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too-much-tma-stuff · 7 months ago

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Finally Getting Help (pt 13)

Masterpost

Danny was holding Jason’s hand so tight he felt like his fingers were creaking but Jason wasn’t about to say anything. They were waiting in the doctor's office for Danny’s first ultrasound and Jason was accompanying him as promised, if Danny needed to squeeze his hand that was what Danny needed to do then so be it, it was better the bolting, which it looked like he was considering. Leslie didn’t usually make people wait long but when she had an emergency she had an emergency, it didn’t matter that Bruce funded her clinic, and was sitting awkwardly in one corner, they could wait.

It had been decided that as Danny’s guardian and maybe boyfriend? Bruce and Jason would be the ones to go in with him, with Danny’s agreement of course. Jazz and Dick had both wanted to come too but they didn’t want to crowd the room or overwhelm Danny so it was decided they would stay close by but not come In. Just then they were waiting together at a cafe across the road in case they were needed.

“Alright, I’m sorry to keep you both waiting but you know how Gotham is,” Leslie said a little grim-faced and still stripping off bloody gloves as she walked into their room and tossed them into the trash can. “So, Danny right,” Danny nodded. “Will you come with me into a private room for your examination?” She asked, because of course she did, the phrasing too was carefully worded to not put him on the spot so if Danny was feeling at all threatened or uncomfortable about Jason and Bruce being there he wouldn’t be blamed for following her.

“You don’t have to,” She added quickly when Danny looked panicked and clung to Jason so tight Jason couldn’t help wincing. “We can move forward with the appointment if them being here makes you more comfortable?”

Danny nodded quickly so she nodded as well and sat down at her desk, opening a file on her computer. “So, you’re here for an ultrasound right?” She glanced over and Danny nodded again, he seemed to be feeling really shy, Jason had never seen him so nervous, Bruce looked worried. “But it says here you haven’t had a check up in years so would you mind if we do a general exam first? I would like to make sure that You are healthy before we move on to the babies.”

“Yes that’s fine, but you know I’m not fully human right?” Danny asked, she paused for barely a moment.

“I was told you had some differences,” she confirmed gingerly. “What should I expect?”

“Well, my heart rate is naturally slower than it used to be, and my body temperature is lower. Like I get to ‘healthy human’ temperatures when I have a bad fever. I don’t know what else has changed, honestly. I’ve been avoiding the doctor ever since my accident because I knew how my parents would react,” he said sounding tired and resigned.

“Well then we’ll take today as a paceline and monitor changes. If you’re feeling well today?” She suggested, she probably would have liked to get a baseline before Danny was pregnant but obviously that was impossible.

“Ya that’s fine, my heartrate is probably a bit fast because I’m nervous but I’m probably healthier then I’ve been in a while. I haven’t been getting into fights and I’ve been eating regularly after all!”

“Alright. I understand but there’s no need to be nervous. This is a safe environment, I won’t do anything that’s not medically necessary.”

“I know, if Bruce and Jason didn’t speak so highly of you I wouldn’t be here. They don’t seem to see eye to eye on much so if they both trust and like you you must be good,” Danny said with a little smile though he was still tense and pale. That anxiety wasn’t going anywhere fast. In the corner Brace gave a sort of strangled cough that had Jason glaring at him even though he didn’t really know what it meant.

“Alright, then let’s get started,” She said before she started Danny’s check-up, all of the normal things a doctor would do if a bit more thorough. Checking eyes, mouth, ears, heart and lungs, and reflexes, circulation and blood pressure. His heartbeat was slow and his blood pressure was low but Danny thought that was probably normal for him? She gave an unconvinced hum. “We’ll have weekly check ups and check it again then. If it’s sustained and doesn’t affect you then we can say it’s normal for you.” She agreed.

“Alright, well based on the information you’ve told me I think we’ve established a baseline and you’re healthy. Are you ready for your ultrasound?” She asked and Danny took a deep breath, Jason, still standing next to Danny, squeezed his hand gently.

“Ya, as ready as I’ll ever be,” Danny agreed.

“Thank you, just lay back and pull up your shirt please,” Dr. Leslie requested and Danny did as she’d asked as she pulled up the little monitor and set things up. In the background Bruce shifted so he could see the screen better. “There won’t be much to see,” Leslie warned, shooting Bruce a look as she applied the ultrasound gel. “It’s still too early.”

She put on a fresh pair of gloves and grabbed the wand, “Alright, let's have a look.” She said, pressing it carefully against Danny’s stomach.

Danny had let go of Jason’s hand while he lay down but now he grabbed around for Jason again, without looking away from the screen now showing inside his abdomen. Jason stepped closer and grabbed Danny’s hand, looking at his face rather than anything else, monitoring for signs the trepidation there might be getting to be too much. He knew Danny was nervous, but they didn’t want this to progress into a panic attack.

“There they are. Oh! Two, twins. You’re further along than I expected, 10 weeks by the looks of it?” She asked glancing at Danny who nodded.

“Ya, I’ve only been carrying them for 6 but they’re test tube babies,” he confirmed, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Ah,” She sounded, nodding her understanding. “The little round things below their hearts are odd. Do they have two hearts? No, those ones aren’t beating…”

“Those are their cores,” Danny murmured before it seemed to hit him and he looked at Jason, his eyes wide with panic. “Oh my god I AM actually pregnant, it’s not just the cores, I’m pregnant, oh my god I’m pregnant,” he was starting to hyperventilate.

Dr. Leslie pulled back and Danny practically threw himself into Jason’s arm who held him tight as Danny hid against his chest and trembled. “Do you want us to call Jazz?” Jason offered softly as he held Danny and let him cry.

“No don’t go,” Danny hiccuped against Jason’s chest.

“I’ll call Jazz,” Bruce added, of course. He would want to help, he did care, but he never had any actual idea how to help. The emotionally unavailable bastard.

“Do you want me to leave?” Dr. Leslie asked gently. “I would like to have a better look at the twins to check on their development but if you need time I can come back later, or even another day.”

“Just-just give me a minute, please,” Danny sniffled as Jason rubbed his back.

“Of course. I know this is overwhelming,” Leslie said gently.

Jazz barged into the room and immediately hugged Danny a well, sandwiched safely between her and Jason. “Scruff him, it’ll help,” she told Jason, who nodded and squeezed the back of Danny’s neck.

He shuddered and then started to relax between the two of them, basically letting the two taller, and trusted, people hold him up. His sobs turned into sniffles and then a few deep breaths. “Okay, okay I think I’m ready. I want to know that they’re okay too. I know their cores are developing well but if they have human bodies, we need to make sure those are healthy too right?”

“Right. Do you want me to stay, or do you want Bruce to come back in?” Jazz asked gently.

“No, you and Jason stay please,” Danny said softly. He had thought it was right for Bruce to come in as his guardian, but it was Jazz who had really been looking after him for years. “There’s not much to see right now, just little blobs. We’ll tell him how it goes.”

Danny took another breath and then squirmed out of both of their arms and went to lay back on the table, pulling up his shirt again. Jason stood next to the examination table, taking Danny’s hand again, Jazz went and sat on the table by Danny’s head and stroked his hair while Dr. Leslie applied fresh jelly to his stomach since it had been worn off during his panic attack. Jason might have to change his shirt after this.

“Alright, let’s have another look shall we?” She said with a warm smile as she pressed the wand against his stomach again. She found the babies again fairly easily. “They seem to be sticking pretty close together,” She said with a little smile. “They’re active little things! It’s far too early to tell anything else about them but from what you’ve told me they seem to be on track and developing properly,” She said, pulling back and offering Danny a cloth to clean the gel off his stomach.

“Do you mind if we call Bruce back in? As your guardian I’d like him to be here for you treatment plan?” She asked.

“Sure, makes sense,” Danny agreed with a nod.

She nodded back and looked at Jazz, who nodded as well and ducked out to get Bruce. “While we’re mostly alone I want to know, do you know all your options Danny? You know you don’t have to carry them. They’re just embryos right now, not even conscious. Your health and safety comes first,” Dr. Leslie told him gently. She knew Jason was firmly pro-choice.

“No, I know,” Danny said with a little smile and a nod, looking down at his stomach and gently caressing it. “I know I don’t Have to do this. But I do want them. I’m already attached to them, you know?” He said looking up at her, worried that she would judge him. He hoped he was making the right choice, that he wasn’t ruining his life at 16 or something. Fuck he could be on that trashy tv show!

“I understand,” She assured, no hint of judgment on her face. Of course not, if she could treat rogues without judgment she sure as hell wasn’t going to judge a teen parent. She glanced up as the door opened again and Bruce and Jazz entered. “Right,” Leslie said, sitting down at her computer and starting to type. “You’re still a little malnourished so I’d like to get you taking prenatal vitamins immediately,” she said, glancing up to see Danny nod. “With your unique condition I’d like to see you more often than usual, weekly visits would be best for now. Once we’re sure you and the babies are okay we can go down to every other week.”

“I don’t think we need to do that,” Danny said, shifting nervously. “I mean you say the human side is looking good, and my ghost doctor says they’re developing well on that side, if slower than usual. I don’t need to come in every week,” He said looking hopeful.

She hesitated for a moment, organizing her thoughts and considering his words. “Even so, there’s clearly some bleed over that makes it hard to tell how healthy you are. I would feel better if you came weekly, at least for the first month so we can establish a true baseline.”

“Alright,” Danny said, drooping again, looking back at Bruce. “Can you make the appointment? I want to go home.”

“Sure Danny,” Bruce agreed, pulling out his planner to check their schedule.

“I’ll take you back to the manor,” Jason assured, using his grip on Danny’s hand to help him up.

“I’ll go back to the cafe with Dick, we were having a good conversation, I wouldn’t mind continuing it,” She said, giving Danny a smile. “Unless you want me to come?”

“No, that’s alright. Have fun Jazz,” Danny said, leaning against Jason and letting him usher Danny out of the clinic. Jazz waved as she crossed to the cafe where Dick was waiting, looking worried till he noticed them, then he smiled and waved. Jazz waved back and jogged across, about to tell Dick all about the twins no doubt.

