#i was in a hurry before work and the shadows are awful on it

[justarandomlambblog]

Obsessed with how Tumblr takes a read more, deletes it and places all the text that was under it in the middle of my images and proceeds to scramble the images. Beautiful, exactly what I wanted

[hisfavegirl]

Our Fate - Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary : Your marriage with Aegon has a good influence on you both, Aegon changes his character to be better and you also feel the changes in him day by day.

Alicent’s screams echoed through the castle, filling the air with pain and tension. Inside her private chambers, the maester and midwives worked desperately to calm her, holding her trembling hands gently, trying to ease her pain so she could remain calm and bring her second child into the world safely.

“Calm down, Your Grace,” the maester said in a low, steady voice, though his eyes were filled with concern. “Take deep breaths. Your child will be born soon.”

Despite the comforting words, Alicent’s face betrayed the agony she was enduring. She bit her lip, stifling every scream, unwilling to show weakness in front of those around her. Yet, her body was betraying her, the pain growing more intense with every passing moment.

The midwives hurried to prepare everything needed, working as swiftly as possible to ensure the birth would go smoothly. They knew all too well, from past experience, how dangerous childbirth could be. No one could predict what might happen, especially with so much pressure surrounding the birth.

Alicent shivered, her eyes filled with anxiety—not just for herself, but for the child she carried. “I… I can’t,” her voice broke, barely a whisper. “What if something goes wrong? What if I lose this child?”

One of the midwives gently took her hand, offering reassurance. “Your Grace, you’ve been strong up until now. We will make sure everything goes well. Trust us.”

Yet, despite their reassuring words, fear still gripped Alicent’s heart. What if this was the end of it all?

The midwife checked on Alicent once more, her face focused and serious. “The baby is ready,” she said, her voice steady. "Your Grace, you need to push now. With all your strength.”

Alicent, her body trembling from the exertion and pain, nodded, gripping the sheets tightly as she gathered every ounce of strength left in her. She cried out as she pushed, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The pain was unbearable, yet she forced herself to endure, driven by the knowledge that her child was so close to being born.

Moments later, the midwife’s voice rang out with relief, “A healthy girl, Your Grace. Your daughter is born safe and sound.”

Alicent let out a shaky breath, a sense of overwhelming relief flooding through her. The pain was still there, but the weight of it felt lighter now. She could hear the soft cries of her newborn, and for a moment, she felt like the world had lifted off her shoulders.

But then, to her shock, the midwife’s voice grew more urgent. “Wait… there’s more. Another one is coming.”

Alicent’s eyes widened with disbelief, her heart racing as the pain returned, even more intense than before. She hadn’t expected this. A second child? Another girl?

The midwives worked quickly, helping her to push once more, and soon, another baby girl was born. The room was filled with the cries of two healthy daughters, and Alicent was left in stunned silence, her body exhausted but filled with awe.

Two daughters. Twins.

She couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. The pain that had nearly broken her moments ago was now replaced with a mix of emotions—relief, joy, and a profound sense of love for these two little girls who had come into the world against all odds. But even as her heart swelled with love, the reality set in: she was the mother of two newborn daughters now, and life as she knew it had just changed forever.

You walk through the garden with your ladies-in-waiting by your side. The gentle rustling of leaves and the soft chirping of birds fill the air, creating a peaceful melody that makes the moment feel serene. The sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the path ahead.

Your hand rests on your growing belly, your fingers moving in slow, thoughtful circles. Every now and then, you glance down, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. There’s a quiet contentment in moments like this — when the world feels slower, calmer.

Your ladies-in-waiting walk close by, their light chatter filling the air. Occasionally, you join the conversation, sharing a laugh or offering a kind remark. You enjoy their company, especially on days like this when Aegon is away, training with Aemond on the practice field. The clang of steel on steel is distant, muffled by the trees and the gentle hum of the garden, but you know they’re there, locked in their familiar dance of blades and pride.

The scent of blooming flowers drifts past on the breeze, sweet and fresh. You pause for a moment to take it in, letting the soft fragrance fill your senses. The warmth of the sun on your skin, the steady movement of life within you, and the simple joy of being surrounded by beauty — it’s in moments like these that you feel at peace.

One of your ladies comments on the beauty of a nearby rose bush, its crimson petals so vivid they almost seem unreal. You nod in agreement, reaching out to gently touch a velvety petal. “It’s strong,” you muse softly, your eyes lingering on the bloom. “Even with thorns, it still flourishes.”

Your gaze shifts to your belly, your hand still resting protectively over it. You walk on, the sound of footsteps crunching softly on the path behind you. No matter the burdens that come with war, court politics, or the pressures of family, moments like these remind you of your own strength. For like the roses, you endure, you grow — and you will bloom in your own time.

You turn your head and see your mother, Queen Alicent, walking toward you with your twin sister, Helaena, by her side. The sight of them fills you with warmth, and a bright smile lights up your face. Without hesitation, you step forward to greet them.

“Mother,” you say fondly as you embrace her. Her arms wrap around you with the firm but gentle hold only a mother can give. For a moment, you feel like a child again, safe and secure in her embrace.

She pulls back slightly to look at you, her gaze immediately dropping to your growing belly. Concern flickers in her eyes as she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Are you feeling tired, my sweet girl?” she asks, her voice laced with both worry and affection.

You smile softly, shaking your head. “No, Mother, I’m well. The walk does me good,” you reply, resting a hand on your belly. “The babe is calm today, too.”

Alicent’s eyes soften with relief, and a small smile tugs at her lips. “Good,” she says, glancing down at your belly with quiet reverence. “Still, you mustn’t overexert yourself. Rest is just as important as strength.”

Helaena steps closer, her gaze distant but kind as she looks at you and then at your belly. “Dreams of wings and warmth,” she says softly, tilting her head as if listening to something only she can hear. Her words are strange, but they do not unsettle you. You’ve grown used to her cryptic musings, and sometimes, they carry truths no one else sees.

“Perhaps the little one dreams, too,” you say gently, and Helaena smiles, as if you’ve understood something important.

The three of you continue to walk together, side by side, surrounded by the soft hum of the garden. With each step, you feel lighter, knowing that, no matter the trials to come, you have the love of your family to steady you.

You sip your tea, savoring its warmth as you listen to your mother, Alicent, speak. Her voice is steady, carrying the calm authority of someone who has spent a lifetime navigating courts and crowns. Her knitting needles continue their soft, rhythmic clacking, each stitch carefully crafted with love for your unborn child.

Beside you, Helaena sits on the grass, her gaze distant yet filled with quiet wonder. Her hands are outstretched, her fingers delicate as a butterfly perches lightly on them. She tilts her head, watching it closely, her lips curling into a soft smile. The creature’s wings flutter slowly, catching the golden light of the sun, and for a moment, it seems as though the world around her has stilled to match her calm.

You watch her quietly, your eyes filled with affection and a touch of curiosity. Your twin sister has always seemed connected to things others could not see or understand. It’s no surprise to see her at peace with something as fleeting as a butterfly.

Your gaze lingers on her a little longer, thoughtful. It hasn’t been long since she was wed to Aemond, and the idea fills you with a quiet hope. Perhaps soon she, too, will have a child of her own. The thought of your children growing up together — cousins but also as close as siblings — warms your heart.

“She’s always been gentle with them,” Alicent says softly, following your gaze to Helaena. “Butterflies. Insects. Small, fragile things. She understands them in a way that most people don’t.” Her tone is wistful, almost proud.

“She’ll be a good mother,” you say with certainty, your eyes never leaving Helaena. She turns her head slightly as if hearing you, her gaze meeting yours for a moment. She smiles, soft but knowing, as if she’s already seen the future and agrees with you.

“And so will you,” Alicent adds, her voice warm but firm. She gives you a look filled with quiet pride and reassurance. Her hands never stop knitting, her fingers working with steady precision. “Both of you will be wonderful mothers. I have no doubt.”

You glance down at your belly, feeling the gentle, familiar shift of life inside you. The future is uncertain, filled with so many unknowns, but here in the warmth of the sun, with your mother’s love and your sister’s quiet magic, you feel a rare sense of peace.

For a little while longer, you stay there together, letting the world outside the garden fade away. It is enough to simply be here, surrounded by love, hope, and the promise of new life.

You hear a familiar voice calling your name, firm yet tinged with warmth. Your heart lifts instinctively, and you turn toward the sound. There, walking toward you, is Aegon. Beside him is Aemond, his steps measured and precise as always, his face a mask of quiet intensity.

Aegon’s silver hair catches the sunlight, still damp from washing away the sweat of training. It clings in loose strands around his face and neck, giving him a more relaxed, almost boyish appearance. His tunic is slightly wrinkled from exertion, and there’s a hint of lingering energy in his movements, the kind that comes after the thrill of combat.

He grins as he sees you, his violet eyes locked on yours with unmistakable fondness. “There you are,” he says, his voice lighter than usual, as if just seeing you has eased something in him. His gaze flickers briefly to your belly, and his grin softens into something more tender.

Aemond walks at his side, his expression calm but watchful as his single eye takes in the scene. His hair is still perfectly in place, not a strand out of line, though there’s a sheen of effort on his skin. His gaze shifts briefly to Helaena, who is still watching her butterfly with quiet fascination. His face remains impassive, but there’s a certain softness in the way he watches her.

Aegon closes the distance between you with easy strides, his eyes never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he crouches slightly, his hand moving instinctively to rest on your belly. His palm is warm through the fabric of your gown, and you feel the familiar comfort of his presence. “Did they give you any trouble today?” he asks playfully, as if the baby inside could somehow be mischievous already.

You chuckle softly, your hand covering his. “Not at all,” you reply, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Unlike you, I’m sure, causing trouble with your brother.”

Aegon raises a brow, pretending to look offended. “Training isn’t trouble,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s noble work.”

“Is that what you call it?” you tease, your smile widening.

Aemond lets out a quiet huff that might be a laugh, though he quickly schools his features into calm indifference. His gaze shifts to Alicent, offering her a small nod of respect before his eye drifts back to Helaena.

Aegon’s attention returns fully to you, his grin fading into something softer, more genuine. His thumb traces a gentle circle over your belly before his eyes flick back to yours. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly, so only you can hear. His words are simple, but they linger in the air between you, warming you more than the sun ever could.

You press your hand over his, holding it there for a moment longer. “And you look like you just wrestled a dragon,” you reply, raising a brow.

He laughs, the sound rich and familiar, like the sound of home. “If I did, I’d still win,” he quips, puffing out his chest slightly in jest.

“Of course you would,” you say, humoring him. “You’re Aegon the Conqueror reborn, are you not?”

“Don’t you forget it,” he replies with a wink, leaning in to press a quick, playful kiss to your temple before straightening up again.

The afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting golden light on all of you — Alicent with her knitting, Helaena with her butterfly, Aemond with his quiet watchfulness, and Aegon standing at your side, his hand still resting protectively over your growing belly. For a moment, it feels like the whole world is right here, bound together by love, family, and the quiet certainty that, no matter what lies ahead, you will face it together.

You sit comfortably on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the window, casting a warm light across the room. Aegon kneels before you, his face level with your growing belly. His silver hair falls loosely around his face, still slightly damp from his earlier training.

His hands rest gently on either side of your belly, his thumbs moving in small, absentminded circles. But it’s his voice that draws your attention. He’s speaking softly to the baby, his tone playful yet filled with a quiet tenderness that you rarely see in him.

“Are you being good for your mother?” he murmurs, his violet eyes focused entirely on the curve of your stomach. “No kicks today? Hm? You’re being kind, aren’t you? That’s good. Keep it that way.” He tilts his head, as if waiting for a response, his expression one of mock seriousness. “But if you’re anything like me, you’ll be causing trouble soon enough.”

You can’t help but smile at the sight of him like this — brought to his knees by something so small and unseen. His love is unmistakable in the way he gazes at your belly, in the way his voice softens just for the child he has yet to meet.

Your fingers move through his silver hair, slow and gentle. His hair is soft beneath your touch, and you brush it back from his face, letting your fingertips linger for a moment. He leans into the gesture, his eyes fluttering closed like a cat basking in warmth.

“You’ll spoil them before they’re even born,” you say softly, your voice full of quiet affection.

Aegon opens one eye, glancing up at you with a lopsided grin. “That’s my right as a father,” he replies, turning his face slightly so his cheek rests against your belly. He closes his eyes fully now, letting out a breath as if finally at peace. “Besides, they deserve it.”

You feel the warmth of his cheek through the fabric of your gown, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The weight of the crown, the whispers of court, the distant echoes of war — none of it matters here. It’s just the three of you. You, Aegon, and the life growing between you.

Your hand continues its slow, soothing motion through his hair, your heart full of love so strong it nearly aches. “Yes,” you whisper, your eyes soft with quiet joy. “They do.”

You glance down at Aegon, his head still resting against your belly, and you smile softly. “Come sit with me,” you say gently, your voice quiet but certain.

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of curiosity before he nods. Rising to his feet, he moves onto the bed, sinking into the mattress beside you with a contented sigh. His presence is warm and steady, and the shift in the bed as he settles feels as familiar as the rise and fall of your own breath.

You lean into him, resting your head on his chest. His arm moves naturally around you, holding you close. His other hand settles instinctively on your belly from behind, his palm resting firmly but gently over the curve of it. His fingers move in slow, soothing strokes, tracing soft circles over the fabric of your gown. The motion is so tender, so careful, that it feels like a lullaby made of touch.

Your eyes flutter closed, your body relaxing fully against him. The rhythm of his breathing is steady beneath you, the strong, reliable thud of his heartbeat in your ear. His warmth surrounds you, and with every slow caress of his hand on your belly, you feel the weight of the day begin to melt away.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs quietly, his lips close to your temple. His voice is lower now, quieter, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the peace you’ve found together.

“Not anymore,” you reply softly, your eyes still closed, letting yourself sink further into the comfort of him. “Not like this.”

His chest rises beneath your cheek with a slow, deep breath. “Good,” he says, his hand never ceasing its gentle movement. “You should rest while you can. Soon, we’ll have another little troublemaker to chase after.”

You hum in response, too relaxed to argue, too content to think of anything but the warmth of him, the safety of this moment, and the quiet love that surrounds you. His hand remains on your belly, his touch steady, protective, and full of love.

For now, there is peace. And that is enough.

You lie on the bed with Aegon, your body nestled comfortably against his. His warmth surrounds you, a protective cocoon that makes you feel safer than any fortress ever could. His arm is draped over you, his hand resting on your belly with familiar ease. His fingers move slowly, tracing soft, rhythmic circles, as if he’s already trying to soothe the child within.

From behind you, you hear the quiet hum of a melody. It’s not a song you fully recognize — perhaps something from childhood or a tune he’s made up on the spot. It’s low and unpolished, but there’s a gentleness to it that makes your heart ache with love. His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his voice a quiet vibration that seems to lull not just you, but the baby as well.

You place your hand over his, your fingers threading through his, stilling his movements for a moment. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles slowly, feeling every ridge and line as if to remind yourself that he is real, that this is real.

“I’m happy,” you whisper, your voice soft but firm, as if speaking a truth that must be heard. Your eyes remain closed, your face relaxed in a rare moment of peace. “I’m happy that fate wasn’t so cruel to us.”

There’s a pause, a stillness in the air that follows your words. For a moment, you think he might not respond. But then, he squeezes your hand, his fingers curling tightly around yours.

“Fate is always cruel,” Aegon says softly, his voice close to your ear, rough but honest. “But even fate can be kind sometimes.” His hand moves again, resuming its slow, soothing strokes over your belly. “Maybe this is our kindness,” he adds, his voice quieter now, as though he’s speaking only to you and the little life growing between you.

You press his hand a little closer to your belly, letting him feel the quiet stillness there. “If it is, then I’ll cherish it,” you murmur, your voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’ll hold on to it, no matter what comes.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but the weight of his silence is as full as any vow. His hand never leaves your belly, and his melody continues, hummed low and soft like a promise only the three of you can hear.

The next day, the sun is gentle in the sky, its warmth softened by a cool breeze that rustles the leaves. You walk side by side with your sister, Helaena, along the stone path that winds through the garden. The scent of blooming flowers fills the air, and the distant hum of bees creates a soft, steady rhythm around you.

Helaena walks with her usual quiet grace, her eyes flitting from one flower to the next, as if each one holds a secret only she can hear. Her fingers brush lightly against the petals as she passes, her touch as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. You glance at her with a fond smile, your hands resting lightly on the curve of your belly.

She’s talking, her voice light and dreamy as she recounts a story about her “little friends” — her name for the insects and creatures she seems to understand better than anyone else.

“The spiders were weaving again last night,” she says softly, her gaze far away but her tone certain. “They made a pattern this time — not like the others. It looked like a wheel, turning slowly.” Her eyes flick toward you, clear and bright, as if to see if you understand. “Maybe it’s a sign of something coming.”

You raise a brow, tilting your head slightly. “A wheel, you say? Perhaps it’s a sign that time is always turning,” you suggest playfully, though you know Helaena’s words often have more weight than they first appear to.

She hums thoughtfully, gazing up at the sky as if seeking an answer among the clouds. “Wheels turn, but they also crush,” she murmurs quietly, her gaze distant again. Then, as if pulled back to the present, she looks at you with a small smile. “But not all of them. Some are just for spinning thread.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head at her musings. Her words often carry a weight you don’t fully understand, but you love them all the same. “Well, I prefer the ones that spin thread,” you say with a grin. “Less danger, more warmth.”

She giggles at that, her smile growing brighter. You both walk a little further, your steps slow and unhurried. You feel calm, at ease, like the world is smaller here in this garden, and only the two of you exist within it.

“I like spending time with you,” you admit after a while, turning to her with a gentle smile. “It feels… peaceful.”

Helaena looks at you with that same soft, knowing smile she always wears when she’s gazing at her butterflies. “Peace is rare,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “So we should hold it tight when it finds us."

Her words linger in the air like the scent of flowers, and you nod, letting her wisdom settle in your heart. The two of you continue your walk, side by side, two sisters sharing the quiet beauty of the garden and the rare, fleeting peace it brings.

Your shared laughter with Helaena is suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. You turn your head and see them — Aegon and Aemond — standing just at the edge of the garden path. Aegon’s expression is playful, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his lips, while Aemond remains his usual composed self, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his face calm but watchful.

They begin to walk toward you, each with his own distinct stride. Aegon moves with an easy, relaxed confidence, like a man who owns every space he walks into. His eyes are on you, filled with warmth and mischief, his grin growing wider with every step. Aemond’s pace is slower, more deliberate, his gaze flickering briefly to Helaena before returning to you and Aegon. Where Aegon moves with ease, Aemond moves with purpose.

You can’t help but smile at the sight of them. They are as different as night and day, but somehow, in this moment, they both seem so familiar, so perfectly them.

Aegon reaches you first. Without hesitation, he kneels before you, his violet eyes gazing up at you with unspoken affection. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. His hands gently press against your sides, his touch firm but tender, and then he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your belly.

You feel the warmth of his lips through the fabric of your gown, and your heart swells with love so deep it feels like it could burst. Your fingers move to his hair, gently combing through the soft silver strands, and he tilts his head slightly, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“Good morning to you too,” you say softly, your eyes shining with affection.

“Morning to both of you,” Aegon replies, his voice half-teasing, half-sincere as he presses another kiss to your belly. “And you,” he adds, speaking directly to the child inside, his tone playful. “I hope you weren’t giving your mother too much trouble today.”

Helaena giggles beside you, covering her mouth with her hand, while you simply shake your head in quiet amusement. “They’ve been kind,” you reply, resting your other hand on top of his. “Unlike their father.”

Aegon gasps in mock offense, looking up at you with wide eyes. “I am nothing if not kind,” he insists, his grin betraying his words.

“Kind, perhaps,” you say, raising an eyebrow, “but certainly not quiet.”

Aemond approaches at last, his gaze flickering between you, Aegon, and Helaena. His single eye lingers on Helaena for a moment longer, and though his face remains stoic, there is a subtle shift in his expression — something softer, gentler. He stands beside her, his hands still neatly behind his back, his posture as rigid as ever.

“Are we interrupting something?” Aemond asks, his voice smooth and even, though there’s a hint of dry humor in it. His gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still on his knees, shamelessly clinging to you like a lovesick fool.

“Only my moment of peace,” you reply, casting a playful glance at Aemond. “But I suppose I can forgive you both this time.”

Aegon rises slowly, still grinning, his hand slipping into yours. “Peace is overrated,” he says with a wink, tugging you gently closer to him. “But I’ll give you something better.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full of love.

“Better be good, then,” you reply, leaning your head briefly against his shoulder.

Helaena’s gaze shifts between all of you, her eyes distant but bright, as though she’s seeing something far beyond the present moment. “The wheel spins,” she says softly, her voice almost sing-song. “But for now, it’s at rest.”

Aemond glances at her, his brow furrowing just slightly, but he says nothing. Instead, he moves to stand beside her, his hands finally leaving their place behind his back to brush lightly against her arm. She doesn’t flinch, only glances at him with a small, knowing smile.

You close your eyes for a brief moment, breathing in the fresh air of the garden, the warmth of Aegon at your side, and the steady, grounding presence of family all around you. For now, the wheel is at rest, and you allow yourself to believe, just for a moment, that peace like this might last forever.

The four of you walk together along the garden path, the late morning sun filtering through the trees, casting dappled light across the ground. The air smells of fresh blooms and the faint, sweet scent of wildflowers carried by the breeze. Helaena walks ahead, her attention on a butterfly that flits just out of reach. Her gaze is full of quiet wonder, and Aemond stays close by her side, his single eye watchful as always. His steps are slow and measured, as if he’s guarding her every move without her even noticing.

You walk beside Aegon, his hand loosely clasping yours. Every so often, his thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, a silent gesture of affection. His other hand occasionally hovers near your waist, ready to catch you if you stumble, though you haven’t. You’re steady, even as the weight of your growing belly pulls at your balance.

It’s Aemond who breaks the quiet, his voice cutting through the soft hum of the garden. “Are you not tired?” he asks, glancing your way with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “Walking this much while carrying all that weight can’t be easy.”

His words are blunt, but there’s no malice in them — only quiet concern, the kind of care he rarely shows to anyone but Helaena. His eyes shift briefly to your belly before returning to your face, his expression cool but attentive.

You raise a brow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you calling me heavy, brother?” you tease lightly, glancing at him with playful eyes. “Careful, or I might think you’ve grown bold.”

Aegon lets out a short laugh, his grin wide and mischievous. “Careful, brother,” he says with mock seriousness, his voice full of amusement. “A pregnant woman’s wrath is no small thing.”

Helaena giggles softly ahead of you, her fingers brushing against the petals of a nearby flower. She doesn’t look back, but you can tell she’s listening. “He only says it because he cares,” she says in her usual dreamy tone, glancing toward Aemond with a small, knowing smile. “He’s gentler than he seems.”

Aemond’s gaze flickers to Helaena, his face softening just slightly, though his lips remain in a firm, straight line. He doesn’t deny it, nor does he look away from her. It’s rare to see him so unguarded, but with Helaena, he always seems to allow himself a little more room to be human.

You glance between them, warmth blooming in your chest. “I’m fine, Aemond,” you say softly, your voice more sincere this time. “A little weight is nothing I can’t bear.” Your hand comes to rest on your belly, your fingers gently stroking it. “Besides, I’m not alone in carrying it, am I?”

Aegon squeezes your hand, tilting his head toward you with a grin that’s a little softer than usual. “No, you’re not,” he says simply, his eyes filled with quiet affection.

Aemond watches the exchange in silence, his gaze sharp but thoughtful. He says nothing more, but his attention lingers on you for a moment longer than usual before he looks ahead once more. Perhaps it’s his way of showing he cares — not with words, but with watchful eyes and quiet presence.

The four of you continue walking together, the steady rhythm of your steps blending with the rustle of the leaves and the distant hum of insects. You feel safe here, surrounded by family. Even Aemond, with all his sharp edges, feels like a shield at your side.

“Tell me if you need to rest,” Aemond says quietly, his voice softer now, just loud enough for you to hear. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. But you understand him well enough to know that this, too, is his version of kindness.

“I will,” you reply just as softly, your heart warm with quiet gratitude.

You walk a little slower after that, but no one says a word about it. Aemond walks close enough now that his shadow overlaps yours, a silent promise that he will remain by your side, steady as ever.

From a distance, you spot your mother, Alicent, standing at the end of the corridor leading into the garden. Her figure is framed by the soft glow of the sun behind her, her green gown catching the light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal. Her gaze is fixed on all of you, her eyes warm with quiet affection. There is a softness in her expression — not the queen, but simply a mother watching her children.

As she walks toward you, her steps are slow and measured, her presence calm but commanding as always. Her gaze moves over each of you in turn, taking in Helaena’s soft smile, Aemond’s ever-watchful stare, Aegon’s relaxed posture, and you — her child carrying another life within them. Her eyes linger on you just a moment longer, a gentle, almost wistful look crossing her face.

When she reaches you, she says nothing at first. Instead, she steps closer and places a hand on your belly, her palm warm and firm. Her fingers move in a slow, tender caress, her eyes following the motion as if she can feel the life stirring within you. Her lips curve into a soft smile, her love clear in the gesture.

“You’re doing well,” she says quietly, lifting her gaze to meet yours. Her voice is gentle, the kind of voice only a mother can have when speaking to her child. “You’re strong.”

Her words wrap around you like a cloak of warmth, and you nod, unable to do much else but smile back at her. “I learned from you,” you reply softly, and the look she gives you in return is one of pride, tinged with a hint of sadness.

Alicent turns next to Helaena, cupping her face in both hands with such care, as if afraid she might break. She presses a light kiss to her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than usual. Helaena leans into the touch with a soft hum, her eyes fluttering closed like a butterfly resting on a petal.

“My sweet girl,” Alicent whispers, brushing a strand of silver hair away from Helaena’s face. “I hope you are well today.”

“The butterflies are quiet today,” Helaena replies dreamily, her gaze distant but serene. “They’re just watching.”

Alicent smiles, her brow softening. “Then perhaps they’re giving you a moment of peace,” she says, her hands still resting lightly on Helaena’s cheeks before she finally lets her go.

Her eyes shift to her sons next. She steps forward, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Aemond with that familiar blend of love, exasperation, and expectation that only a mother can manage.

Her eyes settle on Aegon first. She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ve cleaned yourself up, at least,” she says, her tone bordering on teasing but still firm enough to make her point.

Aegon rolls his eyes but grins at her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t have you worrying about me every moment of the day, Mother,” he replies, his voice light and easy.

Her gaze softens, but she raises a brow at him, clearly unconvinced. “I will worry about you for as long as I live, Aegon,” she says simply, her voice unwavering. “That is a mother’s burden.”

He doesn’t reply, but you notice the slight shift in his stance, his smile faltering just a little as he lowers his gaze for a moment. His fingers tighten briefly around yours, a silent acknowledgment of her words.

