#takes a dab out of desperation for pain relief

[dashing-hyphen]

whoagh

[kckt88]

A Dragon's Heart IV

Summary:

Viserra gives birth, the family stick together when an old threat tries to stir up trouble and the day finally arrives when two loves can be together properly.

Warning(s): Angst, Swearing, Child Birth, Mild Violence, Drama, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Smut, Lactation Kink, Oral Sex, (M Recieving), Anal Fingering, Aegon Being A Drunken Idiot.

AEMOND x O.C

Word Count: 7250

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

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

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

Aemond paced relentlessly up and down the corridor, his heart pounding in his chest with every scream that echoed from the chamber where Viserra was giving birth.

Each cry of pain felt like a dagger in his heart, and he cringed, feeling utterly helpless.

"Stop your pacing, lad," Daemon's voice cut through the tension, firm but not unkind. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Aegon, who was sitting nearby with a faintly green tinge to his face, nodded in agreement. "It’s making me sick just watching you."

Aemond barely heard them. His entire being was focused on the sounds coming from the room.

But then, amidst the cries, he heard something that made him freeze in place—Viserra was screaming for him.

"AEMOND"

The door to the chamber opened suddenly, and Helaena’s head popped out. Her usually serene face was filled with urgency. "Aemond-" she said. "-She's calling for you."

Before Aemond could react, both Daemon and Aegon placed a firm hand on his back, pushing him towards the open door.

Helaena stepped aside to let him pass, her eyes soft with understanding.

Aemond took a deep breath and entered the room, the door closing softly behind him. The sight that greeted him nearly took the breath from his lungs.

Viserra lay on the bed, her face pale and glistening with sweat, her silver hair matted against her forehead.

She looked exhausted and in pain, but even in this state, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Without hesitation, he rushed to her side and took her hand. She clung to him desperately, her eyes brimming with tears.

"It hurts," whimpered Viserra, her voice strained.

Aemond swallowed hard, his own eyes stinging. "You're doing so well, Viserra," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"Don't leave me," she begged, her grip on his hand tightening with another contraction.

"I won't-I promise" Aemond promised, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

He wished he could take her pain away, wished he could do something, anything, to help her. But all he could do was be there, hold her, and pray that this would end soon.

Rhaenyra, who was standing on the other side of the bed, dabbed Viserra’s forehead with a cool cloth.

She gave Aemond a reassuring nod, though her eyes were filled with concern for her daughter. "You're almost there, Viserra," she encouraged gently. "Just a little more."

Maester Gerardys, who was positioned at the foot of the bed, glanced up from his work and nodded in agreement. "It’s time to push, Princess."

Viserra groaned in response, the pain almost overwhelming. Aemond could feel every ounce of her strength as she squeezed his hand so hard that it felt like his bones might break, but he didn’t care. He would endure anything to be here for her.

Helaena stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, a comforting presence amidst the chaos.

Aemond grimaced in pain as Viserra’s grip tightened, but he stayed silent, focusing all his energy on being her anchor.

"Keep going, you’re so close," Rhaenyra urged, her voice calm and steady.

"The head is out," Gerardys announced, a note of relief in his voice. "Just one more push"

Viserra gritted her teeth and gave one final, mighty push, using every ounce of strength she had left. The room fell silent for a heartbeat, and then the sound of a baby’s cry filled the air.

Aemond felt tears spill from his eye as he heard that tiny, precious sound.

His whole body trembled as Maester Gerardys carefully lifted the newborn and declared, "A healthy boy”

Viserra reached out with trembling arms, and the babe was swiftly wrapped in a soft cloth and placed on her chest.

She looked down at her son, her expression one of pure, unfiltered love. Aemond could hardly breathe as he gazed at them, his heart overflowing with a profound emotion he had never experienced before.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to Viserra’s temple, then to the baby’s soft head. "You did it," he whispered, his voice choked with tears.

Viserra looked up at him, her eyes shining despite her exhaustion. "We did it," she corrected softly.

Aemond could only nod, too overwhelmed to speak. He reached out, gently touching the tiny hand of his son, who grasped his finger with surprising strength.