Jason led Danny to his bike, and got on first, pulling Danny onto the seat behind him. Danny wrapped his arms around Jason and pressed against his back, half hiding from the world. Jason didn’t try to talk to him, he needed time to process. He would talk when he was ready to.

#dc x dp #danny phantom #jason todd #fanfiction #trans!danny #trans pregnancy #teen pregnancy #dead on main #bruce wayne #jazz fenton #dick grayson #eldest daughter syndrome #that's what Dick and Jazz are called as a ship right?#finally getting help AU #Danny is pregnant #tw dysphoria

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mokshalifestyleinternational · 1 month ago

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PURE BASIL OIL INDIAN (HOLY BASIL)

It eliminates excess oil from the hair and nourishes it from the inside, resulting in healthy, lustrous hair. It also promotes blood circulation to the scalp when turned on. It can also aid with inflammation and may lessen allergies. Organic Holy Basil Essential Oil has been shown to cure joint pain, cramps, headaches, and redness; its anti-inflammatory characteristics relieve stress in the afflicted area. When used topically, it helps relieve joint pain and muscular spasms. It also decreases edema and inflammation throughout the body. It can help treat open wounds and burns while reducing discomfort. It can be injected or breathed to relieve chest and nasal congestion.

#lustrous hair #healthy hair #joint pain #muscle spasms #usda certified #essential oil #blood circulation #headaches

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softfem-dom · 1 month ago

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I have a request for Logan and his low iron princess! Maybe the reader has been stressing and worried with their mid year finals coming up and due to this she hasn’t been taking care of herself as properly and of course she’s kept herself locked away to study and all that, effectively avoiding her friends and her unofficial adopted dad. Due to all the stress and lack of self caring, she ends up passing out during one of Logan’s classes and he takes care of her the rest of the day

stressed out

teacher!logan x lowiron!reader

a/n: the way I love the lowiron!reader and the worried and stressed-out-for-his-unoficial-daughter logan is not healthy I fear.

wc : 1,4k

HURT / COMFORT , TEACHER!LOGAN , FATHERFIGURE!LOGAN , LOWIRON!READER , TW FOR FAINTING .

worried fatherfigure!logan x overworked!reader

You knew this. You knew you knew this.

You looked at the black board, with all the dates and names scribbled in white chalk. You saw the lines connecting them, turning them into one of Logan's favourite ways of visually teaching: diagrams.

But you couldn't remember the stupid answer.

You had spent nearly two weeks studying for the upcoming mid-year finals that were slowly piling up in your calendar, scribbled in blinding red. It didn't matter the day there was always something new to memorize or homework to do.

You didn't want to dissapoint the teachers, didn't want to dissapoint Storm or Scott or Jean or Charles and much less Logan.

You hated the way french mixed with latin. You hated the way physics and quimics calculs mixed up with the math's formulas. It felt as if you knew everything and fucking nothing at the same time.

You tried to remember everything, you really did, stayed in your room during the evenings to memorize the different verb tenses for spanish. But in spite of trying to not forget anything about your studies, you ended up forgetting something a lot more important. Your health.

You didn't know how many of your iron pills you had skipped this week, but you calculated that probably all of them given the way your vission was swimming with strange colorful dots and blurrying in the edges.

You knew Logan had asked you a question about the 17th century. He was staring at you with an expectant look in his eyes after his mouth had moved, but his words hadn't reached your ears. Why were your ears ringing?

You had little to no feeling of your hands, as if they were not attached to your body —damn the poor blood circulation. Your head felt heavy and everything seemed out of focus.

"kid" Logan's voice was firm, a warning tone to his words as he adressed the sickly pale undertone to your skin—as if daring you to actually pass out during one of his classes.

He wasn't the one worried, the class was —for once—completely silent and a few of the classmates around you were sporting worried glances.

And then, Logan saw the all-too-familiar look in your eyes. The look of someone who is about to faint "you, grab her" He quickly, albeit calmly, pointed to your seatmate who quickly scrambled to grab your shoulders —fearing what was about to come.

And then you fainted. Everything faded to black in an almost nauseating spiral of images that your brain wasn't processing. Leaving only darkness and the muffled sound of Logan's voice saying something you didn't quite catch.

You woke up feeling as if someone had been hammering your head non-stop. Your eyelids were too heavy for you to even think of opening them, and you felt as if your body weighted nothing and 500 lbs at the same time was this how Logan felt with his adamantium skeleton?

The first thing your stressed out brain processed was the warmth. You didn't remember the school having heating pillows but this one sure was warm as hell, comfy. Then, the smell. A mix between cigar ash, worn out leather, and general masculine musk whafted into your airways —drowning you in a familiar sense of comfort.

Logan.

At that thought, and at the memory of the fact that you had fainted in his class —right infront of him—forced a sudden urge in you to wake up and explain and try to find an excuse to avoid his scolding. But, it seemed like the man sensed your sleepy reaction before you had a chance of performing it because a big —warm—hand gently landed on the top of your head and forced you to stay still and not lift it. "easy" was all he rumbled in a gruff tone.

And that's when you processed the rough texture of the 'pillow' you had your cheek against. Denim. Jeans. You were resting your head in Logan's thigh.

That forced a sleepy groan out of you, one that came out more whiny than intended, as you clumsyly tried to get your hand to move so it could rub at your eyes and see if then you could open them. But Logan, once again, caught onto your movements and his other hand gingerly wrapped around your own —cold—one.

"fuckin' christ, bub" he huffed out, voice calm. "you're as cold as Bobby when he decides to turn into a man-shaped icecube"

You shifted slightly on your place just to let him know you were paying attention to his words, since you didn't feel like your throath would colaborate in the speaking task. He placed your hand on his lap, somewhere next to your face as you rested on his thigh, before bringing his hand to cup your cheek and gently rub his thumb under your eyes.

"c'mon, princess, come back t'me now, yeah? open those eyes" he rumbled lowly, voice having lost the usual dry edge, as he kept rubbing circles under your eyes. When he saw your eyelids twitch he hummed. "atta girl, c'mon,"

Your eyelids weighted like steel blinds, but when you felt the warmth of Logan's touch under them it was as if the weight eased a little. You forced yourself to open your eyes a little bit, then blink until the white walls of the infirmary didn't blind you, and then look at the man.

You weren't met by the usual worried frown you got whenever you passed out, or by the stressed scolding he rambled into, or by a stern look in his eyes. No, he was still worried, but more soft. "you ain't mad 'tme..?"

You managed to croak out those simple 4 words, slightly slurred due to how rag-y your tongue felt inside your mouth. And you find yourself shooting him a deadpan —"really?" kind of— look even despite your sleepy and disoriented state when your words are met with a loud snort from the man.

"oh, I'm really mad right now, bub" he replied, using his index and fore finger to pinch your neck slightly. A tense smirk on his face. "but we'll talk 'bout it later, yeah? after you've eaten, rested, and taken your fucking meds"

The last part is spoken with spite, you know it, but you can't help it when you lean further into his thigh —after squeaking out a jumpy noise after his rough pinch. He's the man that is always taking care of you, after all.

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tadpolesonalgae · 28 days ago

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Blood-borne

Azriel x reader

synopsis: When reports of attacks from strange beasts increase up in the desolate Illyrian Steppes, both Azriel and Cassian are tasked with clearing out the malicious creatures. But when Azriel is bitten by one and sweats break out, the High Lord realises perhaps he should have put more time into investigating the ancient species. More specifically, why the attacks started after a millennia’s worth of peaceful cohabitation, and what the consequences will be of their venom once again mixing with Illyrian blood.

warnings: blood, illness, eventual vampire! Az, generic healing descriptions

a/n: so this started off with I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, then switched to Lust For A Vampyr, and finally ended with Sour Switchblade. Who knows where the next one will start 😔

word count: 7,975

It’s the dead of night. Peaceful.

The moon is high in the sky—a gleaming, crooked, slash of a smile—and the city is dark, revelling in the beloved starlight far above, twinkling like millions of glazed, porcelain teeth, cast into a murky black sea and stitched into the heavens. Your windows are ajar, a cool night breeze circulating your chambers, keeping the air fresh and crisp even while you sleep.

Azriel and Cassian will return in the early morning, eager to be rid of Illyria as soon as possible. Between the two of them Azriel will likely be the one more insistent on a swift departure, though you can’t imagine him ever voicing his distain. Luckily Cassian will be there to pick up on his non-verbal signals.

You’ll have to check in with Feyre too, make sure she’s recovering well after her birth. Physically, the damage was extensive—if it wasn’t for the healing blood in her veins and Nesta’s intervention… Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose, rubbing to soothe the growing headache before your arm slides across your face, elbow hanging crooked over your brow. She’s been on the mend but it’ll be a long while yet before she can even think about shifting again; longer yet before she can fly. As for her son…he’s healthy. Practically brimming with life. Everyone’s seen the twinkle in his round eyes. You’re certain he’ll grown into a menace soon enough.

As for Elain…

Guilt is a ball of iron in your chest. With everything that’s been happening as of late there’s been little time for either you or Madja to keep a proper eye on her. You just hope the two of you haven’t been too preoccupied with the more obvious matters to disregard the internal ones. It’s hard to gauge where she’s at, and you often have to rely on Nuala’s reports to hazard a guess at what might be going through the young female’s mind. Externally, she’s doing exceptionally well—keeping herself busy: baking, reading, walking, gardening, knitting, sewing, stitching, studying. She keeps herself fresh and put together, skin healthy and strong, hair lustrous and long, a vivid glow about her. No eye-bags nor sallow complexion, she communicates with the twins fine and only has rare days of reclusion where she retreats to her bedroom. By all means she’s doing well.

It’s worrying.

There’s so much to keep an eye on within this family, so many minor tensions to understand—more so than any other setting you’ve been placed in. Each day has its own set events to overcome, a new detail to examine, whether that’s a shift in expression as another family member enters the room or as blatant as the simmering hatred that so nastily permeates any room the High Lord and his eldest sister-in-law, Nesta, are placed in.