Then Alicent turns to Aemond, her gaze settling on him with the same care but perhaps a touch more scrutiny. She looks him over carefully, her eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, the patch over his missing eye, and the stiff posture of his shoulders. She steps closer, tilting her head as if to study him more closely.

“You’re too tense,” she says softly, her eyes filled with quiet concern. “You carry too much on your shoulders, my son.” Her hand reaches up to rest on his arm, and though his posture doesn’t change, you see the subtle shift in his gaze. His eye flickers to her, his lips pressing into a firm line.

“I carry what I must,” he replies, his tone firm but not cold.

Alicent gazes at him for a long moment, her fingers still on his arm. “Even the strongest swords can break,” she says softly. Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning.

Aemond doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t pull away either. His gaze lowers slightly, his jaw tightening, but he allows her to keep her hand where it is. It’s a small thing, but for Aemond, it means everything.

The moment lingers before Alicent finally steps back, her gaze sweeping over all four of you once more. Her face is calm, but there is a depth of love in her eyes that she does not speak aloud. She clasps her hands in front of her, looking at all of you as if trying to commit the image to memory.

“Stay together,” she says softly, her gaze steady and filled with quiet strength. “If nothing else, promise me you will stay together.”

Her words settle over all of you like a veil of quiet understanding. No one speaks right away, but you feel Aegon’s hand tighten around yours, a silent promise made without words. Helaena gazes at the sky, her lips moving in quiet repetition of something only she can hear. Aemond remains still, his eyes sharp but distant, as if her words have struck a place deep within him.

“We will, Mother,” you say, your voice steady and certain. You glance at each of them in turn — Helaena, Aemond, and Aegon. “We will.”

Alicent nods, her face softening with quiet relief. “Good,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “That is all I ask.”

Your mother, glances at you and Helaena with a soft smile, her eyes filled with quiet affection. “Come,” she says gently, reaching out a hand to each of you. “Join me for tea in my chambers. You’ve been walking long enough, and it will do you both good to rest for a while.”

Helaena tilts her head as if considering the offer, then nods with a small, content smile. “Tea sounds lovely,” she says softly, her gaze following a butterfly as it flutters past. “The butterflies are quiet today. Perhaps they’ll join us too.”

You smile at her, your heart warmed by the innocence of her words. Then you glance at Aegon and Aemond, who are exchanging glances with each other, clearly with different plans in mind.

Aegon tilts his head toward Aemond, his grin sly and full of mischief. “Shall we?” he asks, already turning on his heel.

Aemond raises a brow but doesn’t argue. His gaze shifts to you, observing you carefully before speaking. “We’ll visit the dragons,” he says, his tone even and calm, but there’s a certain edge of excitement there, the same glint in his eye that always appears when he’s thinking of Vhagar. “We won’t be long.”

You narrow your eyes at them both, already sensing the trouble they might stir. Placing a hand on your hip, you glance from Aegon to Aemond with mock seriousness. “Don’t do anything reckless,” you say firmly, your voice carrying the weight of a warning only a wife and sister can give. “I mean it. No wild tricks, no flying too high, and no testing each other’s patience in the air.”

Aegon turns to you with an exaggerated look of shock, his hand pressed to his chest as if you’d wounded him. “Reckless? Me? I’m the picture of caution, love,” he says with a grin so wide it’s clear he’s lying. “I’ll be as gentle as a breeze.”

You raise an unimpressed brow. “A storm breeze, perhaps.”

Aemond says nothing, but you catch the subtle flicker of amusement in his eye. He glances at Helaena for a moment, his face softening just slightly before his gaze shifts back to you. “We’ll be careful,” he says simply, his tone steady but sincere. “I give you my word.”

His promise reassures you far more than Aegon’s theatrics ever could. You nod, letting out a small breath of relief. “Good,” you reply, glancing at both of them. “See that you keep it.”

Aegon chuckles, already backing away toward the path that leads to the dragonpit. “We’ll return in one piece,” he says with a wink, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll bring you back something pretty.”

You give him a pointed look but say nothing more. Your gaze follows them as they walk away, Aegon’s strides loose and confident while Aemond’s are precise and deliberate. It’s always been like that with them — wildness and control, fire and steel. You shake your head, fondness and exasperation blending in your heart.

“Men and their dragons,” Helaena says softly beside you, her gaze faraway but her words sharp with understanding. “They think they control them, but it is always the other way around.”

You glance at her, surprised by the clarity in her words, but before you can say anything, your mother places a gentle hand on your arm. “Come, my loves,” Alicent says, her voice as soft as silk. “Let them chase their dragons. We have warmth, tea, and quiet waiting for us.”

With a nod, you take your mother’s hand, and together with Helaena, you follow her toward her chambers. The sun filters through the hall’s stained-glass windows, casting hues of green and gold on the stone floors. It feels peaceful here, far from the weight of thrones, dragons, and the burdens of duty.

As you walk, you glance over your shoulder one last time, watching the distant figures of Aegon and Aemond disappear toward the dragonpit. You sigh softly, hoping they’ll remember your words — but knowing them both, you suspect you’ll be hearing wild tales of their “careful” flight soon enough.

With your mother’s steady hand guiding you, you lower yourself carefully into the cushioned chair. Your belly makes the task more cumbersome than it once was, and you exhale deeply as you finally settle into the seat. The soft fabric cradles your back, and you lean into it with a sigh of relief, letting the weight ease from your body.

Your eyes close for a moment, savoring the comfort. The strain in your back lessens, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you allow yourself a moment of stillness. The quiet hum of the room, the distant chirping of birds outside the window, and the familiar scent of lavender all combine to create a perfect, peaceful atmosphere.

A soft laugh breaks that peace, but it’s not unwelcome. You open one eye to see your mother, Alicent, covering her mouth with delicate fingers, her gaze warm and amused. Helaena sits nearby, her own soft giggles bubbling up like a gentle stream. Her eyes are bright with mirth as she tilts her head, watching you with that quiet, knowing gaze she always seems to have.

“You look as though you’ve just conquered a battle,” Alicent says with a fond smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

You tilt your head toward her, too tired to do more than give a wry smile. “It feels like I have,” you reply, letting out another long breath. “The weight of victory sits heavily on me.” Your hand rests on your belly, giving it a small, affectionate rub.

Helaena’s giggles grow louder, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of her chair. “Victory grows with each day,” she says dreamily, her gaze shifting toward your belly as if she’s watching something only she can see. “Soon, it will shout its arrival to the world, and all will hear it.

Alicent raises her brows at her daughter’s words, though she doesn’t question them. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze softening as she reaches out to brush a lock of hair from your face. Her touch is gentle, her fingers cool against your warm skin.

“You’ve done well to carry them this far,” she says quietly, her voice full of pride and affection. “But you mustn’t bear everything alone. Let others ease the burden when you can.”

You nod, leaning your head back against the chair with a small, content smile. “I know, Mother,” you murmur, your eyes closing once more. “But it’s hard to let go when it feels like it’s mine alone to carry.”

Alicent sighs softly, her hand resting on your shoulder. “It is yours, but that doesn’t mean you must carry it without help,” she says, her voice steady, firm in the way only a mother’s voice can be. “Even queens have hands to hold them up.”

Her words settle into your heart, heavy but warm. You feel the weight of them, just as you feel the weight of your child growing within you. It is a burden, yes, but it is also a blessing. Perhaps, you think, those two things are often one and the same.

Silence falls over the room once more, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Helaena shifts in her seat, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. You peek at her from beneath your lashes, watching her lost in her own world. The sunlight catches on her silver hair, making her look almost otherworldly.

“Rest,” Alicent says softly, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “For as long as you can.”

You hum in agreement, letting your eyes fall shut again. Surrounded by your mother’s warmth and your sister’s quiet presence, you feel safe. You feel loved. And for a while, you let yourself simply exist in that moment of peace.

You open your eyes slowly, gazing at your mother. Her face is serene but lined with quiet worry, a look you have come to recognize as her mask of strength. Her fingers are busy smoothing the fabric of her gown, a habit she’s never been able to break when her thoughts are heavy.

“Mother,” you say softly, your voice low but clear. Her eyes shift to meet yours, and you hesitate for a moment before asking, “How is Father?"

For a brief second, something flickers in her eyes — sorrow, perhaps, or something close to it. She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands. Her fingers still, clasping together tightly as she sits straighter in her chair.

“His health worsens by the day,” she admits quietly, her voice measured but undeniably tinged with sadness. “He remains in his bedchamber, too weak to rise. The maesters do what they can, but…” She trails off, shaking her head slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

You feel a tightness form in your chest, an ache that isn’t unfamiliar but still unwelcome. Your fingers curl gently over your belly, grounding yourself in the feeling of life growing within you.

“He was never… present,” you say, your voice softer now, thoughtful. Your eyes drift toward the window, where the sun filters in, golden and warm. “Not like you were, not like Grandfather.” You pause, letting the quiet between you fill with the unspoken truth. “But he is still my father.”

Alicent lifts her gaze to you then, her eyes glimmering with something you can’t quite name. There is no denial in her face, no attempt to correct your words. She knows them to be true, as you do.

“Yes,” she says softly, her voice carrying a weight of acceptance. “He is still your father.” Her gaze turns distant, her eyes focused on something far away. “He is a good man, though burdened by things beyond his control. He loves in his own way — not always as he should, but he does.”

You look down, running your thumb across the curve of your belly. The thought of Viserys lying in his bed, frail and silent, tugs at you in a way you did not expect. Memories flash in your mind — moments where he was there but distant, moments when his attention was elsewhere, moments when you wondered if he truly saw you at all. And yet, you still care. Because he is still your father.

“Will he… will he meet them?” you ask, your eyes shifting back to Alicent. Your hand presses more firmly against your belly, a silent hope stirring within you. “When they’re born?”

Alicent’s face softens with a tenderness that breaks past the mask of a queen. Her eyes meet yours with quiet understanding, her gaze lingering on your belly with the look of a mother who has carried this same hope before. She leans forward, placing her hand over yours, the warmth of her touch steady and grounding.

“I hope so,” she says, her voice as soft as silk but as strong as steel. “He would want to. If he is able, I will see to it.”

Her promise is gentle but firm, a vow made with the strength of a mother who has borne too much but still finds a way to bear more. You nod slowly, feeling a mixture of comfort and unease. Time is not a kindness, and you both know it.

The silence returns, but it is no longer so heavy. It is a shared understanding, a quiet acceptance of what is and what may be. Alicent’s hand remains over yours, her presence steady and constant, just as it always has been.

You glance at her, offering a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mother.”

Her eyes soften as she smiles back, her gaze filled with love. “Always, my dear,” she says, her voice a quiet promise. “Always.”

The warm atmosphere of the room is filled with the soft clinking of teacups and the gentle murmur of conversation. You sit comfortably, leaning back just enough to ease the strain on your back, a hand resting protectively over your growing belly. Helaena sits across from you, quietly humming a tune under her breath, her eyes tracking the slow, drifting flight of a butterfly just outside the window. Alicent sits beside you, her eyes focused on the delicate stitches of her embroidery.

You lift your teacup, the warmth of it seeping into your fingers as you continue to speak, telling your mother and Helaena a story from the gardens earlier in the week. You smile, eyes bright with fondness, your voice carrying the light cheerfulness that often fills moments like this.

But suddenly, it happens.

A sharp, tight pain grips your belly, sudden and fierce, like a cord being pulled too tightly around you. Your breath catches in your throat, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. The pain doesn’t release immediately, instead it lingers, pressing down on you with an unyielding weight.

Your words cut off mid-sentence, your voice faltering into silence. For a moment, no one notices. Helaena is still gazing at the butterfly, her fingers tapping lightly against her teacup. Alicent is focused on the delicate pattern she is stitching, her brow furrowed in concentration.

But then, the porcelain slips from your fingers.

The cup falls from your hand, hitting the edge of the table before shattering against the stone floor below. The sharp crack of the porcelain shattering echoes through the room, cutting through the gentle quiet like a sword through silk.

“Darling?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, urgent. Her embroidery is forgotten as her eyes snap to you, wide with concern. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she moves to your side.

You barely hear her. Your breath comes in shallow pants as your hands fly to your belly, fingers pressing against the fabric of your gown as if trying to soothe the sharp ache beneath. Your heart pounds in your chest, faster than it should, and for a moment, fear coils tightly in your mind.

“Something’s wrong,” you breathe, your voice strained and quiet. Your eyes dart to Alicent, wide and uncertain. “Mother, something’s—”

Alicent is already at your side, her hands firm but gentle as she grips your shoulders, grounding you with her presence. “Breathe, sweet girl,” she says firmly, though her eyes are wide with worry. “Look at me. Breathe. Slowly now.”

Helaena rises from her chair, her movements slower but no less filled with purpose. Her eyes aren’t filled with panic like your mother’s — no, hers are distant but aware. She steps forward, tilting her head slightly, her gaze falling on your belly. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and she murmurs, so softly it’s almost to herself, “The storm presses before the dawn… but it will pass.”

Her words do little to calm the growing thrum of worry in your chest. Your breathing is shallow as you press a hand harder against your belly, hoping, praying, that the pain will fade. Your heart races as the ache slowly begins to ease, but it leaves you shaken. Your breaths come quicker than before, and Alicent kneels before you, her hands cupping your face to make you look at her.

“Is it still there?” she asks, her eyes searching yours with the precision of a mother who has lived through this before. “The pain — is it still there?”

You shake your head slowly, swallowing hard before you answer. “No,” you whisper, voice still tight with lingering fear. “It’s… it’s easing now.” Your breath shudders as you exhale, tears threatening to rise in your eyes. “But it was strong, Mother. It was so strong.”

Alicent’s lips press into a firm line, her eyes scanning your face as her hand moves down to your belly. Her fingers press gently against it, her movements careful but thorough. Her gaze sharpens with quiet focus, and for a moment, she is not simply your mother but the queen, the one who must remain calm when others falter.

“Likely a cramp,” she says softly but firmly, glancing up at you. “It can happen as you grow heavier, especially with how far along you are.” She squeezes your hand, her eyes steady as she adds, “But we won’t take risks. I’ll send for the maester.”

Helaena kneels beside you, her eyes still faraway but her hands gentle as she takes yours into her own. Her fingers are cool to the touch, her presence a soothing balm to the fear still lingering in your heart. She tilts her head, her gaze distant but kind.

“Safe,” she says softly, her gaze flickering to your belly before rising to meet your eyes. “You are safe, and so are they.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a mix of relief and exhaustion washing over you. You nod slowly, leaning back into the chair once more, letting the tension leave your body with every slow breath you take.

“Yes,” you whisper, more to yourself than to them. “Safe.”

But as Alicent calls for the maester and Helaena stays close by your side, you can’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing on you. The ache may have passed, but the memory of it still lingers, a shadow at the edge of your mind. You press a hand to your belly again, feeling the warmth of life beneath your palm.

“Stay with me,” you whisper quietly to the child growing within you. “Please… stay with me.”

The pain returns with a vengeance, sharper and more relentless than before. It claws its way through your belly, pulling a scream from your lips that echoes through the room. Your body tenses as if every muscle is fighting against the force bearing down on you. Your breaths come in short, frantic gasps, and panic surges in your chest like a rising tide.

“Mother!” you cry out, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear and pain. Your hands clutch your belly, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your gown. Sweat beads on your brow, rolling down your temples as heat floods your body. “Mother, please!”

Alicent is already at your side. Her hands are steady as she cups your face, her eyes sharp with focus but filled with unwavering love. “I’m here, I’m here,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the fog of pain like a guiding light. Her hand moves to your back, supporting you as she leans in close. “Breathe, sweet girl. Look at me. Breathe.”

Her words anchor you, but it’s so hard to focus on anything but the searing ache that grips you. You try to follow her command, gasping in short, uneven breaths before forcing a deeper one. The air feels thick and heavy in your lungs, but you manage to draw it in, then out. In. Out. Just as she says.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, fast and urgent. The door swings open, and the maester enters with two midwives at his side. Their expressions are grim but purposeful. They’ve seen this before. They know what to do.

“Lay her down,” the maester commands, his voice calm but firm. The midwives move quickly, clearing space on the large bed. Alicent and Helaena help you rise from the chair, their hands steady and sure. Your legs feel like they might give out, but they don’t let you fall.

The moment you lie back on the bed, the pain crashes down again. Another scream tears from your throat as you grip the sheets beneath you, your body arching as the pressure builds. Your heart races, panic mixing with the overwhelming pain, but Alicent is there. Her hands grip yours tightly, her gaze locked onto yours.

“Look at me,” she says, her voice unwavering even as her eyes shine with worry. “You’re strong. You can do this. Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”

Tears prick your eyes as you try to listen to her, nodding weakly through the haze of agony. The maester presses a hand gently to your belly, his eyes narrowing with practiced precision.

“It is time,” he says, his gaze flicking to Alicent before returning to you. “The child is coming now. We must act quickly.”

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse with strain. “No, it’s too soon—”

“It’s happening now, my lady,” the maester says firmly but not unkindly. “There is no stopping it. You must be brave.”

Terror wells up in your chest, but Alicent grips your face gently, her eyes filled with fierce determination. “You are brave,” she tells you, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “You were born to do this. I’m right here. I will not leave you.”

Helaena kneels by your other side, her distant, dreamlike gaze now clearer than before. Her eyes settle on you with surprising clarity. “A new song,” she murmurs, brushing a cool hand over your sweat-dampened brow. “It will be loud, but it will be beautiful.”

Her words bring you a small, flickering spark of calm, but it’s brief. The next contraction pulls a broken sob from your chest as you twist in pain. Your world narrows to nothing but the ache, the weight, and the unyielding pressure that refuses to ease.

“Push when you feel it,” the maester instructs. His voice is steady but insistent. “When the pain crests, you push. Do you understand?”

You nod weakly, your breath coming fast and shallow. Alicent’s fingers intertwine with yours, grounding you in the present. Her grip is strong, firm, and unwavering.

“You can do this,” she whispers, her voice close to your ear. “Push, my love. Push with everything you have."

The next wave of pain crashes over you, fiercer than anything you’ve ever known. You grit your teeth, crying out as you bear down with every ounce of strength left in you. Your whole body trembles from the effort, your breaths ragged and wild, but you push. You push because there is no other choice. You push because life demands it.

The room fills with the sounds of your labor — the grunts, the cries, the gasps for air. Alicent’s voice never wavers, her steady encouragement a thread that guides you through the storm. Helaena hums softly beside you, her quiet, lilting melody oddly soothing in the chaos.

Time becomes meaningless. Minutes, hours — you can’t tell the difference. All you know is the pain, the push, the desperate need to bring life into the world. Sweat drips from your brow, your body shaking with exhaustion. You feel like you have nothing left to give. But then—

“I see the head,” the maester says suddenly, his tone sharp with urgency. “Just one more push, my lady. One more, and they will be here.”

Your heart leaps, tears streaming down your face. You feel Alicent squeeze your hand tighter, her face inches from yours, her eyes fierce with pride.

“One more,” she says, her voice trembling with emotion. “Just one more. You can do this. You will do this.”

You nod, teeth clenched, every muscle in your body coiling like a spring. And with a guttural cry that shakes the very air around you, you give one final, desperate push. It feels like you are being torn apart, but then—

A sound.

A cry.

A sharp, piercing wail fills the room, cutting through the air like the first song of dawn. It’s high and loud, strong and alive. For a moment, all the pain fades into nothing. Your whole world stops, your breath catching in your chest. Tears fall freely down your face as you hear it.

The baby is crying.

“Well done, my lady,” the maester says softly, his hands cradling the tiny, wriggling child. “It’s a boy.”

Your chest shudders with a sob of relief, of joy, of exhaustion. You slump back against the pillows, your whole body weak and trembling. Your heart is so full it feels like it might burst.

The baby’s cry continues, strong and insistent, and moments later, he is placed in your arms. He is so small, so warm, his silver hair damp from the effort of entering the world. His eyes are squeezed shut as he wails, his tiny fists curling and uncurling in the air.

You gaze down at him, tears spilling from your eyes as you press a kiss to his forehead. “Hello, my love,” you whisper, your voice cracking with emotion. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

Alicent presses a kiss to the top of your head, her eyes shining with tears. “You did it,” she says, pride and love pouring from every word. “You did it, my darling girl.”

Helaena smiles softly, her gaze faraway once more. “His song is bright,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but certain. “A light in the storm.”

The maester remains close, his hands still working, his voice calling for the midwives to be ready for the afterbirth. But none of it matters. Not right now.

All you can see is your son. His tiny face scrunched in a cry, his little fingers curling toward you like he already knows you. Your heart swells with love so fierce it nearly undoes you. You press another kiss to his head, breathing him in, memorizing every inch of him.

“You’re safe,” you whisper, your voice thick with love. “You’re safe, little one. I’m here. I’m here.”

And for a moment, everything is still. The pain is gone. The world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him.

Your son.

The moment of peace is shattered as the pain returns, sharper and more intense than before. It steals the breath from your lungs, and your body tenses involuntarily. Your arms tighten around your newborn son, but the pain is too much — too sudden, too strong. You let out a choked gasp, your eyes wide with panic.

“Mother,” you rasp, your voice laced with both fear and disbelief. “Mother, it’s happening again—”

Alicent’s eyes snap to you, her face shifting from joy to alarm in an instant. She moves swiftly, her hands reaching for you. “Give him to me,” she says urgently but gently, her eyes locked on yours. “Give him to me, sweet girl. You need your strength.”

With shaking hands, you lift your son toward her, tears spilling down your cheeks. You press a kiss to his soft head before letting him go. The moment her arms take him, you feel the weight shift, but the pain does not ease.

“Maester!” Alicent calls sharply, her voice commanding and fierce. She cradles the baby close to her chest, swaying ever so slightly to soothe his cries. Her eyes are wild with concern as she looks from you to the maester.

The maester is already at your side, his face grim as he presses a hand against your belly. His eyes narrow in concentration, his mouth set in a firm line. His hands move with experienced precision, and for a heartbeat, the room falls silent save for the soft, fretful cries of your newborn son.

“You are carrying twins, my lady,” the maester says, his voice low but clear. His gaze meets yours, calm but firm. “There is another child yet to be born.”

The world spins. Your heart lurches in your chest as you stare at him, wide-eyed with shock. “What?” you breathe, the word barely more than a whisper. “No… no, I would have known.”

“It is rare, but it happens,” the maester says steadily. “But the child is coming now, and there is no time to waste.”

Tears blur your vision as a sob rises in your throat. Another child. Another child is coming. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and you shake your head as if denying it will make it untrue. “No, no, no,” you cry, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you. “Aegon. I need Aegon. Please — I need him here!”

Your gaze snaps to your mother, desperate and pleading. “Bring him back, Mother. Please.” Your voice cracks with the weight of it, raw with pain and fear. “I need him here. Please bring him back.”

Alicent’s face crumples with anguish. She hands the baby to one of the midwives with quick, careful hands, then rushes to your side. She kneels by you, cupping your face with both hands, her eyes swimming with emotion.

“I know, my sweet girl. I know,” she says, her voice trembling with barely contained sorrow. Her fingers stroke your damp hair away from your face, her forehead nearly pressed to yours. “But he’s still in the skies, riding Sunfyre. I sent a messenger, but he may not hear the call in time.”

Your heart twists in your chest, grief and fear mingling with the agony that wracks your body. You can barely think through the haze of pain. You feel as though you are being pulled apart from the inside, your body no longer your own.

“I need him,” you sob, your voice broken, raw, and filled with longing. “I need him here, Mother.”

Alicent presses her forehead to yours, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her grip on you tightens, her hands steady despite the trembling of her breath.

“You have me,” she whispers fiercely, her voice filled with the same strength she used when you were a child frightened by the storm. “You have me, and I will not leave you. You hear me? You are not alone. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her voice cuts through the fog of fear, grounding you in the present. The next wave of pain strikes, and you cry out, your hands gripping Alicent’s arms with all the strength you can muster. She doesn’t flinch, holding you as steady as stone. Her presence is unyielding, a wall against the storm.

“Push, sweet girl,” she urges you, her voice low but firm. “You’ve done this once already. You can do it again. Push, and you will hold them both in your arms.”

Her words are a lifeline. You nod weakly, tears still streaming down your face. Your heart still aches for Aegon — for the warmth of his voice, his hand on yours, his whispered promises. But he is not here. Not now. And so you grip your mother’s arms like a lifeline and face the storm alone.

“Push,” the maester commands from below, his hands ready once more. “With the next pain, my lady, push as you did before.

You nod again, your breaths sharp and shallow. Alicent’s voice comes close to your ear, soft but unyielding.

“You are my daughter,” she says, her voice filled with fire and love. “You are stronger than you know. You will bring them into this world, and I will be here every step of the way.”

With a cry of pain and raw determination, you push.

Your body feels like it has been wrung dry of every last ounce of strength. Your breaths come in shallow, uneven gasps, each one a battle to draw in air. Every muscle aches, and your limbs feel heavier than stone. Your vision blurs with exhaustion and tears, but through it all, you hear it — the sound that makes it all worth it.

A cry. Sharp, loud, and strong.

The moment you hear it, a sob bursts from your chest, your body shaking as relief washes over you like a crashing wave. Tears stream down your face, mingling with the sweat on your brow. It’s over. It’s finally over.

“She’s here,” the maester says, his voice filled with quiet triumph. “A girl, my lady. A strong, healthy girl.”

Alicent releases a shaky breath beside you, her face crumpling with overwhelming relief. Her hands, still holding yours, squeeze tightly, her fingers trembling against your skin. She lets out a soft, broken laugh, her eyes filled with pride and love.

“You did it,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion. “You did it, my brave girl.”

Your head lolls to the side, your body so heavy you can hardly move. You blink slowly, trying to clear your vision, trying to see her — your daughter. The maester wraps the small, squirming bundle in soft cloth before placing her in Alicent’s waiting arms.

Alicent gazes down at the child with wonder, her face soft and radiant in the glow of the moment. She sways gently, rocking the baby as she steps closer to you. Her eyes, still brimming with tears, turn to you with a look of such deep pride that it nearly undoes you.

“Look at her,” she says softly, her voice trembling with awe. She kneels beside the bed and holds the baby out to you. “Look at your daughter, my love.

With the last remnants of your strength, you lift your arms, hands shaking with exhaustion. Alicent carefully places the baby in your arms, adjusting the blankets to keep her warm. The moment you feel her weight against your chest, your heart swells so fiercely it feels like it might break.

She’s so small. Her tiny face is flushed pink, her eyes shut tight as she lets out a wailing cry. Her silver hair, damp and soft, clings to her head, a perfect mirror of your own Targaryen heritage. Her little fists wave in the air, so full of life, so full of fight.

Tears blur your vision once more as you stare down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it feels like it could break you. Your fingers brush over her cheek, and her skin is so soft, so warm. She hiccups mid-cry, her tiny lips quivering before settling into quiet whimpers. Her whole body fits against you like she was always meant to be there.