As Viserra lay cradling their newborn son, a sudden, sharp pain shot through her, causing her to wince and gasp.

Aemond, who had been utterly entranced by the sight of their child, immediately snapped to attention, his heart seizing in his chest.

"W-What's wrong?" Aemond asked, panic creeping into his voice as he leaned over her.

Maester Gerardys, who had been preparing to clean up, paused mid-action and quickly moved back to Viserra's side.

He pressed his hands gently on her abdomen, his expression growing serious. "There is another babe," he announced, his tone a mixture of surprise and urgency.

Rhaenyra swiftly stepped in and took the baby boy into her arms, moving towards the end of the bed, her face showing a flicker of concern.

Helaena moved to Viserra's other side, taking hold of her free hand, her touch warm and reassuring.

Viserra's eyes filled with tears as she shook her head, her voice trembling. "I can't-I can't do it again."

Aemond bent down, his forehead touching hers, his voice filled with a fierce determination. "Yes, you can," he whispered urgently. "You are blood of the dragon, and you are the rider of Vermithor. You can do this."

But the pain was overwhelming, and Viserra's resolve wavered. She let out a desperate scream, her face contorted in agony.

"I'm going to cut your cock off, I swear!" she yelled at Aemond through gritted teeth.

Despite the situation, Aemond couldn't help but feel a pang of amusement beneath the waves of worry. He squeezed her hand tightly, his voice steady. "Just one more, my love. Push."

Viserra summoned every last ounce of strength she had, digging deep within herself.

With a final, agonizing scream, she bore down and pushed, her entire body trembling with the effort.

The second baby emerged, but the room fell eerily silent. Aemond's heart sank as he exchanged a terrified look with Rhaenyra, who still held their newborn son close.

The fear in her eyes mirrored his own.

Viserra's exhaustion turned to panic as the seconds ticked by, the silence unbearable. "What's happening? Why can't I hear the babe crying?" she cried out, her voice rising in hysteria.

Aemond tried to soothe her, though his own fear was clawing at him. "Gerardys is doing all he can. Please, just stay calm," he urged, though his words did little to ease her growing distress.

Viserra's panic surged, and she began to struggle, desperate to reach her child. Aemond and Helaena had to hold her down to keep her from getting up.

She wailed and sobbed, her cries echoing through the chamber as the moments stretched into an eternity.

Then, at last, a loud, piercing cry broke through the tension, filling the room with a sound that brought immediate relief.

A collective sigh echoed from everyone present as Gerardys looked up, his face relaxing into a smile. "The babe is a girl," he announced.

Viserra let out a shaky breath, her eyes wide with desperation as she extended her arms. Gerardys swiftly wrapped the tiny, fragile girl in a soft cloth and passed her to Viserra, who all but snatched her daughter from his arms.

The baby was so small, even more so than her brother.

Aemond, kneeling beside Viserra, noticed the unusual patterns on their daughter's upper arm and over the back of her shoulder.

The marks were faint, but unmistakably there, a shimmering pattern of muted green and bronze that looked like dragon scales.

Viserra’s eyes, still wet with tears, searched Aemond’s. "Will she be okay?" she whispered, her voice tinged with concern as she gazed at the scales.

Gerardys, who had noticed the markings as well, offered a reassuring nod. "We will need to conduct further examinations, but for now, there doesn't appear to be any immediate cause for concern."

Viserra, her heart swelling with love and relief, smiled down at her daughter. "She is our beautiful little dragon," she declared softly, her voice full of pride.

Aemond looked at his newborn daughter and nodded in agreement, his eye filled with wonder. The girl’s amethyst eyes, so strikingly like her mother's, and her silver hair, she was perfect in every way.

Rhaenyra, still holding the baby boy, carefully placed him into Aemond’s arms. "Here," she said gently, stepping back with a soft smile as she moved to the foot of the bed alongside Helaena, giving Aemond and Viserra a moment alone with their twins.

As Rhaenyra stood at the foot of the bed, she smiled warmly at the sight of Aemond and Viserra with their newborn twins.

