked out beneath him. Joel couldn't help but stare in awe as your eyes rolled back into your head when your orgasm hit like a freight train.

He came undone coon after, his climax hitting a crescendo with a growl bitten into your shoulder, leaving another beautiful purple mark on your flawless skin. His thumb still rolled over your clit gently, helping you ride that experience out for all that it was worth.

And then he scooped you, took care of you, let you stay the night. And when you were asleep, wrapped up in his sheets, clean, loved. He stole away downstairs, gathering your clothes, bunching up your panties in his fist, hiding them away in his nightstand.

Not that you would have cared.

You didn’t have to gather your thoughts anymore. Joel replaced them and the stinging nettles and the brambles and the dandelion stems with pretty sunflowers, lavender and sweet peas. And he tied them up with a sweet little ribbon of pure gold. Just for you.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel miller x #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #joel tlou #lu’s little bookshelf

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severus-snaps · 5 months ago

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Snape and Poison

I got distracted whilst writing a different meta so just thought I'd list every time I've come across that Snape was associated with poison in the series.

I first started thinking about all of this because Lucius was trying to get rid of poison in Borgin & Burkes at the beginning of CoS:

“ — and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear — ” “I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see …”

...and I liked the idea that Snape was originally the one to brew it. Although unlikely, I also enjoy the idea that Snape had a hand in both the poison Draco attempted to use to kill Dumbledore, and Voldemort's emerald potion which ultimately did kill Dumbledore - because how sad if, no matter what he did, Snape was always the one destined to end Dumbledore's life?

It's obvious that Snape is most closely associated with potions in the books, but Snape is also the most consistently associated character with poison (with the notable exception perhaps being Slughorn - but even then it's shown that Harry is mostly learning from the Prince):

Philosopher's Stone Snape's introductory lesson outlines how a bezoar will save you from most poisons; he brews poisons for the PS riddle; his introductory speech includes how to "stopper death":

Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar? ... For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. … I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death

From WebMD: Aconite contains a strong, fast-acting poison that causes severe side effects such as nausea, vomiting, breathing problems, heart problems, and death.

Snape's riddle/poem:

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line. Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore, To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: First, however slyly the poison tries to hide You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side

Chamber of Secrets Snape looks as though anyone who approached him about a love potion would be force-fed poison in CoS:

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!” Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

Prisoner of Azkaban The trio think Snape is trying to poison Lupin in PoA; Snape sets an essay on undetectable poisons; Snape warns that potions brewed incorrectly can turn to poisons (revisited when the Trio visit Arthur in hospital in OotP post-Nagini, and a sign reads: "A clean cauldron keeps potions from becoming poisons."), and threatens to 'poison' Trevor.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet ... Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry had a crazy urge to knock the goblet out of his hands. “Professor Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts,” he blurted out. “Some people reckon — ” Harry hesitated, then plunged recklessly on, “some people reckon he’d do anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.” “But if he — you know” — Hermione dropped her voice, glancing nervously around — “if he was trying to — to poison Lupin — he wouldn’t have done it in front of Harry.” Harry sat finishing a nasty essay on Undetectable Poisons for Snape. “Everyone gather ’round,” said Snape, his black eyes glittering, “and watch what happens to Longbottom’s toad. If he has managed to produce a Shrinking Solution, it will shrink to a tadpole. If, as I don’t doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be poisoned.”

Goblet of Fire Snape implies he'll poison someone, and Harry absolutely thinks that Snape wants to poison him in GoF; Moody says Dark wizards can poison an unattended cup, and regularly checks his food for poison (wouldn't do him any good if they were undetectable however); Snape later threatens to practically do the same thing to Harry that Moody is trying to avoid by only drinking from a flask, and slip something into Harry's drink [only with Veritaserum this time, not poison] when he thinks Harry has broken into his potions supplies again

“Brilliant!” said Harry. “It’s Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison us all!” “Antidotes!” said Snape, looking around at them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. “You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting someone on whom to test one. …” Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and Harry knew what was coming. Snape was going to poison him. Moody had told them all during their last Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that he preferred to prepare his own food and drink at all times, as it was so easy for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup. [“It is Veritaserum — a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear,” said Snape viciously. “Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips” — he shook the crystal bottle slightly — “right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter … then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.” - interesting also because Moody had also been in Snape's office] Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term. He found it hard to concentrate on Snape’s Potions test, and consequently forgot to add the key ingredient — a bezoar — meaning that he received bottom marks... Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which he had threatened Harry in class.

Order of the Phoenix Ron says "Poisonous toadstools don’t change their spots" when discussing Snape, his general personality, and whether Snape ever truly stopped working for Voldemort (echoes leopards never change their spots/Moody's "spots that don't come off" in GoF); Snape discusses the use of Veritaserum, poison, and venom on Harry with Umbridge, and expresses his 'sympathy' (read: apparent desire) to use poison on Harry; when advising Harry to continue Potions during his careers discussion, McGonagall said that poisons and antidotes were essential study for Aurors, and that Snape would not accept students below an Outstanding

“I wish you to provide me with a potion that will force him to tell me the truth!” “I have already told you,” said Snape smoothly, “that I have no further stocks of Veritaserum. Unless you wish to poison Potter — and I assure you I would have the greatest sympathy with you if you did — I cannot help you. The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling…” “...Then you ought to do Charms, always useful, and Potions. Yes, Potter, Potions,” she added, with the merest flicker of a smile. “Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors. And I must tell you that Professor Snape absolutely refuses to take students who get anything other than ‘Outstanding’ in their O.W.L.s, so — ”

Half-Blood Prince The Prince inherently understood Golpalott’s Third Law on antidotes to poisons, and then the plot revisits the bezoar from PS both as a means of helping Harry in class but also to save Ron.

“You sure the Prince hasn’t got any tips?” Ron muttered to Harry. Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on antidotes. There was Golpalott’s Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince’s hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding it. And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes: Just shove a bezoar down their throats. Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn’t he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn’t Snape mentioned them in their first-ever Potions lesson? “A stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons.” It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it... He hurtled back to Ron’s side, wrenched open his jaw, and thrust the bezoar into his mouth.

Not rooted in reality at all but a theory I once came across that I cradle like a fascinating little animal that I just can't stop looking at, is that Snape and Dumbledore somehow switch bodies before 'Dumbledore' takes Harry to the cave, and then switch back in time for Dumbledore to actually die at Snape's hand.

And, of course, the (separate but works here too) theory that back as a 'real' Death Eater, Snape helped Voldemort with the emerald potion that was already killing Dumbledore when Snape finished the job.

Deathly Hallows More tenuously, Aberforth asks "where will you lot traffick potions and poisons when my pub’s closed down", and it was the Hog's Head where Snape was lurking when he overheard the prophecy - whether that was as part of his role as spy/he was applying for a job like Trelawney said, or because he was an opportunist with a sideline in poisons - I enjoy both ideas).

Not just poison: Snape and venom

The series also mixes up (or at least uses interchangeably at times) venom and poison; although to a lesser extent associated with venom, Snape does have his moments where he is associated with venom - ultimately, of course, his final moments are spent under the influence of Nagini's.

Snape is described as shooting Harry (and Ron) "a look of pure venom" in CoS; he sets an essay on antivenoms in OotP; "Harry’s anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom" during Occlumency lessons in OotP; "The only trouble is that most venoms act too fast to give the victim much time for truth-telling" says Snape, two books before attempting to find a way to tell the truth no matter how fast-acting Nagini's venom is; when Harry sees Arthur dying of Nagini's bite, it is Snape who has to teach Harry Occlumency to prevent such a thing from happening again, and Snape who ultimately dies of the same attack - but he does not, due to timing (mid-Battle and all) or ill will receive the same rush from the entire Order to attempt to save him, and despite all of his knowledge of poisons and venoms and antidotes, also does not save himself - despite Slughorn being described as carrying around antidotes to things like Veritaserum on the off chance that Dumbledore tries to get a memory out of him, so carrying antidotes for a well-prepared and cunning Slytherin of a certain level of skill is not unheard of, or impossible.