Inhaling a dragging breath, your focus slips to the raindrops glittering over the window pane, the piercing light of the moon shimmering like tiny stars, the inky darkness of the city itself reflected upward from below like tight, vicious pupils, hundreds of tiny eyes pressed up to the glass.

A thunderous crash comes from the floor below, the thump pulsing once through your chest, jerking you awake.

At once your feet find the cool wooden floorboards, a nightgown strung over bare shoulders, not a second of movement wasted before the glowing faelight is cupped in your palm and the cold iron of the door handle is twisted, opening up into the yawning darkness of the corridor. A gust of rain-soaked wind funnels down the hallway, whipping hair from your face and the faelight flickers, shuddering once before pushing back against the looming shadows crowding the space.

You hug your thin nightgown tighter, hurrying barefooted down the hall to the staircase, skin tightening to gooseflesh as a second gust of icy wind flushes through the house, howling from the front door that is cast wide. The rug is soaking beneath your feet as you press it closed, following the low light at the far end of the corridor to the kitchen, tiles colder than ice and soaked in puddles of water.

Blood roars through your ears, pausing only for a second of analysis as you take in the rain-soaked scene. Shards of ceramics scatter the floor, a body splayed across the dining room table, two figures stood either side. It’s all you have time for before rushing forward, only now catching the sickening tang of iron in the air, the wind having previously blown the scent away and you tap the fae light twice in your palm before releasing it high above the slumped figure on the table. It’ll have to do for now.

Sour, pale-yellow light fills the dining room and blood gurgles from Azriel’s mouth, wet gasps bubbling up from his chest. Rhysand is stood at one head of the table, hand clutched tight around Azriel’s, the High Lord’s towering figure curved crookedly over his brother’s, close enough their brows are touching and it’s clear enough Rhysand is doing what he can mentally, relieving pain, sorting through panic and adrenaline to find his shadowsinger some order to cling to.

“What happened?” You ask Cassian, darting forward to closer examine Azriel’s state. As far as you can see there are two main wounds, one on the thigh of his left leg and a second having broken into his ribcage on the opposite side. By now the blood flow has already begun to wane, a countdown to his life force bleeding dry. If the wound had been gushing you would have felt more reassured. There’s far too little blood coming from wounds as deep as his.

“There were more than we anticipated,” Cassian grits out. “Their nest was supposed to be on the far side of the mountain. Most of them got cleared out but two we’d already cut down must have been playing dead and bit on our retreat.”

“The chimeras?” You ask, noting the splay of teeth marks that are puncturing the right side of Azriel’s torso, the fleshy grey of broken bone visible through one of the upper gouges.

Cassian nods grimly and you seal your mouth shut to prevent from cursing. It’s bad luck to hear a healer curse—your job is to know what’s going on and get things better, not worse. Adrenalised panic only helps in temporarily keeping pain away. For now you have to do what you can, sealing the wounds, and hope that there’s no fractured enamel trapped inside.

“Has he begun healing yet?” You ask, pressing the second and third fingers on both your hands either side what you guess must be the puncture mark of the beasts’ canine, two significantly larger than the others.

“No. I think he’s lost too much blood to manage anything like that. He wouldn’t stop bleeding the entire flight down,” Cassian replied, voice raw. You wonder how long he was shouting to Azriel over the screaming storm outside in order to keep him conscious. Cassian’s dark eyes shift to his brother’s face, thick brows growing heavy as they stitch together, chest still heaving as adrenaline doubtlessly begins to seep away, leaving stagnant fear to lean on. “I thought he was going to die,” Cassian murmurs, so low you doubt either other male can hear.

“He’s not going to die,” you assure, pushing growth into the surrounding tissue, guiding his open flesh back together like shaping clay. “Hold the wound on his leg until I can let these ones breathe.”

A pulse of rejection seizes Azriel’s chest, blood flecking his sour-toned skin, Rhysand’s own knuckles turning bone white as he grips tighter to his brother. You’re lucky he’s here, or else things would be much worse. You don’t linger on the thought, your own breath beginning to labour as you move to the second puncture gouge in his chest, bone protruding from deeper in the flesh.

A twinge of fear pieces your mind.

Azriel groans on the table, wings deathly still where they’re splayed off the sides, the joints at their ends beginning to curl inward like a spider’s legs on the verge of death. Breath whistles in his lungs, blood no longer gurgling from his chest—barely moving at all.

“Rhys!” You shout, pulling him from that mental bridge he’d been tending Azriel upon, gripping his shoulder roughly. “Pull away! Pull away!”

The High Lord’s chest heaves as he forces himself back, releasing the soothing hold he’d had on Azriel’s mind, hands still clutched together.

The Shadowsinger jolts on the table, body writhing as fresh pain blazes through flesh, senses no longer muted. It’s probably going to be the last thing he can hold onto.

He’s fading.

You look at Cassian, bloody fingers still pressing down on the wound, the miniature, magical stitches sewing tissue back together slowly making their way back to the surface, flesh returning to its healed state. “Fetch Madja,” you instruct, “We’ll have a better chance with both of us. Quick. And Rhys, I want you to find-”

A gasp comes from the doorway and the High Lord’s expression drains. It’s far from ideal to have her within such a high stress environment but it’s really a last resort.

“Feyre, your blood,” you request urgently, feeling the weight as violet eyes cut into your side, but it’s necessary. It’s the boost that will save Azriel’s life, or at least sustain him until Madja arrives. “Only a small amount,” you say calmly, “he just needs enough to keep him alive until I have Madja to help.”

Feyre swallows only once before she’s hurrying forward, blue-grey eyes rushing over the male on the table, tension in her jaw. “How much?” She asks, taking the blade Cassian hands her before he heads out into the night. “A slice across your palm. If you feel faint stop immediately.”

She doesn’t hesitate, an excess of blood swelling in her hand before spilling into Azriel’s open mouth, pale lips soaked red. His throat works and you rush round to his other side, now pressing one palm to each gash.

There’s no time to pace yourself in this encounter.

It’s a one-time brawl, not a long-spanned battle.

————

Come morning your hands are aching, lungs tired and stretched, throat parched. You haven’t had such a long night since the end of the war.

At least now you have free access to water, which you’d taken full advantage of when returning to your room.

By the time Madja had arrived you’d had all the immediate injuries patched but there had still been little colour to Azriel’s complexion. Pallid save for the blood staining his open mouth. If Cassian hadn’t flown so swiftly; if Feyre hadn’t been there; if Azriel hadn’t the strength to hang on… It’s a small miracle he’s still alive and breathing.

As soon as the sun touches the horizon you get yourself up, preparing to take over Madja’s shift after she’d seen him through the night. There’s still a drained pit where your magic should be, the small amount of sleep you’d managed to grab doing little to aid its replenishment, but it should be enough for today.

It’s only upon seeing the bloodstained bandages wrapping Azriel’s body and leg that you realise all the rainwater from the night before must have been blood, soaking the rugs, the tiled floors, the bare skin of your feet. It’s a good thing those clothes had been stripped down and tossed into a pile before falling into sleep the night just past.

“How is he?” You ask, stepping into Azriel’s room. The thick curtains are drawn, but even so it’s too light.

“Asleep, for now,” Madja replies, raising from her chosen seat at the bedside. “Once I administered the pain reliever he settled down and hasn’t stirred since.” Worried eyes flicker over the male’s body, dark hands tucking her pencil away. You step forward, hand cupping her elbow carefully, “You deserve some rest, too.” Brown eyes don’t leave Azriel for a few moments, but eventually she nods, meeting your gaze, returning the touch on your arm. “You’re a competent healer, you know. You did well last night.” Madja smiles, nodding. “Good work.”

The words remain in your mind all morning while you’re overseeing Azriel, routinely checking his temperature, keeping an eye on his breathing patterns, and pulse, but it’s not until well past midday that he stirs.

You sit silently at his side. It’s his breathing that changes first, a deeper breath than the ones before bringing air deep into his lungs, lips peeling themselves apart. Then it’s a twitch in his brows, lifting once then furrowing over his eyes which screw themselves shut. A low groan rumbles in his throat and you allow yourself a subtle sigh of relief. His eyes are next, blinking open by less than a hair’s breadth, pupils gradually contracting to filter the light away until he can look around freely. It takes him longer than usual to get his bearings, but that’s to be expected.

You wait until he’s ready to speak.

“How bad is it?” Azriel rasps, his vocal cords chewed up. A smile curves your eyes, “You aren’t dead.” Air rattles in his lungs, a wheezing cough stuttering once from his chest and you offer the glass of water from his bedside. Azriel tilts his head to the side, and you retract the glass.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you tell him, turning to the notebook Madja had left for you. “First of all, what’s your name?” Azriel is silent and you look over to him, concern welling in your chest, but instead his mouth is pursed, expression flat. You sigh, fondness pushing up into your voice, “Come on. It’s routine.”

“Azriel,” Azriel answers, giving you a deadpan look. You nod. “Do you remember where you were going yesterday?”

A pause, then, “Illyria. Cassian and I were returning.”

“Good, but you’re jumping ahead,” you warn, making hazel eyes brighten within the shadowy room. “Can you tell me the names of your two brothers?”

“Cassian and Rhysand.”

“Do you know where you are?”

This time Azriel pauses, eyes darting around the room, his brow furrowing. “The River House?”

You nod, “You’re in a guest bedroom since it was closer. I’m afraid it’ll probably be some time before we can move you to your own room.” But Azriel tips his head to the side again, “It’s fine.”

“Alright,” you reply quietly, keeping your smile to yourself. “Next question. Just a few more,” you add when Azriel exhales heavily. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“Cassian and I were supposed to be investigating the recent attacks up in Illyria. There was supposed to be no contact.”

You nod, smile faded. “Do you remember how you got your injuries?”

“We thought we’d cleared out the ones that had found us, but we hit their nest by chance and there were too many. On the way out one that had been dead bit me.” You wait for him to continue but he stops, looking back to you.

“Is that all?”

Azriel nods.