The room, once filled with tension and fear, now overflowed with joy and love.

“What shall the twins be called?” Rhaenyra asked softly, her voice gentle.

Viserra, still holding their tiny daughter close, glanced up at Aemond, her eyes shining with love and trust. She nodded, once again giving him the honour of naming their son.

Aemond gazed down at the baby boy in his arms, the child’s delicate features a mix of both his parents.

He thought for a moment, feeling the weight and importance of the decision, before a name came to him.

“Aerys” Aemond finally said, his voice steady and certain.

Rhaenyra smiled approvingly at the choice, and then her gaze shifted to the little girl nestled against Viserra.

“And your daughter?” she asked, her curiosity evident as she looked at Viserra.

Aemond turned his attention to Viserra, who had been gently stroking the soft silver hair on their daughter’s head. “You should name her,” Aemond said, his voice full of tenderness.

Viserra looked down at their daughter, her heart swelling with a mix of pride and affection, she looked up at Aemond, her smile widening as she spoke. “Aerea-in honour of our ancestor”

Aemond smiled and he leaned over to press a kiss to Viserra’s forehead.

“Aerys and Aerea-” he repeated, the names rolling off his tongue with a sense of rightness. “Our beautiful little dragons.”

A soft knock echoed through the chamber door, followed by Aegon’s familiar voice, slightly muffled but full of impatience. “Can we come in yet? We’re dying out here.”

Aemond chuckled, the tension of the moment lightened by his brother’s usual irreverence. “Yes, come in,” he called out, still seated beside Viserra.

The door creaked open, and Aegon was the first to stride in, his face lighting up with joy as he took in the scene.

Daemon followed closely behind, his sharp eyes softening when he saw Viserra, while Alicent entered last, carrying Rhaegar who clung tightly to her, his thumb in his mouth.

“Twins!” Aegon exclaimed, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Congratulations, brother” He gave Aemond a hearty clap on the back, his eyes twinkling with pride and humour.

Daemon moved to Viserra’s side, his expression filled with a rare tenderness as he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Are you ok tala?” he asked quietly, his voice just for her (Daughter).

Viserra nodded, her smile reassuring. “I am,” she replied softly, her voice laced with exhaustion.

Rhaenyra, who had been standing back to give them a moment, stepped forward with a radiant smile.

“I’m incredibly proud of you, Viserra,” she said warmly. “Soon the bells will ring out across Kings Landing to announce the safe arrival of two new royal babes.”

Alicent gently placed Rhaegar at the edge of the bed, her touch tender as she whispered something soothing to him.

But the little boy hesitated, his thumb still in his mouth, his wide eyes brimming with tears as he clung to his grandmother’s skirts.

Viserra noticed immediately, concern flashing across her face. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” she asked softly, reaching out to him.

Rhaegar shook his head, his lower lip trembling as he looked up at his parents. The sight tugged at Aemond’s heart, and he reached out his hand to the boy, his voice gentle and encouraging.

“It’s okay, Rhaegar. You can come say hello to your brother and sister if you want to.”

Slowly, Rhaegar nodded, his little legs carrying him closer to the bed. Aemond smiled reassuringly, guiding him closer.

“This is your brother, Aerys,” he said, his voice filled with pride as he showed Rhaegar the sleeping baby boy nestled in his arms.

Viserra lifted their tiny daughter slightly, revealing her to Rhaegar. “And this is your sister, Aerea” she said, her voice soft and loving.

Rhaegar peered curiously at Aerea, his eyes wide with awe. “She’s small, and so beautiful” he whispered, his voice filled with wonder.

Aemond chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. “She is. And that’s why we’re counting on you to help protect her. Can you do that?”

Rhaegar’s face lit up with determination, and he nodded eagerly. “Yes, Kepa, I will,” he promised, his small chest puffed up with the importance of his new role (Father).

Aemond smiled at his son, then turned to his mother, Alicent, who had been watching the scene with a soft smile on her face. “Would you like to see your grandchildren, Mother?” he asked.

Alicent nodded, stepping closer to the bed. She looked down at the twins, her smile growing as she studied them in turn.