#snape meta #severus snape #snape #professor snape #pro severus snape #snape fandom #pro snape #snapedom #snaps-meta #sort of #half baked metas #snape and poison #no conclusions only vibes

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ride-thedragon · 1 year ago

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The worst thing about Rhaenyra is the inherent need her fans have to moralize the protagonist. Rhaenyra isn't a good person.

That's okay.

Rhaenyra isn't a feminist.

That's okay.

She is not a girl's girl and that's fine.

It's so unfair that people can unapologetically Stan Aegon and Daemon but draw the line at morally questionable women.

We love gray characters until a character is truly gray and a woman.

Rhaenyra isn't better than Alicent, nor is Alicent better than Rhaenyra. These women are both brought to the heel of their patriarchal society at the helm of the most power it affords to women.

Neither of them are intersectional thinkers or necessarily progressing women's rights. Rhaenyra would rule then her son. Alicent will just have her son and grandson's rule.

It's a disservice to her character to pander to the idea of moral righteousness or bettering.

What happens to her happens because she is a woman. At every turn, her womanhood and the role of it will pigeon hold her in this society. That does not excuse her very questionable behavior.

Two things can be true.

For example, using my favorite girl, Nettles.

Under Viserys' rule with Alicent and Otto ruling this young girl is a sex worker to sustain her life. She is assumed to have lost her virginity to eat and was disfigured as punishment for wanting to eat. That was her assumed life under their rule. The entire time she has the capability to be a dragon rider.

Had it fallen normally to Rhaenyra nothing would've changed for her and like most of the women we see in that line of work she'd die at the hands of someone or from illness or pregnancy all while being able to claim a dragon.

Women do not need to be exceptional.

( Not everyone can be Nettles)

Women can just be legally named the heir and be heir.

But to impose a moral code that these characters can never live up to is unfortunate. Again, I rise and say I love Rhaenyra, and I understand that she's been groomed by a crazy person and has the moral compass of every Targaryen after the conquest. She's that girl. I'm sorry for those who don't get it or feel the need to justify it.

I also love Alicent, and as a victim of white people's nonsense in 2020 and the Hollywoodification of the feminist movement in the 2010s, you'll never see hate a woman when men are to blame. Seeing someone try to care about something, she has no understanding or ability to truly escape from is hard and a lot of you project the lack of understanding most people have had when it comes to feminism on her as a means to seem above her and what she does. We all fall short and to villanize her for it, is crazy, especially when the person we compare her to has access to do better and doesn’t pursue it.

I'm still waiting for y'all to dislike Daemon for killing a wife, sleeping with a woman at his wife's funeral, and strangling the other after she miscarried their child. Let's not mistake splinters for planks.

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balkanradfem · 5 months ago

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I'm looking for a new roommate, so I had to spend a few days cleaning and arranging the apartment to look like a normal person lives there. I'm not just talking about being messy (although I am), but also about all of the ...slightly odd stuff I have going on. Like, piles of nettle drying everywhere, newspapers with seeds drying on every desk, herbs hanging from odd places, my pumpkins, apples, and zuchinni on the floor, my balcony being a drying station, odd plants growing in pots that are absolutely not balcony plants, and then all the tools and resources for my various projects, like bunch of branches on the balcony for making baskets, bags of clay under the desk for my next clay project, bunch of fabric and used clothing meant for sewing.

It's screaming 'odd weirdo lives here' and I have to look at every of these situations and go 'okay, what would a normal person do', so I sigh, gather all my apples and put them in a fruit bowl. Even though I'm absolutely not going to keep my apples in a fruit bowl, are you serious? They're rotting faster in there, they're crushing each other, and I can't see each one individually to know which one to eat first because its going bad. It's colder on the floor so they stay fresh faster! And they're not touching each other there so they can't spread the bacteria if one of them starts being sick.

I put my pumpkins on the counter, put a purple blanket over the couch and my new halloween pillow, put all of my seeds into little envelopes and mark them, store all my jars with preserves in the basement, take the compost to the garden, tell fruit fleas to go elsewhere, change my sheets, wash all the windows and curtains, put up fall decorations, so the apartment looks like an aesthetic and pleasant space where nothing ever gets done except sleeping.

So, I do all that, and I'm supposed to show it to a woman, and I got a call from a 65 year old woman who wondered if I would mind to live with someone her age. And I don't mind! I immediately tell her that age is a non issue and she's welcome to move in if she likes the place. So she comes by train, and I go meet her at the train station to show her around.

I could tell immediately she's of poor health; she's walking slowly and very careful with the stairs, she tells me about her hips problems (which by now I understand all women get), she tells me about various therapies she's been in, how she has heart issues as well, and will maybe get a pacemaker. I'm patient and careful to not walk too fast, I express concern and sympathy for her health issues. She's not particularly listening to me when I speak, she interrupts me to say something else. She tells me she's gotten divorced a few years ago, and I express approval.

She loves the apartment, and assures me she's going to move in. I explain that in order to have the place reserved for her specifically, I'd need her to leave any kind of small deposit of her choice, which I had to feature because lots of people say they're going to move in, and then disappear forever, and I'm in financial trouble if I kept the place reserved. She's irritated that I'm suspicious of her, and I explain I am not at liberty to trust someone's word, because I could get in trouble that way. She combats this by saying this thing is 100% certain because she says so, and I'm insistent on 'we'll see'.

So then I ask, if you are moving in, for how long would you stay? And she looks at me and hesitates, and then tells me she has this boyfriend in America, and they've been talking for 4 years, and he will maybe come for her in a month or so, and then if he decides that she's up to his standards, he might take her back with her. I'm frozen for a second, because that is ... degrading (up to his standards?!) so I go 'okay, so what you're saying is that the future is uncertain' and she realizes that I don't like this entire thing, so she goes 'oh he's 100% not going to come' and now I'm even more confused, because I know that if it was 100%, she wouldn't have even mentioned it. She kept pressing me to believe her word again, but I stayed firm on 'uncertain'.

And I'm just disappointed. I expect women who have lived and struggled and divorced to be wise and sure in themselves! Whenever I get a chance to find a roommate older than me, I dream of the possibilities of learning from her, of asking her about her life and experience and skills and wisdom, but I never manage to find that. Usually women I do try to win over are tangled in some male drama that don't allow them to move forward, and keep them pressed on the idea that the male will resolve their life situations, if only they manage to 'fit his standards', and I know it's not the truth, I know it's not reality. How is the society capable of taking wisdom out of women like this? And their self worth? I can't imagine contemplating if I'm fitting some male standards. Insane that women can be fooled into thinking like this!

So I don't know if the woman will move in or not, but I am worried about having to listen about the ill-mannered american male instead of having her tell me stories about her life and her perspective on it.

#looking for roommates #anyone in croatia wanna come live with me??#free zuchinni all summer and fall #i have a full box of them currently #finding roommates #being sad that women are not introduced to feminism #and have to operate life according to male standards

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bohemian-nights · 9 months ago

Text

Original Sin

Word Count: ~11,798

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Nettles

Warnings ⚠️: 18+; smut; p in v penetration

Description: He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

AN: As promised here it is. Enjoy and thank you all so much for bearing with me. You have all been a most wonderful audience⚜️

“I love you.” He had screamed it at her. If they had been inside Maidenpool’s halls it would have bounced off the stone walls and echoed around the castle, but under the cover of twilight, it was carried away by the wind from the valley and hills which the castle sat upon.

Nettles would’ve thought she had gone mad had the man not been drawing circles into her cheek with the pad of his thumb. The callouses upon well-worn hands having seen a lifetime of battles, reminding her of where she was. They were warm and solid and entirely too real for her to imagine.

Where his tone was severe, his carasses were gentle. Lulling her into a calmness that she didn't feel only moments ago when her heart was racing. Feeling as though it would beat out from her chest.

He poured every ounce of sincerity he could command at the tips of his fingers into his touch. The same gentleness as in his gaze. A gaze she was slowly getting lost in. There was no were else to look, but the violet pools. As if that was not enough he repeated those words holding her to him so that she could not mistake them for any other. Vibrating through her. His breath fanned her face.

“I love you Netty.” There was no mistake.