You note down his story, along with the point his memory cuts out. “You don’t remember the second bite?” You inquire. Azriel tilts his head, no. “Do you remember getting here?” Azriel tilts his head again, no.

You nod, sitting straighter. Pushing a reassuring expression to your features. “Well, the good news is you aren’t dead, as you’re aware.” Azriel rolls his eyes, then hisses, groaning as something hurts. “Your wings are also unscathed, which I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear.” The Shadowsinger grumbles something you don’t hear. Of course you’re glad he’s okay.

“Right,” you announce, pushing the glass of water to him again which he drinks from reluctantly, “Are you feeling right enough to answer a few more questions for me, or would you like to rest?”

“What time is it?” He asks.

You glance at the clock on the wall, “It’s coming up for four in the afternoon.”

“I can answer a few more questions,” he decides, allowing you to take the glass from his hand once he’s done.

“Firstly, how are you feeling? Any pain or numbness? Changes in temperature? Aches?” You prompt, pencil at the ready. “My head is pounding,” he answers, eyes remaining only half open though you doubt it’s entirely from fatigue. “My lower body is numb, but my left foot feels cold. A dead cold.” You nod, pencil scratching. “My throat is sore, but my eyes and teeth are the most piercing.”

Your brow furrows, “Eyes and teeth, huh… Are your eyes hurting as a part of your headache, or do you feel it’s different?”

“It’s like I haven’t slept in two weeks, and something’s trying to suck them from my skull,” Azriel rasps. Scritch scratch. “And…you mentioned your teeth are hurting… Toothache? I’ll ask Cassian whether your jaw might have had a collision.” You glance over to Azriel who’s still pale. But alive. “What does it feel like? Bruising? Broken?” You’d know if it was broken, though.

Azriel tilts his head. “More piercing. Here.” Azriel guides his tongue to his left canine. “And here.” He touches the right one. Your brows furrow then you remember to keep your face neutral. Azriel wheezes a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Anything else?” You ask, moving quickly past your error. Azriel tilts his head again, no.

“Alright then. It would be best for you to try and rest for a few more hours—think you can fall back asleep?” You ask, closing the leather-bound notebook and setting it upon the side table. The Spymaster sighs, tilting his head. You aren’t surprised. “You should try. Your body needs the rest.” You pause, considering. Then, “Do you feel well enough to try eating something? It would be good for you.”

Azriel’s eyes slide shut, lips curling miserably and you have to muffle your laugh. “I don’t want to be eating plain chicken for the next few days,” he mumbles.

“We need to be careful of your stomach, and your body needs nutrition. Protein.” You reason, “Be happy you aren’t having to drink your meals after mentioning that toothache.” Hazel eyes crack open just enough to send you a piercing glare, but it only results in an upward twitch of your lips. “Would you like me to fetch you anything in the mean time?” You add, knowing it’s not nice to be resting when there’s work that one could be doing.

“My notebook should be on my desk—can you bring me the stack of reports that will be in the uppermost drawer on the right hand side? There’ll be the first thing you see when you look inside.” You raise a brow, mouth pursing. “Already trying to get back to work?”

His lips twitch. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well it’s going to have to wait,” you sigh, standing from your chair. “I can fetch your notebook and a book of your choosing—so long as you promise it won’t be work related.”

“All my books are work related.”

Your eyes narrow on the bedridden male, waiting for his mask to slip but it remains firmly in place. “Seriously? Not one?”

Azriel shrugs. Or tries to. It’s more a light twitch of his wings.

You sigh, nodding to yourself. “Alright. I’ll find something.”

You turn to leave but a small shadow stirs in your periphery, dragging your attention back to him. Hazel eyes twinkle as the darkness lifts the silky dark hair from his brow, damp enough to appear like ink even in the shadowed room. You roll your eyes, pacing back over to his side, gently laying the back of your fingers across his brow. A beat passes, then Azriel’s eyes slide shut the rest of the way. Your touch lingers on his forehead, taking longer than necessary to gauge his temperature.

“Your fingers are cool,” Azriel murmurs. Eyes only opening once you pull away again, silky hair flopping back into place.

“You’re still a little feverish,” you tell him quietly, wary for his aching senses. “Hopefully it’ll pass swiftly enough, but if not your recovery will only take a few extra days.” A pause passes through the room, and you should really be writing that temperature down as your hourly mark.

As if on cue, a warmed plate appears on the bedside table, and a look of sorrow dims Azriel’s already dismal features when he spots the plain, boiled chicken.

You offer a pitying smile which earns you a grunt of displeasure before you’re turning for the door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll make sure it’s a good book,” you offer.

Azriel’s expression turns dour, brow pinched, mouth thinning, and you can practically see his shadows beginning to brood.

‘It had better be,’ he mouths, voice too worn out to reach you across the room.

————

The next morning is the same routine, waking up as soon as the sun bleeds over the horizon, trickling pale gold into your bedroom on the first floor. It’s a swift execution of movements, washing, combing, and dressing before you’re out into the house and heading down the hall to Azriel’s temporary room.

The handle twists before you have a chance to lay your hand on it, Cassian stepping out from the interior. Hazel eyes shift to you, worn and fatigued—usually it’s Azriel who accessorises with the hints of mauve beneath his eyes. “Did you get to speak with him?” You ask, voice kept low in case Azriel’s resting inside. The General nods, leathers stretching as he pushes the dark hair back from his brow, not yet tied back for the day and curling around his shoulders. “Thank you for keeping him alive,” Cassian says, equally quiet.

“It’s my job,” you smile. “Besides, it wasn’t just me. If you three hadn’t been there it could just as easily have turned bad.” You nod to the door, the room where Azriel’s staying, “You helped more than you think, Cassian.”

Cassian offers a stiff nod, then he’s straightening, about to leave.

“I wanted to ask you something about that night,” you say, catching his attention. “Azriel mentioned his teeth hurting, specifically his canines—do you know if he might have collided with the floor after the first bite?”

“Not that I remember,” Cassian contemplates. “He stayed upright and ambulatory until we reached the tunnel exit.”

You nod, thinking. “Alright… Well, we’ll be keeping an eye on him anyway. Hopefully it’s just a side effect of sinus pressure or headaches.”

Cassian nods his head once, then you’re going your separate ways.

The curtains are still drawn, and Azriel still appears pale despite the shadows dimming colours. He’s asleep however, which is good, at least.

After a brief exchange with Madja over how the night went you’re all ready and seated at his side. The plate from yesterday had been removed but the book is still on the side table, no sign that he started it that you can see.

Like the previous day, Azriel doesn’t wake until long past midday, only rising to consciousness around sundown.

His eyes are thick and heavy as they blink open, a darkened tinge to the whites that you can’t quite make out the colour of in shadow. The skin of his lips is cracked, peeling at the bow of his mouth, pulling back from his teeth. Despite the long bouts of sleep the dark smudges beneath his eyes don’t seem to be going anywhere, only further deepening, contrasted against the waning colour of his skin—the once rich brown now turning grey and ashen. The fever will be surfacing, regardless of suppression and attempted appeasement.

His temperature had begun rising overnight, just tipping into the twenties as the moon slipped away. A sure sign the burning flesh is on its way.

Azriel’s chest lifts and lowers shallowly, breath rasping from desiccated lips. A sheen runs across his pale features, brows appearing closer to oil than ink. Heavy lids slide shut as you guide the slick hair over his forehead to the side, the backs of your fingers laying tenderly down—it’s nowhere yet even near the breaking point.

“Azriel?” You whisper, “Can you hear me?”

The restless flutter of his lashes alerts you to his awareness, eyes stirring beneath near translucent lids, mauve capillaries webbing through the thin flesh. He creeks himself apart—he’s gotten abruptly worse. Bloodshot hazel tries to shift about the room but he groans, eyes choosing to remain stagnant in his skull instead.

“How are you feeling?” You murmur, fingers retracting, splaying the notebook across your lap, pencil in hand. “My head…” Azriel rasps, voice more ragged than when you last heard it, like something’s come along and ripped it to shreds, “…it’s splitting.” Your brow furrows—Cassian reported he hadn’t received a blow to the head. He seemed appropriately injured yesterday, but for some reason he’s so much worse. Could the meat have been off? Surely not.

“Madja told me she administered a balm to your skin before dawn, is the rest of your body aching?” You inquire, considering applying a fresh layer to ease the pain that’s begun to bubble back up.

“My stomach’s starving…” Beneath the cream cotton covers his arm passes over his abdomen, resting. “It’s like someone’s grinding me up between stones.”

“Okay hold still, the balm might feel cold but I’ll apply some more.” Already you’re pulling back his covers, preparing to begin warming the cream between your palms to encourage its goodness to act swiftly but something catches your attention. While there’s no need for bandages over his torso, his thigh has been wrapped and sanitised, now mottled with something dark and not-quite blood coloured. More concerning is the black tissue stitching together the sections where his stomach had been gauged open, thin threads of necrotic flesh lacing his surface.

Your jaw bites itself together, cold overtaking your spine. Whatever’s happening to him is different from general infection.

Lips part as a soft curse slips out—venom? Impossible. The beasts have never been reported to posses glands like that. But it’s the only explanation.

Considering explanations though…was the reason for their seemingly random switch in nature ever understood? Before now the chimeras never bothered the Illyrians, cohabiting up in the steppes peacefully, as far as you’re aware. What catalysed this sudden shift in nature?

Another noise of deep-rooted pain groans through his chest, oil-black brows condensing to a point in the middle of his forehead, skin shining with the movement as feverish sweat breaks across his features. Your own brows furrow, heart beating frenetically, “Azriel…?”

His teeth grit, jaw grinding as if in pain, and his breathing becomes ragged; irregular and torn at the seams. Again you lay your fingers across his brow, and he’s noticeably hotter than before, almost burning in comparison.

Water. He needs water.

“Azriel,” you try but his eyes are shut tight, the fabric of his sheets darkening in a close perimeter around his body, sweat staining the cloth. “Azriel I need you to drink some water,” you urge softly, taking the glass and sliding your palm beneath his head, inclining him from the pillow and bringing the chilled glass to parched lips. He drinks deeply, polishing off the water swiftly and you stand to go in search of a rag to lay across his brow. It brings only a temporary reprieve before he’s panting once again. Teeth worry your lower lip.