“They are beautiful,” she said warmly, her eyes misting over with emotion. “Aemond was just as tiny when he was born, but he up grew strong-”

Aemond and Aegon exchanged a glance, both struggling to suppress their laughter.

Aegon smirked, and Aemond shook his head, murmuring, “Too easy.”

Alicent raised an eyebrow, catching their exchange, but chose to ignore it.

Instead, she leaned down to press a kiss to Aemond’s cheek, then Viserra’s, before stepping back to admire the twins once more.

As the family gathered around, the room filled with warmth and love, the bonds between them strengthening with the arrival of Aerys and Aerea.

For a moment, all was right in their world.

As the night deepened and the castle fell into a peaceful quiet, Aemond found himself slipping away from his chambers, leaving Viserra, Rhaegar, and the twins in blissful sleep under the guard of Ser Erryk.

He made his way through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, seeking the solace of a drink with his brother.

Aegon was already lounging comfortably with a goblet in hand, his usual smirk in place as Aemond entered. “About time,” Aegon teased, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “I was beginning to think fatherhood had tamed you entirely.”

Aemond rolled his eye but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips.

He poured himself a drink, clinking his goblet against Aegon’s. “To my wife and our children” Aemond said simply, taking a long sip of the rich wine.

Aegon nodded in agreement, then leaned back, his expression turning slightly more serious. “Do you think that Baratheon bitch will cause trouble once the birth is announced? As the realm will still see them as Baratheons”

Aemond’s jaw tightened at the mention of the name. “I’ll die before I let anyone associate my children with that name again,” he said coldly, his voice firm and unyielding.

Aegon chuckled, amused by his brother’s fierce protectiveness. “Look at you, the proud father. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much—well, aside from the night you first fucked Viserra-”

Aemond shot him a glare and retaliated with a sharp elbow to Aegon’s ribs, causing his brother to grunt and laugh even harder.

“You’re insufferable,” Aemond muttered, but the smile lingered on his face.

Aegon rubbed his side, still grinning, and then his expression grew contemplative. “I wonder if our other brother— Dalton, Derran or whatever his name is-will bother to grace us with his presence for this grand occasion.”

Aemond couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s not his name, Aegon.”

“Well, what is his name then?” Aegon replied with a shrug. “He’s not exactly around as much as he should be. Sometimes I think the realm believes we’re the only ones”

Aemond shook his head, amused despite himself. “I’ve sent word to Daeron. Hopefully, he’ll arrive soon.”

“Daeron-what kind of name is that. Hang on do you think our mother had a thing for Daemon?”

“What idiotic notion is that?” asked Aemond.

“Think about it your name is just with the letter at the end, and Daeron is also similar to Daemon” replied Aegon.

“How much wine have you had to drink already-it’s addled your mind” exclaimed Aemond.

“My mind was addled long ago. Come on, a coincidence, I think not” said Aegon waving his hand dismissively.

“So, your suggesting that our pious mother has been secretly harbouring a crush on our Uncle and named her children in his honour”

“Exactly, or it could be worse. What if your Daemons bastard son? I mean you do kind of look like him in certain lights and you act like him as well” said Aegon smirking.

“I do not” snapped Aemond.

“Yes, you do. You even stand the same, you know in that ridiculous hand on the sword pose”

“It’s a precautionary measure, I don’t have to waste time reaching for my sword if my hand is already on it” replied Aemond frowning.

“So, you admit that you always have your hand wrapped around your sword” laughed Aegon raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, get a grip-”

“Isn’t that what you do?” asked Aegon trying to stifle his laughter.

“I will not dignify that question with an answer-We were talking about Daeron coming to visit, not whatever the hell it was you were babbling on about” said Aemond.

Aegon snorted, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “I know-Daeron the Disappeared—that’s what they’ll call him.”

Aemond chided him with a disapproving look. “You’re still as immature as ever,” he said, though the smile playing on his lips betrayed his amusement.