Three simple words belonging to her. They set her afire. Burning her. Setting her ablaze with want. She wanted to hear him repeat those words over and over until he grew hoarse. Until she heard she knew nothing except them. She didn’t care if he said them with that same harshness. With the same breathlessness as if it pained him not to. Giving as much breath as it took. She wanted them. She dreaded it.

What they meant. Everything they meant. She wanted everything they could give her. Everything he could give her. Every promise. Every whisper. Everything. I love you Netty. Four words too many and too few.

She had wished she had reached Sheepstealer. She had almost reached him, if she looked back she could see the outline of him painted in the storm's light so close, but he was out of reach. Had flown away with Caraxes when Daemon had come thundering after her like the stranger himself.

Only her feet could take her from here.

He did not stop her when she pulled away. Plans forgotten. Not stopping as she let the wind carry her away. She didn’t stop until she reached her chamber. Barely remembering to bolt the door, lest he change his mind and pursue her and she lose herself in the insanity of it.

She was shaking as she slid down the wood and rested her head in her hands.

Nettles didn't know when she had exactly changed from her hiding place, but the sun had gone down by the time she had removed herself from the door. Calmed enough for her crying to have stopped as she peered into the darkness with bloodshot eyes. Seeing the disbelief state of her reflection in the windows glass. A sight she made.

The sound of glass clinking against each other came from the other side of the door pulled her away from her own visage. Crystal lifted by steady hands up from their resting place. Hands she knew better than she should. He had arrived back at this late hour. Who was to say what that hour was she had not known.

It was past super time no doubt, for the castle had gone still in the hours past and the world outside was covered in an inky blanket. No sound apart from him and the wind pounding against the shudders could be heard. The latter of whom Nettles could hear as if he were. In this dark chamber with her right beside her offering her a drink along with him.

That thin little scrap of wood laced by iron doing nothing to drown out the noises of life in his chamber or her ability to hear them.

How many thimbles had he had? Two? Four? Six? Was he in his cups? Had she driven him to it? Darting off and giving him a fright twice over.

She heard the sounds of the crystal being placed back down again. Had he heard her? Was he coming to command her to open her bed chambers up to him? No if he had heard her he would have demanded she open her door to him a long while ago.

She would be left with no choice. He would not leave her alone to wallow in her sorrow when he had been the cause of her tears. When he had confessed the depths of his affection and left her head spinning trying to make heads or tails of his declarations and her own powder keg of emotions on the precipice of combustion.

No she must have ceased her crying long before he had turned in. Or mayhaps she could only hear him. She was pressed up against the door like a child spying when they should be in the land of dreams. A child. That is what she was. A frightened child. Hiding in the shadows where she shouldn’t be while he stalked around in the night.

They were not the only ones awake past the hour of the wolf. Nettles could hear their dragons in the distance filling the night air with roars, loud enough to reach over through the valley and breach past Maidenpool’s stone walls.

She had grown used to their roars. Learning how to distinguish them. Enough to know that this one was a greeting from Caraxes. Sheepstealer had arrived back from his evening hunt with a few sheep in his belly. Mayhaps he had even shared his feast with the bloodwyrm. Well-fed and satisfied, the pair of dragons were settling down for the night.

It was their routine. Sheepstealer going out to hunt. and Caraxes alert and waiting up for him. In due time her dragon would come back to his companion with as many sheep as he could carry. He would always come back. To their little sanctuary in the woods.

They had not separated as their riders had. Finding no problem with each other's company. Finding comfort in it or contentment without a care. The feelings of man are nothing of their concern. Lost in their own version of safety and mayhaps even bliss.

He loved her. Daemon Targaryen loved her. The words danced around in Nettles' head.

He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

She turned the meaning of those words backwards and forwards. Round and round a hundred times till she was giddy with it. Like a child. Letting it soak into her very bones and impart its strength where she had faltered.

Love. He loved her, but what did love mean to a man like that?

There were three before her. Three who had stood where she stood. Two still living among them.

His first wife, the Lady Rhea Royce she decided did not count. The Lady of Rhustone had been thrust upon him by his late grandmother and it was the most unwelcome match.

They had shared the title man and wife for six and ten years, but by all accounts they shared no more than if they had been strangers. Leading separate lives Nettles doubted she had ever held a place by his side or in his bed much less in his heart. She was his wife in name only and therefore would not be given any more consideration of, but the others more than would.

Lady Mysaria had been first. The first woman he had chosen for himself that he had kept and claimed His first. The first woman he had loved.

She saw how he was with her. Did he love her?

He had taken her into his bed without a doubt. She had once even carried his child ill-fated as that may have been. She had been banished from his side for it, but it mattered not. She had returned back to his bed. Everyone knew that.

It was no great secret even if it ought to have been with the impropriety of it, but war was seldom a time for prosperity and pleasure they took indeed.

Addam had told her before she had left with him for this place that it was done with the queen's blessing.

A simple arrangement that satisfied all. It seemed to serve them well. Though her mistress of whisperers shared her husband's bed, the queen did not treat Mysaria any differently than Lord Corlys or any of the others on her council.

She did not even seem to mind the idle gossip that permeated about her court. How It festered. Addam had been right when he had said that she shared more than just the queen's confidence and the prince's favor for she had seen how they behaved. They certainly had not been discreet, even in the queen's presence.

The two acted almost as if they were friends or at least she relied on her a great deal. Entrusting her with her secrets and her confidence in her council seemed impenetrable. She owed her or at least her gratitude towards her foreign adviser seemed endless.

Placing her at the head of her table. Placing her between her husband and her, daring anyone to say a word against her. She cared not one bit about what they did with one another and they certainly had their way with each other.

The two coming out of council meetings with hers lingered on his arm. She sat at his side at feasts giggling up a fit like a maiden and whispering things into his ear, making a spectacle of themselves, but that suited them well. Both liked the attention they got from their displays, never hiding their affections or Mysaria’s other role at court.

Even her chambers were close enough to the princes or they might have been Daemons for Nettles had seen the woman exit from the royal family's apartments with her own eyes. A curious place for one’s mistress of whisperers. A curious place even for Lord Corlys Velaryon who was very much family, but he had taken up apartments within the tower of the hand. All the others of her council of advisors had found chambers far away from the royal apartments, but she was not just any ordinary advisor.

Twas the only time she had spoken with her. Well, she was spoken at rather than spoken to. The Lyseni lady had pulled her “Are you lost girl,” it had been said with a sneer. Taking everything in her to keep her chin up and meet her pale eyes when she apologized for her absentmindedness. Her voice thankfully did not desert her for she had been in a dreadful fright enough to descend into stuttering.

Nettles had not gotten away from the woman soon enough. She did not spook so easily, but the de facto mistress of whispers was unnerving. Always lurking about. Those pale eyes watching her.

Always watching. Always there. She had never approached her save that once but she felt her presence all the same. In the air. In the walls. The walls were painted with her eyes and listened with her ears. Even in her bedchamber she felt some presence gazing down at her as she slept. Something crawled up the back of her spine and planted itself like a spider she couldn’t shake loose. Everywhere and nowhere.

She’d find herself hanging out high upon balconies like a vulture waiting for its prey to weaken and descend upon it for the kill overlooking the training yard when she would in halls, around the corridors.

She had not wanted to acknowledge it. At feasts, those same pale sets of irises, the palest ones she’s ever seen almost devoid of color entirely, so pale they were, would find her for a second or two.

Never blinked, for they did not seem to need to, but if she were to, if she were she’d not find them upon her again, but they were there. They had been there.

There was something unnatural in them.

Cold. They were cold and hard. Hardset like stone. Ghostly. Reflecting only back what they saw. Gleaming from the light of the candles, the sun, the moon, some trick of the shadows dancing with the light, but never from the brilliance of her own joy or happiness.

Misery, the court called her. Half-whispered as they huddled together whenever she was within earshot. Recoiling back with their noses in the air clutching whatever they hand in hand close as she glided past them. Nettles had almost felt sorry for her for it before their run-in.

Surely she hadn’t deserved that. Could they not see that? She had the look of a woman who had seen too much and had been changed for it. Written plain as day in that ghostly face.

She could not possibly be more cruel than the rest. A part of her knew why she was as she was. Why she had made her bed where she had.