Whatever’s happening, it isn’t normal.

“Azriel, I’m going to speak with Rhysand briefly. I’ll be back in three minutes,” you tell him gently, pressing the glass back into his palm. “Drop this on the floor if you need me sooner; I’ll hear it.”

Then you’re off into the hallway. Either male will do, but something was wrong with those creatures, and your instincts are telling you it needs to be gotten to the bottom of, and swiftly.

A life might depend on it.��

————

It must be the goodwill of the Mother than allows both Cassian and Rhysand to be at that moment in the latter’s office, heads turning when the door is thrown wide.

Apology passes briefly through your eyes but as soon as you step foot in the room it vanishes, door clicking shut as you hurry into the room. “Cassian, I need to you get me one of those chimeras. Dead or alive, but preferably dead. Something’s wrong with Azriel and I think it’s to do with the change in behaviour we’ve been seeing from those animals.”

Violet eyes flicker, “What’s wrong with Azriel?”

“I don’t know,” you inform, expression hard. “His flesh is turning necrotic in places around the wounds and his fever isn’t breaking. Madja reported his temperature increasing around two o’clock this morning and the way he is now makes it seem as if he’s on the third day and untreated.” You turn to Cassian. “I need one of those Chimeras to examine, as quick as possible. They aren’t supposed to carry venom but it seems a mutation is the only reasonable explanation, in which case we need to figure out what that means and fast, or else we won’t have enough time to figure out what that means for your brother and to cure it.”

The General glances once to the High Lord, sharing a nod before Cassian’s making a swift departure, urgency underlying his movements in a way you hope won’t get him wounded. It makes you call after him. “Whatever you do, don’t be reckless. If you get hurt up there or bitten then both of you will be at risk. This isn’t a time to be cutting corners.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “I know.”

Then he’s gone.

Sweat glides down your spine, if he’s as swift as he was the night they returned then the journey there and back should take under an hour. Add on the time to locate and kill a chimera…a few hours, tops. With the rate Azriel’s fever is developing, it’s all you can spare.

Violet eyes are strained when you next meet them, but you’ve little time for further apology as you ask, “How is Feyre doing?”

“Resting,” Rhysand replies, the stern grit of his voice telling you he already knows why you’re asking. Your jaw tightens, shoulders tensing at that tone, something inherent wanting to turn away from that fiercely protective look in his face, warning you not to suggest what you know you have to.

“If worst comes to worst,” you say, quietly.

Rhysand’s expression doesn’t give for a long while, and you fight to keep firm. Until tension flickers through his violet eyes. “It’s her choice,” he relents, tension taut, the whites of his knuckles disagreeing with his words. “But if she tries to give too much, if you don’t stop her then I will.”

You nod grimly, understanding the order well enough.

If Feyre tries to give Azriel more blood than she can afford, you’re to pull her back.

Even if it costs his brother’s life.

————

The sun is down, and Cassian still isn’t back.

The rain lashing at the windows and snarling round the house feels like an omen, shadows dancing like snakes across the floor every time a bolt of lightening fractures the sky. Deadened leaves whip through the howling winds, a deluge crashing down on Velaris.

On the bed, shivering and drenched, is Azriel, pallid skin glistening with a deathly pallor. His surrounding sheets have been doused in sweat, a sour, sick smell filling the room, the stagnant odour of the ill. The black threads of flesh have begun spreading further, thickening into sluggish stumps, streams of necrosis reaching across his stomach; snaring his far leg.

If Cassian isn’t back soon, you’re going to have to try and cut it out from the roots.

Madja lays her hand over the slope of your shoulder and you exchange glances; she’s come to the same conclusion you have, her normally warm features for once showing a grim set. You turn your body from Azriel, dipping your head so he won’t be able to hear, though you doubt he’s in any state to eavesdrop.

“How much longer?” You whisper lowly, eyes glued to the dark floorboards, unable to lift them any further. Madja glances once over her shoulder, a heavy silence filling the air. “Minutes,” she answers. “He has minutes to get back here.” You swallow—those are near impossible chances. The odds were steep enough without the crashing storm outside hindering visibility.

“You’ll take his stomach?” You whisper, pushing past the lump in your throat. Madja nods, “Fetch two bowls of water. I’m going to speak with Feyre; see how she’s holding up.” She’s probably quickly becoming the last gleam of hope to give Azriel a fighting chance of surviving until Cassian arrives.

Or until he bleeds out from the incisions you’ll be forced to make to cut away the rot.

Azriel stirs in the bed once you return from the washroom, setting the second bowl down and approaching his side. Once more, you lay the backs of your fingers across his dampened forehead, sticky sweat smearing your skin but it’s nothing compared to the fierce heat radiating from his skull. His temperature has been teetering into the forties for a while now.

Something like a groan strains through his chest, the tendons in his throat flexing as he swallows, and you lift his head from the pillow, bringing the chilled glass to his peeling lips. He’s too weak to push the drink away, hardly strong enough to swallow, and a cool trickle slips from the side of his mouth, streaming over his jaw and into the cushion. Azriel tilts his head when he’s done, and you pull away, setting the glass down upon the cramped side table.

Hazel eyes crack themselves open, except now they’re a mix of yellow and black—pupils blown so wide they’re practically swallowing his irises, the whites of his eyes souring to a sickening yellow, like the congealed scum of rotten milk, red rimmed and watery.

‘Hot,’ he mouthes. Barely. It’s the near silent touch of his tongue to the roof of his mouth that gives the word away.

You don’t know what to do anymore. There’s nothing else you can do, besides offering water.

“Azriel, can you hear me still?” You ask, crouching down to be by his side, mixing your hand with his. He groans, fingers weakly flexing around your own. It’s a small piece of hope, that he isn’t yet completely gone. You lean closer. “Just a little longer, Az,” you whisper, thumb swiping back and forth gently over his burning skin, “You need to keep going. You can’t leave them behind.”

His hand is silent in your own.

Where is Cassian?

A shadow careens past the window and a flashing red thud slams into the front garden, the doors being blown open a few moments later as fresh rain and howling wind whips inside, sparing not a second in removing mud-caked boots or blood-slicked leathers before he’s marching into the house. From the floor below you hear his name called out, but there’s no cause for relief.

Voices murmur and footsteps hurry, boots clumping about on the lower floors and you hurry to the bedroom door, looking just in time to see Rhysand near the top of the staircase. “Does he have it?” You call, the pound of your heart making your voice breathless. Rhys nods but his eyes are dark and unusually shadowed, “He has it.”

It’s only when he descends the case that you spot the thick book he had clutched beneath one arm on his far side, as if anxious to keep it as hidden as possible. You want to follow, to see the chimera for yourself, lend Madja a hand in trying to understand what’s mutated within the beast to cause such a drastic shift but that’s not your job at the moment. Your job is to look after Azriel. Even if all you can do is sit by his side and watch as he dies.

Tension stitches your jaws together, but you force yourself to turn away, shutting the door once more to return only for a scream to claw and rip from your throat.

Blunt teeth are digging into the flesh of his forearm, biting and gnawing as blood paints his lower jaw, spilling down onto his chest, trickling along his arm. You run forward, trembling fingers searching for that point that will spasm the muscle enough for his jaw to unlock.

“Azriel!” You scream, “Azriel stop! You need to stop it!”

Thick blood oils your fingers, his teeth releasing the bitten flesh only to clamp down a fraction of a second later, locking themselves in place as muscle flexes in his jaw, straining beneath the pressure he’s clamping down with. You fumble, hands shaking as he tries to rip himself apart. You search again, fingers digging into his jaw but he writhes on the bed, wings flaring wide enough to send everything on the side table smashing to the floor, throwing you to the ground in a mess of fractured glass and gushing, freshly bloodied water.

The leather-bound notebook is soaked, ink bleeding across the pages but that’s not what you currently care about. Instead you grip the book from the floor, flying to your feet as you surge forward, nails screaming out in pain as you try to forcibly pry his teeth apart, pushing the spine of the book forward.

“Azriel…!” You hiss, straining against his sudden display of strength. “Bite! Bite down on this…!”

For a few dreadful seconds it looks like he’s going to bleed himself to death, but then his teeth release just long enough for you to shove the hard leather of the thick notebook into his mouth, vicious canines stabbing through the outer layer in one swift bite. Clamping down firmly.

There’s no time for relief, no time for fixing the jagged mess on the floor, nor for celebration, as you take in the fresh blood staining his lower face. Azriel’s wounded arm tries to lift from the bed but more blood gushes out and you have to pin it down until the message reaches his pain-twisted mind and he uses the other to change the positioning of the book in his mouth, angling and biting, slowly chewing the leather to pieces, digging his canines into the notebook repeatedly as if he’s teething.

Footsteps pound along the corridor just as you finish forcing Azriel’s flesh back together, door flying wide as Madja bustles through, a glass vial of pure black liquid grasped in her weathered hand, Rhysand just a step behind. Neither ask what’s happened, why there’s so much blood staining sheets and flooring and sallow skin.

Dark brown eyes flash once over the Shadowsinger before Madja’s figuring her order—one both you and Rhys know before it even leaves her mouth—“Hold him down.” Rhysand takes the side the Azriel’s leg wound is on while you stick where you’ve remained, but even with you leveraging all your weight over his bloody, shredded arm it’s near impossible to keep him down.

The book comes away in tatters when Madja manages to pry it from his mouth, jaws snapping, black ruby teeth glittering wildly as he searches for something to bite, all the while the storm roars on outside, thunder rumbling through miserable grey skies, so deep it’s in the floorboards.

“Rhys,” you hiss out, “can you do anything?” If he can slip inside and provide even a temporary moment so Madja can get the remedy down the Shadowsinger’s throat. The High Lord’s jaw tightens with the effort it’s taking to keep his brother down, teeth gritting as he shakes his head, “there’s nothing to go into. It’s just wind and shadow in his mind.”