“Hello, sweet girl,” you whisper, your voice raw but filled with so much love it aches. You press your lips to her soft head, inhaling the delicate, sweet scent of new life. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

Your tears drip onto her blanket, and you don’t bother to wipe them away. They’re tears of relief. Of joy. Of love. Your heart, already so full from your son’s birth, somehow makes room for her as well. It feels as though it might burst from how much you love them both.

Alicent’s hand rests on your head, her fingers threading gently through your damp hair. She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, her lips warm and soft. Her breath is warm against your skin as she whispers, “You’ve done something extraordinary, my sweet girl. You are a mother twice over now.”

Her words wash over you like sunlight after a storm. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of them fill you from head to toe. Her fingers trail down to brush against your cheek, gentle as a breeze.

“You are so strong,” Alicent says, her voice thick with emotion. “Stronger than I ever was.”

You let out a soft, broken laugh, too exhausted to do more. Your head rests against the pillow, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. The warmth of your daughter against your chest, the gentle weight of her, is the only thing keeping you anchored to the present.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper, your voice no more than a breath. “They’re both perfect.”

“Yes, they are,” Alicent replies, her voice full of love and pride. She smooths a hand over your hair again, her fingers cool against your burning skin. “Rest now, sweet girl. You’ve done enough. Rest.”

You nod weakly, still gazing down at your daughter. Her tiny eyes peek open for the briefest moment, and you see them — a soft shade of violet, clear and bright like amethysts. You press another kiss to her forehead, letting your lips linger there.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” you whisper, your voice heavy with love. “I will love you for all my days.”

The weight of exhaustion pulls at you, your body too spent to fight it. Your eyes grow heavy, and slowly, slowly, they close. You can still hear the gentle coos of your daughter and the soft hum of your mother’s voice as she soothes you both.

The world fades into warmth, love, and the knowledge that you have brought two lives into it. And as you slip into the quiet, you know that, somehow, everything will be alright.

The heavy thud of hurried footsteps echoes through the chamber. The door swings open with a force that makes it shudder against the wall. Aegon stands there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his silver hair disheveled from flight, still damp with sweat from the heat of Sunfyre’s back. His violet eyes are wild, darting around the room in search of you.

“Aegon,” Alicent says softly, turning her head toward him. She stands by your bedside, her arms cradling your newborn son against her chest. Her expression is one of quiet relief as she sees him. “You’re here.”

His gaze locks onto you, and his eyes soften with something raw and unspoken. Without a word, he strides forward, his steps quick but careful. His eyes scan every inch of you, taking in the sight of you lying on the bed, your face pale, your hair damp with sweat, your chest rising and falling slowly as you sleep. The exhaustion is clear on your face, but there is peace too.

He stops at the side of the bed, his breath still uneven from the rush to get here. His hand reaches out, fingers trembling slightly as he brushes your cheek. The warmth of his touch pulls you from the edge of sleep. Slowly, your eyes flutter open. For a moment, it takes you a second to realize who it is, but when you do, a soft smile pulls at your lips.

“Aegon,” you murmur, your voice weak but filled with so much love it makes his throat tighten.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. His thumb strokes your cheek, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’m here now.”

Tears shimmer in his eyes, but he blinks them away, his jaw tightening as he tries to steady himself. His gaze shifts for a moment to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. Slowly, he looks back at you, confusion and wonder mingling on his face.

“Twins?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud will break the fragile magic of the moment.

You nod slowly, still gazing at him, your eyes filled with exhaustion but also pride. “A boy and a girl,” you whisper, tilting your head just enough to glance toward the small crib beside the bed where your daughter lies peacefully, swaddled in soft blankets.

Aegon follows your gaze. His eyes land on the tiny, sleeping form of his daughter. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He stares as if the world has stopped, as if nothing else exists but that little girl lying there. His face shifts — shock, awe, disbelief, and then something far deeper.

He steps away from you, moving toward the crib with slow, cautious steps. His eyes are wide, unblinking, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he looks away. When he reaches the crib, he leans down, his breath shallow as he stares at her face. Her tiny mouth opens in a soft yawn, her little hands curling against the blankets.

“She’s so small,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. His fingers hover over her head, hesitant to touch, as if he fears he might hurt her. But slowly, carefully, he brushes a single finger against her cheek. She’s warm, so warm, and soft like nothing he’s ever felt before.

His breath shudders, and he presses his lips into a thin line to keep his emotions in check. But his shoulders shake once, and he releases a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He presses a hand over his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed as he stares at her, overcome with something too big to name.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice filled with reverence. “She’s… she’s perfect.”

He stays there for a moment longer, just gazing at her as though he could memorize every inch of her face in that instant. Then, he pulls himself away, turning back to you. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks damp, but he doesn’t care. His gaze shifts to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. His son. His heir.

Alicent’s face softens as she looks at him. Her eyes are filled with understanding and love as she steps forward, tilting the child in her arms so Aegon can see him fully. His face is red with the aftershock of crying, his small fists waving in the air as if trying to fight off the world itself. His silver hair is messy atop his head, so much like Aegon’s own when he was born.

“Your son,” Alicent says gently, her voice thick with pride. She steps closer, lifting him toward Aegon. “Hold him, Aegon.”

He freezes for a moment, his eyes darting from his mother’s face to his son’s, panic flickering behind his gaze. “I— I don’t know if I can,” he says, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. His hands flex nervously at his sides. “He’s so small. I—”

“You can,” Alicent cuts in softly but firmly, her eyes meeting his with all the quiet strength of a mother who has done this before. “You must.”

Aegon’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. Slowly, he reaches out his arms. Alicent carefully places the baby into his hands, guiding him until the small bundle is secure in his arms. The moment Aegon feels that little weight against his chest, everything else falls away. The panic, the doubt, the fear — it all vanishes.

His son shifts, letting out a small, sleepy sigh as he nuzzles into Aegon’s chest. Aegon lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening just a little as he cradles him closer. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, so full it feels like it might burst.

“Hey, little one,” Aegon whispers, his voice barely more than a breath. His lips curl into a trembling smile, his eyes locked on the baby’s face. “It’s me. I’m your father.”

The words feel strange and sacred on his tongue. Father. He’s a father. He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead pressing against the baby’s head, breathing him in. “I’m here now,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m here, and I’ll never leave.”

He turns his head slowly, looking at you. His gaze is soft, his face raw with every emotion he’s ever tried to hide. There’s no mask now. No armor. Just him — just Aegon, looking at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely holding steady. He looks at you like you’ve given him the whole world. “Thank you for them. For… for everything.”

Tears well up in your eyes again, but you laugh softly, too tired to speak much. “Don’t thank me,” you say, your voice weak but full of love. “They’re yours too, Aegon.”

He stares at you for a moment longer, then sits on the edge of the bed, his son still cradled in his arms. He shifts closer, close enough to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long, quiet moment.

“Rest,” he whispers against your skin, his voice so gentle it almost breaks you. “I’ll stay with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, eyes closing once more, the warmth of his presence grounding you. You hear him humming softly, a quiet, soothing melody that lulls you into rest.

The last thing you feel is the warmth of his body pressed close to yours, the soft weight of your daughter at your side, and the steady rhythm of Aegon’s quiet song filling the air.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel safe. Truly safe.

The soft creak of the door opening pulls you from the haze of sleep. Your eyes flutter open slowly, your body still heavy with exhaustion but your mind already attuned to the sounds of the room. The quiet murmur of voices reaches your ears, familiar voices filled with warmth and curiosity.

You blink a few times, adjusting to the dim glow of the chamber. The sight that greets you makes your heart swell. Aegon is seated beside you on the bed, his back resting against the headboard, his gaze fixed intently on the two small bundles resting in his arms. His face is softer than you’ve ever seen it — calm, content, and utterly unguarded. The flickering firelight dances across his silver hair, and his violet eyes are filled with a tenderness that he so rarely shows.

He notices you stirring and glances down at you, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Look who’s finally awake,” he says softly, his voice full of affection.

Before you can reply, more movement draws your attention to the door. Helaena and Aemond step into the room, followed closely by your mother, Alicent. Helaena’s face lights up with a smile the moment she sees you, her eyes wide with excitement. She clasps her hands together, eyes flicking to the bundles in Aegon’s arms.

“You’re awake!” Helaena says brightly as she approaches. Her gaze is filled with wonder as she peeks over Aegon’s shoulder to get a better look at the twins. “Oh, they’re so tiny,” she whispers, her eyes filled with awe. She crouches slightly, tilting her head as if to get a better view. “They’re perfect.”

Aemond walks in with his usual measured grace, his eye cool but attentive as he surveys the scene. His gaze lands on you for a moment, his expression unreadable, but his lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile. His eye shifts to the children in Aegon’s arms, and he tilts his head, his gaze thoughtful.

“They’re strong,” he says simply, his voice low but firm. “They’ll grow to be fierce.”

Your mother steps forward, her eyes soft with maternal pride and love. She kneels at your bedside, her hand immediately reaching out to smooth the damp hair from your face. Her eyes, so filled with love, meet yours.

“How are you feeling, my love?” Alicent asks quietly, her voice full of concern. “You were so strong through it all.”

“I’m tired,” you admit, giving her a small smile, “but happy.” Your gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still staring at your children like they are the only things that matter in this world.

Alicent glances over her shoulder at them, her face filled with the same quiet joy. Her eyes flick back to you, a knowing look in her gaze. “Have you chosen names for them yet?” she asks, tilting her head in curiosity.

Helaena perks up at the question, leaning forward with an eager smile. “Yes, yes! Have you? I’ve been wondering what names you would give them.”

Aegon glances at you, and you can see the unspoken question in his eyes. This was a decision the two of you had discussed before but never finalized. But now, in this moment, it feels clear. The names feel right, as if they had been waiting all along for this moment.

You glance at him, nodding slowly, and he mirrors your smile.

“Our son will be named Jaehaerys,” you say softly, your eyes flicking to the boy cradled in Aegon’s right arm. His little face is scrunched in sleep, his silver hair sticking up in messy tufts. “For strength and wisdom.

Aegon nods, his lips twitching with approval. His gaze shifts to his daughter, his eyes warm with a quiet reverence. “And our daughter will be Jaehaera,” he says, his voice thick with affection. He glances at you, his gaze unwavering. “For her grace and fire.”

Helaena gasps softly, her eyes bright with joy. “Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” she repeats, her smile wide. “They sound like they belong in a song. Such strong names for such precious children.” She leans closer to the crib where Jaehaera sleeps peacefully. “She will be a dreamer, I think,” Helana says softly, her eyes distant but full of certainty. “Yes, a dreamer.”

Aemond raises a brow at that but says nothing. His gaze remains on the twins, his eyes sharp as if trying to read something in their faces.

Alicent breathes out a soft sigh, her smile growing wider. “They are beautiful names,” she says, brushing her hand over your hair once more. “Names worthy of them.” She looks up at Aegon, pride shining in her gaze. “You have a fine family, my son.”

Aegon shifts his gaze to his mother, his lips pressing into a firm line as he nods once. “Yes,” he says quietly, his eyes returning to the two small faces in his arms. His voice grows even softer. “I do.”

His eyes flick back to you, and he leans forward, his brow resting gently against yours. For a moment, it is just the two of you, breathing the same air, sharing the same quiet, overwhelming love for the family you’ve built together.

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” he whispers, his voice filled with quiet reverence. “Our little dragons.”

Tag list : @danytar @julessworldd @yazzzmints @hangmanscoming @giirlinblack

[aesthetically-dying101]

My home is with you

A/N: idk i just love nanami so much i had to write some fluff for him, he comes home injured to his wife.

warnings: blood mention/injury mention, pre-established relationship (they're married)

don't repost/copy my work on other websites thx

Masterlist.

The quiet hum of the kettle simmering on the stove filled the dimly lit kitchen. Shadows stretched long across the walls, the soft glow of a lamp casting a golden haze over the room.

You sat at the small dining table, papers sprawled in disarray—essays from your students at Jujutsu High, meticulously penned with their observations on cursed energy theory.

You’d tried to focus, truly you had, but your thoughts wandered incessantly to your husband.

Where is he? He’s never this late. Did something happen?

Nanami Kento. Your husband. Your world.

The clock ticked louder with each passing moment, mocking your growing unease. You’d checked your phone twice already—no missed calls, no messages.

You knew the life he led.

You both did. As a professor at Jujutsu High, you understood the risks better than anyone- yet understanding didn’t make the worry any easier to bear.

Then, at last, the faint sound of the front door creaking open.

Relief and anxiety collided as you bolted from your chair.

“Kento?”

There he stood, framed in the doorway like a ghost returning from battle. His suit was torn, dirt and blood streaked across the fabric. He held one hand pressed tightly to his side, and his glasses sat askew on his face. But his eyes—his eyes softened the moment they met yours.

“I’m home,” he said, voice steady but laden with exhaustion.

Oh, Kento. “You’re hurt,” you whispered, hurrying to his side.

“It’s nothing serious,” he replied, ever the stoic. But the way he swayed on his feet betrayed him.

“Nothing serious? You’re bleeding,” you shot back, wrapping an arm around his non-injured forearm to guide him toward the couch. “Don’t argue with me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, and you caught the faintest flicker of a smile.

Once he was seated, you darted to grab the first-aid kit, your thoughts racing. How bad is it? Why didn’t he call me? What if… No, stop. He’s here. He’s okay.

You have to focus.

Returning, you found him leaning back with his eyes closed, his hand still pressed to his side.

“Let me see,” you said gently, kneeling before him.

He opened his eyes, watching you for a moment before relenting, his hand falling away to reveal a jagged tear in his shirt and the angry wound beneath.

Your breath caught.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice horrendously calm.

“A grade-one cursed spirit,” he explained. “Its reach was longer than I anticipated. A mistake I won’t repeat.”

Your hands moved on autopilot, cutting away the ruined fabric.

“You shouldn’t be making mistakes at all,” you muttered, the edge in your voice betraying your worry. “You push yourself too hard, Ken.”

He sighed softly. “It’s my responsibility. But… I’m sorry for making you worry.”

You froze for a moment, meeting his gaze. His sincerity was almost overwhelming.

“Just promise me you’ll be more careful,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I promise,” he said without hesitation, and you believed him.

You cleaned the wound with practised care, each hiss of pain he let slip cutting into you.

“I hate seeing you like this,” you admitted.

“I know,” he said softly. “But it’s worth it, if it means protecting others. Protecting you.”

Your heart ached at his words. You finished cleaning up the wound, then helped him out of his torn suit jacket and into a soft sweater. He grumbled half-heartedly, but you ignored him, too focused on making sure he was comfortable.

Once he was settled- you didn't bandage him up, since you knew you'd force him to shower, you brought him a steaming cup of tea, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. He looked at you with something like awe, as though he couldn’t quite comprehend how much you cared for him.

“You’re spoiling me,” he said, though his tone was more grateful than teasing.

“You deserve it,” you replied, sitting down beside him. “You work so hard, Kento. Let me take care of you for once.”

The tea had barely cooled when Nanami's hand found yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The simple gesture, so tender, sent a wave of warmth rushing through your chest. He was always like this after a rough day—quiet, a little raw, but so achingly sincere in his affection that it left you breathless.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice softer than you were used to, like the weight of the day had stripped away his usual reserve.

“For what?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips as you met his gaze.

“For this. For you.” His amber eyes, tired but impossibly warm, held yours. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Oh, Kento. You make it sound like I’m some miracle. You’re the one who comes home like this and still has the nerve to apologize for worrying me.”

“I mean it,” he said firmly, his hand tightening just slightly over yours. “You’re my home. My solace.”

The sincerity in his words stole your breath, and for a moment, you couldn’t do anything but look at him. How was it possible to love someone this much?

But then you noticed the way he winced as he shifted, his exhaustion pressing heavily against him.

“Alright, enough of that,” you said, standing abruptly. “Come on. You need a shower before you fall asleep on my couch.”

His brow lifted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Your couch?”

“That’s right,” you replied with mock sternness, grabbing his hand to help him up. “You’re just a guest in this house until you stop making a habit of getting stabbed.”

A small chuckle escaped him as he rose, but the motion made him grimace, his hand briefly going to his side. “You’re ruthless.”

“And you love it,” you teased, guiding him toward the bathroom.

He didn’t deny it. How could he, when the truth was written plainly across his face every time he looked at you?

Once inside, you flicked on the light, illuminating the modest space. Steam quickly filled the air as you turned on the shower, testing the water with your hand until it was just right.

“Alright, off with the rest of it,” you said, motioning to his clothes.

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that an order, Professor?”

“Damn right it is,” you shot back, unable to resist the grin spreading across your face. “Hurry up, or I’ll start charging you for medical care.”

His lips twitched in amusement as he carefully pulled off the remains of his shirt. You tried to keep your eyes on his face—key word: tried—but it was impossible not to notice the defined lines of his chest and shoulders, even marred as they were by bruises and scars.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, his tone dry but teasing.

You smirked, stepping closer. “Oh, absolutely. It’s not every day my handsome husband lets me ogle him half-naked.”

“You’re shameless.”

“And you married me anyway.” Your grin widened as you helped him step out of his slacks, your hands lingering on his hips for just a moment longer than necessary. “What can I say? You bring out the worst in me.”

He gave a soft laugh, the sound low and warm. “The worst, huh? I think you’ve got it backward.”

As he stepped into the shower, you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, your eyes still on him. He noticed, of course, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

“You’re going to stand there the whole time?”

“Maybe,” you replied, shrugging nonchalantly. “Unless you’d rather I join you.”

Partly to ogle, but mostly to make sure he didn't faint and hit his head.

His gaze flicked to you, a spark of something dangerous and teasing in his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” you repeated, winking.

“I do,” he admitted, his voice softer now, the teasing fading into something more earnest.

For a moment, you just watched him, the water running over his broad shoulders, his exhaustion seeming to melt away under the soothing warmth. He was beautiful, even like this—especially like this. Strong, vulnerable, wholly yours.

When he finished, you handed him a towel, your fingers brushing his as he took it. “Let me help you,” you said, your voice gentle as you moved closer.

“I’m fine—” he started, but you silenced him with a look.

“Hush. Let me take care of you.”

You dried him off carefully, your touch light but lingering, and you couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to his Adam's apple when you were done. He shivered under your lips, his breath hitching.

After that, Nanami sat on the edge of the counter, a towel draped loosely around his waist, while you stood beside him with the first-aid kit. The gash on his side looked angry and raw, the edges of the wound still faintly oozing despite the careful cleaning.

“Hold still,” you murmured, your voice soft but firm as you opened a fresh packet of antiseptic wipes.

Nanami winced slightly as the cool disinfectant made contact with his skin. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch away, his gaze fixed on you. “You’ve got a steady hand,” he said, his voice calm despite the discomfort.

“Years of practice patching you up,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “If you didn’t come home in pieces so often, I’d probably be out of practice by now.”

“Touché,” he murmured, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Once the wound was thoroughly cleaned, you applied a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, your fingers deft but gentle.

“Alright,” you said, reaching for the roll of bandages. “Hold your arm up just a little.”

He complied, the movement causing a slight hitch in his breath. You frowned, but he gave you a small shake of his head, silently reassuring you he was fine. Wrapping the bandage around his torso was methodical but intimate; your hands lingered just slightly as you secured it in place, your fingers brushing against his warm skin.

“Not too tight?” you asked, looking up at him.

“It’s fine,” he replied, his tone soft. “You always do it perfectly.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately but didn’t comment, moving on to his left arm, which bore a nasty scrape from elbow to wrist. “This one’s not as bad,” you said, wiping it clean with care. Still, the tension in his shoulders didn’t escape your notice.

As you worked, he watched you in silence, his eyes tracing the concentration etched into your face. When you finished wrapping his arm, you sat back on your heels, inspecting your work.

“There,” you said, meeting his gaze. “All patched up.”

Nanami reached out, his hand brushing against your cheek. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

You leaned into his touch, your fingers covering his hand. “Of course I did. You’re my husband, Kento. It’s my job to take care of you.”

A small smile broke through his usual stoicism. “And you do it better than anyone else ever could.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand before standing and offering him your own. “Come on, let’s get you dressed and comfortable before you decide to pass out on me.”

“Still worried about me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Always,” you admitted, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “But I love you more than I’ll ever be scared for you.”

His hands found your face then, cradling it with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t tentative or fleeting—it was full of the kind of depth and longing that left no room for words. Nanami kissed you like a man who had faced death and walked away with the singular thought of you driving him forward. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if to memorize the texture of your skin.

You melted into him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his damp hair, pulling him closer.

He didn’t resist, he never did.

Instead, he deepened the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a desperate kind of gentleness that made your chest ache. The world outside disappeared, the worry, the fear—it all faded, leaving only the warmth of him.

When you finally broke for air, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing heavily. His hands slid down to your waist, steadying you as if you might slip away.

“Kento,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly.

His eyes opened slowly, his gaze soft and unguarded in a way only you ever saw. “What is it?”

“I hate that you keep getting hurt,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I hate that you come home like this, bleeding and exhausted, and I can’t do anything to stop it.”

“You do more than you know,” he replied, his voice steady but full of emotion. “You’re the reason I come home. You’re what keeps me going.”

Before you could respond, he kissed you again, slower this time, his lips moving with a deliberate tenderness that unraveled something deep inside you. His hand slid up your back, tracing soothing circles that made your breath hitch. He kissed you as though he had all the time in the world, as though he wanted to make sure you felt every ounce of his devotion.

“Kento,” you murmured again, his name a soft plea on your lips.

“Hmm?” he replied, his lips trailing down to your jaw, then lower, pressing soft kisses along the curve of your neck. Each touch was electric, but it wasn’t rushed—it was grounding, comforting, a reaffirmation of the bond between you.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, and smiled. “You’re lucky you’re charming, you know. It’s hard to stay mad at you.”

His lips quirked upward, the faintest hint of a smile gracing his tired face. “Charming? That’s a first.”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you teased, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “You’ve been my weakness since the moment I met you.”

“Then I’m in good company,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss you again.

This time, it was different—deeper, more insistent. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you couldn’t help the soft sound that escaped you. He swallowed it greedily, his lips never leaving yours, his touch both firm and reverent.

You felt the tension in his shoulders slowly ease as the kiss stretched on, his weariness giving way to something softer, something purely you and him. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a refuge, a reminder that no matter how brutal the world outside became, this was still yours.

He was still yours.

When you finally broke apart, his thumb brushed over your swollen lips, his expression tender. “You’re everything,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

“So are you,” you replied, your hand sliding up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “And I’ll remind you of that every day if I have to.”

For a moment, you both simply held each other, the warmth of his body grounding you. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, you grinned mischievously.

“You know,” you began, your fingers teasing at the hem of his sweater, “if I weren’t your wife, I’d say this whole half-naked, battle-worn thing you’ve got going on is really working for you.”

He gave a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’d say that even if you weren’t my wife?”

“Oh, definitely,” you said, your grin widening. “I’d probably make some terribly inappropriate comment about wanting to take care of you and then throw myself at you.”

“Sounds familiar,” he teased, his tone dry but warm.

You laughed, your head falling to his chest as your shoulders shook with mirth. “Touché.”

The laughter softened into something quieter, more intimate, as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, “you’re the reason I fight as hard as I do. It’s not just about protecting people—it’s about making sure I get to come home to you.”

Your heart clenched at his words, and you leaned up to kiss him again, slow and lingering.

“And I’ll always be here waiting,” you whispered against his lips.

For a while, you simply stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, exchanging soft kisses and quiet words. It was only when you noticed how his eyelids drooped, exhaustion finally catching up to him, that you pulled back.

“Alright, Mr. Nanami,” you said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Time to get you to bed.”

He grumbled but didn’t protest as you helped him up and guided him to your room. Once under the covers, he pulled you close, his arm draping over your waist as if to keep you anchored to him.

“Goodnight, Kento,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you replied, your heart full and warm as you drifted off, safe in the arms of the man who was your world.

A/N: anyways yeah, hes so babygirl, major slay, i want to like.. eat him or smth (in a nice way)

:)

[pankowperfection]

His to Keep

Warnings: slightly dark JJ, branding, oral (f receiving), possessive JJ, 18+

A/N: haven't written anything in a while so please be nice. Unedited

You'd hurried to keep up with him as he ran away from the council meeting, the intent to cause some trouble clear in his eyes. You knew you shouldn't leave him alone which is why you found yourself standing idly by, watching in equal parts awe and horror as he took his rage out.

You'd never seen him like this, so reckless and angry. You hated to admit it but a very small part of you was extremely turned on at the sight of him losing control.

After what felt like hours you had finally convinced him to head to your secret hide out, the perfect spot to lay low until the heat died down.

He was pacing back and forth, clearly still extremely upset about what had gone down.

"I am just so sick of this shit y/n. I never get to keep anything, it all always manages to slip right through my fingers."

He still had that wild look in his eyes. Sweat coating his tan skin, hair perfectly messy. He'd honestly never looked sexier.

"That's not true J and you know it," you attempt to reason with him. "Just look. I'm still here and I'm not going anywhere."

He gives you a dark chuckle, shadows dancing in his blue eyes in a way that makes him look nothing like the care-free surfer boy you were used to dealing with.

"Right. I'm sure it's just a matter of time before you leave too. Everyone always does."

He turns his back to you, leaning into the window frame and watching for any signs of trouble below. The way his shirt is clinging to his muscular back has your thoughts racing, desperate to find a way to calm him down.

An idea starts to form in the back of your mind, the image of him with the flame from the lighter dancing in his eyes flickering through your head, reminding you of the heat that had flushed through your system while you watched him take his own twisted sense of justice.

"I'm not going anywhere JJ. Let me prove it to you."

You quickly walk over to him, fishing around in his pocket before finding the lighter. You can see the questions dancing through his mind, wondering what you could possibly be up to. You hold it up between the two of you, knowing what you need to do to prove your loyalty.

"Mark me. Brand me with your ring so that everyone knows that I belong to you. That you own me. Permanently."

His pupils dilate, the black almost overtaking the blue as he scans your face for any kind of uncertainty. When he doesn't find any you watch the hunger take over. His lips are on you in an instant, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before demanding entry as he walks you back to the couch.

He quickly comes down on top of you, one hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just how he wants. His mouth leaves a blazing path down the column of your throat, nipping and sucking deep bruises into your skin. You know your panties are ruined, a few kisses from JJ and you could already feel the band tightening in your core.

"Fuck J, feels so good. I need you."

You feel him smirk against your skin, making quick work of your flimsy crop top to continue his handiwork. Each breast gets equal attention, teasing licks and kisses over your nipples before he sucks harshly, bruises forming instantly from the intense pressure. The build up has you babbling nonsense, begging him to please do something.

"Such a good girl f'me y/n," he whispers into your ear, his ringed fingers slowly climbing up the sensitive skin over the inside of your thigh. The cool metal makes you shiver, goosebumps spreading as he starts to slide down your body. Your knees part for him on instinct, hips arching up in search of the friction you desperately need.

He peels your shorts and panties off in one smooth motion, settling onto his knees between your parted legs. His broad shoulders pin you in place, not a single chance of getting away which only makes you wetter. You're unable to look away as his mouth trails up higher and higher, his warm breath tickling your aching pussy.