A part of her could see herself in her because of it. How did anyone have the right to judge her?. These fine lords and ladies of the court, they had no right. They had never gone without, but no amount of bitterness was an excuse, but no longer she had seen her share but she had not been changed by it; she hadn't fallen into wickedness and had certainly not thought to enact wickedness on some other poor soul, but not Mysaria. She had indeed lived up to the jeers thrown her way. Nettles seemed to have become her favorite target of said misery. There was no excuse for that.

She would’ve thought herself gone mad if she had not spoken to her with such venom. It was an utterly ridiculous thing to picture even Mysaria being jealous, but there she was. With hate in her eyes and a barbed tongue turned her way. She could’ve sworn that the Lyseni woman was trying to get a rise out of her then when she had found her where she felt hadn’t belonged. What a thought that was. She was hardly worth the effort.

Or mayhaps she was right to be as paranoid as she was. She had eyes and ears around the Red Keep. She was the spider upon the wall. She was far from blind, unknowing, or willfully oblivious. She had to have heard something. Saw something. Something that would make her cease from her lurking and give voice to the shadows which were in.

Mistress she may be, but she was no fool and more importantly she was his. His first taste

at passion. His present passion. The woman who had invited back by his side. Constant in his patronage. She knew a threat when she saw one. She was his no matter how long or what she was, once he had claimed her she was his.

Mayhaps that was the way Daemon behaved with women too. Even with his mistresses. Even women whom he did not love, they were, all his mayhaps he had claimed that he would not take another to his bed, but he had not brought Mysaria here with them. Whatever claim he had upon her or promise he had made he had given it up.

Nettles did not know when they had ceased their arrangement, but she had known it had reached its conclusion when he had dragged her here in this place of refuge in the midst of war. All to protect. He left her behind, it all behind to protect her.

Mistress of whisperers she may not be, but Nettles herself had eyes and ears as good as any other, and him being with her told her more than she could ever see. It was all the proof she needed. Why he had rushed her here. Why he wanted her in his bed.

All of them had, yet it had but she doubted he would after that incident in the training yard she had entered those bedchambers of his again. She had seen them.

He had discarded her. Deemed her something which he could live without for something he could not. Maybe once upon a time an age ago, mayhaps never even then, but certainly not now. Now he had no need or want of her. Had he wanted her like that? Had he ever loved her? Had she just been like the others? Was she to be like that?

Loved.

Loved upon until he got bored and wanted a taste of something different. That wasn’t love. To be discarded and used, that couldn’t be love. It wasn’t something she even wanted to name Traded and then he too would get bored of her. Find another and forget about her. Was she to be just another one of those conquests?

Something which to just pass the time with.

Another young pound of flesh to slack his lusts with and then he’d move on to the next doe-eyed girl who caught his gaze.

Nettles heard the rumors. She was young, very young even if she had seen and done more than those twice her age, but the man had a reputation.

Of course, he liked them young. Young enough to be his daughter and then some. She was young enough to be his daughter and then some, but those girls were little things. Some were younger than her. Obscenely younger than her. Had never tasted anything apart from a world of spring, the bitter taste of winters cold an unfamiliar truth, or the darkness of that eternal winter had never been felt upon their flesh. Never gone without such dismal truths even in their state of squalor for they had something which always to depend upon.

Valyria.

Most were Valyrian, or Valyrian enough with their pale silver-white hair, skin the color of marble and sheets of parchment without a blemish or mark upon them, eyes of various hues of violet, indigo, and lilacs. The blood of old Valyria ran through their veins. Unquestionably the seed of the dragon, but they had nothing to show for it, same as any other peasant. Same as her. Mayhaps they were worse off for it.

Nettles, after all, had managed to avoid the unfortunate pitiful of having to sell herself for whatever she could get. As had been the fate of her long-departed mother.

Narrowly of course, there had been times when she thought she would have to sell the one thing which she alone possessed. The one thing that was hers left to give. Hers to batter for a bit of bread and ale in her belly and perhaps a warm bed for the night. It was tempting. Just for one night of respite and comfort she had so long lacked.

It was not as if she would have a hard time finding someone who would be willing to lay their hands on her flesh for a night or two.

Even with her scared nose and dirt caked upon her skin from sporadic washings, something she was exceedingly grateful to be rid of now, men were never too picky about what their whores looked like. She was not especially beautiful, but beauty was not needed for a whore. A whore was a whore. One only needed one thing from them. Nothing more.

In any case while she was not especially comely she was not so hideous as to dampen a man’s passion. She might even inspire the right man. A man who did not mind her image.

Nettles stood out from the rest with her brown skin, dark eyes, and inky mane of coils. Not a thing like the milkmaids that dotted up and down this land or the silvery vestiges of old Valyria in the streets of Kings Landing, Driftmark, and Dragonstone that blended in with the rest.

She was different. Her own visage spoke of a place far removed from the petty squabbles and the dreary gray that enveloped much of Westeros. Far more foreign than the red mountains and sandy dunes of Dorne.

Some place warm with the smell of the sea, and fruits, and flowers one could not pronounce the name of. A place one could lose themselves in. A place of savages who lived untainted by the customs of polite society. No one would know what would happen there, no one would care.

Naath perhaps or maybe the Summer Isles. Someplace entirely exotic. There were men who would pay good money for that, to sample the flavors of the known world. She’d have to close her mouth for it. Feign one of the lithe and airy voices she heard at port from the long way from home.

Perhaps she could even name her price for the charms of that exoticism, but she hadn’t had to use them. Thank the Gods she hadn't and she had Sheepstealer now. She’d never have to succumb to that.

Twas a sin what they did. She had no right to judge them. She could not judge someone for the choices they made.

She had done her fair share after all, every day when she gazed upon her reflection she was reminded of what she had done. When one lived as she did, and was born into, what she was. There wasn’t a choice.

One did whatever they could to make it through the day without winding up six feet under, but in the eyes of the Gods, a sin is a sin, and they would not be so merciful to turn the other way.

Not to her. Never to her.

For they had seen all. All her miseries and misfortune and they had done nothing for it. Give her more pain for it.

She was born to endure. Nothing more. And if she bargained with her body for earthly pleasure and comforts to grasp for something more which wasn’t to be hers she’d have a debt which she could not pay back.

She couldn’t bargain for more. Twas her soul that hanged in the balance and because of it, she could not do as they could.

And what was she compared to them? To all those silver girls. To the ones he chose and did not choose alike. To Mysaria. To his wives, both of them. All of them. Even to Rhea Royce. She wasn’t Valyrian. She wasn’t the daughter of a lord much less a king. She did not come from a great house nor any house. Not even a blacksmith.

She was the daughter of a whore. The daughter of no one. She didn't even know who her father was. What he was. Where he was. If he lived or died.

There was a time when she thought she could be Daemon’s. It was in truth next to impossible. Such a silly thing to even ponder when she knew in her heart who had sired, madam had all but told her the blackguard who had split his seed into her mother, but she could not picture him being anything else to her.

So she had wandered for about a fortnight to be precise when they had first taken Kings Landing if madam had been wrong. Nettles supposed she could blame it on all the attention he gave her. All his staring, naive she hoped it had been for that reason. It was a want more than anything else.

She did not wish to be a Targaryen or Valyrian, but she did dream, more importantly, she wanted as all living creatures with some soul of sorts did.

Nettles wanted to belong. To have a home. A family. To have a person. It had been so long since she had belonged to someone.

So very long since she was someone’s dear one. Since she was the center of someone’s world. Perhaps it may have been a bit shameful that she wished that she was someone’s dear one in a more intimate manner, annoyed at the Gods for dropping another surrogate for the one she had lost so long ago instead of in the arms of a lover, but beggars could ask for more than they were.

Never mind that she wanted him. Wanted him in a way that was written in some ancient text somewhere. In the way the singers sang their ballads she wanted him, but she’d settle for the dotted cherished daughter and hope to find intimacy along the way.

She spent her time trying to find any shred of familial similarity between them. There were scarce few to be found, but she was deterred by it grasping at whatever she could catch. Perhaps the glint of his eyes, the smile that spread, maybe in his laugh, or the attention he bade her. Fathers freely showered their daughters with affection with attention. However, the man's attentions soon turned less than fatherly.