“We have to do something,” you force out, looking between them. “He’s not going to drink it like this-”

“And we can’t waste this vial,” Madja finishes grimly.

Rhys’ head lowers, hair falling over his brow like dozens of spider legs, tension gripping his shoulders, then he’s bellowing Cassian’s name, the roar so loud you’re surprised the room doesn’t collapse in on itself, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. A few moments later heavy boots are lopsidedly clumping up the stairs, the General swaying as he hauls himself through the door. “Take her place. Keep him down,” Rhysand orders through gritted teeth. It seems Cassian’s barely keeping himself conscious, but still he manages, no time to pause.

As soon as Cassian’s hands have taken over you retreat, darting around Azriel’s thrashing wing to be at Madja’s side. His blackened eyes are wild, back arching from the bed as pain lances through his body, teeth still flashing with furious hunger.

“Azriel,” you yell, crusted palms laying either side his mouth, cupping his jaw as you attempt to still the wild thrashing of his body without losing any fingers. “Azriel, look at me. Look at me.” Blown out pupils stare up at you, yellowed eyes sore and so, so wrong. “That’s it,” you manage, forcing your voice to calm, “You know us. You remember us.”

His upper lips curls in a snarl and blood seeps from the broken skin, so dried out and desiccated that it splits at the slightest stretch.

“You remember us,” you repeat, thumbs stroking back and forth, swiping the edges of his mouth tenderly, “Don’t you? Remember Cass and Rhys? They’re your brothers.” Oil-black brows narrow, but the two other males are having better luck holding him down than before, so you push forward.

Your hold tightens and you lean closer, almost sharing breath. “Do you remember your name?” You ask softly, soothingly stroking his cheeks, ignoring the blood soaking your hands. “It’s Azriel,” you whisper, “You’re Azriel.”

His eyes shutter, struggling again but you hold firm. “You just need to hold on a little longer, Azriel. We have a remedy, but you need to drink it first.” Sharp, black eyes scan your features, cutting back and forth across your expression, his face still twisted in partial fury, shadow and wind roaring outside but his struggling has lessened enough for the antidote to be administered.

Yet as soon as you pull away his wings flare outward, the bed creaking as the powerful limbs thrash, a vicious snarl ripping from his throat and both Cassian and Rhysand are nearly knocked back from the force of his retaliation.

“Azriel…” You plead, nails digging into his cheeks, dragging his attention back. “Azriel, please,” you beg, “hold still.” Icy breath repeatedly hits your chin, his panting becoming shallower and shallower by the second, yet he shows no signs of giving in. Pure panic drips down your spine, hands shaking as you hold onto him for dear life.

“We have to try,” Madja whispers, not directed at you. In your periphery, Rhysand nods in agreement, but it won’t work. He’ll send the vial flying, just like the glass and the bowl, shattering on the floor, destroying the precious cure with it.

A hot tear splashes down onto Azriel’s bloody cheek, a second droplet falling soon after, soundless compared to the raging storm outside. Thunder and lightening zeroing to silence as you look at him.

Thumbs swipe back and forth across his skin. He can’t die.

You swallow, sparing a moment to look at Madja. “Give it to me,” you whisper.

Madja hesitates.

“Let me give it to him,” you plead, able to feel Azriel’s sluggish pulse beneath your hands.

Silence hangs in the air, then Rhysand nods. “Try.”

Beneath all of you, Azriel begins to stir again, the soothed state you’d gotten him into already so quickly slipping away. Slipping through your fingers.

Madja offers you the vial, and in one movement you’ve poured the contents into your own mouth.

The liquid is thick and congealed across your tongue, vile and putrid but then you’re pressing your mouth to Azriel’s, his bloody lips freezing beneath your own, peeling and ripped in places but they part for you, your thumbs still stroking as you tilt yourself over him.

Your mouth opens for his, and the remedy flows into him, spilling down his throat.

This time both Illyrians are ready and braced as Azriel writhes and thrashes on the bed, lip curling in revulsion as the foul tasting liquid is swallowed down his throat, wings flaring and flapping, knocking back and forth so violently the bed groans like it might finally give way. Fury twists through Azriel’s features and you recoil as his fangs sting at your lips, hot, fresh blood bubbling into his mouth before you can even realise he’s bitten you.

You pull away, forcing your hands over his chest, Madja now beside Rhys as you all try to keep him down. Heaven knows what he’s mad enough to do with the pain carving his mind apart.

By the time he settles, you’re all breathless. But it’s done. He took the remedy.

Slowly, you stand, each of you bracing as if he might start back up at any second and you need to be ready to jump back into place. But he remains still. Dead still, but you can pick out the small pulse in his throat. You cling onto that pulse, desperately.

At last you all pull away, and Rhysand drags a hand down his face, you and Madja glancing to one another with a mix of emotion. To your left, Cassian sways, then his legs give out, body thudding as his knees his the floor, the rest of him giving out now the task is complete. You’ve each done everything you can; pushed to the limit, and possibly beyond.

“Mother’s grace,” Madja whispers in thanks, and you do the same, sending a prayer to the sky, hoping it will be enough. She nods to herself once, twice, three times. Easing in a few steadying breaths before straightening, swallowing. “Cassian,” she names, addressing the body on the floor and you don’t fault her for her breathlessness, “we need to find him a bed.”

You nod, panting. “Rhys and I can manage,” you breathe, exhausted. “Can you take cleanup in here?” You ask, moving with Rhysand to grip Cassian beneath his arms, only now spotting the blood on his leathers, though it’s too much of a mess in here to judge who it belongs to.

Madja nods solemnly, and between you and the High Lord, you manage to lift the fearsome General from the ground, hefting him out into the hallway, taking the room immediately next door and laying Cassian on the bed there.

You slump against the wall, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand when you realise the foul taste is still there, having been obscured by the metallic flavour of your own blood.

Rhysand remains stood over Cassian, looking down at his brother with an expression you can’t read. It’s none of your business, either way.

Your nose wrinkles, pulling your sleeve over your hand and spitting into the fabric, wanting to rid yourself of the vile taste. “Fuck. What was in that?” You gag, looking forward to a glass of water to clean your mouth out and a wash.

The hairs at the nape of your neck prickle, and you lift your head to find dark violet watching you from across the room. You’d apologise for cursing, but that doesn’t seem to be the reason for his look.

Tentatively, you straighten. “Do you know?”

Silence hangs in the air. Then he relents.

“Blood.” Rhysand murmurs. “Chimera blood.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020 @just-m-2

#azriel x reader #blood-borne #vampire!azriel x reader #azriel x reader fic #multi part fic #blood borne

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sturnioloszn · 1 month ago

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NEW LIFE - M.S

summary; matt gets to finally meet his baby, but he's terrified of doing something wrong.

warnings; absolutely none.

a/n; for some reason, i get inspired to write at 2am?? also, the baby fever is real, so here's a fic w newborn dad matt. i feel like he'd be the biggest girl dad ever.

★ ° . *　　°　.　°☆ 　. * ● ¸. 　　　★ 　° :. ★　 * •

"I can't do this," I weep, tears streaming down my face.

"Yes, you can y/n, one last push," the midwife in front of me says. I've been in labour for five excruciating hours. I'm in unbearable pain, and I really don't think I can do it.

"C'mon baby, I believe in you," Matt speaks from next to me. I squeeze his hand as hard as I possibly can, trying to relieve the pain I'm currently experiencing. I heard him trying to stiffle a groan, probably from his hand almost losing circulation.

I scream at the top of my lungs, the noise echoing off the walls, and I give one final push. Suddenly, a high-pitched cry erupted in the room. I look between me and I see her. My baby. Even though she was covered in blood, she was the most beautiful thing ever.

"Good job, you did it. You have a healthy baby girl," the woman in front of me congratulated.

I turn to Matt and see he's already looking at me with a warm smile on his lips, "You did it, my love, I'm so proud of you,". He leans over and places a gentle kiss on my sweaty forehead.

I return a lazy smile, "Thank you," I whisper, trying to catch my breath.

A few moments later, the nurse returns with my baby, who's is now wrapped in a pink blanket, and carefully hands her to me.

"Hey, baby girl," I say, bringing her close to my chest. I look down to admire her soft features. I may be a little biased, but she was the cutest baby I had ever seen. She had a cute little nose, soft lips, and rosy cheeks, I couldn't help but smile.

I couldn't believe she was really here. Emotions began to overwhelm me, and I felt tears welcome my eyes once again. This time, however, they were tears of joy.

"I think you should take her," I say, turning to look at Matt, who is staring at her just as intently as I was.

"Oh, uhm, I don't think... I can," he says. I can tell he's nervous about holding her but this was his baby too.

"It's okay, Matt, you won't hurt her," I reassure him, and he looks over to the nurse who is still in the room. The nurse takes her from me and guides Matt on how to position his hands so that he can hold her too. The nurse then lowers the baby into his arms.

"Oh my god, hi baby," He whispers, cradling her head into his palm. "She's tiny," he whispers once again, now looking up at me.

Oh god. Seeing Matt holding her makes me want to have another one all over again already. He looks back down to admire her the same way I just was. There's a soft smile on his lips, he's in absolute awe of her.

The midwife came back over and suggested I should feed her. Otherwise, she may begin to cry again. Matt handed her back over to me, and the midwife instructed me on how to breastfeed her. Matt watched attentively, he went on a small rant about how lucky and thankful he was for me and our new baby.

This was the beginning of something completely new, and of course, I was terrified but equally excited. I can't believe I have a baby with the man of my dreams, and we get to raise her and love her. I take deep breaths and absorb this moment, wishing I could crystalise it in my memories forever.

My daydreams are cut short when someone's bursts through the door.

"WHERE IS MY NIECE?!" Nick exclaims, breaking into the room.

"Shh," Matt whisper-shouts at him, causing Nick to slap a hand over his mouth.

"Shit, sorry," He says in a much quieter tone. Chris also enters the room now, moving to stand next to Nick.

"I'm gonna be the best uncle ever, screw you, Chris," he says, looking to Chris, to which he just replies with a middle finger.