Aegon raised his goblet in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged,” he said, then took another sip, his gaze turning thoughtful. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? That this is where we are now, when just a few years ago, we were on the brink of war”

Aemond considered his brother’s words, the memory of those tense, uncertain days still fresh in his mind. “Do you ever wish you were still King?” he asked quietly, curious about Aegon’s thoughts.

“Gods, no,” Aegon replied almost immediately, shuddering at the thought. “I have no taste for duty, nor do I wish to rule. I’m content with the way my life is now. What about you?”

Aemond took a moment to reflect, thinking of Viserra, Rhaegar, and the newborn twins, and the peace that now surrounded them. “I’m more than happy with my life,” he answered sincerely. “I have my wife and children. That’s all I need.”

Aegon grinned and threw an arm around Aemond’s shoulder, pulling him into a brotherly embrace. “Who’d have thought it?” he mused, his voice filled with a mix of pride and affection. “My twat of a little brother has turned out to be a pretty good husband and father.”

Aemond huffed in response, but there was no denying the warmth in his chest at Aegon’s words.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” muttered Aegon, but Aemond couldn’t hide the smile that crept onto his face.

Aemond swung his sword with precise, calculated force, each blow landing with a satisfying thud against the worn training dummy.

The repetitive motion, the sound of steel meeting wood, provided a temporary escape from the frustrations that had been building up inside him.

He needed a break from the endless stream of visitors, especially from Viserra’s family that had descended upon the Red Keep like a flock of crows, their presence a constant irritant.

He tolerated them only for Viserra’s sake, but there were limits to his patience.

Jacaerys was an insufferable oaf, with bad hair that swaggered around with the arrogance of someone who didn’t know his place. Aemond’s lip curled in disdain at the thought of him.

Luke, though, was the one who truly stirred the anger in his chest. Even after all these years, the memory of that night in Driftmark haunted him—the night Luke had carved out his eye.

Sure, the Strong whelp had apologized, but words meant nothing. The damage was done. His eye was gone, and the pain lingered, a constant reminder of what had been taken from him.

What rankled the most was that he could never gaze upon the beauty of his wife or their children with both eyes, never experience the fullness of their faces in the way he should have been able to.

He imagined, just for a moment, what it would be like to repay that debt—to see Luke suffer as he had suffered. But then the thought of Viserra stilled his hand.

For her, he would stay his wrath. She was the reason he could hold back, the only reason.

Baela, too, was another thorn in his side. Her resentment over his claiming of Vhagar was palpable. Aemond had long accepted that taking the dragon at their mother’s funeral was wrong, but he would never apologize for claiming the great she-dragon.

Dragons were not possessions; they were sentient creatures, beings of intelligence far beyond the understanding of lesser men. Viserra had once told him, "It's the dragons who choose their riders," and he believed that with every fibre of his being.

Vhagar had chosen him that night, and nothing anyone said would change that.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Aemond turned, his hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of his sword.

Luke hovered at the edge of the training ground, an uncertain expression on his face.

“Nephew,” Aemond greeted him coolly, his voice edged with a barely restrained irritation. “Come to train?”

Luke shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. “My skill would offer little challenge,” he replied, his voice subdued.

Aemond hummed, the sound low and dangerous as he sheathed his sword. “What is it you want, my Lord Strong?”

Luke hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under Aemond’s piercing gaze. “Viserra is calling for you,” he finally said, his tone tentative.

Aemond nodded curtly, moving to brush past him. But before he could, Luke spoke again, his voice soft and full of regret. “I am sorry, f-for your eye.”

Aemond stopped in his tracks, the words hanging in the air between them.

Slowly, he turned to face Luke, his expression unreadable. “No apology in the world will make up for what you took from me,” he said, his voice cold as ice.

Luke nodded, the sadness in his eyes deepening. “I know,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond studied him for a long moment, his thoughts churning. “If I were a lesser man,” he said slowly, “I would demand your eye in return. But as much as I hate you, I will not subject you to the same suffering I have endured, as I know a weakling whelp like you wouldn’t be able to handle it”

Luke’s head bowed, the weight of Aemond’s words settling heavily on his shoulders.

Aemond watched him for another moment, then turned and walked away, leaving Luke standing alone in the training yard, the echoes of their conversation lingering in the still air.