Anything, but fatherly.

His conduct bordered on obscene no it was obscene with the way he pulled her in dark enclaves and trailed after her skirts in the Red Keep. His eyes watched her too following her into that field that had become her place of respite in those weeks.

How he had behaved in the training year a week before they had departed had been the final straw. Picturing Addams bloody and bruised tan face pummeled into the dirt beneath his boots as clear as day.

It took six men to pull him off the younger man and it had taken every bit of her resolve to push Daemon away when he had pulled her away after that.

He was a madman. Full of red-hot molten fire. For her. He couldn’t contain himself for her.

His lips upon her own. Hands on her body. Underneath her skirts. Hiking them up. Drifting lower and lower until they grazed her thatch of womanhood. She could barely breathe with the way his tongue and his thumb had found her sweet spots that made light dance behind her eyelids and her knees buckled, yet she hadn't wanted him to stop. Not even the need for air had brought her to her senses.

She had only been inebriated a handful of times in her young life, hating the way ale would burn the back of her throat and her stomach when she imbibed too much, but he made her feel dizzy. Drunk on him. Quenching a thirst she didn’t know she had and making her want more.

Twas only when he had found a spot within her that made her toes curl whispering her name as if she were the one making him feel like she had entered within the halls of the seven heavens that she remembered where she was and who was making her feel such joy.

He had whispered her name. The name he gave her. That had done it for her. Netty.

Even the Targaryens had their limits. They would certainly never stoop so low as to take their own daughter into their bed. Not even the zealots among them.

Daemon would never dare touch her if he thought she was his.

There was no familial connection between them and it was hardly more likely that she had a drop of the old country in her, but did that matter? It didn’t matter to him and she had never been ashamed of who she was. What she was. Where she came from. Proud of it for she could never forget it.

He most certainly had not said anything of her heritage. Even if he believed himself more than most men because of his blood he loved her. He said he loved her. He had proven in his own way the truth of those words.

Hell, perhaps he loved her more than all the others. Loved her mayhaps more than anyone else had as silly as that sounded, but did she not deserve more than what she was given? To be treated with love. Did she not deserve love? His love.

Yes, they were just words, three simple words, but he had taken her away from the vipers’ nest that was a rotting den of sin. He had seen that she was safe. Even from himself. He had not forced himself. He had not pushed. Even now when he nursed a bruised ego from when she had run away from the declarations of his affections.

They were all things that one should expect from another common decency, chivalry even. Being seen as someone worthy of protection, but Nettles had learned to live without expectations this existence was seldom what one could expect. One had a lot in life and it was up to them to change it. That is what she had grown to expect. She was alone. No one had ever come to save her. She had to save herself. She was the only one who cared for herself till now.

We do not exist in the world to be alone. Nettles had to believe that. That there was something more than what had been.

She had not known him for very long but did that matter when he cared for her and she for him. Did that matter?

The grandson of a king. The son of a would-be king. A brother to a king, a prince in his own right, the husband of the queen, and yet, Daemon had been good to her. Kind. Honest. Self-sacrificing. To her at least, he had been every bit of food she had seen in this world.

That had to count for something. It had to mean something. Especially for a prince and someone like her. He did not have to and yet he was kinder than the lot who had been her tormentors for more years than she’d like to count. That meant something.

She may be nothing, she may come from nothing, but by the Gods, if she was going to sell her soul she was going to sell it for much more than pleasure of the flesh.

She hadn’t been quiet when she turned the lock. The door had creaked as she pushed it open. She wore no slippers, nothing apart from a simple frock and robe. She had buttoned up the ivory thing up to her chin for her modesty. Her bare feet padded against the cold stones, loud enough for him to hear her in the still.

Nettles had washed away her tears in the wash basin that she kept near her bed. The maids always kept the small pitcher full for her. It was a Godssend after she came back from an exhausting day of riding.

She was especially thankful for it now when she crept out on shaky legs into the unknown without the evidence of her distress upon her face a beacon in the moonlight, but she had done no more than that.

He had indeed heard her, whipping his head around to face her and with such speed that it would’ve startled her had she meant to be quiet, but she did not wish to be so. That’s not what this was about.

“Do you have a lover?” A simple hello would’ve been polite, a have I disturbed you would've been even more appropriate, mayhaps even an apology was warranted for her trying to storm off in the middle of a storm, but pleasantries served little purpose here. There was a raging sea, as great as the narrow sea which to cross which could not be with pleasantries.

“Had,” he breathed out and added in the next breath lest her mind start wandering again desperately trying to fill in the answer. “Lady Mysaria.” Her mind wandered. An answer for an answer. Questions begetting more questions

“Do you wish her here?” In my place. In your bed. At your side day in and day out.

For everything that the Lysenni woman was, she was many things, for how high she had risen, she had risen high indeed having wormed her way into the queen's small council from a common dancing girl, she was not a dragonrider and likely never would be.

That is something Nettles could offer. Her youth. Her abilities. A dragon. A companion in the skies as well as inside this castles walls. Those were her services to the war effort. To a throne forged in blood. For a crown. The crown. It always came back to that bloody crown. Perhaps she reminded him of the one who wore that crown. “Or perhaps you imagine another here in my place.”

Flashes of the proud woman with blazing violet eyes always narrowed in assessment down at her subjects seated upon the throne flickered across her eyelids. Did he picture her too? That thought worried her more.

Nettles had told him what she was and what she was not. They both knew she wasn't his or any other Valyrian. She didn’t look anything like any other Valyrian. Her mother most certainly and from what she’d been told her father was a simple ship hand, but she was young and a dragonrider.

It was what he was used to. The familiar. Familiar enough at least.

A dragonrider still in bloom. The things he loved best in a woman she supposed. Youth and the connection to his heritage. As long as a woman possessed some version of it, even a minute one. It would be good enough. She would be good enough.

Good enough. Was that all she was? Just good enough?

“No,” The sound of his boots snapped her out of her reverie as he reached out for her. He’d not changed out of them. In fact he hadn't changed out of anything. He probably was to drink himself to sleep in that chair. Still clothed and slumped over staring into the flames while he thought her asleep. Comforted by the fact that she was safe and sound except she didn’t feel so sound. She felt a world away from it.

It was funny how he always seemed to know what she was thinking and how she felt without her having to voice it. Her confidence failing her, he reached out a pale hand to her as his irises widened in recognition.

“No Netty,” she flinched back when his skin grazed hers.

To his credit, he pulled that hand as if it had never been reaching for her, but the damage was down. Violet eyes downcast. Reminding her of a boy burned by her actions, as if she was the one who had been the cause of this all. As if she had wounded him from her rejection yet pitiful they may be those eyes did not part from her.

Was that love? A need to console no matter if she had bruised him. That she was paramount. That her needs and wants came before his own.

“If I did not wish for your company I would’ve taken another as my—,” he hesitated, his eyes unblinking as his eyes scanned over her face as if looking for the right word, eyes softening when he had seemingly found it. “—companion,” Companion. That was one way to put it. It was certainly something. Something with meaning something akin to what he spoke of and she supposed that was its own truth she was to face.

Was that what she was? Her contribution to this plane of existence. A companion? His companion? Was that what was to be written when the old men in their robes with their chains set her name down in their great tombs by the flick of their quills they wielded like swords?

Here lies what is left of the small brown girl known as Nettles, daughter of a nameless whore, rider of Sheepstealer, the companion of Prince Daemon Targaryen. Was that the truth of it?

She supposed that it was true enough. At least in the practical sense of the word. They rarely parted from one another. He had seen to that when he had dragged her across Westeros to this place. This place where there was some semblance of peace intertwined with duty.

Unmoored by the court's expectations or the constant demands of a war council breathing with spies watching their every move.

Where there was some state of being here. Just being. Their presence, the way they flitted around each other, the way they sought out the other, had been ever since she had landed atop Visenya’s hill, into his field of vision, was unnoticed or at least not trampled upon. It was freedom

Daemon had seen to it to take full advantage of that.