Without breaking eye contact he slides his signature ring off his finger, holding it with the end of his shirt before holding it in the flame from the lighter. The sight itself is enough to have you clenching around nothing, the warm colors from the flames bathing his tan skin in an orange glow.

"Eyes on me sweetheart," he commands, leaning down to lick an agonizingly slow stripe from your hole to your clit. Your body trembles at the simple touch, bolts of pleasure shooting straight to your pussy.

He wastes no time getting to work, his skilled tongue knowing just how to drive you crazy. The flattened surface of his tongue flicking over your clit has your eyes threatening to roll, legs starting to shake with how close to your release you are already.

At the exact right moment he presses the hot metal into the skin of your inner thigh. His free hand joins the mix, two fingers roughly thrusting into you. The pleasure mixed with the pain sends you right over the edge, falling apart with a scream as you watch him brand you.

The way his eyes are glued to his mark on your skin is one of the hottest things you've ever seen. His breathing is almost as ragged as yours, the tent in his shorts a tell tale sign of just how much he enjoyed marking you as his. By the feral look in his eyes you knew the night was far from over, hoping you had enough energy to show him just how devoted you are to being his.

[moosesarecute]

December 9th

December masterlist

Masterlist

Azriel’s letters to Y/N:

The shadows miss you too. They’ve been trying to braid my hair lately. It’s like they miss helping you with yours. I don’t think they understand that you’re gone forever. It’s like they’re in denial. It’s not that different from what I’m doing, but still. They shouldn’t have these complex feelings. I wish I would tell them that you’ll be back soon.  

“What does it feel like?” Jonathan asked him. “Your chest? The bond? What does it feel like?”

“Why are you asking me this?” he wondered. He saw no reason to why that was relevant to his healing.

“It’s about acknowledging one’s feelings. Both the emotions and the physical feelings.”

Azriel hated that it made sense. He hadn’t really thought about the feeling in his chest. It was constantly there, the emptiness, but he hadn’t analysed it.

So, he pulled at the weak thread left in his chest. It was still there, but nothing answered on the other side. It felt empty and almost painful just to move the bond.

“I guess it’s just empty,” he answered, but Jonathan immediately asked him to elaborate. “It’s like it’s almost there, but at the same time, extremely far away. It’s like starting a good day and then it only gets worse and worse until you regret the fact that you woke up. You get your hoped up, only for them to get turned into millions of painful stab wounds.”

Shivers went through his entire body. It was awful. That was the word that explained it most. Knowing how amazing it had felt for the one week he had you, and now it was completely silent and painful.

“But you still have a bond to pull on?” Jonathan asked him.

Azriel only nodded quickly and started to move to a different topic.

Nesta made dinner for Azriel and Cassian that evening. They pretended like it was just a normal dinner, but Azriel new otherwise.

They were worried. They wanted to make sure that he ate. He had refused to join them for family dinner the last couple of weeks. He couldn’t help but imagine you sitting at the table with them. With his shadows swirling carefully around you. Some of them in your hair and other around your wrist. They loved you just at much as he did.

“Mate?” they had started asking him again.

When you first disappeared, they would ask him multiple times a day where you were. They didn’t understand that you wouldn’t come back.

In the days after he imagined feeling you again, they had started to asking again. Every single quiet moment, they would ask him.

He had stopped answering them.

“You don’t like it?”

Azriel realized he hadn’t eaten any of his food. He had just picked on it.

“Sorry,” he said and hurried to take a bite. “It tastes good.”

“Is it working? The therapy?” Cassian asked him.

“I guess so.”

The couple shared a look before they continued.

“Has your chest been hurting again?”

He wished it had. He hadn’t been able to think about anything that wasn’t the pull in his chest.

“No, it’s been fine.”

“Would you have told us if it did?”

The question made him think. It was so easy for him to just hide away from his family. Hiding his feelings was a lot easier than talking about them.

“I guess I would if you wanted me to,” was the most honest answer he could find.

“Of course we wanted you to,” Nesta said, and it looked like she almost wanted to reach her hand over to his and hold it. She didn’t

The rest of the dinner was spent in a more comfortable silence. Expect for when the shadows sang their longing sang about their missing mate.

Annette had planned.

Last time she went outside, she had forgotten perhaps the most important thing, her medicine. This time, she wouldn’t forget anything.

Throughout the day, she had pretended to be colder than she was. She got provided with almost all her clothes and that made it easier for her to pack them later.

While her family had a meeting, she snuck out from her bed and started to pack. She firstly went to the library to check if the secret door still open. To her relief, it was. She spent some time to seek through the books to figure out if it was some she would need. She ended up with the same two as last time.

“The Light in Winter” had quickly become some sort of comfort book for her. “Different Kinds of Fae” could be use full. She had no idea where she was going and who she was going to meet.

Annette then went into the kitchen. Firstly, she filled her bag with different snacks and food. When she picked up six bottles of her medicine. That would be enough for a while.

Her family confused her. Cathrine and Bru had different explanations about her missing memory. But at the same time, living her was fine. She got food and care. All she wanted was an adventure. She could explore the world for a couple of days and then come figure out if she wanted to go back. She could show her family that she could be outside without getting sicker and maybe they would let her live more freely.

But maybe they weren’t her family at all?

None of them had wings. They didn’t look like her.

Maybe leaving was the safest? But at the same time, where was she going to go?

The hours went by and as her entire family had gone to bed, she sneaked once more into the library. Before she made it to the library, she walked into the living room to make sure she had taken everything she needed. She was walking determinedly, but then she saw the map that was laying on the table. Before she could think through it, she ended up taking the map, folding it carefully together and bringing it along for the adventure.

The fresh air felt simply amazing. Even though she had spent multiple days either sleeping or freezing in bed, she had missed the fresh air so much.

She stepped out and stretched out her wings. The wind brushed over them like it was meeting a friend. It tickled a little and Annette laughed. She laughed also from the excitement she felt from knowing she would soon be flying.

Her dream told her that flying was home. So maybe she would come home by flying?

She flapped her wings and eventually her feet left the ground. The higher she got, the freer she felt. She laughed and cried and played. She flew in circles; she flew as high as possible just to steer towards the ground in high speed. Eventually, she started to fly in a straight line.

The wind showed her the way. She almost didn’t need to steer. Just like her dream.

“This is amazing!” she laughed as a windblow pushed her higher into the sky.

She can’t believe what she has been missing out on the last couple of years. The freedom was all she had wished for. And now she finally had it. At least for a while.

Taglist: @prettylittlewrites @hailqueenconquer @onebadassunicorn @mich0731 @tele86 @mellowmusings @anarchiii

Let me know if you want to be added!

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

Imagine finding Mihawk after an argument with Shanks…

Mihawk huffed. He listened to what brought you to his company and he truly wished he was at the bottom of the Grand Line.

“You cannot be my shadow each time you have a disagreement with your red-haired fool.” He deadpanned and took a sip of his wine. “I’ve seen enough of your lovers spats to know how this turns out.”

You tapped the bar to signal for another round of mind-numbing rum, eyeing the amber liquid as it was dispensed like a hawk.

“This time it’s different. I’m not going back.” You muttered.

Mihawk rolled his eyes. It was always the same story. You and Shanks would argue. You’d storm off and find Mihawk to drink and dull the pain with ample ranting. Then one of two things would happen, either Shanks sought you out or you would sail back to what ever island he was passed out on.

But as Mihawk learned very quickly - this time it was different.

Two days passed and you were still at his side, nursing yet another hangover much to Mihawk’s chagrin. He had finally grew tired of your threats to throw up aboard his ship so he docked and waited for Shanks to show. But he didn't come for you.

Fours days in and no attempts of reconciliation resulted in you shadowing Mihawk in anything he did. It irked him to no end but the Warlord couldn't find it in himself to chase you off.

When the World Government called upon Mihawk’s services to ‘take care of’ a rapidly growing pirate armada on Day Seven, you offered to join the mission.

“Absolutely not.” Mihawk refused almost immediately. He wasn’t going to risk your life and then carry your body back to Shanks.

He didn’t offer funeral services.

The pirate began to walk away noticing the way you trailed after him. “Hey - I’m damn good with a sword,” when he said nothing, you jumped in front to force the pirate to a stop. “I can do this.”

Mihawk narrowed his eyes. “And what happens if you can’t?”

You stepped back, a broken expression settling on your features that made Mihawk feel something akin to guilty.

“You’re just like him.” You whispered. “I prove myself time and time again and you both refuse to see it.”

“That’s not what I- you are very capable Y/n. I only meant...”

Your name was suddenly called out from a distance. Heads turning to the shore, you saw a small boat and a shadowy figure hurrying in your direction. At first you thought it was Shanks but when the hair lacked his vibrant red, your heart returned to its dark hole.

It was Yasopp. The marksman bending forward and huffing to recollect his breath when he reached you and Mihawk.

“Great. More people.” Mihawk mumbled under his breath.

Ignoring the comment, you addressed the pirate. “Yasopp? What are you doing here?”

“It’s Shanks.” The man panted. “He’s miserable and what’s worse is that he’s even more reckless.”

You frowned. “Did he send you to get me?”

Yasopp finally straightened up but there was no excitement to answering your question. “Beckmann did when he heard that the Captain wanted to take on the Marine Base at Coral Cove. You're the only one who can convince him otherwise.”

Your eyes widened. Shanks being reckless was a dangerous thing and Coral Cove was no joking matter. You had heard of awful things that happened to pirates who set foot on its shore.

If Shanks was trying to get your attention, it was working.

You stepped forward to follow Yasopp back to the Red Force when the blade of Yoru swiped before you, holding you back.

Looking up at Mihawk, you saw him glaring at your friend with his golden eyes.

“Y/n isn’t going anywhere. That one-armed fool can come here himself if he’s that desperate.” He said.

You touched the hilt of the sword with the intention to push it down but there was more luck in moving a mountain.

“Mihawk, Shanks is…”

“He is playing a game to have you run back to his side. And as much as I want to be rid of you, I will not let you forsake your dignity.” Mihawk replied without shifting his focus. “You can tell your Captain that Y/n will not leave my side until he shows his face. We will be on the Wave Coast sinking an armada.”

You hadn’t expected Mihawk to have such fierce support but you appreciated it. Looking at the pirate who was waiting, you sent him a nod and Yasopp caught the drift returning to his ship to relay the news.

Mihawk finally exhaled and turned to you. “Let’s go.”

Following him to his ship, you watched as he climbed in. You had never walked into a huge battle without the Red-Haired pirates at your side so it was new and daunting.

“Any advice?” You asked the Warlord, stepping aboard.

Mihawk took a seat and stared at the open sea. “Don’t die.”

He'd keep you safe during the fight. Then once the conflict was over, he was going to pay Shanks a visit.

The idiot would lose a leg if he didn't apologise and whisk you away by sundown.

~ More imagines here ~

[ladybirdswritings]

Bound - Miguel O’Hara x Reader

Summary: Miguel O’Hara was never known to be a man wanting. He was beyond content with the power surging through him upon his multiversal throne. That is until he lays his hungry eyes upon you. Now, he will do whatever it takes just for the taste of you… dark!miguel x reader fic. very steamy as always <3

Notes: I couldn’t stop myself from this hades and persephone-esque fic so I hope you enjoy!! SW&P is far lighter if you desire that <3

next chap

one

Morning is a sweet greeting to you, warm and incandescent to shine it’s rays upon soft skin. As it always is. Though you find it to be dreary on days like this, as it is the same as the day prior, and the day prior to that day. As if it is not sparkling gold but shadowing gray.

All the same repetitive waltz for you.

Yet to your unknowing mind, much would change within the quick hour. Change not in the way of little things but rather in the way that would make your toes curl and your eager hands grab your tresses so you might not trip upon them on your dash toward the tallest hills.

You would have run had you known what was to come.

Yet you didn’t; and so? Your morning was quite a bore.

Similar to a zombie are your sunken cheeks and coffee kissed eyes decorated with awful bags. Your toothbrush is made of oak as is your boar-bristled comb. You tend to your prettying before slipping away from the hustle and bustle of a lively home. Four sisters and two brothers you sport, and an overbearing woman you dare to call your mother.

You made routine of this. Sneaking away with the latest print picked up from the small shop next to the apothecary in town. Out the oak wood door and past the burnt toast and meat to cuddle yourself comfortably against your favored weeping willow by the bend.

Your only company is the ducklings these days, though you don’t mind them much. They are mostly quiet beyond the occasional quack.

Serenity became you as you lay there in the remnants of springtime’s shadow, willfully sprouted in peonies and lilac blossoms.

Your print is a work of Austen, an old and worn thing but one you’d found comfort in recently. It would be your fourth time revisiting.

Would… however.

“Oh heavens sakes! You must enjoy making your mother walk upon tousled soil, girl! Have you got half a mind!? I don’t presume so otherwise you’d avoid any possibility of me losing a leg!”

A whine like that of a carnaged cat rings out from behind the bend. In the grassy plains your mother struggles her way toward you. You stand to your feet in swift motion, but your wandering eye finds curiosity in an unfamiliar bloom. Its colors an odd pairing of red and blue unfurled toward the sun.

What an odd thing, you think.

The huffing and puffing snaps your attention center, and you nearly grumble in complaint as you hurry toward your mother.

“Mama I was just—”

“Oh save it. I see you slip out each morning, I know full well your disdain for the company of your own family… but I didn’t come here to admonish you, sweet girl. Quite the opposite in fact. I am here to ask a favor of you. It seems the cold air has made our chickens most unwilling to provide us with eggs. Won’t you go in town and gather some?”

Like the rainfall’s mist caught by breath of wind, your hopes and plans of reading in the bend till dawn have dissipated. Pursing your lips, you nod— not wanting to administer a guaranteed headache at wake of your protest.

In to town you’ll venture.

✧*̥˚ … *̥˚✧

The cobblestone is cracked underneath your boot, as it is dampened by springtime’s departured mist. You like the clicking sound, though it is most lonesome at this ungodly hour.

The house cannot be run well with lack of your aid. Father left long ago and mother is just a dreadful housewife. The doctor blames her dissonance on the ailments within her mind’s confines though— she swears herself always to be whole and well.

Regardless, for the sake of your sisters— you help. Besides this, you owe it to her.

Your basket is made of weaved wicker and adorned with crimson cloth, at the end of the cobble is where life shines proud. A more lively gathering of townsfolk in search of early morning eggs to enjoy with their breakfast.

A single carriage, outdated as the things are, surges forward in an unstable command by a young man. He cannot be past twenty three, and his face is speckled with pale freckles. His hair is a burnt orange rasp.

The stallions are dark as midnight, sweat being huffed like chimney smoke from their nostrils. Dear god, the way he commands them is certain to ensure an accident.

You tuck the thought away in to the back of your mind to be focused upon your task. You’ll need no more than a dozen or perhaps three what with the vacuum cleaner your eldest brother refers to as his mouth.

Babblebrooke, it is where you’ve lived most your orphaned life. Surely some places have technology of picture books and magazines you skim through when you are awarded the rare chance but— you find yourself content with a place so simple.

You cannot imagine a life of loudness, no quiet space to tuck away and read. It’s a frightening thought.

The stand is nearby, only a few more passing steps and you’ll reach it. Your eyes are locked on the fresh berries, but you know full well you won’t have enough for them.

A bark startles you out of your trance, one excited and pointed. You jump at the sound and turn your head to find a cocker spaniel hound circling round and round to chase its own tail. You giggle at the sight, and its chestnut ears raise in alarm at the vibration.

Oh, it’s noticed you.

The little thing hobbles over excitedly, and you cannot help but bend on your knee to brush back its silken locks.

Beyond a canvas collar of pale pink lays a heart, engraved in molten silver the title: “Lyla.”

So she belongs to someone. Such a kind thing, they are to be a lucky companion indeed.

You smooth back the hair from her excited eyes before lifting to your feet again and continuing forward. She begins to follow you, but a movement in the alleyway shadows is a matter she finds far more pressing for her attention.

“Lyla…” you test in a whisper as you make your way behind a man hunched and gray— awaiting his eggs for breakfast.

Time seems agonizing and the line moves awfully slow, you peek behind the elder man to find annoyance laced in the eyes of the townsfolk. Blaire has taken a liking to the farm boy— it seems she’s busying herself with conversing nonsense with his mother rather than picking her fresh fruits for tart pastries.

You sigh, checking the time on your cracked, golden watch with impatience brewing at the soles of your boots. You sway on them, shifting your weight forward and back. No use just staring ahead.

Though it is quite loud, it doesn’t stop you from reaching in to your tote for “Jane Eyre.”

You find your favorite part, their first midnight meeting in the hallway. How romantic it is, you only wish that to be a possibility for you one day. You forbid yourself from joining the season of course but somewhere tucked away inside— you wonder how marvelous it would be for a broody and handsome thing to appear upon your doorstep with a bouquet the size of France.

You grin at the thought. Though it is swiftly interrupted by the quick patter of familiar paws.

“Woah! Easy!”

Your head snaps up at the gasps of those around you, and you are most horrified to see that the horses have reached the steep bend mere steps away. The ginger fool, they halt in warning and he kicks at them— slapping them with a russet pole. They comply, and the carriage loses control.

It creaks, hurling forward and disconnecting from its rusted shell. Tumbling at godspeed down the cobble and straight for little Lyla who lays mindlessly and happily on her back now.

Panic surges, and your eyes find worry in everyone’s features and yet no motive to act alongside it. Such cowardly men, allowing the poor thing to succumb to the bite of freak nature and cruel fate.

You won’t allow it. Though you feel frozen, the sharp and desperate shout of “Lyla!” from a phantom voice is enough to snap you back into the most horrible moment present.

“Christ!” You breathe, tossing Jane Eyre to the sapphire sky before surging forward. The carriage stalls on a pebble for a quick moment and it’s enough time for you to beat it by a mere step. You scoop the silly thing into your arms and as the wheel just grazes your skin— it is you now that is saved from immediate death.

A warm hand tugs at your wrist and you’re certain the brick wall has grown awfully large palms and fingers; for what you slam up against is hard and unpleasant.

You grunt, Lyla yelping in surprise where she is tucked up tightly against your chest.

Whistles and claps overtake the coward crowd and you sway upon your own boots as the wind itself makes you unsteady with its light graze. Firm palms steel you, grasping your shoulders tight to keep you together and well.

Your eyes venture on an upward path to find two crimson pupils imploring your features as if they are etched in stone and stored away in a beloved museum somewhere in Rome.

Brows pinched and quite bushy, eyes cold but curious, his reddened orbs search your face for what feels like a millennium. Fascinated.

Awed.

You blink, and the cry of the sweet creature in your arms breaks the trance you were entangled in. Lyla leaps from your arms and onto the cobble path— and you only huff and reach a weak arm toward her before the exhaustion of a skipped meal and your adrenaline fueled actions bring you to sit on the cobble ground.

He kneels beside you, the stranger. Yet you cannot find yourself mustering enough energy to truly examine his face. Just his eyes, rare things they are.

“She’ll be alright.” He whispers, hands still pleasantly upon your shoulders as if he fears you’ll topple over and shatter once he parts.

When you do lift your gaze however, stricken curious by the sickly silken sound of his voice, he’s gone.

“Thank y-”

The word croaks in your throat, and you can only wonder how it was possible… how quickly the phantom left you upon the cobble. The farm boy rushes over soon, much to the demise of poor Blaire. She stares on at the carriage and ginger man as if she wishes it was her nearly trampled.

He hands you fresh water and berries, and you wave his concern away and the crowd’s curiosity with a weak hand.

Your mind is only glued upon one thing.

The phantom.

🏷️’s: @reirain @needybitez @migueloharastruelove @laysmt @maomaimao @daisy-artfield @poutysprouty @chorizobeets @tabalittlelong @iitangerine @queenb27sblog-blog @dprmooni @neptunieesworld @cyd2301 @amelialysm @justanothers-things @heartfeltlonging @coralreefses @knightowl019 @cybersry

[tsunami-of-tears]

Wingspans

Poly+ ACOTAR Week 2024 - Day 5 (Favourite Tropes)

Cazriel x Healer Reader

Summary: Y/N is eager to learn more about the Illyrians - for healing purposes of course. 

Pairing Masterlist

Wordcount: 3.2K

A/N: I had an idea and it ran away from me, hence the title change. 

This entire week features some of my favourite tropes (idiots in love and everyone else can see it, aphrodisiacs, friends to lovers, etc) but I’ve focused on wings for this part, along with one bed at the end for a treat 😘

Warnings: wing clipping; female healthcare issues; allusion to domestic abuse; domestic mate stuff; multiple smut scenes (wingplay, PiV, double penetration).   

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:

Reader

For as long as you can remember, you’ve been fascinated with wings. 

Every pair you’ve come across has been uniquely beautiful and awe-inspiring, but the thing you envied most about winged fae was their ability to fly.

You have your father to thank for that - for inheriting the call of the wind. A call you’d never been able to answer. 

Now, thanks to the Cauldron, you were blessed with two winged mates. 

The three of you had been edging around the bond since it snapped a few weeks ago. It hadn’t been formally accepted yet as you all agreed to get comfortable with the dynamic first. 

Since you started courting Cassian and Azriel, your fascination with their wings only grew. 

You would watch how the strong muscles flex as they carried you in the sky. You would admire them stretching out in the warmth of the sun. 

You also started to notice the little quirks both of your mates had. 

When they are cold, they tuck their wings in closer to their frame; when Azriel is proud of something, he holds his wings up higher; and when Cassian laughs, his wings flutter as his shoulders rise and fall. 

There’s also the quirks during sex. 

The subtle twitch and the slight curling of the outer edges as they reach their climax.

Learning about how their wings worked would only make you a better healer, so you spend your limited free time pouring over medical journals and reading Madja’s notes from over the years. The theory was a good foundation, but the best way for you to learn is with practical experiences. 

The first time you got to touch them was with Azriel. He had caught you staring at his wings. 

He was training on the rooftop of the House of Wind, his wings were fully extended behind him. The sunlight glowed red through the thin membrane. They were captivating. 

A few shadows hurry over to greet you, like a playful puppy nipping at your feet.

Azriel turns, smiling at you and catches your gaze. “What are you staring at?” he smirks. 

“Your wings are mesmerising,” you say softly.

Azriel stretches them out wider for you, showing off his wingspan before giving you a wink and returning to his training.

He stopped by your clinic later where you were reading through a detailed tome about wing physiotherapy. You were so engrossed in the text, that you didn’t see him slip in.

You jump when you finally notice him towering above you. “Cauldron, you scared me Az.”

“I’m sorry, you make a cute face when you're concentrating, I didn’t want to interrupt. What are you reading?” Azriel walks around to your side of the desk, looking down at the scrawled handwriting filling the pages in your hands. He smirks down at you. “Is there a particular reason that you’re so obsessed with wingspans, Y/N?”

Your cheeks heat, and you look up at Azriel. “I want to be prepared… If the need arises.” You glance at the sharp talons poking over your mate’s broad shoulders. 

He leans down and flicks through a few pages of the tome. “The diagrams are good but it’s not quite the same,” he says. “Do you want to examine my wings?”

“Are you sure? I know they are quite sensitive. I don’t want to cross any line.”

The corners of his mouth curl upwards at your apprehension. “It is in my favour to help you, so you can heal me if need be. But, there’s no one I trust more.” 

————

Azriel had removed his shirt, allowing you access to his back and wings. His wings were spread, the leathery membrane taut between each bone. Your fingertips delicately traced each ridge as Azriel expanded and contracted his muscles. 

Your hands are warm with your healing magic as you gently stroke them against the sensitive skin. Azriel’s knuckles turn white as he grips the tabletop he’s braced against. You can tell it’s taking all of his self-control not to fuck you then and there. 

When you ran the edge of his wing between your thumb and index finger, he snapped. Azriel spun around, grabbing your hips and lifting you onto the workbench behind you. 

Azriel’s lips are on yours, hurried and hungry as he takes your lower lip between his teeth. You gasp against his mouth as he bites down before kissing along your jawline. 

His hands roam your body, branding your flesh with need. 

You fumble with the button on Azriel’s pants as he hikes up your dress and pushes your panties to the side. His fingers dip straight in, your core already soaked and throbbing. 

You had known exactly what you were doing when you started examining his wings… 

You finally free Azriel’s cock from the constraints of his leathers, and he grinds his hips against yours. 

Your lips find each other again as he ruts into you; not waiting to let you adjust, you don’t need to. Your veins are filled with lust as he pounds into you. The steady rhythm combined with his thumb on your clit sends you over the edge. 

One hand grips behind his neck tightly as you climax, and you reach with the other to run your fingers along the inside of his wing. That stroke was his undoing, and he finished deep inside you.

You feel his cock twitching as you stay in your embrace, regaining your breath. 

“Fuck, Y/N, that was…” Azriel pants, kissing your forehead tenderly. 

“That was a breach of the healer/patient relationship,” you laugh. 

Azriel smirks, “You can take advantage of me any day, angel.” 

————

The next time, you tried it with Cassian. 

He was underneath you as you rode him. Your hands flat on his chest for support as you rocked back and forth. 

You looked at his wings splayed beneath him, and then to his eyes - a silent question. 

“I’m all yours, you can touch anywhere you want, angel.

He grips your hips harder, lifting his to meet your thrusts.

You softly trace along a prominent vein and Cassian throws his head back, moaning loudly. 

He thrusts up into you without abandon, hitting the spot that has you seeing stars and reaching your climax together. 

The sound of your breathing fills the room as you lay down in Cassian’s arms. Your head resting on his chest. He kisses the top of your head. “I’ll never tire of this,” he whispers against your hair.

————

Soon after that fateful training exercise, you began working closely with the Valkyries. If any conflict arose, you’d be stationed with them as a healer. The all-female unit had grown to 50 warriors in the years since its revival. With Nesta now residing in Autumn with Eris, the unit is led by Gwyn and Emerie.

The first time you met Emerie, your heart broke.

Her wings were nothing like the mighty appendages held high by your mates. 

They were beautiful but brutal. 

Thick jagged scars cut across the planes of her wings, starting at the very base. Her wings had very limited movement, and on cold mornings, you notice a slight twinge in the left one.

Still, Emerie carried herself proudly with her wings as tall as she could manage. A true Valkyrie.

After observing her from afar, your research changed direction. You were driven by your new purpose - helping your friend and the countless females like her. 

There were limited existing resources on clipped wings, so you proposed a clinical study to Rhys. He issued approval instantly and, to Lord Devlin’s dismay, he set up a clinic in Windhaven for you to meet with patients. 

Many females were scared to visit you, out of fear of retaliation from their husbands and fathers. But there were still many brave souls who came forward, allowing you to examine them. 

Progress was slow, but both the physical and emotional support you provided was making a difference. 

————

Today you had a female visiting from another camp. You walk into the waiting room with a warm smile on your face. You’re always so proud to see new patients. 

“Victoria? I’m Y/N, your new healer. Please come inside.” You say to the female. 

She gives you a shy smile, lowering her gaze as she walks past you into your office. 