This baby is already so loved, and I'm so excited to see what the future holds for me, Matt and our baby.

★ ° . *　　°　.　°☆ 　. * ● ¸. 　　　★ 　° :. ★　 * •

a/n; ....this is lowk the shittiest thing ever written in the history of writing, but oh well. tbh, this was planned out better in my head. i'm actually debating posting this, but it is what it is lmaoo. anyway, thanks for reading this piece of shit, love uuu. 💙

#matthew sturniolo #matthew bernard sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic

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sugarsprinklesoul · 1 year ago

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GLOW TIPS FOR SKIN

Skincare Routine: Establish a consistent skincare routine with cleanser, toner, moisturizer, and sunscreen to keep your skin clean and protected.

Hydration: Drink plenty of water to keep your skin hydrated from the inside out, promoting a healthy and radiant complexion.

Balanced Diet: Include fruits, vegetables, and foods rich in vitamins and antioxidants for overall skin health.

Sun Protection: Use sunscreen with at least SPF 30 to shield your skin from harmful UV rays and prevent premature aging.

Adequate Sleep: Ensure you get enough sleep as it plays a crucial role in skin regeneration and overall well-being.

Exercise Regularly: Physical activity improves blood circulation, promoting a healthy glow and helping to flush out toxins.

Avoid Stress: Chronic stress can affect your skin. Practice stress-management techniques like meditation or yoga.

Gentle Exfoliation: Exfoliate regularly to remove dead skin cells, unclog pores, and promote cell turnover for a brighter complexion.

Moisturize: Keep your skin moisturized to maintain elasticity and prevent dryness, especially in dry or cold environments.

Limit Makeup: Allow your skin to breathe by minimizing the use of heavy makeup and opting for non-comedogenic products.

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cutielando · 1 year ago

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baby headcannons | j.m.

synopsis: in which you and JJ are teen parents

my masterlist

it was unplanned, of course. neither of you were ready for a baby

you were very sexually active and forgot to use protection on one too many occasions

when you told your mother, she was surprisingly supportive of you, having been a teen mother herself

JJ's father didn't take it very well, as expected

JJ told you he wanted to go and talk to his father alone because he didn't want to risk Luke hurting you in a fit of rage

when he finally came back, he had some cuts on his face and a bruise forming on his jaw, but he didn't seem as scarred as usual

JJ moved into your house with you, wanting to be there every step of the way

your mother helped you through every crisis you had, she always gave you tips and shared experiences with you to put you at ease

the Pogues were over the moon at the idea of a baby coming into this world

John B was skeptical at first because he knew of JJ's weed and beer habits, but he soon got over them when he saw how much JJ had changed since you found out you were pregnant

Kie was probably the most excited out of everyone at the idea of being an aunt. She was always talking about how many clothes she would buy the baby and how spoiled it was going to be

Pope didn't know how to feel, he was just kind of...there. He was happy for you, obviously, but that was about it

about six months into the pregnancy, you noticed a big change in JJ's attitude. He stopped smoking weed, he drank beer on very few occasions, he went with you to every doctor's appointment, he worked day in and day out to make sure he would be able to provide for your little growing family

he was also the most supportive father-to-be ever. He massaged your back and feet when he saw how uncomfortable you were, he always went out to get you food when a pregnancy craving would wake you up no matter the hour, he set up the nursery without a single complaint, he was taking his role very seriously

of course, there were some people who judged you for being pregnant when you were only 18, especially Kooks, but JJ took care of them every time

when it came down to labor, he was probably more stressed than you were

your water broke in the middle of the night, taking both of you by surprise

he took care of your hospital bag while you went and woke up your mom

the drive to the hospital was fairly quick, but to JJ it felt like an eternity

you were in labor for about 4 hours before you were told you could start pushing, which sent JJ into a fit. He had been told it would be at least 10 hours before you had to push, why was everything moving so quickly?

when it was time to push, he was right there with you. He gave you his hand to hold, not complaining the tiniest bit about you crushing his bones and stopping his blood circulation

he knew how much pain you were in birthing his child, which is why he didn't dare say anything

after 30 minutes, your beautiful baby daughter was born

you felt so much relief when she was finally out, throwing your head on the hospital bed while breathing heavily

hearing her cry was probably the best thing you had ever heard, knowing your daughter was here and healthy

JJ leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, whispering praising words into your ear

"I can't believe how strong you are. You did so good, baby, I'm so proud of you. I love you so fucking much"

when the nurses cleaned her and wrapped her up in her pink blanket, they passed her over to you for her first feeding

JJ was in awe as he watched you feed your daughter, so naturally that it seemed like you had been doing it for years

the baby opened her eyes and outstretched her little hand towards JJ while eating from the bottle you were holding

JJ reached over and put his pointer into the little girl's hand, who immediately grasped it and held it in a tight grip

she had JJ's blue eyes and blonde hair while she had your nose and mouth

she was the cutest thing in the world in your eyes

neither of you have ever felt a love like this for a human so tiny. she was the center of your universe, the product of your love

despite every prejudice people had of you, you were going to rock the parenting thing

as long as you had each other, you were going to be okay

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jacevelaryonswife · 1 year ago

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You got me losing control

You looked at him again, anxious, watching him approach cautiously until he shortened the distance between your bodies. “I want you tonight... if you want me...”

pairing: aemond targaryen x wife!reader

warnings: smut, p in v sex, english is not my first language. 3,240 words

aemond targaryen masterlist

Your marriage to Prince Aemond of House Targaryen was a blessing to your family. No matter how noble a birth or reputation was before Westeros, the union with a representative of royalty is the summit of relevance, respect and sophistication that a house can achieve — and that's exactly how you and your family came to be seen and treated in Kingslanding.

After the announcement of the engagement, certain rumors about the behavior and appearance of your betrothed stirred some concerns about your future and safety. Prince Aemond was a robust, polite, healthy young man and a prodigy in the art of swords; he was also a lover of books, history, philosophy and very reserved, especially after the incident. On the other hand, he was also described as easily irritable, intimidating, serious, silent, ruthless and deformed.

None of you were presented properly before the engagement, which made the following weeks strange, tense and reluctant, even if the effort to alleviate such a situation was mutual — shy and slow as well. You had not yet decided if he didn’t approve of your choice as his future lady wife or if that (contained, cordial and impatient) was just his way. Courtesy was not a problem until it became excessive as a barrier and you begged the Mother for unhappiness to cross your path. You were a lady more than suitable for a wedding, you considered yourself beautiful, polite and affable within your own limits, any Lord would be more than graced to have you by his side, according to your lady mother, and so you expected your new husband to find it.

Everything seemed to go well in the following weeks after the wedding. Even reserved and mysterious, Aemond was kind, attentive and worried about spending some moments of the day with you beyond duty, the construction of intimacy and trust was still slow, but quite satisfactory — in addition, your dresses and jewelry were more beautiful and extravagant than those of the other ladies. However, there was something that terrified you and your husband from the tip of your toes to the last hair: bedtime.

It was infinitely the strangest and most tense situation that your relationship with the prince experienced. You learned that even in moments where his were nervous and not knowing how to act he would still try to maintain the imposing and ruthless posture, but with easy-to-read nuances that revealed that he hadn’t idea what was happening. The consummation of the marriage was the worst physical pain ever felt in your life, although fast, it was extremely uncomfortable and unpleasant. The second night he bed you was even shorter, as a knock outside the shared room in the service of the queen hindered the hardness of his sword. Already the third time his own virility failed and served to create worrying thoughts about your lord husband's lack of interest in you. What if your appearance didn't please he? Or your inexperience? He was also inexperienced, it couldn't be that.

Everything got worse when your moon blood came and the realization of not being able to generate a fruit with his seed left you highly distressed. What if everything got worse after that? Rumors would certainly circulate about the prince's unfit wife and your fertility would be put in check. Such moods were enough to keep you disturbed, sad and ashamed by the previous and present days of your moon blood, until things suddenly changed when the week passed and the way your husband looked so tempting during the sparing session with Sir Criston Cole made an avid heat bloom all over your body. It wasn't even that warm in Kingslanding but he has never been more handsome and virile before, with his silver hair flying through the courtyard and his clothes leaving his delicious defined body even more manly.

What was going on with you?

You knew that the only thing in your mind was that you couldn't wait to have him alone later.

And that's what you did when you left dinner earlier and have a bold and daring bed linen along with loose hair for your husband. The cream-colored dress was made of the finest silk of lys and fell slightly through your body with long sleeves that didn’t close in your arms and left them exposed when moving. You were with your back to the bed and facing the door, anxiously waiting for the arrival of your prince.

You felt a restlessness composed of warmth and desire to go through your body and focus on your femininity in the eagerness for his touch, from the hands exploring your body, your breasts, for the intimate and carnal connection to be consummated. The reason for that was strange to you, since the other times you were together were nothing short of uncomfortable, but who were you to define the plans of fate?

Therefore, when the door opened and Aemond came across his beautiful wife in exquisite and suggestive clothes, his good eye widened more than usual. He closed the door and remained still, impeccable posture and half-open mouth. Your gaze faltered and faced the floor in the following moments, keeping the room silent for long seconds until the courage inflated your lungs and a request for low approach escaped from your lips.

"Can you come here, husband?" You looked at him again, anxious, watching him approach cautiously until he shortened the distance between your bodies. “I want you tonight... if you want me...”

An intense look and a stronger pull of air were the prince's physical response, remaining almost static in front of him. Would it be reluctance or surprise? You didn't want to be pessimistic.

In fact, for a moment Aemond forgot how to pronounce any kind of words and form sentences, totally surprised by your newly discovered boldness. It was a fact that the least developed pillar of your union was the moment of bed, but he thought that time and reading on the subject would enrich the occasion. But not that way, not with his little lady wife looking so tempting in her soft clothes.

The prince was oblivious to what he considered depravity. His only experience with a lady wasn’t planned and appreciated by him and the option to protect himself for his future lady wife was chosen. Unfortunately, the negative side of keeping inequity out of his life was to arrive at the moment of bed without knowing how to give pleasure to his lady correctly. He hated to see the discomfort stamped on your beautiful face every time he pushed his member on your walls, especially in the first copulation. But here he was and there you were willingly giving yourself.