Nettles was at his side in the open skies and within the walls of this stone castle. They slept in adjoining bedchambers. They spent their days roaming on dragonback searching for his crazed nephew They broke their fast and suppers together. The only time they parted was for slumber and even then that was no guarantee.

She liked to believe in knights and shining armor coming to rescue fair maidens. Daemon was no knight riding upon a white stallion and she was no fair lady of the court, but he had come for her. He had taken her under his protection.

Made her his companion in deed if not yet in bond. She was his companion, his only companion here, his only companion now. Or she could be. If she just reached out and grasped the battle-worn hand he was so willing to give, she could have that.

On that account, she would take his sincerity for what it was. For she was the one he had forsaken others for. Even if he had not told her everything even if they could not have everything he had done so for her.

Nettles had not been spying upon the man, but there hadn't been a need to. They were with each other day and night. They slept in adjoining bed chambers. Sometimes she’d even fall asleep in that armchair he had just now been sulking in. He’d cover. Respectable

If he had been with someone else, if he had taken one of the maids to bed, she’d know. She’d hear it. See it. By the seven some of the less than friendly ones who glared at her while they filled her bathes and made her bed would’ve made sure that she’d have known, a hand gliding down his back when they helped him into his doublet showing one the serving boys away to do so, no she had seen no evidence of that, but Nettles couldn’t help thinking bitterly of the thought.

She’d conceded that she was indeed his companion, but that wouldn't stop him if he wished for another. That hadn’t stopped the Targaryen prince before. That hadn’t stopped him from being with Mysaria when he was his wife’s. That hadn’t stopped him from marrying Rhaenyra only half a year after his most beloved wife had died.

She was mad to think herself different. To think herself better than the women who had come before her for many women held the title of that and yet here she was. If he wanted to, he could find the time. If he wanted someone he would find her and take her into his bed.

“That’s never stopped you before. You’ve never only had one woman, my prince.” She regretted it as soon as the words came out from her lips. Biting her lip in embarrassment as she took to looking at her feet feigning interest in her reddened soles.

Lady Laena Velaryon. He had been good to her. So she had been told by Lady Baela. Though she was, but three when she went to her watery tomb from which she remained, youths bloom eternal. her memory never to be clouded over and withered with age. What did a child truly know of her parents and their marriage? How would Nettles trust what the girl had to say there? A girl even younger who had not seen half of what she had. A child by all measures.

But even if she were not to trust what a child parroted, by all accounts Lord Corlys Velaryon, who Nettles knew with as much confidence as the elder dragon twin, did not seem the type of man to tolerate his daughter being mistreated. Much less to bear witness to said mistreatment within his halls. And if the late Lady Laena Velaryon had any of her eldest daughter's ample spirit, her own independent will would not permit him to.

“She’d have been fond of you.” There was a wistful look in his eyes. She didn't doubt him. Not with that look. Not with the way they described her. She’d like to think she’d be fond of her too and yet she. Do you picture her? She had almost asked it, but this too he sensed. “You’re you Netty.” He smiled. Twas the dreamy kind. “She would’ve loved you for it. As I do.”

Odd as it was, for the thought of a woman who was long since dead and would’ve always had to be as such to ensure their being here, to ensure what they were about to become to one another was an odd thing, nonetheless the notion was comforting.

In another life, another time far distant from here in some way they could’ve all been happy together.

“Have you taken a lover?” The teasing was back in his voice when he had seen that she was not to contradict him. Levity returned to his chamber. Twas she now who moved closer to him. She who let him take a curl between his fingers.

He twinned her dark ringlets around until those calloused digits grazed her skin. Dropping the curl in favor of letting the back of his hand caress down the apples of her cheeks. Nettles leaned into it. What would be the point not to? What would be the point of denying him or herself any longer?

“No,” it wasn’t needed. They both knew that. He’d know just as well as she knew of him if she had, but she imagined male pride made him wish to hear the words coming from. She would grant him that wish. It was a simple enough request just the same asher. She smiled. Shy thing it was and met her with one of his own grins.

“Your hands are freezing sweet girl,” he brought them to his lips. The warmth of his breath fanning her cold skin before kissing it. Warming up more than the cold of her hands.

Gods, why was he so warm? His hands. His breath. Was it due to his blood? The dragon's fire which flowed within all Targaryens did it keep him in this perpetual furnace state?

Was he warm everywhere? That pale skin lay just beneath his robes. Was that warm? What would it feel like to have him surrounding her? To be underneath him. She would have blushed at that, should’ve blushed at that if she could, but the memories kept the heat off her cheeks.

There were nights when she had forgotten what warmth was. When all she knew was cold. The bowl of the wind or the gust of the sea breeze bearing down on her. Winter’s storm wreaking havoc upon Driftmarks shores. Cold burying itself into her skin like a needle into a thread. She'd doubt ever growing cold again there with him.

“I—I—” standing there stuttering with him looming over her and she was forced to look up at him. Nettles felt like the girl she never intended to be, but she didn't know what she was going to say. Mayhaps telling him that he was warmer than afire and she never wanted to leave out from its radiance. His radiance, in any case, she had never finished it.

“You’d know if I had,” she breathed out, finally finding the words with a burst of heat brought to her cheeks with the admission helped by his fondling of her.

Nettles closed her eyes and breathed out with a gasp when he began to nip at the skin behind her ear and opened them when pulled back. He had that boyish look upon him again.

“I’ve never been with a man,” she whispered looking up at him. Blurting it out was more like it. Blunt and course. Her voice was low as she kept her gaze on a freckle underneath his right eye. A not-so-small part of her had hoped her words were indistinguishable, but he heard her well enough.

“Do you mean to tell me you prefer the company of women Netty?”

Silver brows raised as the corners of his thin lips curled into a lopsided smile.

It was the teasing sort. Boyish shaved several years off his face, but it was arrogant. Far too cocky. The kind which would’ve earned him a slap a couple of moons back and had if she was well within her mind, but Nettles could do little more than give in to her nerves, hide her head into his robes, and let out a quiet I’ve never been with anyone. Thankful at least that her brown skin hid her blush. What a sight that would've been.

She had debated about telling him, had more than half a mind to keep it to herself, just because she allowed him into her bed or rather she’d come to his bed didn't mean he had to know the state of her he couldn't

expect much after all, but Nettles had figured it was no good keeping it from him.

Of course, If she were a man she wouldn’t have told him, but it was different for a man and she doubted she’d be in his bed if she were one.

Thankfully she was very much a woman and happy to be one for all the troubles it brought her, but women bleed. He’d know whether she told him or not in half an hour or two and she wanted him to know. She’d wanted to know if she were in his place and wanted to give him everything she could, but she hadn’t been expecting him to know. Most certainly not to voice it then and there.

“I know.” She could not help how her eyes bugged out. Feeling the strain to the socket which they were attached to. If Lord Moonton had sprouted up from the embers of the fire speaking fluent Valyrian she couldn't have been more shocked.

He knew. Sure enough, he had known. He thought her an innocent and he was right to think even though the fact of the matter was that she should not be an innocent. He should not expect her to be one.

She was six and ten and she was a baseborn girl with barely a coin to her name. There were younger girls who had given up their virtues long since past. There were girls younger than her with a babe at their hips to show for it. Some highborn girls even and she was as lowborn as they come.

It was harder for girls like her to keep her innocence and in the grand scheme of things twas not important. Such was the price of life. What good was one's maidenhead when one was bent over with an ache in their belly for morsels of something that would take that pain away. Nettles had, but plenty of girls had given theirs. He knew.

“Whenever I touch you, you behave like a frightened colt,” he was grinning now.

“I could be frightened of you.” It was a half-hearted statement if she had ever heard of one. She didn’t even believe herself as she said it. Nettles could feel her brows furrowing with her confusion. An act which caused Daemon to swipe his thumb gently across the crease as he smiled down at her and then repeated the caress on the scar that graced her nose. It was a sweet and maddening gesture.

He knew. She did not know why she thought he would react any other way, but arrogant and proud man as he was he laughed at her. It was not a quiet thing either. It rumbled deep within and shook her along with it.

I’m glad of it. Not for that— I’m glad they did not take away that from you either. She tried to look away then, but he kept their gazes affixed onto each other. Transfixed by the green reflecting off the candlelight.