A week later, the dinning room of the Red Keep was filled with warmth and laughter as the family gathered for a small celebration in honour of the birth of Viserra and Aemond's twins.

Rhaenyra had gone out of her way to ensure that the feast was perfect, with every detail attended to, from the arrangement of flowers to the selection of the evening's dishes.

Viserra's and Aemond's favourite foods were laid out on the long table, a spread that included roasted game, savoury pies, and rich desserts.

And much to Aegon's delight, the wine was plentiful, with bottles of Arbor Gold and Dornish Red flowing freely.

Viserra sat in a cushioned chair near the hearth, her heart swelling with contentment as she watched the scene before her.

Aemond was across the room, sitting with Rhaegar on his knee and cradling little Aerea in his arm. The sight made her smile; he was a natural with their children, his usually stern features softened as he murmured quietly to Rhaegar and adjusted Aerea’s blanket.

Beside him, Alicent held Aerys, her face aglow with the gentle pride of a grandmother.

Across the room, Rhaenyra and Daemon watched over Aegon the Younger and little Viserys as they played near the fire with Jaehaerys and Jaehaera.

The children’s laughter was a comforting background to the evening, their innocent joy a reminder of the peace that had settled over the family.

Helaena sat nearby with Maelor beside her, chatting softly with Baela, who had her own daughter, Laena, perched on her knee. The two women exchanged stories of motherhood; their conversation punctuated by quiet laughter from the babes in their arms.

Jace, Luke, and Rhaena hovered in a corner, speaking amongst themselves in hushed tones. Although Aemond was aware of them, his attention was focused on his family, the bond he shared with his wife and children more important than any lingering tensions with his nephews.

He was content to let them talk, his heart too full of the love he felt for Viserra and their twins to concern himself with old grudges.

Meanwhile, Aegon was thoroughly enjoying himself, a goblet of wine in hand as he engaged in a one-sided conversation with Daeron.

The younger brother looked desperate for an escape from Aegon’s drunken ramblings, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t seem to break away.

Aemond caught Daeron’s eye from across the room and offered him a sympathetic smile, but it was clear that Daeron would have to endure his older brother's enthusiasm for a while longer.

As the evening wore on, the warmth of the fire and the hum of conversation filled the room with a sense of contentment and security.

Viserra felt Aemond’s gaze on her and met his eye across the room, sharing a silent moment of connection. This was what they had fought for, what they had endured so much to achieve—a family united in love and peace, with their children safe and happy.

Eventually, Rhaenyra rose from her seat, lifting a goblet in a toast. “To family,” she declared, her voice strong and filled with emotion. “To the future of House Targaryen, and to the new life that blesses us.”

The room erupted in cheers, the clinking of goblets echoing through the hall.

As the celebration continued, Ser Erryk entered the room, his expression polite but firm. He approached Rhaenyra and bowed slightly before speaking.

"Your Grace, the Lady Cassandra Baratheon and her husband, Lord Lorian Tyrell, have arrived."

Rhaenyra's brow furrowed slightly at the unannounced visit, but she nodded gracefully.

She noticed Viserra's face pale at the mention of Cassandra's name, and Rhaenyra's eyes briefly flicked to Aemond, who immediately handed Aerea to Alicent.

The twins were placed carefully in a small cot, Aemond’s hand instinctively resting on the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

The doors opened, and Cassandra entered with Lorian at her side. Her expression was a mixture of forced politeness and barely concealed arrogance.

Rhaenyra met her with a calm, polite demeanour, though her eyes were sharp. "A surprise to see you, Lady Baratheon. What can I do for you?"

Cassandra smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "I heard that my former stepmother had delivered twins and was most aggrieved not to have received an invitation to meet them. After all, they are my siblings-by name."

Aemond’s grip on his dagger tightened, the insult clear and deliberate. Viserra, trying to maintain composure, offered a strained apology. "I’m sorry, Lady Cassandra, it was not my intention to offend—"

But Cassandra brushed past her words, moving toward the cot where the twins lay. She peered inside with a smirk, her tone dripping with condescension.