Your steps were smooth and decided in his direction — although there was fear of being renegade — stopping when your hands landed on the chest covered by the black layers of his tunic. "If you don't want to, I'll understand," no, you wouldn't, you would freak out, but it was your duty as a lady and wife to comply with your husband.

Meanwhile, breathing seemed more difficult every second when he noticed the intensity in the way you watched him, a warm and lustful intensity that no other lady ever directed him. He was being cooked inside his own clothes in an almost maddening fire.

"I want this, lady wife," his voice was a few octaves more serious than usual, his good eye so attentive to your gaze that it seemed to pierce your soul.

Only that confirmation made nectar leak from your flower in anticipation. You didn't want to waste any more time, leaning against him, one hand remained on his chest while the other went up the uninjured side of his face, not wanting him to feel cornered.

“May I kiss you, husband?” You asked in a lascivious voice.

“Yes,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around your waist and holding the left side of your face.

The meeting between your lips was calm (inicially), firm and intimate. There was no previous shyness whenever a kiss happened, no, it was incisive, dominant and became increasingly ravishing and warm. There was urgency in the physical search for each other, making the kiss last longer than any other ever exchanged. It was everything you ever wanted it to be, as natural and ardent as a real dream. But it wasn't enough to satisfy your desire for him.

Moving away from your husband's silky and pink lips, you were quick to announce your next wish: "take off my dress, please, I want to do it the right way today."

The usual blue iris was nothing but a memory dominated by the darkness of his pupil. Aemond's large hands landed on your shoulders to slide both straps of the dress to the sides, removing the fabric accumulated at your waist to the floor, exposing your body in full vision to him.

You were burning, longing so eagerly to be touched that you didn’t want to wait for the prince's excessive chivalry and anticipated unbuttoning his tunic without noticing the approach of his hands on your breasts, making you sigh pleasantly in the massage received. It took a lot of effort to keep undressing your husband and not succumbing to his touch on your soft flesh, almost tearing off the piece and throwing it on the floor.

It was not appropriate for a lady to be desperate for such an activity, so even though you wanted to give the same fate to the pants that hid the modesty of your husband, you restrained yourself by analyzing and strumming his delicious abdomen and chest, touching his sculpted shoulders and long arms. His appearence was ridiculously ethereal and perfect.

“Take me Aemond, I need you,” you begged before capturing his lips again, moaning softly when he growled at your mouth and squeezed your ass with one hand and held the part of your head with another, feeling a growing hardness pressing against his stomach.

“I need to prepare you first, my lady,” he whispered hoarsely, now holding on both sides of your hips and looking away shamelessly to your femininity.

Maybe if it weren't for your rush you would have enjoyed a different pleasure that night, with your husband's lips pressed on their petals, but you still didn't know that. However, what he referred to earlier was already understandable to a lady like you.

"No need, I'm ready," you took his hand and guided him to feel your sticky folds, rubbing your juices gently on his thin fingers. After that you didn't spare time to get on the bed and wait for him, who was very quick to discard his shoes and pants to reach you with ferocity. Gods, what was your misdemeaning behavior doing to him?

The prince breathed heavily as he reached your body only to be rotated on the bed so that you would assume him as a mount. “I would like to try otherwise,” you said it with even heavier eyes, putting your hands on his chest to settle above his groin, his virile and thick masculinity rubbing against your mound, making both moan and hands fly at your waist when you rubbed your folds on him.

You have never seemed more tempting than now, with your beautiful body to total contemplation and disposition and so needed by the union of a man and a woman. It was said by Grand Maester Orwyle that ladies usually behave differently after moon blood and can become demanding about their husbands. Aemond properly interpreted the connotation used by the older man, but did not imagine that it would be such a drastic and needy requirement.

And then, deciding to end your suffering, you sat on the bulbous and reddish tip of your prince's sword, ignoring the initial pain and closing your eyes as you felt him stretch your walls so well in an overwhelming and indescribable feeling. "Oh, Aemond!" A breathless moan escaped when it reached his groin after long seconds. The extraordinary pain recurrent at other times was nothing more than an old ghost when you slid easily on its axis, moving up and down in an experimental and tasty constancy.

Aemond tried to keep his usual stoic feature but it was absolutely difficult when your velvety walls made him feel so good. With his mouth ajar and a heavy look, Aemond squeezed his waist in his clamor for him, taking a deep breath with the sloppy and needy rhythm that you established next.

You didn't know if you were doing it the right way, but you really appreciated the feeling of his thick and soft sword brushing against delicious places in your soft flower. It was good enough to make you moan continuously and scratch the milky skin on his chest.

Hoarse and strangled sounds were released by him during the shock of your hips, closing the good eye to focus on not ending early. He was still stunned by the walk of things since his arrival at the shared cameras — positively stunned. He never imagined that fornication could be so delicious for both of you.

Your eyes opened when your body signaled fatigue from the exercise in question, causing you to reduce your jumps and lean against his abs, almost lying on Aemond when purring so that he would take a position above you. You are not sure if it was the fluidity of the movement or the pressure on your thighs that persuaded your senses to the speed with which he took control and stayed on top, face closer to yours than before, almost making your lips brush. Before he could think about moving away, your arms wrapped around his neck and maintained the proximity between your faces. You wanted to kiss him, or rather, you wanted him to kiss you passionately.

“Kiss me, my dragon.”

The restraint that imprisoned Aemond's wild nature broke with the nickname he received and made him capture your lips in a dominant and fierce kiss, the kiss you've wanted so much since you woke up that day. His hips began to move against yours in a much more fluid way than the other times, fucking you with deliciously intense impulses, without roughness or softness.

He started another wet and sloppy kiss, sucking your lips before sinking his face into your neck and growling against his skin, then planting kisses. “Are you enjoying it, my lady?”

“Y-yes, my prince, yes, go faster!” You moaned and supported your legs on his waist, letting out an almost small scream when the speed of your impulses increased, numbing your senses. The nervousness of bringing pleasure to his wife was dissipated when all he could feel was the constant friction and the way you squeezed him so well.

Flying in wet and pleasurable clouds, you gently held the back of his neck and sneaked to smell his soft and well-groomed silver hair, purring with the addictive and extremely refreshing musk. His heart warmed timidly with your intimate gesture, caving your beautiful face with one hand and touching his foreheads to make love to you in such a unique and vehement way that it made your toes curl and a feeling bloom inside, developing with each push of his hips.

"Beautiful," he uttered contemplating his face kneaded with pleasure, "you're fucking beautiful, my lady wife."

“Really?” You knew it was, but you wanted him to affirm it from his own belief.

“Yes, a lot,” He was fucking lucky to have you. He should say that.

The tingling inside increased with his confession, building something you hadn't felt yet. Was it your dreamed apex germinating? The feeling that your friends elected as the best of all Westeros? He captured your mouth again in a firm but sloppy kiss at the same time, swallowing your lascivious moans and whining intensifies with each roll of hips.

His pleasure also became difficult to ignore, although he was proud that the act was being more profitable and lasting than the other times. Profitable? No, I was delusional.

The connection between you became steamy every second, causing your future supplication: "continue husband, please don't stop."

There was a certain affected region that made your fingers squirm and gasps of pleasure fill your chambers (and maybe even out of them). The recurrence with which Aemond brushed against that point amplified your pleasure and anticipated the hot euphoria that took over your body, making your sight clear and legs cage him when your high came devastatingly good and strong, causing tremor in your limbs and an absolute squeeze in your cunt around his masculinity.

It was the best thing that has ever hit your body in fact, and that caused the release of his seed on your core in erratic movements and an erotic grunt. The nature of the sensation seemed primitive, it was primitive, as a need that needed to be satiated more often. Your bodies were sweaty when he fell to your side with his eyes closed from recent pleasure, bubbling in deep flames like the Old Valyria.

A more than satisfied smile adorned your face with how indescribably good you felt. Not only physically, but your husband's performance softened part of your fear, only one part, the other unfortunately ascended in equity and sowed doubts in your heart. What if the sweetness in his words was only in the heat of the moment? What if he doesn't think you're pretty?

After a moment of comfortable silence you decided to risk it in a low, almost weak voice "... did you really mean those things? About my beauty?" Gods, you didn't want to look pathetic.

And he didn't want to be an absent husband. "Yes," he confessed in a hoarse and soporific voice, almost ashamed of his attitude. "I'm sorry I don't say that as often as you deserve to hear. You're breathtaking, ma'am." His good eye filtered all the reactions from your face carefully. “I'm very lucky to have you by my side.

And nothing was more radiant than your smile when he heard such loving and beautiful statements, daring to snuggle against his chest even though he had a thin layer of sweat. "Your words are nothing more than kind, my prince, I am very grateful to hear them," you began, "you are also a very handsome man," you smoothed the bruised side of his face with the palm of your hand, not getting close to the scar to scare him. "Almost ethereal if I may say," your face was close to his, looking tenderly before leaning against his lips in a chaste and soft kiss.

Compliments directed at appearance were never true to Aemond. Not that he received them too much after the incident, but all the rare times were false, regrettable and uncomfortable. His abilities made him a man safe enough not to care mostly about his deformity, however, in his interior of steel and fire there was a fraction that longed for genuine kindness.

"You are very kind, my lady," he said softly, his voice almost breaking, "did you like what happened?" The thought was almost all verbalized at once, taking not only you but also him by surprise.

“A lot. I liked it a lot, Aemond," you purred against him, feeling your interior warm and vibrate again. "If it's not inappropriate, I wish we could do it again."

That would be a long night...

═════════════════════

taglists:

general: @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @kravitzwhore @partypoison00

ewanverse: @aemonds-fire @partypoison00 @schniiipsel @fan-goddess

aemond: @aemondsblog

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond x reader #prince aemond targaryen #aemond one eyed #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you #aemond smut #aemond targaryen x wife!reader #aemond x wife reader #wife reader #smut

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