“You do not know the way men look at you, sweet girl.” He kissed and coed at her. Hands cupped her face as his thumb drew circles into the apples of her cheeks. Gentle. His touch was delicate despite the calloused upon the pads of his fingers. “My innocent sweet girl.”

“I’m not innocent.” Because she was not. She had done things. Seen things that no innocent had which she should not have ever seen, but he shushed her. It didn't matter.

“I have seen my share of devils and monsters,” his thumb reached to brush against her scar. Caressing it as he swiped the pad of the digit across the marred skin. So sweetly. So undeserving for such violence she had inflicted upon herself.

Shame, shame came over her then and there when she should have been feeling anything but it. She should have. been in the throes of passion and sempiternal ecstasy, but there was only shame. Shame for such a hated thing.

Hate did not even begin to describe it, but there was no other word which Nettles could use to describe l.

She Hated how she’d gotten it. The desperation and the shame coming over her whenever she remembered what transpired and she so tried not to remember. She tried not to, but it was a hard thing to ask of a girl of, but seven and ten. “You are the most innocent of creatures, Netty.”

She had to protest that. Feeling the lump form in the back of her throat with her protest. I've stolen.

I’ve killed. I’ve seen war. I’ve been at war. Far longer than these past moons I've been marred by it. My body may remain untouched but no more innocent than you are, but that most worthy, most admirable protest ended with a flick of his tongue across the roof of her mouth.

Arching where she stood she felt the rancor leave her with a waver in the pit of her belly. Words could wait. The words were stolen from her in truth, but she didn't mind that. They were not important.

She’d been here before. In what seemed like a lifetime ago. An age clouded by grief and ignominy. The touch of his lips upon her own was a sensation shameful as it was to admit it that she had already been privy to.

Nettles would be lying to herself if she said she did not like it then as she did now. Not stopping him when he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her into him.

However, that stolen kiss had never been like this. It was quick and greedy and maddening. She had been kissed with the force of a man dying of thirst, but this was a man who wished to savor them.

Anticipation. That was what was different. It may have been there before, but it was shrouded by fear rather than unrestrained desire. She couldn't give in. Couldn’t get lost in it. She couldn't have him. She couldn't want him. He was not hers to want much less need. She needed him. Mayhaps she shouldn’t have, but she did.

Her robe had too many buttons. Far too many buttons. Gods she should’ve picked something else. Forgone the insipid thing. There was a part of her who liked its frills. Cornflower etched into neat little rows on the border. It was pretty despite its plainness. The buttons were the most intricate thing about it. Marked with the sigil of his house. A bronze three-headed dragon, a gift she had allowed to adorn her, to brand her even when she had been too proud to accept more than that, when she would’ve never accepted this supposed the Daemon had a different branding.

He stripped her bare. He was patient in his doing. More patient than she expected. Oh he huffed and he groaned at the amount of layers she wore. He certainly seemed annoyed by the amount of buttons on her robes, but he was gentle. Taking every button at a time. His fingers worked to undo them with a gentleness that did not match the hot current buzzing through the chamber.

So very gentle and so very maddening. For she wanted it off her. Needed it off her. Needed his skin upon her own. Needed not a stitch between them. She must've said something in her haze for when the breath returned to her lungs and her mind floated back to body she was greeted by the rich cadence of his deep laugh.

“We have all night Netty,” he said when hands had finally undid the last of them. Freeing her at last from the garment as he threw it off somewhere behind them to be forgotten, the cold of the chamber hit her like an ice bath, but she did not remain cold long, placing a kiss upon the skin above her heart, another beneath her breast. Hovering above her as his lips ghosted her flushed skin leaving trails of wetness in their wake.

“All morning.” She was in his arms before he had finished his sentence. Sweeping her up off her feet and into his arms. He cradled her like one would a bride Nettles could almost pretend that she was one. This was after all a beginning of sorts. A most thrilling little beginning. Perhaps they could be happy in this life with what they had.

“I do not intend on leaving these chambers until you are well looked after.” His mouth captured hers in a kiss mid yelp from the suddenness of being carried around like a doll.

Enveloping them in a sultry dance with the keen swipe of a wet muscle against the roof of her mouth. The fervor of teeth clashing in their pursuit of the other. Thin, but no less stimulating lips, softer than she expected, enraptured her plump ones as their tongues battled for domination or at least she tried to match his intensity as he folded the rest of her into him.

It faintly registered to her that she had been placed upon the bed when she felt the soft linens greet her as he pushed her back. Silk glided across her bare back as Daemon draped on top of her, encasing her between his arms he had dropped by her head. His knees knocked her legs apart to spread her wide and open for him.

He hovered above her on his knees as he divested of his own robes. Pulling the tunic over his head and tossing the garment that had become as much a hindrance as it had been a necessity before behind them to join her gown.

Standing there as naked as the day which he was born with all his might. A marble statue carved by the Gods, all for her as she was all for him.

Nettles wondered what she might look like in those violet eyes that stared down at her.

Shivering. Bare skin the color of earth spread out before him in her glory. Before a God. Every common flesh was exposed for his eye to see while she was left to wait and wait for that God.

He had left her cold, exposed for that spell, exposed in ways that had her flushed, chilled, and trembling with something more than anticipation, but he seemingly had his fill of feasting upon her. Taking up his rightful place within that empty space which had been left waiting for him. The cold was replaced by him and she was left to worry no more. She wondered why she ever had when he looked at her like she had set him ablaze. When she could feel the heat of that burn.

Daemon was warm. Warm everywhere. His flesh fire to her ice.

Warm and hard. Rough in places where she wasn’t.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” Perhaps he was right in saying she behaved like a freighted colt. She certainly felt like one then. Trying to hide her. No forming upon the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t quite get the words out. Too distracted. He had wanted a reply. Drawing it out from her with his lips upon hers. That smirk he wore was not so hidden by a small peck. Diligently awaiting an answer as he remained affixed on driving her to distraction.

“Yes.” Her cheeks felt as if they were burning under her embarrassment. He must have known the answer before it left her plump lips, but a silent knowing was different than an explicit confirmation that set her face ablaze and set him to claim the victory.

Daemon chuckled and the vibrations of his laugh grazed the skin under her now heaving breasts just where her ribcage sat encasing her lungs which at the moment she had a great deal of trouble getting air in from. Causing a new round of goose pimples to break out across her skin from the exertion and lack of air to her head.

That familiar feeling of pins through her. The deliciousness of that chill going down her spine that somehow warmed her when it reached her center. sent her trembling like a leaf not for warmth, but for him.

“You’ve been neglecting yourself.” Nettles would’ve been embarrassed by the admission of what he could feel. Of what she felt. His fingers plunging into her with

She should’ve been embarrassed by his touch at that most intimate place between her legs, the way in which but she was too far gone to care. He had barely touched her in truth, only a few simple thrusts and she had already gone hazy with something other than the emotions which had overwhelmed her these past moons.

“You’re so wet for me sweet girl.” As if to accentuate it he pistoled his forefinger back into the hilt her warmth. The sound of her wetness echoed throughout the chamber “Let me take care of you.”

She felt that stirring within her core. Want pure unadulterated want and yet despite that molten heat she froze at the last words. Trying to curl into herself despite the fact that he surrounded her.

Did she wish for him to take care of her in this way there would be no going back after this? She could not feign disinterest. Or curiosity for merely a friendly connection. That stubborn pride which she had clung to which kept her from him would sever. Gone. Banished to the ether.

Twas what she longed for even against all her self-righteousness, but a final bit of self-preservation made its last grandstand as she shifted her body, however fleeting it was. She had to make for as much

But he saw her fright and abated with a kiss placed behind her ear. Hands around her hips steadying her. Keeping her from crawling away from him further up the bed and curling into herself like a frightened kitten even if he could not stop her shivering. “One word,” he paused to gift her another kiss, this time upon her neck bared to him as he made his way down her body—“one word Netty and I will stop if that is what you wish.”

One solitary word and yet stop or its simple cousin of no could be the furthest thing from the tip of her tongue. Not with the way he looked at her, eyes glazed over with what sins his tongue concocted upon her.