“Thank you for making the trip to see me. I will do my best to help you, however I can. Take a seat on that cot there,” you gesture towards the bed in the middle of the room. You meet her eyes as you continue, your voice filled with sincerity. “I want you to remember this is entirely on your terms. I will only touch you, or offer treatment with your consent, do you understand?”

Victoria nods, brushing a single tear from her cheek at your words. 

“Good. If it’s okay, I’d like to see the extent of the damage. Can you show me your range of movement?” You give Victoria an encouraging nod. “Lift, wonderful. Now lower them. You’re doing amazing. And now extend them as far as you can outwards - like you’re stretching.” You demonstrate with your arms, extending them out to the side.  

Victoria’s wings shudder slightly as she strains to stretch them out but they barely shift. 

“You’re doing so well, I know this is difficult. Can I touch you? I want to get a feel of the scarring if that’s okay.” 

She nods hesitantly. 

“If you want me to stop at any time, please tell me.”

“Okay,” she says. The first words you heard from her mouth.

“I’m just letting my magic get a sense of the damage, my hand might feel cool along the inner side of your wings.” You move to stand behind Victoria and start on the biggest scar. The tissue is jagged and bumpy, and as pale as the moon. Your healing magic flows through you, washing over the surface of the scar but unable to penetrate. This is the worst case of wing clipping you’ve seen so far. You aren’t sure how much movement she’ll be able to regain, but you have to try.

You walk around the cot to face her and finish your consultation, asking all your standard questions about pain and mobility. 

You pick up a glass jar filled with a numbing salve. “I’d like you to start by applying this to the scars once a day.” You demonstrate the amount of product to apply before handing over the jar. “If you’re particularly sore you can apply it a second time. You may need some help reaching around the back, do you have someone at home that you trust?”

“I live with my sister and her family. She’ll help,” Victoria says.

“Okay good, if you do need somewhere to stay during the treatment, it can be arranged. And if you don’t feel safe, we can help with that too.” 

Victoria nods in thanks.  

“I’ll see you again in 4 weeks. If you run out of the salve, send word.” 

“Thank you, Y/N.” Victoria smiles at you, looking more hopeful than when she first arrived. You help her into her coat and escort her out of the clinic. 

Once outside, you look up and see the sky is swirling with storm clouds and the sun is just about to dip behind the mountains. The wind howls through the surrounding trees. A big gust hits you and you feel the ice in your very bones. 

You bid goodbye to Victoria and trudge home. On clinic days you often stay in Rhys’s mother’s cabin with your mates. 

Warmth envelops you as you step over the threshold, along with the smell of your mates and a hot dinner. 

You kick off your boots and giggle as shadows help you with your coat. Cassian is standing over the stove as Azriel sets the table. Azriel stops what he’s doing to kiss you hello. 

“How was your day, angel?” Azriel asks. 

“It was good. I had a new patient, it always breaks my heart to see the trauma that’s been inflicted.” You instinctively reach for Azriel’s hand, stroking the back with your thumb. “I hope I can ease that pain, even just a little bit.” 

“You’re doing such great things,” Cassian says, juggling the three bowls and a bottle of wine. You and Azriel quickly reach out to help him and sit down together.

“We’re so proud of you,” Azriel states, adoration across his face. 

You smile back. “I do have you both to thank for all of this. I’ve worked with many kinds of wings before, but I think yours are the most fascinating.” 

“What kinds of wings?” Cassian asks. 

“Well, in Spring, many faeries have wings similar to insects. They are very delicate but they don’t have the same soft tissue and nerve ends. Then there are the Peregryns, they have fewer bones in their wings than Illyrians - but the feathers…” You laugh. “If you think Illyrians are protective of their wings, you should see a Peregryn if you touch their feathers.”

Azriel gives you a curious look, “Do you have much experience with Peregryns?”

“Mostly just my father, but I didn’t get to see him very often,” you answer plainly. Cassian nearly chokes on the wine he was sipping and Azriel’s eyes widen in shock.

“How have you never mentioned this?” Cassian asks you incredulously.

“I don’t know, it hasn’t come up. Obviously, I didn’t inherit any physical characteristics. I didn’t think it was important,” you shrug.

“Every part of your history is important,” Azriel says with complete sincerity. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t intentionally keep it from you.” 

“I guess that explains how you took to flying so quickly,” Cassian remarks. 

You shake your head at your mates as you return to your meal. 

You finish up the cozy evening with Cassian and Azriel who had many questions for you about different wingspans. Namely, which race has the biggest. Even if it wasn’t the truth, you would have said Illyrians.

————

A few weeks later, Winter had well and truly arrived. 

You’re in a distant Illyrian camp making some supply drops and home visits. Both Cassian and Azriel join you, using any excuse to spend more time with you. 

It’s a relatively small camp, you have a handful of patients here so it’s only meant to be a quick stop. But, as the afternoon progresses, the weather takes a turn for the worse. 

“We’ll have to stay here overnight,” Cassian says. “We can’t risk flying in a storm and Azriel can’t winnow with both of us.”

Fortunately, there is a rundown but warm inn just outside of the camp. Unfortunately, with the incoming snowstorm, all of the rooms are booked. All but one. 

You enter the tiny room behind your mates who both need to bow their heads to fit inside. It would be a cramped lodging for two high fae but with three of you plus two pairs of wings…

Cramped is a severe understatement. 

————

You get ready for bed as best as you can, manoeuvring around each other with great difficulty. 

Finally you settle in, comforted by the warmth seeping into you from both sides. 

The bond is still new, you’ve not been in such close proximity to your mates, with so few layers between you and not touched them.

The heat radiating off both Cassian and Azriel was driving you wild. And based on their strong scents, it was having the same effect on them. 

Cassian’s groans break the silence. “Godsdamnit, Y/N. You’ll be the death of me.”

“I’m not doing anything!” You exclaim. 

“That’s the point,” Cassian chuckles. 

You decide to tease him further by pushing your butt back against him, rubbing against his hardening length. 

Cassian groans again and wraps his arms around your waist, hands groping your breasts. Azriel leans on his forearm and locks eyes with you. You gasp as Cassian pinches your firm nipples and starts nipping at your earlobe. Cassian’s hand starts to trail lower, and you can’t hold in your moan as it slips down to your core, dragging through your growing wetness.

Desire overwhelms your senses. You don’t care about the space or lack thereof. You need your mates. 

Azriel starts to palm himself, moaning softly as you send images down the twin bonds. Images of how you want them. 

“Are you sure, angel?” Cassian whispers into your ear. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You lean further into his embrace, “I’m sure. I need you both.”

You sit up and straddle Azriel, grinding your dripping slit against him. Azriel holds your hips firmly, pushing you down to provide more friction for both of you. 

You look over at Cassian with slightly glazed eyes. You nod at him, confirming your desire. 

He kneels on the bed behind you, there’s just enough room that he doesn’t hit his head on the low support beam. He squeezes your ass as he kisses down the side of your neck. Azriel starts circling your clit with his thumb as you continue to rock on top of him. 

You lean forward slightly, hands braced on Azriel’s chest as Cassian drags his cock along your slit, collecting your arousal. 

Azriel positions himself at your entrance as Cassian lines up at your rear. 

“Are you quite sure, angel?” Cassian asks again. 

“Yes… Please,” you whine softly.

Azriel lowers your hips, burying himself inside you as you both moan at the tightness. Your eyes flutter at how full you feel, and Cassian hasn’t penetrated you yet.

You feel pressure against your rear as Cassian pushes against you. “Are you ready?” He asks. 

You nod in answer, already struggling for words. 

Azriel resumes his steady circles as Cassian pushes into you. The stretching sensation is so intense you let out a strangled cry. “Are you okay?” Cassian asks. 

“Yep, I just need a moment to adjust.” 

Cassian resumes kissing your jaw as your body gets used to the full feeling.

“I’m ready,” you say and Cassian starts to slowly move in and out. 

Azriel starts thrusting, matching Cassian’s timing. 

“So full,” you moan, your eyes rolling back into your head as the pleasure overwhelms you. 

With each thrust, your clit rubs against Azriel’s groin, bringing you closer and closer to that sweet release. 

“Fuck, I’m not going to last long,” Azriel pants. Cassian moans in agreeance.

Your fingers gravitate to your nipples, pinching the sensitive nubs as you’re hurled to the finish line. 

“Cum for us, angel,” Azriel commands, and you do. 

You cry out as you hit your climax, louder than usual. Both your holes clench as your mates wring scream after scream of pleasure from you. 

They both follow closely behind as you grip them tightly. As the moans and cries subside, the room is filled with the sound of panting. 

Cassian pulls out of you first, collapsing beside Azriel. 

Azriel helps lift you off of him and nestles you in between himself and Cassian. He kisses you lovingly as Cassian’s hand dips between your legs - using a washcloth to clean you up. 

Once clean, he pulls you close to his chest and wraps his wings around you and Azriel. 

Feeling content in your bubble with your mates, sleep finds you and takes you into its loving embrace.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Tags ♡ @littlestw01f @impossibelle @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @the-wall-willow @xasael @lilah-asteria @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @therealmoonstone

[luxaofhesperides]

Please continue ghostlights multiverse constant au with Earth 0 having a happy ending together cuz halfa Danny is impossible to really kill anymore pleaseeeeeee 😭

(part one)

Danny is destined to die once he meets Duke. He knows this; he’s seen how their friendship leads to Danny’s death is so many different lives. There’s no doubt in his mind that the only way to ensure Danny lives a long life is to stay away from him.

Which is why the universe decides to make Danny pop up constantly. It’s clearly trying to get him killed, and Duke refuses to let that happen!

It starts innocently enough. They cross paths briefly at a bus stop, bumping into each other as Duke gets off the bus and Danny moves to go on it. He recognizes Danny immediately, feels a little spark go through him when their shoulders brush against each other. Something in him says I know you. I miss you.

He pulls back a step and offers a quick apology. Danny waves it off and looks at him as through searching for something. He opens his mouth to say something, but Duke can feel the threads of fate tighten around their throats and hurries away. 

He waits until he hears the bus pull away, then glances behind him to watch it go before he slows down to a normal walking pace and heads for the mall where he planned to meet his friends. 

Duke’s heart pounds in his chest. He can’t get Danny’s eyes out of his head; so painfully blue, so nostalgic, so doomed. 

This is for the best, he reminds himself. This is so Danny can live. That’s all that matters.

The moment’s passed, anyways. They’re still strangers, and they’ll stay that way. 

He takes another minute to collect himself, then plasters on a smile and heads into the mall to find his friends.

The next six times, Duke has to save Danny as the Signal, appearing just in time to stop a mugging, an armed store robbery, a car trying to run Danny over, and fighting off Man-Bat who, for some reason, took one look at Danny and went fuck this guy, actually.

Duke is stressed. He’s Stressed™ and if anyone tries to take out Danny again he’s just going to start screaming. 

For whatever reason, the universe is just out to get Danny now that they’ve run into each other once. Duke’s life is a cosmic joke, and he’s stuck in the center of it all waiting for the moment comedy turns into tragedy. 

It’s gotten to the point that Duke expects to find Danny in some sort of dangerous situation as soon as he starts patrol. He’s starting to dread going out, but he needs to; Gotham needs the Signal to keep the streets safe during the day, and Danny needs Duke to save his incredibly unlucky ass nearly every single day.

The first two hours go fine. He stops an armed robbery and a car jacking, chases away some creeps from the working girls, and gets a blueberry muffin from the bakery that’s been around forever, on account of the old woman running it thinking he’s a good lad who needs to eat more.

Duke begins to hope that he’ll have a quiet patrol. He begins to hope that Danny is safe and not in mortal danger for once.

His hopes are immediately dashed when he spots Danny on a rooftop, standing way too close to the edge.

Heart in his throat, Duke crosses the space between them in an instant, slingshotting himself forward through shadows.

He intends to pull Danny back, to say something, to try and shake some common sense into him so he actually has a chance at living a long life. Duke doesn’t get to do any of that; as soon as he steps out of the shadows, Danny turns to face him with a tired smile.

“There you are,” he says. “I knew you’d find me.”

“What? I—listen, can you step back from the ledge for me?”

Danny steps back, keeping his eyes on Duke. He doesn’t seem to mind that the Signal is so hesitant in this moment, keeping his distance. 

“I wasn’t sure at first,” he says, as if he never stopped talking, “But I had a feeling. You’ve probably had it too, right? It’s why we keep being pushed together, and why my luck has been so awful ever since I came to Gotham.”

He knows, is the first thing Duke things. But how can that be? If Danny knows about all those other universes where they had each other, then he knows how it ends. If he knows, then he should be trying to keep his distance from both Duke and the Signal before he gets killed.

“It’s you under that mask, isn’t it? Duke.”

The way Danny says his name brings him back to all those other lives where they had each other from the start. He sounds so sure of himself, as if he’s always known Duke.

It’s only when Duke says, “How?” that Danny falters, fear briefly crossing his expression before it settles into something more neutral. His fingers begin to pull at the cuffs of his jacket sleeves, confidence melting away. 

“Do you… not know me?”

The quietness of his voice, the fragility of it, breaks Duke’s heart. He doesn’t stop to think before he answers, “I know you. Of course I know you, Danny.” Then he blinks, shakes his head, and says, “Wait. No. I know of you. We haven’t really met this life.”

“It’s the dreams, right? They make things so confusing.”

“You’ve been getting them too?”

“I may be the cause of them,” Danny says with a wince. “Due to some, uh… ghostly magic shenanigans. It wasn’t on purpose! But it is kinda my fault.”

Ghostly magic? Okay, sure, why not. Who is Duke to judge the bizarre things that exist in their world. He has superpowers and his biological father is an evil immortal. He has absolutely no leg to stand on when it cames to the weird and the unexpected. Might as well roll with it, since this is his life now.

Besides, there’s more important things to focus on, such as: “Okay, so, just to be on the same page, you’ve been getting the same dreams as me, yeah? The ones where you always die? Those dreams?”

And Danny, very casually, answers, “Yeah.”

“Dude,” Duke says, pained, “If you know that meeting me leads to your death, then why are you seeking me out?!”

“What?”

“Have you not seen how you die young in every single universe? Because I have! And it’s messing me up!”

Danny blinks at him, then looks guilty, hunching in on himself. “Oh, yeah. That. Uh, yeah, so…” he trails off and bites his lip, gaze kept downwards so he doesn’t have to meet Duke’s eyes. “I do die young always, yeah, but it’s totally not your fault! I just do that!”

“You just do that,” Duke repeats, pained. 

“Yeah. I just die young.”

“Is this somehow not a problem for you.”

To his immense displeasure, Danny has the nerve to shrug and say, “Eh, not really.”

“Danny.”

“It’s okay! Really!” Danny says, a little frantically, “And also it has nothing to do with you! None of my deaths have been your fault, it’s just a thing that happens to me!” And then, in a quiet, rushed mumble, “Also I already died in this universe so it’s fine.”

A strangled sound bursts out of Duke’s throat as he tries very hard not to start yelling. He puts his head in his hands and holds back a heavy sigh because the boy of his literal dreams is stressing him out so much he’s about to dissolve into ashes and ascend to a higher realm where he has no worries. 

Unfortunately, he’s not quite there yet, so Duke has to deal with living in the reality where Danny admits he already died because that’s just what he does: die young. 

Which is, apparently, not Duke’s fault at all. Cool. 

Cool cool cool. He’s definitely not going to have a breakdown about this.

A hand gently tugs on his wrist, making him lift his head to meet Danny’s worried gaze. “Hey, you alright? Do you wanna sit down for a minute?”

And you know what? Duke does want to sit down for a minute. He’s earned it. 

He nods, and Danny carefully guides him back to where the roof access door is, so they can sit with their backs against something and be away from the edge where curious eyes might spot them. It feels easy, practiced, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before instead of just now having their first conversation. Their lives have been linked and twisted together, though only for a short time before death takes Danny away. 

He knows Danny, despite how illogical it is, and that’s what makes him take off his helmet and exposure his face to the world. 

Danny knows him too, after all. 

There is no hiding from someone who is meant to be in his life.

Danny’s smiling softly when he turns to look at him. “Hey, Duke. It’s good to see you properly. Is it weird to say that I’ve missed you even though we’ve technically never met in this life?”

“Nah,” he replies, “I missed you too. Please stop scaring me like that.”

“I make no promises. Expect for this: dying won’t take me away from you in this life. I’ve got it handled.”

“I don’t… I don’t think that’s someone anyone can have handled.”

“I’ve got it handled,” Danny repeats firmly. 

Duke shakes his head with a small laugh. He got so caught up in the guilt of leading to Danny’s death, of being unable to save him, of losing  him in every universe, that he forgot how stubborn Danny is. 

It is a weight off his chest, though. To know that it wasn’t his fault. To know that the worst has already come to pass long before they met in this universe, so they don’t have to fear the future together. 

“So,” he says, “Tell me more about these magical ghostly shenanigans?”

“At least wait until the second date for personal questions,” Danny jokes.

“Okay. Wanna grab dinner tonight?”

It’s nice to see that Danny blushes easily in this universe too. “Isn’t that moving a little fast?”

“We’ve been dreaming about a bunch of other universes where we’re together. We know each other even though we don’t know each other. We’re well past moving fast, dude.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Danny nods. “Alright. Dinner tonight, then. Take me to the best place for breakfast foods in Gotham. I’ve been craving pancakes all week.”

“Sure, I can do that. Mind giving me your number so I can figure out where to pick you up from?”

Danny nods and begins patting his pockets in search of… something. Duke means to grab his phone and hand it to Danny to get his number, but he’s quickly distracted as Danny gives up on his pockets and shoves a hand directly into his own chest. 

Ghostly magic shenanigans. This is probably part of it?  Danny doesn’t look alarmed by this at all, so Duke rolls with it and shoves away his shock at the sight. 

“Aha!” Danny holds up a sharpie in triumph. He sure did pull that straight out of his ribcage. Duke is so chill with it. 

He lets Danny take hold of his arm, removing a wrist gauntlet so he can write on the skin. The cool ink of the sharpie makes him shiver, but otherwise, he stays still. Danny writes carefully, in smooth movements. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds, then he pulls the sharpie away and blows a surprisingly cold breath against Duke’s wrist to help the ink dry faster.

“There we go,” he says with a smile. “Let me know when you wanna have our date, okay? I’m free whenever, so don’t worry about accommodating me or anything.

“I’ll text you once I’m ready,” Duke agrees. He stands up, looking over the numbers written on his wrist. He memorizes them, then puts his wrist gauntlet back on. It’s about time for him to get back to being the Signal, as much as he hates to leave Danny here when they’ve finally been able to have a quiet moment to themselves. 

“I’ll see you later, then.” Danny hesitates, then leans forward and presses a quick, chaste kiss against Duke’s cheek. Duke blinks at him, stunned, his heart skipping a beat. 

He doesn’t get the chance to return the gesture; Danny flushes red, backs up a few steps with a shy grin, and says, “Okay, bye Duke! Stay safe out there!” And then he’s gone, blinking out of sight, and it’s only his meta powers that let him see a faint wispy outline where Danny was. 

It moves, floating up in the air, then flies away like smoke in the breeze. 

Ah, Duke thinks, Ghostly. He’s a ghost. I’ll worry about that later.

His fingers brush against the spot where Danny kissed him. Then he puts his helmet back on and focuses on swinging through the streets of Gotham, ready for anything. 

The sooner he gets done with patrol, the better, after all. He needs all his focus to do that so he can start getting ready for his date with Danny, the literal boy of his dreams. 

This time, this life, this universe, they’re gonna do it right. They’ll make up for all the time their other selves lost. They’ll cherish every minute together, one pancake date at a time.

And to think, it only took a couple dozen different lives to get here.

[marlynnofmany]

Double Dog Dare

“Are you warm enough?” I asked Paint as we walked. My fingers were chilly against the box I carried, but it was small enough that I could reach to rub them together.

“Yes,” Paint said firmly. She pulled her heat shawl close, nuzzling her scaly orange face into its yellow warmth. “This is fully charged, and much better than my old one.”

“Well, no falling in the water for you today.”

“No falling in the water for me ever!” she said. “Unless the water is warm. Then it would be nice.”

I looked around at the industrial ruins that we walked through, all damp concrete and convoluted passageways. Even the sunlight on this planet felt thin. “I don’t think anything around here is warm.”

“Not yet,” Paint said with a lift of her snout. “I’m sure they’ll get things back in working order soon. That box probably holds a key heating circuit or something, and the area will become more hospitable in no time.”

I smiled at her priorities. As a coldblooded Heatseeker, she could hardly be blamed for expecting warmth to be high on the to-do list. I would have focused more on landing pad repair personally, so visiting couriers didn’t have to walk through this maze of alien architecture to reach the inhabited area, but that’s just me.

At any rate, our delivery timeline was short but so was the best route, at least according to the map on my phone. If we kept up a brisk pace, we’d get there well before the client started to grumble. And in this chill there was no reason to dawdle.

Sudden voices echoed off the walls: laughter from a few people at once. Distinctly human laughter. The locals were Frillians, so who were these?

Paint craned her neck to pinpoint the source of the voices, looking just as curious as I was. Then we walked around a corner and met a cluster of humans in blue jackets with a logo that I recognized immediately.

“Hey, it’s the crew of the good ship Hold My Beer!” I said in greeting. “How’s the droid jousting business?”

“Hello again!” said Captain Parker, flashing that bright smile set off by his dark skin. “We’re here for an outdoor tournament. Just on the way to check in now. You guys making another delivery?” The handful of other humans nodded at us.

Paint said, “Yes! It’s probably important! But we don’t know for sure. They wanted it in a hurry.”

Captain Parker pulled out a holo map of his own, and pointed down a concrete corridor. “This is definitely the fastest route that we can see. Pretty bonkers city design.” He started walking with a glance at the gray sky.

I hitched the box up and fell in step with the group. “I don’t think it was a city originally. No idea what, but these don’t look like stores or houses.”

Paint took short-legged strides beside me, offering suggestions for what these reclaimed ruins could have been, and the walk passed quickly. We’d moved on to discuss the jousting crew’s latest wins and new uniforms — those Stabby the Roomba emblems were very stylish — when we passed through an open doorway and discovered a problem.

The passage ahead of us was a deep chasm between concrete walls, open to the sky and devoid of branching passages, with a doorway at the bottom of several concrete steps. The door was closed. And the steps were filled with water.

I stopped. “Hm.”

“Aw man,” Captain Parker exclaimed, getting out his map again.

“What do we do?” asked Paint, clicking her scaly knuckles together. “This was the fast route! Our client is on a timeline!”

I thumped my chin against the box. “I knew we should have used the hoverbike.”

“You would have crashed into a wall! These walkways are far too narrow.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

A sturdy woman from the jousting crew shone a pocket flashlight into the murky water. It was all in shadow, thanks to an awning up top that seemed ironically meant to protect from the rain. Like everything else around here, it was janky and broken, but made of metal that hadn’t rusted through yet. Canvas would have been long gone.

I eyed the many cracks in the walls, with pipes and alien rebar sticking out. “I don’t suppose anyone feels like climbing over?”

“The box doesn’t have a carry strap,” Paint pointed out. “And I am not one of you climbing experts.”

A heavyset man with gray hair chuckled at that. “You’re not the only one.”

This turned into a side conversation about how Paint was under the impression that all humans were talented climbers by her standards, until Captain Parker interrupted.

“While this would be the most direct route, I see three other possibilities that shouldn’t take us in too many circles. It really is a shame, though. This one’s a nice straight shot if we could get the door open. Can you see the catch, Ruby?”

“Barely,” the woman reported. “This light is garbage. But it looks just like those other doors. Too bad we don’t have a long pole or something to work the catch with.”

I looked up. “That awning looks like it has a couple poles! I wonder if they come off.”

Paint yelped, “The water is rising!” She pointed, clutching her shawl. “It was below that step before!”

“Dang, you’re right.” Ruby stepped back. The other crewmates gestured to cracks that reached above water, which could easily be causing leaks below.

“We should go,” decided Captain Parker. “Get a head start on one of the long routes.”

“But our client!” Paint exclaimed. “They need the package in a hurry, and will tell everyone we’re unreliable!”

While everyone voiced an opinion, ranging from “Route B” to “Route C” to “rock-paper-scissors for who gets dunked in the hypothermia water,” I shoved the box at Paint. “Hold this,” I said. Then I got a running start and leapt up for a good grip on a crack in the wall.

There were plenty of footholds. Some of the metal bits sticking out were loose, but not enough to fall out. I focused on making sure each step was secure as quickly as possible, and reached the top in no time.

Thankfully it was wide enough to balance on without too much worry. That water wasn’t deep enough to land in safely, never mind the temperature.

Speaking of water, I thought with dawning horror, This is about to be bad.

Several rows away in this maze was a broken pipe the size of my torso, spewing water into a reservoir that was near to overflowing. Some of the water was leaking out through cracks in the sides already, leading to a puddle that was dripping through to make the one on our side.

The route back is in the danger zone too! Maybe if we’re fast enough, we can get to that open area over there. Or get everybody else up here. But I don’t trust this wall to stay intact if that dam fails all at once.

My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was Paint. I realized she’d probably been yelling for my attention, and I didn’t hear. There were sounds of pouring water up here, not to mention the blood rushing in my ears. I answered the phone.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Get the pole!”

“Right,” I said, hurrying along the wall. “We may not have enough time, even if I can get it free. There’s more water that could flood the area at any moment. I think somebody has to swim for the catch.”

“What! How much water?”

“Lots. Hang on.” I stuck the phone in my pocket to free both hands for the awning. Up close, it looked much rustier and ancient than below. The pole at the side was welded on. I braced my feet and gave it a good yank. That produced a metal screech and a rain of rust particles, but not much else. Pushing and pulling to work it loose let me fold the awning back so watery sunshine illuminated the door catch far below. The jousting crew shouted about it indistinctly.

I leaned against the awning, holding it back while I got my phone out. “It’s not coming loose,” I told Paint. “Tell him there’s a dam about to break, and one of his people needs to open the door.”

There was lots of indistinct shouting at that. I couldn’t make out all of the words, especially since the water sounds were increasing, thanks to a new crack the water levels had just reached. Captain Parker was shaking his head at Paint, who’d set down the box so she could hold the phone and gesture wildly. He waved at me to come down, and pointed back at the way we’d come. I shook my head and pointed at the reservoir, but he was already looking away.

“Paint!” I called into the phone. “Tell him he’s got to!”

“He wants to turn back!” Paint cried.

“Wait!” This was a dumb idea, but I’d had worse. “Paint, tell him you double dog dare him to do it.”

“What?”

“Human thing. If he doesn’t, he’s a coward. Use those exact words: you double dog dare him.”

Paint didn’t answer me, lowering the phone and jabbing a finger at Captain Parker. I could just make out her words over the water.

“I double dog dare you to do it! If you don’t, you’re a coward!”

He gaped at her for a moment while his crew burst into laughter. Ruby clapped him on the shoulder. A smaller man waggled his fingers like he was offering to hold the captain’s jacket. Captain Parker looked up at me, arms spread in a clear WTF.

I held the awning back and pointed emphatically downward.

Water rushed faster out of that new crack. People were laughing below. Paint repeated the phrase like an incantation.

And Captain Parker took off his jacket, handing it to the other man.

“Yes!” I breathed in relief, leaning harder against the metal. It really wanted to fold back down. But the captain would need light to see.

In moments he’d left his jacket, shoes, and pocket valuables with the crew, and was striding forward, shaking his head. Ruby aimed her flashlight at the door, though it was pretty visible now. I pocketed my phone and crossed my fingers. With a worried glance, I sent strengthening thoughts toward the dam.

Captain Parker stuck a foot in, swore loudly, then cannonballed directly into the deep end to the approving whoops of his crew. He surfaced, gasping at the cold, then took a few good breaths and submerged, going straight for the door.

The catch didn’t turn easily. Of course it didn’t. Why would any of this be easy? I watched him struggle with it, flicking my eyes back toward the straining reservoir. Water was starting to spill over the side. The big crack was spreading.

Then something clunked below me, and the door grated aside, gushing water and a very cold human into the corridor beyond.

I yelled my own wahoo along with the crew, and left the awning to jolt back into place with another rain of rust while I hurried back down. One of the pipes almost jerked out of the wall while I was holding it. I jumped the rest of the way.

“Take the box!” Paint told me. Humans were rushing down the wet stairs. I took it just as a thunderous crack filled the air, and the ground shuddered.

“Run!” I said. We dashed down the stairs to the sound of rushing water. The wall I’d just been standing on sprouted dozens of leaks, creaking ominously.

There was still a bit of a puddle at the bottom, but Paint bravely dashed through it with her heat shawl held tight. I was right behind her with the box. The other humans were already climbing dry stairs on the other side.

We made it through the door just as the wall collapsed, sending water and debris slamming into the place we’d been standing moments before.

I don’t think I’ve ever climbed stairs faster. Two of the nearest humans hoisted Paint up, her small legs kicking in the air. Water splashed behind us, wetting one of my pant legs in a terrifying moment that made me think we’d all be washed away after all, but then we were out of range and still standing.

Everybody stood in an open courtyard, breathing hard and staring. The water rushed in every direction below us, filling more passageways than I’d thought it could. We’d reached an area of high ground with the reconstruction offices in view, all freshly painted and gold in the sunlight.

But only just.

“We’ll need another way back to the ship,” said Ruby.

“Good thing we left all our stuff behind.”

“Hey Captain, you can use my shirt to dry off with.”

“Mine too.”

Captain Parker looked a little paler than his skin tone was really meant for as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Thanks,” he managed, sounding like he was keeping his teeth from chattering by force of will.

Paint approached him and made an elaborate bow, which I’m pretty sure she got from some media about old Earth customs since that’s not the kind of thing her people do. “Well done, Captain Parker,” she declared. “Your honor is unquestionable; you are not a dog this day.”

He smiled while the crew laughed again. “Thank you. Your challenge was well-timed.” He stripped off his wet shirt and toweled dry with someone else’s, then rolled up his pant legs instead of taking them off.

“Do you need to borrow my heat shawl?” Paint asked tentatively.

Captain Parker frowned, shivering violently. “You’re coldblooded. Don’t you need it?”

“I’ll be okay,” Paint assured him. “You need it more right now. The air isn’t as bad as that water.”

“You’re not wrong.” He accepted it when she handed it to him, settling it over his shoulders with a deep sigh of relief.

When Paint met my eyes, I gave her a smile of approval, and she beamed. Crew members were busy making calls: to their ship, to their local contact, and who knew where else. It occurred to me that we should do the same.

Paint told me, “Everyone’s going to want to hear about this. And you’ll have to explain the details of the double dog thing; I’d never heard of that before.”

I shrugged one shoulder, still holding the box. “It’s not a big deal. More of a kid thing, honestly. I’m sure there are lots of cultures with similar stuff.”

“Not mine,” she said thoughtfully. “Blip and Blop would probably appreciate it. And Trrili would probably appreciate it too much.”

“Oh man, Trrili would be an unholy menace.” I thought of our most frightening crewmate’s love of scaring people. “Let’s not tell her about double dares.”