Words were immaterial. Fickle simperings that men whispered to their lovers, but did not ever intend on making good of. Like wind.

Coming and going without planting any real roots. They might as well have been the wind pounding at the pane. The storm letting itself be known just beyond the warmth of these chambers.

And yet words were as real as that storm. As real as the Gods speaking to them. As real as her prince spoke to her. For they were more than just pretty troths. She knew better than that. “It is at your command that I obey, precious girl.”

He didn't give her time to doubt him. A set of rough hands planted themselves upon her hips to stop her from. Drawing little crescent shapes into the brown skin underneath his fingertips while his mouth had reached her center. The warmth of his breath fanning her bare cunny. Hot with desire and she froze again when she realized how he wished to take care of her.

“You do not have to—Daemon—,” Nettles cried out when she felt that wet muscle of sin upon her womanhood. That delicious tongue at last upon her dripping center. Lapping at her. The very thing she had tried to prevent, the very thing she thought herself undeserving of and yet there was nothing she could do except lie there and take it. Enjoy it.

Did she not deserve this? Had she not expected this There was no point in denial or hiding now. Not when they had come this far. Might as well trust herself. Trust him. Trust this.

There was nothing that she wished to do, but lie there and let him lap at her folds. Hands gripping his locks to bring him closer. Curling around him.

He drank from her heat like a starving man and she was his only salvation. She yelped out her pleasure. Whined and tried to stifle her moans into her pillow, but he reached a hand up to tilt her head back down to them.

Their eyes met, violet on brown as he groaned into her folds. It was The most erotic noise she had ever heard if that had not been the most erotic thing she had ever felt.

Daemon pulled away with a nip at her button to mumble something or another about a fountain of youth lying between her legs, but her mind had become too much of a hazy place clouded over by the fog of her impending orgasm to make much sense of what he spoke of.

It was intoxicating. Overwhelming and yet she itched still with want. With need. She wanted more so much more she never wanted it to end building and building what awaited her. She knew there was more and she needed that. She needed him.

“Take me.” She shuddered around his silver head, arching further into his touch, her body washed over with pleasure. “Please take me.” She cried once more, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t so much as flinch at her whines.

Fingers still gliding in and out as his tongue continued his lapping at that button resting atop trembling thighs. “I want you to take me.” A new flush overtook her body. If she grew any warmer she might very well melt into a puddle she had said every last word before but not in this way.

“I am.” An answer at last. Though it was a false statement if ever there was one and it did little to pacify the squirming girl in fact all it did was spur on that yearning. That burning wildfire within her being denied for moons for a lifetime and wanting so now that it had been stoked at his sinewy hand.

“I want you inside of me. Now,” she pleaded like a child. The word please playing on loop upon the tip of her tongue. Whining and panting hoping he’d listen. Give in. Do something to end this purgatory of lust and bring her to the abyss of euphoria, but he barely noticed how she had begun to thrash underneath his grip. Her cunt spasming around his tongue like a woman possessed.

He didn’t care that he was torturing her. Not caring one bit of the fevered state he had worked her to. Loving doing so judging by the way he would not let up. The way in which he aptly elicited her rapture. Egging her on and taking it in like a starved man.

Her whines were the tune of a siren to his ears. Every lick begot a new note. Every moan he drank and met with his own ardent lust of groans into her slick. Every tremble he caught with that velvet grip. Caring for her. Meeting her for all that she would give him. For all that she was.

Nettles had to be practically suffocating, no she was suffocating the silver haired man with her grip held firm as she pushed his head, his wonderful tongue further into herheat. There could hardly be any air left for him to breathe with his nose upon her clit, it caused the most delicious friction as she ground down on him.

Almost satisfying that itch that he built deep inside her he was so lovely bullying, but only almost. For and his mouth latched onto her sopping cunt. On and on and on. Lap after lap. Turning her into a mere puddle of want and need before him.

He had indeed been right when he called her a fountain. A fountain overflowed with passion. Covering them both in her spend which would surely leave a mess for the maids to clean on the morrow, or for her to try and clean, but that was for then to worry over and now to bargain. He set her a light and now she was boiling.

“Please.” She choked for breath, for him. “Please.”

“Patience sweet one.” He whispered into her folds. Pulling away briefly from His tongue swiping across the expanse of her cunt as she quivered around nothing desperately wanting to be filled. Desperately wanting him. “All good things come to those who are patient and sweet.”

“I’ve been good.” Begging it had come down to begging. “Please, I need you.” Her mind had become a scatterplot of moans and pleases in her quest for mercy. Black spots blanketed her vision, her tongue loosened on the verge of madness. She felt far away and so close that all that was worth living for.

He took pity on her at last. Perhaps he could no longer resist her and whine more than she could he. Calling to each other with blackened glances singed with fire and words left unspoken.

His cock head in hand hardened red and angry as he loomed over her before pouncing upon her. Sheathing himself into her quivering channel with one swift thrust. He knocked what little air remained from out her lungs to join her in that bliss at last.

“Is this what you wanted, sweet thing?” If Daemon expected her to say something he would be at a loss for she could not reply to him. Not with words. Barely with whines. Only her breath upon his scarred nape. But even in that haze that had enveloped her, she could see his questioning was more rhetorical than anything else when lauding her with lust-riddled admiration.

“Gods you're tight. So tight for me,” he crooned into the shell of her ear. Falling over to praise her. with such sweet simperings that left her mewling beneath him.

Her body curled around him. Bare skin against bare skin. Sweat and blood and slick. Legs wrapped around his middle. Clinging to him. Nipping at the scars upon his nape from battles of old. Drawing him nearer. Nails digging into the meat of his forearms.

The bit of her claws sharp enough to draw blood, she should’ve cared about that, but Daemon did remove her hands back to resting by her head, where he had placed them before, and the sting of her bite was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth rather than floating away into the ether into the bliss of oblivion.

She was going to burst. She was filled to the brim. That stirring inside of her was too strong to resist. She could not resist feeling her walls fluttering around his length. Pulsing with each pump into her walls. It was too much. Entirely too much and everything and he felt it too.

“You squeeze me so well. That’s it sweet girl.” In and out and back in again. Each thrust was punctuated with the soft squelch of her cunny echoing around the chamber. Sucking him in further into her heat. In and out.

He barely left her. only just pushing out of her cunny with his throbbing length to push back into her center to the hilt. Hitting her cervix with each thrust. She met him with a fluttering of her walls around him.

He moaned; he actually moaned into her ear. The breathy kind. The kind that one could not keep in. The kind too exhausted, too weary, too good to keep in for one might burst if they did not let it out. It was too good. She was too good.

Here and now beneath the cover of darkness a storm and in a far and distant place away from everyone they had ever known, she unbound the rogue prince in every way that mattered.

In the way her cunnys walls squeezed him, pushing him deeper inside her as she cared down upon him. In the way she dripped around him down to her little mewls at his ear and scratches down his back. The brown bastard girl with nothing but a dragon to her name unmoored him.

“I want you to come with me.” He choked out. His voice was a strained grunt. Just holding onto what little sanity remained left between the two for she had long given up on anything besides tethering herself to him.

“Come with me,” Daemon whispered, letting go at last with a groan and she followed into euphoria. Her body was shaking around him as he spilled his seed in her. Painting her walls with his essence. Marking her with him as she milked him dry. Marking him with one final rake of her nails down his pale back scars to join hers.

He did not move from her when all had gone quiet except for the howl of the wind. Quite the opposite for as they lay there panting bare with slick and sweat in each other's arms trying to catch their breaths, his softened length remained seated inside her heat pulsing with the aftershocks of their coupling.

Finding warmth in the lingering of bliss. Statues and satisfied at least for the time being at least until they wanted again until the longing became too much to bear as it surely would.

“Rest now sweetling, rest.”

Nettles headed the Targaryen man once more. Resting her head upon the space she carved for herself between his reddened nape and the heat of his shoulder blade as their spends leaked onto the sheets below them with.

Took comfort in him and let him take comfort in her for she knew one thing that night and night after and the night after that. She never wanted to leave his side nor would Daemon ever let her.

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