When the captain had his shoes back on and his jacket thrown over the heat shawl, we all moved on toward the reconstruction office, leaving a trail of water droplets and honor in our wake.

~~~

Captain Parker and co made their other appearance in this story.

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

They're shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include some characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[todorokies]

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN - choso kamo

✩࿐ choso finds meaning in this hellish world within the confines of your bedroom . . .

contents: nsfw, softdom!fem reader, cunnilingus, hair pulling, implications that reader is someone with high status of royalty, choso is reader’s courtier, sub!choso, slapping (just once), power dynamics, choso calls reader ‘m’lady’, nineteenth century gothic victorian era, installment of my spookfest event

a/n: this is a bit more lengthy than my usual work however i hope u all enjoy !! pls support by reblogging

the haunting hours of midnight has struck causing the grandfather clock from above to make its presence known with three loud echoing chimes rumbling the surface below. the silent night was perfect for the noticed to go unnoticed within the dark palace.

choso finds himself hurrying his pace, swiftly avoiding the huge stained glass windows that reflected the moonlight throughout the long corridor. leaning towards the shadows despite the residents having long blown out their candles that rest on their nightstands the fear of getting caught cannot be shaken out of his psyche.

with each thudding step he took it felt as if the corridor was elongating on it’s own preventing him from reaching his one and only, his small taste of spring after an everlasting winter, the only one to pull him out of the ongoing cycle of misery.

soon enough, he finds himself stationed infront or your detailed baroque door. his body thinks faster than his mind raising his chuckles to knock a specific tune to notify you it’s him.

the door opens with faint creaks revealing you clad in a white frilly nightgown that hit just above the knees. the sheer and delicate fabric cascaded your body and heavily outlined the curve of your tits. choso silently cursed himself for already feeling his cock pathetically throb at the mere sight of you,

“would you care to come in?” you break him out of the enchanting spell you unknowingly cast upon him.

he sheepishly clears his throat, “yes of course, m’lady.” he steps in, taking note of the spike in temperature compared to the cold hallway.

“you can drop the formalities when it’s just us, you know?”

“i rather not m’lady, i still want to show you respect despite how improper we act towards each other.” you simply hum in acknowledgment, moving to face him, to soak in his beauty that must only be examined under the divine moonlight.

the hefty dark circles that clings onto his skin leaves you in awe. as you lift a finger to graze his thick birth mark that gracefully paints over his nose, he stills his breath, leaning his forehead against yours with his eyes closed.

“something on your mind, cho?” he falters a bit due to the nickname —the concept of improper name calling is foreign to him— having to catch his own footing before tripping; your voice is dipped in honey. it stirs warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“same old stuff that usually sits on my mind.” he grimaces and you sport a frown knowing he is hinting at the stubborn thoughts that trouble him at night.

he notices a few creases on your forehead and plants a chaste kiss to calm your nerves, “don’t worry, that’s my job remember? i’m here to service and cater to your needs.”

“is that why you’ve ask me to accompany you tonight? you need my services?” he refers to the note you slipped in the palm of his hand earlier in the day regarding a fitting of a dress. when in truth, it was a hoax to lure him in your quarters alone.

if anything in that note was truthful, you wanted him to take off the current sleepwear that covers your body.

dismissing his inquiry, you wrap your arms around his neck with your fingers finding solace at the nape, leaning in to enclose the small distance of air between the two of you.

soft mostizured lips captures his icy cold ones, it’s uncomfortable at first, jagged with errors and teeth clashing until choso’s hands sneak around your waist to pull you closer, finding himself relaxing to your scent that engulfed him.

feeling him melt against your figure, you take the initiative to dip your tongue into his mouth swirling around, exploring new territory. his knees buck wildly, feeling his bulge graze over the feathering fabric of your nightgown; feeling everything he beholds.

you’ve got him right where you want him.

you abruptly break the kiss, a thin string of saliva shimmers in your retreat from his lips as you lead him towards the foot of your bed.

with gentle force you send him onto his knees and a light thud echos from the wooden floors. you then take a seat on the bed positioning yourself directly infront of him.

“i do demand a unique kind of service only you can preform for me.” with furrowed brows, he looks up at you with curiosity. not understanding your vague statement until you hike up your thin nightgown and widen your legs to give him a closer glance at your glistening cunt dripping with arousal.

choso’s breath gets caught in his throat. his mouth suddenly runs dry as his eyes flicker from your face and back to your slicked folds, needy and ready for him.

just for him.

a sharp stinging pain across his check snaps him out of his daze, “it’s rude to stare choso, especially at a lady waiting for her demanded services.” your stern voice combined with the quick slap has him scrabbling to attach his mouth immediately onto your throbbing clit.

he uses his tongue to expertly swirl around it, lewdly lapping at the sensitive nub. slick smears his chin as faint suckling and squelching bounces off the walls. his cold callused hands etch soothing patterns on your outer thighs. your hands grips at the root of his black locks of hair tugging occasionally to serve as encouragement.

soft whines and angelic moans carelessly leaves your lips. his tongue moves in vertical strides from your hole to your puffy clit then finally dipping his wet muscle in your drooling hole. he moans as he can taste you better like this.

so sweet and savoury.

he darts his tongue in and out at a slow antagonizing pace. wanting nothing more than to collect every last drop you’d offer for him —a privilege he refuses to take for granted— however his speed did not please you in the slightest. you forcefully tug at his hair to bring him eye to eye, his already fucked out expression proves he wasn’t thinking clearly.

“you are in no position of power to prolong my pleasure, remember that choso.” you warn him cautiously.

he nods profusely seeking your forgiveness, “my apologies m’lady. you just taste so sweet, can i please continue?” you don’t give him an answer instead you tug his face back at your pussy.

he moves his tongue vigorously with confidence this time, even adding his thumb to rub tight circles on your clit. the room gets even hotter as if the fireplace was roaring it’s scorching flames, breathy groans seep out of choso’s mouth bringing you closer to your release.

for as long as he can remember, choso has always questioned his existence. what sole meaning does he serve on this earth?

but once he sees your face scrunch up in pleasure and thrashing your pretty little head around whilst gently pinching at your perky nipples, everything clicks.

his sole purpose is to serve you. to please you in very aspect of life and in return he gets filled with a warm sense of belonging and love that softly kneads at his usually cold heart.

you cum hard on his tongue with a loud moan that would surely awaken the entire palace.

but at that very moment, choso would only gently lick you clean while being mindful to not overstimulate you, kiss you with devotion to calm you down and help you hydrate yourself.

you are his hopeful source of life that accompanies his woeful death; hand and hand you both complete each other’s soul.

tags: @chososwhoresblog

reblogs and feedback is extremely appreciated !! <3

[storyscribeforthesentiment]

the detective & the dark knight | chapter 12

Summary: Detective Marie Manning, investigating a series of brutal murders in Gotham, crosses paths with the mysterious Batman. As they work together, their mutual respect turns into a deep, passionate bond. Amidst danger and corruption, their unlikely partnership evolves into a profound love, forever changing their lives in Gotham’s dark corners.

Pairing: Batman/Bruce Wayne x f!main character

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings/tags: mentions of gun violence, blood

Chapter List

Marie stood at the stove in Wayne Manor’s vast, quiet kitchen, the stillness of early morning wrapping around her like a blanket. She stifled a yawn, absently stirring the eggs as the weariness from last night’s stakeout clung to her, making her eyelids feel heavy.

She should’ve been exhausted enough to sleep through the dawn, but something in her wouldn’t let her rest, not while Bruce was still out there.

Her mind wandered to the waterfront from the night before, to the adrenaline that had burned through her as she’d crouched in the shadows beside Batman. 

They’d scanned every corner of a local shipyard, waiting for any sign of Sal Maroni’s men, certain they were close to a breakthrough in the Red Lotus case.

But after hours of tense waiting, damp and hidden, they'd come up empty yet again. Maroni had slipped away, like he always did, leaving them grasping at air.

At around 1 a.m., Bruce finally told her to go home. The stakeout was done, and he insisted she should try to get some sleep. Even as she made her way back to the manor through Gotham’s empty streets, she knew Batman wasn’t finished yet. He’d be diving back into the city’s shadows, chasing down loose ends, as he always did.

She couldn’t say the stakeout was entirely awful—after all, she got to spend the evening with Bruce, even if it was in a rundown shipyard. Since that night on the yacht several weeks ago, they’d fallen into a rhythm—working cases and stealing whatever time together they could.

The smell of coffee joined the eggs, warm and grounding, and she poured herself a cup, wrapping her hands around the mug. Sleep wouldn’t come—not until she knew he was home, safe. And so, she found herself here at 5 a.m., in the soft light of the kitchen, cooking breakfast and waiting.

“Looks like I have a fellow early bird in my midst,” Alfred’s warm voice sounded behind her, bringing a smile to her lips. He moved into the kitchen with his usual grace.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, offering him a fresh mug of coffee, steam swirling between them. “Hard to settle in when he’s still out there.”

Alfred took the coffee with a small nod, his gaze kind. “Ah, yes. I remember those first sleepless nights, when he started going out.” He took a sip, his tone warm and reassuring. “He may not always come home in one piece, but he always comes home. I hope that’s some comfort.”

Marie’s smile softened as she nodded. “He’s lucky he’s always had you to come home to.”

“Oh, me?” Alfred scoffed, a glint of fondness in his eye. “I’m just some old, stuffy butler. Now you—he’s truly lucky to have.”

Marie felt a blush creeping up as she opened her mouth to respond, but a subtle beep sounded from a monitor across the kitchen, catching both of their attention.

“Oh, looks like he’s just pulled into the cave,” Alfred said, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow.

Marie’s face lit up, and she was already halfway to the door. “Thanks, Alfred! Don’t eat all the eggs without me,” she called over her shoulder, hurrying toward the Batcave.

Alfred chuckled, calling after her, “Of course, Miss Marie.”

As she slipped down the familiar path to the Batcave, the excitement in her chest grew as her mind raced with a dozen questions about the case.

Marie stepped into the cold, steel-lined elevator, feeling the hum as it lowered her into the depths of the Batcave. As the doors slid open, she took in the sprawling shadows and the soft glow from the computers. Her pulse quickened, and she stepped forward, her eyes searching for him among the dark, familiar shapes.

The Batmobile’s sleek black silhouette came into view, parked and hummed faintly as it powered down. Bruce stepped out, his face half-shadowed by the cowl, exhaustion tugging at his features. He looked up, surprised to see her. His mouth tilted into a smirk as he pulled off the cowl, letting it dangle at his side.

“Look who couldn’t stay away.” he teased, his voice laced with a husky weariness.

Marie crossed her arms as she leaned against the railing. “I thought I’d come down to get the scoop on what went down last night,” she replied casually, though her grin betrayed her excitement.

Bruce arched an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Not at all concerned about my safety, I see.”

Marie laughed as she stepped forward with playful indifference. “Oh, right. That. I guess I’m glad you’re home safe.”

Then, her expression softened, her eyes meeting his with a quiet sincerity. “But really... this city is lucky to have you, Bruce.”

“Just doing my civic duty,” he murmured, his voice softening as she came closer. But as Marie stepped into the light, she could see the exhaustion etched into his face—the faint bruising under his eyes, the slump in his shoulders. He was trying to mask it, standing tall, but the night had clearly worn on him.

She reached for his hand, her fingers lacing through his, and his grip tightened. Without a word, he pulled her into him, his other hand resting at the small of her back, drawing her closer. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the weight of the night pressing on him, but he didn’t pull away.

Marie looked up at him, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw, her gaze searching. “Are you okay?” Her voice was gentle, yet the concern was clear in her eyes.

Bruce hesitated, his brow furrowing just slightly as he pulled her in tighter, as if grounding himself with her touch. “You know I can handle it,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, but there was a softness there, a crack in the armor. “But it’s a hell of a lot easier when I know you’re here waiting for me.”

Before she could respond, his lips met hers—soft, almost reverent—as if the world could disappear for just a moment while they held onto each other.

When they finally pulled back, she brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead, smiling as she saw him look a little less tired, a little more alive.

“Not too tired to spill some case details, are you?” she whispered playfully, her hand resting on his chest.

He chuckled, rolling his eyes. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

His hands lingered on her waist as he led her over to the massive desk at the center of the Batcave. Monitors filled every inch of the surface, each one displaying different feeds, crime reports, and city surveillance footage.

The soft hum of the machines blended with the low, rhythmic sound of Gotham’s heartbeat—chaotic, relentless, but strangely comforting.

Bruce sank into the worn leather chair, his posture still stiff. Without missing a beat, he reached out and pulled Marie into his lap, her back against his chest. As she settled there, she could feel the tension in his body—every muscle tight and coiled. But as she settled against him, her presence seemed to ease some of that weight.

His shoulders relaxed, his grip on her waist gentler than it had been moments before. Despite everything, there was a softness in the way he held her, the calm of her touch slowly unwinding the tension he’d been holding on to.

Bruce’s gaze swept over the screens in front of him, eyes narrowing as he analyzed the data. “Maroni’s getting reckless,” he muttered, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard to pull up reports from the latest crime scenes. “This morning, he had one of his guys take out an entire group—probably former mob members. They were murdered in cold blood. I didn’t get there in time.” His jaw tightened, and his voice dropped. “The bodies were... messy. He’s not even trying to cover it up. It’s like he’s completely gone off the rails.”

Marie gently rested her hand on the armor of his forearm, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. She’d seen the horrors in Gotham, but hearing the raw emotion in Bruce’s voice, the frustration and failure, made her chest ache.

“Seems like he’s trying to send a message,” Bruce continued, his tone hardening. “He’s trying to take control of everything, wipe out anyone who gets in his way. I don’t know if it’s power or paranoia anymore, but it’s getting worse. The city’s falling apart, and he’s at the center of it.”

Marie’s eyes met his, and for a moment, the weight of it all seemed to hang in the air, pressing them both into silence. Then, after a moment, she turned and cupped his face, her fingers brushing over the tense line of his jaw.

“We’ll stop him,” she said softly, but with certainty.

Bruce didn’t respond right away. Instead, he just leaned into her touch for a moment, as if taking some comfort in her belief.

“We need to get some rest,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Then we’ll figure out the next move.”

They got up and Bruce pulled at the buckles of his armor, each strap heavier than it should’ve been, his movements slow and deliberate. The night had taken its toll, and even shedding the suit felt like a chore.

As he peeled back the thick plates, Marie caught sight of fresh bruises blooming across his side, deep purples and reds spreading over his skin. She reached out instinctively, her fingers tracing lightly over the dark marks. He winced, breathing out a low hiss.

“Double-barrel shotgun,” he muttered, half in a growl. “Didn’t go through the armor, but the impact…” He shook his head, grimacing as her hands continued their gentle inspection. “Hurts like fuckin' hell.”

Marie’s touch softened even more, her fingertips brushing over the bruised skin with care. “You’re lucky it didn’t do worse,” she said, her voice a mix of worry and relief. She lingered there for a moment, her hand on his shoulder, grounding him as he exhaled and leaned into her, letting the weight of the night finally fall away.

Together, they headed up to the house, and the morning light filtering through the windows seemed almost foreign after the time spent in the Batcave. They moved through the house in silence, as if simply existing next to each other was enough for now.

Upstairs in the kitchen, Alfred had added pancakes and fresh fruit to Marie’s eggs, setting out a hearty spread. But after the long night, neither she nor Bruce had the energy for conversation. They sat together without speaking, heads down as they dug in, the food disappearing quickly. The quiet was comforting, each of them lost in their thoughts, the stillness of the early morning wrapping around them.

Later, after breakfast, they found themselves in the shower together. The warm water cascaded over them, steam rising as they rinsed off the remnants of the night’s work. Bruce’s hand rested gently on the small of her back, his fingers brushing her skin.

The silence between them was comfortable, but not empty—each touch, each brush of lips, spoke volumes. Marie leaned into him, her fingers tracing the lines of his chest as he slowly washed the soap from her hair.

He kissed her temple softly, a small, lingering peck, and she responded by placing a tender kiss on his jaw, her hands gliding over his back. The world outside the bathroom felt a little farther away as they stayed in the warmth of each other’s embrace.

When they finally emerged, the world still waiting for them, there was a fleeting sense of peace in the air, as if for a moment, they didn’t have to be Batman and Marie, but just two people, together. And that, for a few moments, felt like enough.

—-------------------------------

The squad room at the Gotham City Police Department buzzed with the low hum of voices and the occasional clatter of filing cabinets. It was early morning, and the air was already heavy with the mix of stale coffee and stress that seemed permanently etched into the precinct’s walls.

Detectives and patrol officers filed into the conference room, their conversations trailing off as Commissioner Gordon took his usual spot at the head of the room.

“Alright, listen up,” Gordon began, his voice cutting through the noise like the sharp edge of a blade. It was his usual speech, a rundown of Gotham’s current crime wave that reminded everyone just how thin the line between order and chaos really was. “This new string of robberies on the East Side isn’t anything we haven’t seen before. But that doesn’t mean we get complacent. Detective Bullock, Detective Flask—you’re both on it. Let’s keep this city safe, team.”

Marie stood near the back, sipping her coffee and quietly observing the room. The worn wooden chairs, the flickering overhead light, and the distant sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the building were as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

She leaned against the wall, letting the voices of her colleagues blend into the background as her mind wandered. In a city like Gotham, trust was a rare commodity, and as she scanned the room, she couldn’t help but wonder how many of the faces she saw were secretly on Falcone or Maroni’s payroll. 

When the meeting adjourned, the room emptied in a shuffle of papers and tired footsteps. Marie lingered, gathering her thoughts as she let the usual precinct chaos wash over her. Phones rang, officers bantered, and the distant hum of the city outside seeped in through the cracks of the old building. She eventually made her way back to her desk, her mind already shifting to the grind ahead.

The morning passed in a blur of paperwork. Marie sat at her desk, the hum of the precinct around her fading as her mind wandered back to the morning.

She thought about the warm shower she’d shared with Bruce, the way they’d tangled together under the steamy water, not wanting to break the quiet comfort of it.

They’d stayed in bed longer than they should’ve, wrapped in each other’s arms, her head resting against his chest as the first light of dawn crept through the blinds.

When the alarm had blared at 7 a.m., she’d had half a mind to turn it off, curl back up with him, and forget about everything else. But she knew she had work to do, even if it was hard to leave the peace they’d found in those quiet moments.

Marie smiled to herself, a soft warmth spreading through her chest as she thought about how it felt to be back with Bruce. Despite the chaos of Gotham and their complicated lives, being with him made everything feel right, like all the pieces were falling into place.

With a sigh, she straightened in her chair and tried to refocus. The morning ahead was already full, and the crime in Gotham didn’t care about stolen moments or tired hearts.

By mid-morning, Marie found herself face-to-face with a supposed victim of a robbery—a wiry brunette with sunken cheeks and a jittery demeanor that screamed trouble.

The woman sat across from her desk, arms crossed tightly, one leg bouncing incessantly. Her eyes flitted around the precinct, never settling on one spot for too long.

“Yeah, it shook me up pretty fuckin’ badly,” the woman began, “The masked guy—he held a gun to me, wanted my purse. Little did he know there wasn’t more than twenty bucks and a coupon for a free slice at Lorenzo’s.”

Marie kept her tone professional, though she already felt the headache brewing behind her eyes. “Did you get a good look at him? Anything distinguishing?”

“No,” the woman snapped, her fingers tapping against her arm. “He had one of those dumb ski masks, okay? But then… then he showed up.”

Marie’s fingers paused on her keyboard as she looked up. “Who’s ‘he’?”

“You know,” the woman said, waving her hand like it was obvious. “Him.”

Marie arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

The woman rolled her eyes dramatically, her thin frame practically vibrating with irritation. “Oh, come on. Don’t make me say that goddamn silly nickname this city calls him. That bat freak. Batman.”

Marie nodded, suppressing the urge to smile.

“Yeah, he swooped in all high and mighty,” the woman continued, her tone sharp with sarcasm. “I figured he’d help, but, I don’t know, maybe he was busy or something. Took his damn time getting there. The fucker had already poured my purse out by by the time the bat flew in.”

Marie tilted her head, caught off guard by the complaint. “Pretty lucky he showed up at all,” she said evenly. “Otherwise, you might not be sitting here right now.”

The woman’s lips curled into a sneer, her eyes narrowing. “Lucky, huh? Real lucky that some guy in a leather costume decided to save me from losing a wallet with twenty bucks in it. If you ask me, the whole thing was sketchy.”

Marie let out a slow breath, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she’d regret. “ Any other details you want to add?”

The woman leaned back in her chair, her leg still bouncing. “Nope. That’s all I got, Detective. Can I go now?”

Marie nodded stiffly. “You’re free to go. Thanks for coming in.”

The woman rose with a jerky movement, shooting a last suspicious glance around the precinct before sauntering toward the exit.

Marie leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly as she rubbed her temples. The interaction left her somewhere between amused and exasperated. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard before she gave up, pulling out her phone instead.

Scrolling to a familiar name, she tapped the call button. As the phone rang, she realized just how much she needed to hear his voice.

Bruce picked up almost immediately, his voice warm and soothing. “Hey, everything okay?”

Marie smiled despite herself, keeping her voice low. “Yeah, all good. Why do you always assume something’s wrong?” she teased lightly.

“You never call me when you’re working,” he replied, a faint chuckle coloring his tone. After a beat, he added playfully, “Well, you never call Bruce, that is…” The rich sound of his laugh traveled through the phone, easing the tension that had built in her shoulders.

She leaned forward on her desk, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not urgent. Just… I’ve been thinking about how ungrateful Gotham’s citizens are for Batman.”

“Oh?” He sounded amused. “Care to elaborate?”

Marie rolled her eyes, though there was a hint of affection in her tone. “I just spent twenty minutes listening to a woman complain about how you ‘took too long’ to save her from getting mugged. Apparently, you’re some weirdo in leather with too much time on his hands. Her words, not mine.”

There was a beat of silence before Bruce’s laugh filled the line—a rare, genuine sound that made her grin.

“Too much time on my hands?” he said, his voice rich with humor. “Maybe I should take up knitting. Think Gotham would appreciate that more?”

Marie snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, I don’t know. They’d probably complain that your scarves aren’t long enough or that the yarn’s too scratchy.”

Bruce chuckled again, the sound low and warm. “It’s a thankless job,” he admitted after a pause, his tone softening. “But that’s not why I do it.”

Marie felt her chest tighten at his sincerity. “You’re a better person than most, Bruce.”

There was a brief pause before he replied, his voice warm with quiet affection. “Takes one to know one.”

Her heart softened at the words, her admiration for him deepening.

After a moment, his tone shifted, tinged with concern. “You sound tired. Did you get any sleep last night?”

She hesitated, her mind flickering back to the hours she’d spent waiting for him to come home. “Enough,” she said lightly, though she knew it wasn’t convincing.

“Marie,” he said, his voice dipping into that low, intimate tone that always undid her. “I told you, you don’t have to stay up for me.”

“Why should I get to sleep if you’re out there fighting crime?” she countered, her tone teasing but not quite masking the truth.

Bruce chuckled, the sound sincere. “Because my day job involves sleeping until noon as a billionaire playboy. Yours involves, you know, real work. Important work. The kind that requires sleep.”

When she didn’t immediately reply, he continued gently, guilt threading through his words. “You’ve got enough on your plate without losing sleep over me. I mean it.”

“I don’t mind,” she said softly, and she meant it. “I just like knowing you made it back in one piece.”

Bruce let out a quiet sigh, one that carried both affection and exasperation. “Hey, you know I always will.”

Her heart softened at his words. Leaning back in her chair, she exhaled, the weight of the day lifting just a little. “You don’t need to worry about me, Bruce. I’m tougher than I look.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice gentle. “But I’ll worry anyway.”

For a moment, the silence between them felt warm, grounding her in a way only he could.

“Tell you what,” he said finally, his tone lightening. “When you’re off duty, we’ll catch up on some much-needed rest. Together.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Wayne.”

“Good,” he said, a touch of humor returning to his voice. “Now, get back to work before Gordon starts thinking I’m distracting his best detective.”

Marie ended the call, her heart lighter and her mind steadier. Whatever the day had in store, she felt ready to face it.

—-------------------------------

The afternoon stretched on, the quiet lull of the precinct giving way to the late hours of Marie’s shift. She glanced at the clock, her body already anticipating the end of the day. With most of the department winding down, she grabbed her coat and made her way to the breakroom.

The fluorescent lights hummed softly above her as she poured herself a cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the empty space. She leaned against the counter for a moment, the weight of the day finally starting to hit her. All she could think about was the warm bed waiting for her and the familiar comfort of Bruce by her side.

Marie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, the unknown number flashing across the screen.

“Detective Manning,” she said, her tone firm, bracing for another generic lead or dead-end tip.

The silence on the other end stretched on, then a shaky breath, and in a voice barely more than a whisper: “I can’t keep fuckin’ doing this.”

Her chest tightened. She recognized that voice immediately, even though he hadn’t said his name. There was no mistaking the fear under the familiar tone—Tony Zucco.

Marie looked around the room to make sure no one could hear the conversation, confusion flickering across her face. “Why are you calling me?” she asked, struggling to hide the surprise and the faint trace of concern in her voice.

There was a long pause before he exhaled, his voice barely holding together. “I don’t have anyone else to call,” he murmured, raw and vulnerable, like he was on the verge of breaking.

“Look, just—listen,” he stammered, his voice trembling with fear. “I’m in deep shit here, okay? Maroni… he’s gone insane. He’s threatening families. Not just his enemies—anyone who crosses him or looks at him the wrong way. I’ve got people to protect. I don’t have a choice.”

The desperation in his voice was palpable, a stark contrast to the cocky, untouchable Zucco she’d met before.

Marie’s expression hardened. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you signed up with a psychopath,” she said coldly.

“Damn it, don’t you think I know that?” His voice cracked, and she could hear the strain. “Look, I don’t give a damn what you think of me, alright? Just—Maroni’s setting up another drop tonight. East side docks. He’s moving product, but it’s different this time. He’s avoiding the usual route because he thinks Batman’s gonna be waiting for him there.”

Marie’s pulse quickened. Maroni knew about their stakeouts. That’s why he was avoiding his regular shipment routes.

Zucco’s voice lowered, fear thickening his words. “I’m telling you this because he’s not just coming for me. He’ll go after my family next. Please, you gotta understand, I’m—” His words trailed off.

Marie’s heart raced as she processed the information. “Thank you for the heads up,” she said, trying to keep her tone steady. When Zucco didn’t respond, she pressed, “Are you going to be safe?”

Zucco let out a harsh laugh, almost bitter. “Am I going to be safe? I’m a dead man walking, especially after talking to you. Maroni’s never going to stop. And if he finds me, I’m gonna fuckin’ wish I was dead.”

Marie softened her tone, hoping to reassure him. “I get it, Zucco. I really do. But you have to listen to me—GCPD can provide protection. We can get you into witness protection, change your name, anything you need. We’ll put units outside your house, keep an eye on your family—”

Zucco cut her off with a scoff, bitterness in his laugh. “Yeah? You really think your department is gonna protect me? Maroni’s got most of your cops in his pocket. They’re all paid off to look the other way. You don’t think I know that?” His voice was cracking now, the fear overwhelming his usual bravado.

“I’m not asking you to trust everyone at the GCPD,” Marie said, her voice steady and firm. “I’m asking you to trust me. I’ll make sure Maroni doesn’t get to you or your family. You have my word.” She thought about Bruce, and how she would tell him about this, and knew he would do everything in his power to keep Zucco’s family safe.

There was a long, heavy silence. For a moment, Marie thought he might hang up, but then his voice came through again, softer, almost regretful. “I want to believe you, Manning. I really do. You’re one of the few good cops left, but…” He hesitated, “I can’t. I’ll tell you this though—Maroni’s losing his grip. He’s taking down his own guys. The East Side docks will be your best shot. He’ll be there tonight, with more security. He’s scared. He knows that Batman’s after him.”

Marie’s heart skipped a beat. “I’ll be there,” she replied, her voice firm. “And Zucco… thank you.”

The line fell quiet for a moment, before Zucco’s voice cracked through again, quieter this time. “I hope you can pull this off, Manning. I really do.”

Then the line went dead.

—-------------------------------

Marie’s nerves were on edge as she made her way up the winding drive toward Wayne Manor. The weight of the phone call from Zucco felt like a lead weight in her chest, pressing harder with every step.

Her fingers were trembling as she dialed the code for the gates to open. Once they slid open, she drove the familiar path toward the garage, her thoughts scattered.

Her mind kept replaying Zucco’s voice—broken, afraid, and desperate. He didn’t sound like the same man who punched her in the face months ago, or the cocky, overconfident mobster she had once dealt with. Now, he was just another terrified man trying to save his family.

But there was so much risk. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him, or if Maroni was setting a trap. The possibility that it could all go horribly wrong gnawed at her.

When she pulled into the garage, the doors slid shut behind her. She took a shaky breath before stepping out of the car. She didn’t even take her coat off before she was walking into the house, her heart pounding in her chest. She needed to talk to Bruce.

Marie found Bruce in the study, hunched over his computer, his eyes scanning the screen as he likely sifted through case files or crime reports. He looked both serious and relaxed, the usual intensity in his gaze softened by the casualness of his attire—a plain t-shirt and well-worn jeans.

His hand ran through his hair absentmindedly, a telltale sign that he was deep in thought. When he heard the door click open, his head snapped up, and his face instantly brightened.

“Hey, you’re home,” he said with a warm smile, his voice full of quiet excitement as he stood up, eager to approach her. But as soon as he took in her expression, the smile faltered. His brow furrowed in concern, and his posture shifted, tense. “Marie, what’s wrong?”

Marie felt her heart race, her hands trembling as she made her way toward him. The words were stuck in her throat, and no matter how hard she tried to focus, everything around her felt distant. She couldn’t find the words.

“I know where Maroni’s going to be tonight,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes locked on Bruce, and she could see how he was watching her carefully, noting her unease.

She felt the knot in her chest grow tighter. “Zucco called me. He said Maroni’s going to be at the East Side docks for a drug drop. He’s been avoiding his usual routes, trying to outsmart Batman, but tonight he’s making a move.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly as he processed the information. “That’s a good lead, Marie,” he said, his voice soft but firm, trying to keep things calm. “If we know where he is, we can take him down.”

But Marie shook her head, her hands clenched into fists by her sides. She could feel her nerves rising, her heart racing in her chest. “That’s the thing,” she said, her voice cracking a little. She had to take a deep breath to steady herself. “The last time we came this close to Maroni, Bruce...you almost died. I can’t—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, stepping closer, his hand gently resting on her shoulders, grounding her. His touch was warm, and she could feel the steadiness of him seep into her. “I’m not dead, baby. I’m right here. It’s okay.”

She met his gaze, but the racing thoughts in her mind only made her anxiety worse. “But what if Zucco’s lying? What if it’s another trap? What if we’re walking straight into it, just like last time?” Her voice cracked, trembling with fear as she spoke. Every worst-case scenario played out in her head, and the weight of it all felt suffocating.

Bruce’s expression softened, the ever-present intensity in his eyes taking on a gentler edge. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he said, voice low but resolute. “You know that, right?”

Marie closed her eyes briefly, her chest tightening further as she took in his words. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to feel the certainty that he seemed to have, but the doubt clung to her, stubborn and persistent.

Marie opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his with an intensity that matched his own. “I’m not worried about that,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’m worried about something happening to you.”

The words hit Bruce like a wave, and for a moment, he felt deeply emotional in a way he hadn’t anticipated. She cared, truly cared, about him.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye despite herself. “I’m scared. What if I lead you into something even worse than last time? What if I fail again?” She bit her lip, trying to suppress the wave of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm her.

Bruce exhaled slowly, taking a step closer to her, his hands moving to her arms as he gently held her. “Hey, you’re not failing anyone,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I know it’s terrifying. I know the stakes are high. But I trust you, Marie. I trust your instincts, and I trust that you wouldn’t put me in harm’s way if you didn’t think we could take him down.”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt again,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She pressed her hands to her face for a moment, taking another shaky breath. “I just—what if I’m wrong?”

“You’re not wrong,” Bruce reassured her, his voice soft but unwavering. He tilted her chin up so their eyes met. “You’ve already done more than most people ever would. And you’ll keep doing what you do best—fighting for what’s right. If there’s a chance to stop Maroni, we take it. Together.”

Her breath caught, her chest tightening as she gazed up at him. She wanted so badly to believe him, to trust that everything would be okay. She was scared, terrified even, of what might happen next. But Bruce wasn’t backing down. His confidence in her was unwavering, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself lean into it.

“Alright,” she said, her voice a little steadier now. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to the docks.”

Bruce’s hand touched her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin. “I’ll be with you,” he promised. “You’re not doing this alone.”

Bruce wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Let’s take this fucker down.” he said quietly with a smirk. Marie chuckled and felt the nerves fade.

—-------------------------------

The East Side docks stretched out like a massive, industrial labyrinth, filled with towering shipping containers. The cold air smelled of salt and rust, and the distant groan of the bay mingled with the occasional clang of metal. Dim security lights cast eerie, flickering glows over the maze, giving the entire area an unsettling vibe.

Marie and Gordon moved carefully through the narrow alleys formed by stacked containers, their boots crunching on gravel and grit. The tension was palpable, each creak or echo sending Marie’s hand instinctively to the butt of her gun.

“This place is massive,” she whispered to Gordon, her voice barely carrying over the ambient noise.

Marie’s eyes darted from container to container, her senses on high alert. She knew they weren’t alone. Even though they couldn’t see him, she could feel it—the constant, oppressive awareness that Batman was trailing them from the shadows, ensuring their safety. She wasn’t sure how he did it, but it was impossible to ignore the quiet reassurance his presence brought. 

Gordon nodded, his hand hovering near his flashlight. “We’ll have to split up to cover more ground.”

Marie hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, as if to look for Batman in the shadows.

“Stay sharp,” Gordon added before moving off to investigate a rusted tugboat docked nearby.

Marie continued alone, scanning her surroundings. The containers loomed around her, the shadows between them deep and foreboding. She tightened her grip on her weapon, every sense heightened.

Suddenly, a faint rush of air stirred above her, followed by a soft thud.

“Anything yet?” Batman’s low, gravelly voice came from the shadows to her left.

Marie startled but didn’t jump, masking her surprise. She glanced at him as he emerged from the darkness, his towering frame blending seamlessly with the night.

“Nothing yet,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “Gordon’s checking by the docked boats.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed, scanning the containers ahead. “Stay close to cover. Maroni’s security is everywhere.”

They moved together, their footsteps eerily silent on the gravel. The weight of the case hung between them, unspoken but heavy. In moments like these, Marie tried to focus on Batman as her partner, pushing aside thoughts of the man beneath the mask. She tried to keep her emotions in check, though it wasn’t easy.

The moment shattered when Batman suddenly stopped, his hand shooting out to halt her.

“What—” she began, but he cut her off, “Don’t look.” he said curtly.

His gaze was fixed ahead, just around the corner of a container. The grim set of his jaw made her stomach knot. Ignoring his warning, she stepped forward.

“Detective stop—” Batman began, putting his arm up to keep Marie away, though she peeked around him.

Zucco’s body lay crumpled against the metal wall, his face frozen in a rictus of terror. Blood pooled beneath him, the sharp metallic tang of it cutting through the salty air. His lifeless eyes stared out into the void, his chest adorned with the unmistakable mark of the red lotus tattoo.

Marie’s breath hitched. She felt an overwhelming wave of guilt crash over her, her legs trembling. She gripped the container wall for support, her mind reeling.

“Shit… that’s Zucco,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

She blinked hard, forcing herself to steady. “I should’ve protected him,” she said, her voice breaking. “I promised him I would…”

Batman turned to her, his expression serious beneath the cowl. “This isn’t on you,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Zucco knew the risks that came with ratting on Maroni. You couldn’t have stopped this.”

Marie swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing. She nodded, but the guilt remained like a weight on her chest.

Before she could respond, a voice echoed through the maze of containers.

“Well, look who’s here,” came Maroni’s mocking tone.

Both Marie and Batman turned, spotting the mob boss stepping into view, flanked by several heavily armed men. Maroni’s expensive suit was immaculate despite the grittiness of the docks, and his smug grin was enough to set Marie’s teeth on edge.

“Batman. Detective Manning. Quite the dynamic duo you’ve become,” he sneered, gesturing to his men. They fanned out, weapons raised but not yet firing. “You’re both loose ends I need to tie up.”

“Stay behind me,” Batman growled to Marie, his voice low and dangerous.

Maroni’s attention briefly flickered to Zucco’s lifeless body. “Poor Tony. Guess he couldn’t keep his mouth shut after all. Shame.” He sighed theatrically.

“What’s your game here, Maroni?” Marie demanded, her voice sharp despite her frayed nerves.

Maroni smirked. “Game? No game, Detective. This is strategy. I’m about to wipe the board clean. When I’m done, Falcone will be dead. His men will be dead. Hell, there won’t be much of anyone left in Gotham’s underworld. Just me.”

The tension in the air was thick, charged with the weight of everything that had led them here. Batman and Maroni stood a few feet apart, their words sharp as knives, each weighing the other's next move.

"You’re planning a war," Batman said, his voice cold and hard, like gravel scraping against stone.

Maroni’s lips curled into a smirk as he spread his arms wide, feigning innocence. "Why dirty my hands? I’ll let both sides kill each other off. Falcone’s been getting soft anyway. It's time for someone with vision to take control."

Before Batman could retort, the sound of a gunshot sliced through the air. Maroni pulled a sleek pistol from his coat, his movement swift, but not swift enough for Batman.

The air was thick with the sounds of grunts and fists colliding with flesh. Batman moved like a storm, his body a blur of precision and power as he tore through Maroni’s men.

One attacker rushed him with a wild swing, but Batman ducked low, fluidly spinning and driving a fist into the man’s ribs. The blow sent the man stumbling back, gasping for air. Another thug lunged, but Batman was already on him, his elbow crashing into the man’s face with a sickening crack.

The fight became a swirling mess of chaos—punches, kicks, and bones snapping under the weight of Batman’s relentless strikes. He moved like he was part of the shadows, effortlessly dodging attacks and dishing out punishing blows in return. His fists hit with the speed of a freight train, each strike landing with calculated force, taking down attacker after attacker.

Marie, just a few paces away, was in her element. Her gun never faltered as she picked off Maroni’s men one by one. The first man came at her with a wild swing, but she fired, the bullet sinking into his arm. He dropped like a stone. Another rushed her from the side, but she was faster—her second shot rang out, catching him in the shoulder, and he fell to the ground.

She fired with precision, each shot deliberate and controlled, aiming to incapacitate rather than kill. Her movements were fluid, her focus unwavering as one by one, the thugs dropped to the ground, clutching arms or legs where her bullets had struck.

She was in sync with Batman—two sides of the same coin, taking down anyone who tried to challenge them.

But then, the chaos hit a brief lull. The few remaining men, realizing the fight was slipping away from them, hesitated for a moment. They looked between each other, trying to regroup, but it was already too late.

Batman took the moment to unleash a flurry of kicks—each one landing with brutal efficiency. He landed one to a man’s jaw that sent him flying, another to the side of an attacker’s head, knocking him out cold.

Marie stood at the edge of the brawl, her breathing steady, her gun raised and ready. But the rest of Maroni’s men had either been incapacitated or were retreating, leaving only the mob boss himself standing amidst the fallen.

As the last of Maroni’s men crumpled to the ground, there was a brief, eerie silence. Batman, chest heaving, surveyed the scene. His eyes were cold, scanning for any more threats.

But as he stepped toward Maroni, ready for the next move, a voice rang out—low, dangerous, and mocking.

"Enough."

Maroni’s gun was now pointed directly at Marie. She froze, her eyes widening.

Batman’s fists were clenched, ready to fight, but his attention snapped to Marie, his body tensing as the cold barrel of Maroni’s gun aimed at her.

Maroni chuckled softly, enjoying the control he held over the situation. "You know, Batman," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy, "it’s not about the bloodshed. It’s about compassion." He paused, pacing slightly, gun still pointed at Marie.

"The Red Lotus? It’s a symbol of compassion, of rebirth. I’m giving Gotham a second chance. I’m doing what the old guard couldn’t." He raised his hand as if to emphasize the weight of his words. "What I’m doing is necessary. I’m bringing order to the chaos. I’m saving this city from itself."

Batman didn’t move, his body tensed, every muscle coiled in restraint.

He knew any shift, any movement, could leave Marie exposed to Maroni’s gun. The weight of the situation hung in the air, but Batman remained still, calculating the risk with every breath. 

Maroni smirked, his voice dripping with mockery as he aimed the gun, making eye contact with Marie. “I’m sorry to do this, Detective. Really, I am. It’s been fun, you chasing me around like a little bloodhound. I’ve enjoyed it. But all good things must come to an end. Goodbye.”

Maroni’s smile twisted into something cruel. With a swift motion, he pulled the trigger, and shot Marie in cold blood.

[rotworld]

31: Dark and Stormy Night

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

he comes when the storm does, every bit as furiously, dangerously passionate. he leaves when it dissipates, but he dreams of the day you'll never have to be apart again.

->original work. explicit; contains mild/brief gore, ambiguous consent, manipulation, possessive/controlling behavior.

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You’re not home yet when the rain starts and that makes you nervous. Soft trickle to light percussion to hissing downpour, it carves space for itself in concrete dents and potholes, making rippling mirrors of the dark, lightning-threaded sky. You brought an umbrella but a trailing puddle still follows you down the store aisles like liquid shadow. His footsteps are waterlogged. Damp and heavy, like a shoe sinking into lake mud. You won’t see him if you look back but you’ll catch glimpses in the glass of the deli case when you pass by. Limp, sodden hair, stormy black. Eyes bright like lightning.

The cashier at the front tries to make conversation. You feel guilty about your curt, one-word answers and wandering gaze, trying to look busy and uninterested, but it’s for their own good. He’s right behind you. You feel his damp breath on your neck and the creeping sensation of fingers dragging down your back like cool, trickling water. He gets jealous easily. You paid someone too much attention at the bus stop once, an old work colleague who wanted to catch up, and static crackled startled to crackle on your skin. There was a moment of blinding brightness and flashing heat and smoke, singing, the sizzling stench of burned meat.

She was struck by lightning right in front of you. Not once, not twice, but five times. Dead before she even hit the ground. 

The ride home is excruciating. You watch the wind whip the trees and hear the thunder grow from a distant grumble to a deafening roar. Silvery threads of lightning baste through the clouds in split-second flashes. The seat next to yours is empty. People avoid it because it’s soaked through, rainwater dripping steadily to the floor. It doesn’t puddle where it falls or roll with the movement of the bus. It slides over to you, gathering beneath your feet.

He used to wait for you. You’d come home to find him standing outside, or see his palms pressed against your windows. Time and frustration have eroded his patience. Now he’s everywhere you are once the rain falls and the wind howls, a phantom only you can see. He follows you off the bus, a second set of footsteps splashing behind you. He hovers when you fumble with your keys, palms pressed on either side of you.

“Hurry,” he whispers. “I can’t have you for long.” 

Your lover is frantic when he finally has you all to himself. Here, behind closed doors, he becomes something you can touch. No longer a wisping, dripping thing, he is human or something like it, all the fury and beauty of a storm condensed into flesh and bone. He kisses you hungrily, touches you greedily, writhes against you with passion that has been building for weeks. Deft fingers undo buttons and zippers, stripping you of everything that keeps him from your bare skin.

“I’ve missed you,” he sighs against your mouth. His hands smooth up your body, palming your flesh with awe and desire. “I always miss you. I wish I could stay.” 

You don’t know what he is, where he comes from. You have so little time together and he doesn’t like to waste it on speaking. “I’m what the rain and thunder brings,” he told you once. He loves like the storms he follows, quick and furious and gone again too soon, touching you like he might never get the chance again. 

He wants the curtains drawn, the blinds open. Is he really here, you wonder, or is he out there looking in? He leaves the lights off, everything in darkness until lightning lances the night. The shadows in your room look like storm clouds, churning, streaming past. He wants you under him tonight, kissing down your stomach and spreading your legs apart with his hands. His mouth between your thighs makes you tremble in his grasp.

He doesn’t have the patience for foreplay. Gentle kisses become hungry nips and greedy, ravenous suckling against your sensitive flesh, his grip hard enough to bruise. Your heart flutters in anticipation when he climbs over you instead, slotting your hips together, a hand on his length to guide himself to your entrance. He likes that you enjoy this, that your back arches and your hips buck to accept him and his roughness, his abrasive need. His pace steals your breath.

Thunder rattles across the roof and shakes the windows as he fucks you into the mattress. Nothing he does is enough. He’s always hungrier, always needier. The closeness, chest to chest when he lays over you with your legs wrapped around his waist, doesn’t satisfy him. He ruts into you like he hopes the two of you will meld together and never have to part again, hard and deep and never stopping. Every off-beat, the brief withdraw before he slams into you again, is shorter than the last. He doesn’t want to leave the tight warmth of your body. He’d keep you here forever if he could, eternally enraptured and full of him. 

“Would you come with me?” he asks. A rare question, murmured between labored breaths and moans. “If you could, would you? If we never had to be apart?” 

He scares you. The intensity of his feelings leaves you feeling bruised all the way down to your heart. How else can a storm love than with this all-encompassing, drowning viciousness? He arches over you, presses your bodies together and pumps his hips even faster. The sound of flesh against flesh is loud but not as loud as the rumbling of the sky and the screaming wind. He wants forever. All of him, for all of time. You don’t mean to say yes but his excitement is infectious. His eagerness and unending appetite gets inside you like the rain fills the city’s empty spaces, how it leaves itself behind in puddles and dampness even when the wind stops blowing. 

“I have so much more to give you. Don’t you want that? All of me? Everything I am, just for you?”

You would say anything as long as it keeps him here, pinning you down with his hands and his body and his powerful thrusts. You whine when he withdraws just long enough to shove you onto your stomach, to drape himself along your back and push back inside. Your mind is empty but your body is full as he ruts and grinds into you, whispering temptations in your ear. He was lonely, so lonely, until he saw you. The waiting, the long dry spells in between, haunt him. All he can think about is coming back to you. Touching you. Tasting you. Feeling your body against his. He would stay forever if he could, and don’t you want that? His hands and his mouth and his cock pleasing you? Don’t you want even more? 

“Just one more step,” he moans. “One more. Come to me. One more step and we will never be apart.” His pace slows suddenly and you whimper, pushing back against him. But he’s waning, his movements losing their frantic passion. He thrusts weakly, his breathing soft. You can’t hear the thunder anymore, you realize, or the wind. Just rain in whispered droplets. Something cold lands on your face.

You look up into a gray sky. You stumble, your feet bare and cold and coated in mud. You’re not in bed anymore. You’re outside, catching yourself in the wet grass. You feel feverish and exhausted, your hot skin soothed by the last gasps of wind and gentle rain. Trees sway. Water rushes. You’re not home or anywhere near it. How did you get here? And when? You shiver. Your clothes are heavy with rain, sticking to your skin. You feel lightheaded. Your hands are stuck in cold, wet mud. Your heart skips a beat. 

There’s a river in front of you. Right in front of you. Swollen from the storm and fast-flowing, it could easily sweep you under and dash you against the rocks. If you’d gone even a step further, you would’ve fallen right in. One of your hands is pressed against the sloping back, tangled in grass. Down among the foam-capped ripples and surging waves, you see your frightened reflection staring back at you. 

And him, right behind you. Storm-haired and lightning-eyed, leering at you. From the water? Beneath it? From some other place, peering through? His gaze is cold and furious but you see him breathe deeply, bony shoulders rising and falling. An eager smile stretches across his face.

The next storm will be the worst one.

[starlightkun]

27JSC ❧ teaser [sungchan]

❧ teaser word count: 768 | full fic: 21.3k ❧ warnings: once again everything i know about hockey is from the internet and only for this fic i’m sorry, blood/injury mention ❧ genre: fluff, sooo much fluff they’re sooo in love tbh, quite a bit of hurt/comfort sprinkled in, established relationship, college au, hockey captain sungchan, chronically ill reader (chronic migraines), christmas-y for a couple scenes in the middle, sequel to buzzer beater ❧ extra info: this is the sequel to buzzer beater, which you should definitely read before this one so you know what’s going on! the reader in this has chronic migraines, which i have. when the reader’s migraines, experiences as a chronically ill person, and thoughts about being chronically ill are described, that is me writing directly from my own life. i am not generalizing the lives of all people with chronic migraines/chronic illnesses, but i am sending all my love to any readers out there living with a chronic illness, and here’s a reminder to go take your meds! ❧ estimated release: saturday, december 16, 2023 2:00 p.m. eastern time

“My head hurts,” he announced, sounding downright pitiful.

“Really? Your head hurts?” You pouted at him, getting on your tiptoes to pull down your massive first aid kit from your cabinet.

“Uh-huh.”

“Aw, my poor Sungchannie,” you cooed, setting the huge first aid kit down on the coffee table and popping it open.

The apartment heating had kicked on, so you finally took off your heavy parka and overcoat as well, leaving you just in the base lounge clothes you’d been in before you’d hurried to get dressed with the urgent texts from Sicheng.

First, you tipped a couple of over-the-counter painkillers into his waiting hand, and he knocked them back with a sip from his water bottle.

Grabbing a couple alcohol swabs and boxes of bandages, you asked, “Okay, Hello Kitty, spaceships, or Pokémon?”

“Mm… What kind of Pokémon?”

“First gen. I think it’s mostly Gengars and Psyducks left in there.”

“A Gengar please,” he requested sweetly.

You fished a bandage out, pre-ripping the end of the packaging before setting it on the arm of the couch. Standing in between Sungchan’s legs as he was reclined back on your couch, you leaned over him, very gingerly brushing his hair back from his forehead so you could see the injury better. Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped between the rink and your place, all clotted blood and the start of scabs. Less thankfully for him, you were about to sanitize all of that. Gently turning his head so you could get better light, you tore open the first alcohol wipe and lightly touched it to the very edge of where you thought the wound started. Sungchan’s forehead wrinkled, but he didn’t make a sound. You continued at your task for another second before he finally spoke up.

“Y/N.”

“Sorry, I know it stings, but I’m almost done.” You promised. “I’d go faster but the lighting isn’t great in here, and some of it goes into your hair.”

“Don’t you think you’d be able to see better…” A pair of hands grabbed your hips, encouraging you closer, closer, down, down, until you were straddling Sungchan's lap, a knee on either side of him. “Like this?”

You were about to make a retort, except this tragically did get your own head out of the way enough to stop casting a shadow where you needed. So instead, you looked down at him with an eyebrow raised.

“How injured are you, really?” You questioned, pink-tinged alcohol wipe still in hand.

“So injured,” he fake-whined, settling his hands on your thighs.

“I’m sure.” But you made no move to leave, instead leaning in and getting back to work cleaning up the area.

Sungchan provided no more obvious distraction to you as you did so, seeming content to just smooth his thumbs over your clothed thighs and trace shapes there with his fingers. When you were finally able to see where the skin was split, you frowned, using your fingers to part his hair and inspect how far back it went.

“How long do I have, Doc?” He joked.

“You’ll live, but the bandages aren’t going to help the part that’s in your hair,” you forewarned. “That means be gentle when shampooing while its healing.”

“Sounds complicated. What if I mess it up? I think you should do it for me,” he suggested with a smirk, fingertips playing with the hem of your sweatshirt— well, really it was his sweatshirt, but he’d forfeited it to you some time ago.

“Is there something about getting injured that just turns you into a horndog?” You scoffed. For emphasis, you pinched the sliver of skin on his stomach that was exposed where his own t-shirt had ridden up above the hem of his pants and boxers.

He sat up then, forcing you to lean back to avoid smacking faces, but he just chased you forward until you were nearly nose-to-nose.

“No, there’s something about you being so worried and taking such good care of me that makes me want to show you how much I adore… you… back...” He punctuated the last three words with kisses that went up your neck to your jaw.

You looked up at the ceiling, as if pretending to consider this reason. But the happy smile that was working its way across your lips clearly gave away the fact that your mind was already made up. You snaked a hand between the two of you to push him back against the couch by the chest and hold him there. “Alright, but at least let me put this Gengar bandage on you first, hm?”

⤷ blog masterlist

[rinixo]

divine battle

Din Djarin/Reader | 2.5k | Rated E | afab reader, no y/n, pregnancy, Mand’alor Din Djarin, pregnant sex, pregnancy related body dysmorphia, descriptions of childbirth, descriptions of pain, blood

A short wrap-up to aquae vivae. This has descriptions of body dysmorphia, pain and stress during childbirth, and blood.

a/n: The concept of Mandalorians viewing childbirth as a battle is inspired by Aztec mythology and folklore.

read on ao3

You weren’t exactly trying to avoid it, but it still happens sooner than you expected.

Fatigue. Sore abdomen and breasts. Minor mood swings. All symptoms of an impending menstrual cycle - which never comes.

You keep quiet about it at first. A visit to a med droid confirms your suspicions and gives you a clearer timeline. Just a few weeks in so far. Many months to go.

Laying on the bed, you press soft fingers into the flesh of your stomach absentmindedly, trying to imagine it swollen and round. You’d have to let your clothes out, you realize. Or get new ones. Plus all of the other things babies require.

You don’t know where to even start. You don’t have any family here on Mandalore besides your husband - no one to ask, to confide in.

Din had raised Grogu, but that was different. He isn’t a normal baby. A human baby. Your baby.

The sound of the door opening makes you turn your head to look. Din has arrived, Grogu in his arms. They had been training, based on the paint splattered across the child’s clothes.

“Are you all right?” Din questions, seeing you laid out over the blankets.

You nod. “Yes. Just tired.”

Setting Grogu down, he starts to take off his boots and helmet. “Are you sure you’re not working too hard? You’ve been more tired than usual the past few days.”

“I’m sure,” you reply. He casts you a small frown, which you can’t help but smile at. You like how his lips curve naturally into a soft pout.

Raising your hand, you beckon him closer. “Come here.”

Din obliges you, walking slowly toward your bed. He lets you grab his gloved hand, and you pull him down so that he lies next to you. You entwine your fingers with his, turning your head to look into his dark eyes.

He has such nice eyes, you think. Perhaps your baby would have his eyes.

“You sure you’re ok?” Din asks again. There’s worry in his tone, and you squeeze his hand in reassurance. Are you ok? Yes and no. You’re nervous, anxious, and so full of an emotion you can’t name that you feel like you’re going to burst.

“I’m pregnant.” The words fall loosely from your mouth. You watch his expression - eyes widening almost imperceptibly. A short breath leaves his lips.

“Pregnant,” he repeats, almost as if in disbelief. You nod. Tears prick the edge of your vision, and you’re not sure why. Hormones, maybe?

He glances down at your bare abdomen. Removing a glove, he places his palm over you, warmth emanating from his skin into yours. The two of you stay like that for several silent minutes.

“A baby,” he murmurs, and there’s so much awe in how he says it. “Our baby. You’re pregnant.” He looks up at you, and you see the loving determination in his gaze. It makes you feel braver.

“I don’t know how to be a parent,” you confess, looking for support. Din’s eyes soften, and he kisses your lips, the tip of your nose, and the sides of your eyes where tears glisten.

“We’ll figure it out together,” he promises.

—

News of your pregnancy is slow to travel. It’s several months before you start to show noticeably - several months before you can no longer get away with wearing baggier and baggier clothes to cover it up.

It starts with low murmurs in the palace. Idle mumbles of congratulations, which you smile at and hurry past. It’s not that you aren’t happy or excited - sometimes it feels like your heart is going to burst from it all - but you’re nervous. Having a baby is a big deal. Having the Mand’alor’s baby is an even bigger deal.

Din is your constant shadow, unwilling to leave you alone or unguarded for any amount of time. When he absolutely can’t be at your side, he assigns his most loyal and highly trained guards to escort you.

After one incident when a guard doesn’t even let you open a jar yourself, you snap. That evening you sit your husband down and explain that you aren’t helpless and that while you appreciate the concern, it’s becoming more of a nuisance than a help.

Those big brown eyes look up at you forlornly. He agrees to tone it down, pulling you closer by the waist. He kisses the growing swell of your stomach through your linen shift as you pat his soft hair lovingly. You can’t stay mad at him.

The midwives had told you that it would be normal for you to experience an increased libido as time went on. However, it was Din who was becoming more and more insatiable with each passing day. Whether it was lathing over your breasts or buried between your legs, there was scarcely a night where his mouth wasn’t on you somewhere.

Din murmurs idolization into your stomach, and you bite your lip at the feeling of his scruff on your sensitive skin. Laying you back on the bed, he spreads your legs open and kisses softly from the summit of your bump down to where you’re swollen and waiting for him. He has you coming undone with just a few wide laps of his tongue, praising you the whole while.

He tells you how good you taste, and how sensitive you are to his touches. You feel like a goddess being worshipped with how he revels in your changing body.

It helps you on the days you feel detached from yourself. You examine yourself in the full-length mirror, propped up in your closet. Pulling your top up, you cup your round stomach with both hands, turning to view yourself from a side angle.

Din finds you there, brows furrowed in thought. “Everything all right?” He asks.

“I don’t recognize myself,” you murmur. As your body changes, you struggle with seeing yourself in your reflection. It’s made worse by people commenting on how you look - how big you’re getting or how the way your stomach sits means you’re carrying a boy or a girl or whatever other wives’ tales people come up with. You’ve taken to avoiding the court as much as possible as your due date draws nearer.

Din comes up behind you and places his hands over yours, thumbs stroking lovingly over your soft skin. He places his chin on your shoulder, looking at your reflection in the mirror. You lean your head against his.

“I see a woman carrying my child,” he soothes. “A woman who grows more beautiful by the day.” He places a soft kiss to your hair, and you give him a small smile.

—

Something happens on the southern continent, something that his military advisors say requires Din’s attention. At first, he refuses to go, citing your nearing due date.

“Just go,” you insist. “We’ve got a few weeks left. You’ll be back before you know it.”

“I’d never forgive myself if I missed the birth of our child,” he presses. “If I wasn’t there at your side.”

“I’ll hold it in,” you counter, and that gets a huff and a smirk from him.

He grumbles but acquiesces. You wish him good luck and tell him you love him, watching him and Grogu take off in his starfighter.

You waddle back to your chambers, looking forward to getting off your feet. Everything aches recently, and resting in your soft bed surrounded by an ever-increasing mountain of pillows is all that soothes you. Din had teased you about it, feigning exasperation at his disappearing real estate, but dutifully fetched you more and more pillows.

You wince at a sharp pain in your back. It’s nothing to be concerned about, you tell yourself. You’ve got all kinds of pain, in more than just your back. It would be ridiculous if you went into labor the same hour Din left the city -

Another sharp pain and you start to feel clammy. Something feels wrong, innately wrong. The pain doesn’t dissipate, and you have to sit down on a window ledge before your legs give out.

You tap on your wrist communicator, sending a message to the med droid and midwife with your location.

There’s a dampness between your legs. Did your water break? You can’t see past your stomach, so you reach down to touch and feel faint when your hand comes back smeared in blood.

“No no no,” you mumble. “Not yet, please not yet - not right now, your father’s not here.”

Another roll of pain is the only answer, and you choke back a cry. The last thing you remember before your vision goes black is the hurried drone of the med droid arriving, and being lifted in strong, familiar arms.

You come to in a private med bay as Din lays you down carefully. He snaps at the med droid trying to squeeze in next to him, and the midwife snaps back at him and tells him that, Mand’alor or no, if he wants to stay he has to move so they can do their job.

He moves to kneel next to the bed, moving your hair out of your face gently. You sigh as the midwife injects you with something that begins to make the terrible pain subside.

“How are you here?” You murmur, turning your head to look at Din. His eyes are wide, and you can see fear in the way he searches your face.

“Grogu,” he whispers. “He started to cry, and I just - I had a really bad feeling.”

“Hush now,” the midwife announced. You looked up at her helmeted face. “You need to save your energy, young warrior.”

“M’not a warrior,” you choke out.

“You are,” the stern woman insisted. “In our culture, childbirth is conceptually equivalent to battle. You are going to fight and struggle as you labor to bring your child into this world, and if you are to emerge victorious you will need all of your strength.”

A deep ache gets past whatever pain reliever you have in your system, and you curl up with a low groan. Your hand dashes out to grab Din’s, and you clench it hard as the contraction rolls through you.

“You can do this,” your husband says firmly. “I am here with you, my love.”

It’s not a quick birth. The midwife says something about complications, but you can barely think through the pain and the instinctual need for your body to just push. Din does not leave your side for a moment through the entire process, which lasts well into the night.

At last, your screams are answered by the wail of your daughter as she enters this world, and you collapse back onto the sheets. She’s placed, wet and screaming on your chest, and you barely have a chance to croak out a ‘hello’ before your vision goes black again. —

Low murmuring, like a lullaby, draws you from your sleep. Your eyes open slowly, vision blurry, and you see a broad figure sitting next to you holding a bundle of blankets in their arms.

You shift, getting the attention of your husband. Din looks up at you, a gentle smile on his curved lips. He glances back down at the bundle. There’s adoration in the way his eyes shine, like nothing you’ve ever seen from him before.

“Your mother’s awake, little one,” he hushes. You blink, trying to break out of your hazy mindset. “Would you like to try meeting her again?”

He moves carefully toward you and settles next to you on the bed. You sit up, eyes wide and curious, eager to see the face of the child you’d been carrying for all these months.

She’s asleep, and you’re delighted to see that her lips pout the same way Din’s do. She has a tuft of dark hair, and ten perfect little fingers and toes.

“Hello,” you whisper. “Hello, Rila.” Din leans over and transfers your daughter into your waiting arms, wrapping his arms around the both of you and holding you close.

“She’s beautiful,” you say dreamily. Din presses a soft kiss to your hair.

“Like her mother,” he agrees. You glance up at him, a watery smile on your lips.

Rila yawns, and blinks, and your heart sings when you realize that she does have her father’s eyes.

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Midnight Masquerade - Invitation

Summary: You receive a mysterious invitation to an equally mysterious costume party off-world. While you don't normally do things like this, you're glad you decided to attend this party, especially once you realize what you stand to gain.

Warnings: reader is a monsterfucker; monster!clone au; unexplained Force magic potions; alcohol consumption; this intro is pretty tame but minors DNI regardless; individual chapters will be tagged with specific kinks and additional warnings

Word Count: 2.8k

MDFM's masterlist | Suggested listening for this series

You’d been distracted all day, mind fixated on the mysterious invitation and accompanying note you returned home to last night. A simple rectangle of orange paper, the invitation’s words spun dizzying circles in your mind: “Come not as you are...but as you wish to be.” The note, signed simply from “your favorite trooper,” explained that the proclaimed “midnight masquerade” is for a costume party to be held today, off-world—but that’s the extent of the information you know. 

Maker, you don’t normally do things like this. Granted, you don’t often have time to do things like this; working as a senatorial aide leaves much to be desired in terms of a healthy work/life balance. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’ve been feeling stuck lately, wishing for something greater, something better, something more, to happen to you.

Which brings you here, to the mystery destination. The ship you’d chartered on Coruscant had given you a gorgeous view from space of this planet, a giant crystal ball, glimmering pastel blue in the light of the local star. Up close, though, the landscape is even more breathtaking. Towering spires of crystal glow from the inside in shades of white, blue, and purple. As you step tentatively toward the nearby town, the ground crunches underfoot, as though you walk over a field of tiny crystals. Jaw hanging open, a rush of awed excitement pours through you, electric and hot. 

The town itself looks almost out of place. Curving durasteel and plaster walls clash in harsh juxtaposition with the natural landscape. So far, you’ve seen no signs of other people or the planet’s native inhabitants. Swallowing thickly, you do a full 360. Anxiety begins to churn in your stomach. Thoughts, each darker than the last, chase each other in circles in your mind. In your palm, you clutch the invitation so hard it crumples.

“Hello there,” a singsong, ethereal voice calls.

“Kriff!” You nearly jump out of your skin. 

“I did not mean to startle you,” the voice says. A moment later, a tall, slender being emerges from behind one of the nearby pillars. Skin almost the same shade of blue as the crystal, they smile at you with such otherworldly beauty that you find you can’t breathe properly. Standing easily ten feet tall, they seem to glide forward, robes of pure black draping over their body like shadows, iridescent hair cascading down their back.

“Do you carry an invitation?”

You blink dumbly. “Um. Y-Yes. Here.” You hurry to smooth out the piece of paper before presenting it.

Their cloudy eyes drift serenely down to the paper. “Excellent. Right this way. There are many who have already arrived.”

Turning, they begin to meander towards town. You rush to catch up. As you approach the cluster of buildings, you notice signs of the party that was promised. Bassy music thrums up through the soles of your feet, and the scent of mulled cider tantalizes your nose and taste buds alike. But still a worm of anxiety wriggles within you. 

“Sorry, but, what exactly is this party?”

The strange being’s gaze caresses your face. “It is a most sacred ceremony in celebration of life, during a time in which death is closest. The spirits grow restless; we do our best to placate them through dressing in costume, among other things.”

As a senatorial aide, you’ve had many years’ practice of schooling your expression into polite neutrality. It’s a mask you wear well. You find yourself donning it now. While you don’t discount the possibility of veils between planes, spirits, and the like—not to mention the Force, not with the Jedi constantly in the Senate—you personally harbor no such beliefs. 

“Understood,” you say. 

The being chuckles, a pleasant, tinkling sound, like a wind chime in the evening breeze. “Not yet. But you soon will.” They glide to a halt in front of a large building, from which the sounds and smells of merriment emanate. “Here I leave you.” 

In the time it takes for you to approach the door and turn back to thank your guide, they’ve vanished. A shiver snakes up your spine. “Creepy.”

The blaring, synth-rock music is a physical force to the chest as you push the door open. Where the landscape outside is a swirl of crisp, crystalline blues, the interior is a foggy expanse lit by hues of rich violet, burnt orange, and vivid green. Gnarled, bare trees dot the large room as decoration. Several dozen high-top tables cloaked in tattered cloths are laden with food and drink. 

Perhaps most striking, though, are the dozens upon dozens of troopers in costume. 

Door falling shut behind you, you can’t contain your wide, incredulous smile. As you begin to step toward the dance floor, you catch sight of Mayday, Hexx, and Veetch adorned in identical Frankenstein’s-monster-like face paint. Through a break in the crowd, you spot Kix carrying far too many shots in one hand, dressed as—a slutty nurse? You blink to make sure you saw that right.

Interspersed throughout the crowd are a handful of other nat-borns. You recognize none of them.

Someone grabs your arm. Jerking your head around, you heave a relieved sigh at the familiar sight of Rex. Atop his head rests a wire halo. His body is dressed in a loose, draping white toga, with fluffy white wings protruding from his back.

Your eyebrows shoot up, both in amusement and in genuine joy to see your friend. “Rex! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I lost a bet,” he admits with a cavalier smile. “Come on, we’ve got a spot saved for you.” 

Chest warming at his words (and definitely not at the glimpse of his partially bare, toned torso), you follow eagerly. Around you, costumed clones chatter away, sip drinks, and just generally appear far more relaxed than you’ve ever seen any of them before.

Near the edge of the room, lower tables have been set with seating and peculiar centerpieces. Glowing from within, the vase-like decorations sprout darkened and decaying flowers, stuck through with glitter bats, cats, and pumpkins—an odd assortment for a crystalline planet, but you’re distracted from the thought when you spot the table Rex leads you to. 

“When you said ‘we,’ I thought—”

“Torrent Company?” He flashes a wry grin over his shoulder. “Not quite. Gotta keep you on your toes, mesh’la.”

Squished around a table that is far too small for all of them are another ten troopers. Present are the entirety of Clone Force 99—a rare sight to see them sitting still; Commanders Cody, Wolffe, and Fox—your knees weaken when you realize you’ve never actually seen Fox without his helmet; and, deep in discussion, Fives and Sister, both of whom you’ve developed budding friendships with.

Rex squeezes into the booth between Cody and Fives. 

Jostled by his captain’s return, Fives glances around. His expression brightens when he sees you. “There’s our favorite aide!” he calls. 

Emboldened by his attention, you snag a nearby chair and pull it up to the last bit of free space at the table. To your left, Wolffe arches one severe eyebrow. His skin shines with a gray pallor, and a dark, twisting crown rises out of his curls. Black robes that look suspiciously like General Koon’s wrap around his body. To your right, Echo, dressed to the nines in a custom-tailored suit with red bowtie, gives you a genuine smile and nod. The rest of the troopers cheer or raise their glasses to you, welcoming you to the party.

“About time you showed up,” Fox deadpans. 

Someone pushes a shot into your hands. “What, didn’t think I’d miss getting blackmail material on you all, did you?”

As the others whoop and holler, Fox fixes you with a flat stare; around his eyes glint realistic scales, painted the same hue of red as his armor. Segmented horns curl up from his graying hair. As he lifts his drink to his lips, you catch the tiniest nod of appreciation from him. Your entire body flushes in satisfaction. 

Maker, this bunch is going to be the death of you.

You let yourself get swept into the current of the conversation. For the most part, you content yourself to listen. Occasionally one of them will ask you for input from a senatorial perspective, and they all seem to value what you have to add. But you’re more than happy just to observe. While each and every one of them are absolute stunners in regular life, tonight they all look divine, glowing with relaxation and costume makeup.

Most of their costumes are easy to parse together. Rex and Cody seem to have coordinated, Cody dressed as a devil to counter Rex’s angelic nature; Hunter has opted to dress as a werewolf halfway in the process of transforming; on Crosshair’s neck you spy two pinpricks of fake blood; Tech has donned a blood-spattered lab coat and swapped his usual yellow-tinted glasses for swirled ones; and the scales on Fox’s bare skin reveal his inner dragon. But you can’t quite pin down what Wrecker, Echo, Sister, Wolffe, and even Fives have dressed as.

With a shrug, you assure yourself you’ll find out at some point. 

You knock back the shot at last and grimace as it burns down your throat. Cody slides you another with a dangerous wink; you raise an eyebrow and shoot him a wink of your own. The deep, pulsing thrum of the music washes through you, and you let it control the rate of your heart. And you miss, or perhaps choose to ignore, the lingering looks they all give you, the ones that trail down your body and study your face with equal intensity. Heat, stoked by their looks and the liquid courage, simmers below your skin. 

The barest hint of an idea begins to form in your tipsy, buzzing brain. 

When Fives shoots you a conspiratorial smirk, raising his glass in a toast to you, you enact the half-formed plan. From the cluster of finger foods at the center of the table, you pluck a skewered olive, lift it to your mouth, and, eyes boring into Fives’s, make a show of licking the salty snack before wrapping your lips around it. Fives sputters and chokes on his drink. 

“Mesh’la,” Wolffe grits out, a warning note in his gravelly voice.

You turn wide, innocent eyes on him. “Something the matter, Commander?”

His grip on his glass tightens, to the point you worry he’s going to shatter it. Resisting the urge to wilt under his mismatched glare, you snag another olive and suck it into your mouth in much the same manner as the first. Wolffe breaks first, glancing away.

Around the table, the rest of them shift in their seats, acting like they didn’t all just watch you practically give head to those poor olives. Stifling a smirk of your own, you lean back, satisfaction lingering in your veins. After a moment, the conversation resumes its ebb and flow around you.

You’re not sure how much time passes before the music quiets and a dreamy, floating voice comes over the speakers. “Revered guests, now is the time for you to decide whether you will cross the shadowed veil and experience another form of living. Potions will be provided for consumption. You may notice that you become more than a mere costume. Be assured, the potion’s effects are temporary.

“One final word of caution: in the case of sexual coupling, it is inadvisable for more than one person to partake of the potion.”

A buzz of confused, excited chatter whispers across the assembled crowd. At the mention of possible intimacy, your skin flushes, heart beating rapidly against your ribcage. Whoever had been speaking has just dredged up the unspoken thing between you and every person at your table. An idea begins to bloom in your mind, spurred on by the alcohol in your system, the bone-rattling music, the sweet scent of the fog machines, the looks they’ve been giving you all night. You glance, suddenly shy, and find Rex already looking at you with concern slanted across his brow. With a smile, you relax. 

“I’ll get the potions!” Sister clambers out of her seat and disappears into the crowd. She reemerges several minutes later carrying a tray of shot glasses, each filled with a murky, swirling liquid. You grimace at it when she hands you one.

“We’re supposed to drink this?” you mutter, voice drowned out as the music resumes its previous volume. 

Wrecker sniffs at his glass. “It smells nice. Herbal and fruity.” 

Rex catches your attention again. “Maybe just one of us should try it first.”

You’re about to affirm what a good idea that is, when Cody’s gaze shifts from you to someone behind you. Turning, you watch as one of the Wolfpack downs the thick drink in one go. For a moment, nothing happens, and then his entire body shudders violently. You must have blinked, because suddenly he’s no longer fully corporeal, and instead floats a few inches above the ground, his body and clothes gray vapor and mist. You realize with a start that the entire squad is costumed similarly to Wolffe; he’s the only one wearing a crown.

Next to you, Wolffe heaves a sigh at the same time that Fives and Sister gasp out, “Wizard!” The two of them share a conspiratorial grin, then, clinking their glasses together, throw back the mystery shot.

The same odd shudder-and-blink phenomenon happens to them. In place of Fives’s plastic horns and fabric tail are suddenly real, bony horns protruding from his forehead and a writhing, leathery pointed tail. Sister’s nature-themed costume sprouts living flowers. Her braided hair becomes a mass of vines. 

“It appears that the drink turns you into your costume,” Tech observes, one finger raised.

“I would have never known,” Crosshair snarks. He, too, downs his shot. Skin growing paler, the mock wound at his neck dries into faded scars. When he flashes you a smirk, two pointed canines poke from between his lips. Arousal shoots through you with sudden heat, your core clenching.

One by one, the troopers around you down their potions, until you’re the last one left. Mulling over the announcement, you weigh your options. You’d be a liar if you said you haven’t had a few...indecent thoughts since arriving tonight. But you know none of these troopers would hold it against you if you decided to drink the potion and similarly transform.

Twirling the glass in your fingers, you shake your head to clear it and set the drink on the table. 

“I have a proposition for you all,” you say, leaning forward. You preen a little when you see you have their rapt attention. Confidence surges through you, hot and languid and bold. A smile curls over your face.

“I’ve always wanted to know how a monster fucks.” 

For a brief moment, the table remains draped in silence, punctuated only by the nearby raucous shouts of other clones and the heady, bassy music. Then, all at once—

Tech, always aiming for precision: “Technically, we are not monsters, but rather realistic imitations of them.” 

Crosshair, snarky and smug: “Really think you could handle it, doll?”

Cody, one stern eyebrow raised: “Is that so, mesh’la?” 

Sister blushes a wonderful shade of red, giggling as she reaches up to close Fives’s hanging jaw. Hunter squints at you. In the strobing multicolored lights, his eyes seem to reflect like an animal’s. Only Wolffe and Echo seem to have maintained their composure, though you catch the dangerous smirk toying at Echo’s lips.

As the initial outburst of reactions subsides, Fox snorts, a gasp of smoke puffing from his now-elongated snout. “That sure was a funny way of begging, little one.” 

“I only beg for those who earn it, Commander Fox,” you say, a little too sweetly, judging by the way his eyes—dark and reptilian and piercing—rove your features.

Rex clears his throat, drawing your attention back towards him. Your breath catches; in the chaos of everyone transforming into their costumed selves, you’d somehow missed the finer details of Rex’s new form. The fluffy white wings, formerly attached by elastic, now rest gently against his back, shifting as he adjusts in his seat. Floating above his head, casting his face in radiant beauty, the halo burns in a miniature solar flare. 

“All you have to do is say the word, mesh’la,” he says.

Swallowing, the trickling realization of what you’ve gotten yourself into finally sinking in, you shake your head. You dart up from your seat and rush to a nearby trash receptacle. Thankfully, you don’t have to dig, the object you need resting near the top. 

You return to the table with an empty bottle. Eleven near-identical expressions of dismay and confusion clear as you settle back into your seat and rest the bottle on the table in front of you.

“Let’s let fate decide.” 

You spin the bottle, watching, mesmerized and anxious, as it rotates in a blur, before coming to a rest, its neck pointing at...

...Crosshair

...Fives

...Echo

...Sister

...Tech

...Rex and Cody

...Wrecker

...Fox

...Wolffe

...Hunter

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