"More silver-haired babes, not a dark hair among them. A shame, really. I never thought the Targaryen genes were really that strong." Her gaze lingered on Jace and Luke, making her meaning clear.

Aemond’s voice was low and menacing as he stepped forward. "Step away from them."

Cassandra turned to face him, her smile widening. "Ah, yes, as always, hovering around. You might want to be careful, my Prince. Someone might think you have more personal reasons for such a thing."

Before Aemond could respond, Daemon stepped forward, his presence commanding. "If you have anything else to say, Lady Baratheon, say it now, or leave."

Cassandra’s smirk only grew. She took Lorian’s hand and announced, "I’m with child—a new legitimate heir for Storm’s End."

Daemon’s eyes narrowed at the veiled insult to Viserra, but before he could act, Rhaenyra placed a hand on his chest, calming him.

"Congratulations, Lady Cassandra, Lord Lorian. If that’s all, you may take your leave."

Cassandra’s smile faltered as she realized she was being dismissed. "I wish to stay for the celebration," she insisted, her tone challenging.

Aemond’s voice was cold, filled with barely restrained fury. "You’re not welcome here."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "And why not? They are my brother and sister, after all. Unless, of course, you want to confess otherwise, my Prince"

The tension in the room was palpable. Cassandra’s eyes flickered to Aerea, noticing the scales on her shoulder where her outfit had slipped down.

Her face twisted in distaste. "What’s wrong with her?"

Viserra bristled, her protective instincts flaring. "Nothing is wrong with her."

Cassandra sneered. "It’s ugly."

Before Viserra could respond, Alicent stepped forward with a fury that surprised everyone.

The crack of her slap echoed through the room as she struck Cassandra across the face.

"Don’t you dare speak such vile things about an innocent babe."

The room fell into stunned silence. Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with a rare approval as she stepped forward, her voice cold and unyielding.

"Leave immediately. I will not suffer any further insults or interruptions."

Cassandra, her hand on her stinging cheek, looked around the room, her expression a mix of shock and fury. Lorian tugged at her arm, guiding her toward the door as they made a hasty retreat.

As the doors closed behind them, Aegon stumbled forward, still clutching his goblet. His voice was slurred but full of intent. "The two of them should be burned for that insult."

Aemond’s eyes narrowed, his tone serious. "Don’t tempt me."

Aegon scoffed, clearly drunk but determined. "I’ll take Sunfyre," he declared, raising his goblet. "-and Dave, you and Tessarion will accompany me. We’ll deal with the pair, no problem."

Daeron, standing nearby, finally stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "My name is Daeron-"

Aegon turned to him with a confused expression. "Since when?"

"Since birth," Daeron replied dryly.

Aemond caught Viserra’s eye across the room. Despite the tense situation, she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Aemond’s lips twitched into a smile as well, the shared moment of levity cutting through the lingering tension.

Later that night, as the castle settled into a quiet calm, Viserra gently tucked the twins into their cradle, ensuring they were comfortable and warm.

Their tiny chests rose and fell peacefully, the soft glow of the hearth casting a gentle light over their delicate features.

Aemond entered their chambers with a soft smile, his expression softening as he saw Viserra caring for their children.

She looked up at him, a tired but content smile on her lips. "How many stories did Rhaegar demand tonight?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb the twins.

Aemond moved closer, wrapping his arms around her from behind. He rested his chin on her shoulder, and they both gazed down at their sleeping babies. "Just the one," he murmured. "He was quite tired tonight."

For a moment, they stood in silence, simply enjoying the serenity of the moment. Aemond’s hold tightened slightly as he turned his head, his lips brushing against Viserra’s ear.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with concern. "If you wish it, I won’t let Daemon take it upon himself to deal with Cassandra. I’ll do it myself."

Viserra let out a small sigh, leaning back into his embrace. "As tempting as that is," she replied, her tone thoughtful, "it’s probably not a good idea. Might be a little too suspicious."

Aemond nodded against her, though his jaw tightened at the thought of Cassandra’s insult. "I swear, if she turns up at our wedding, I won’t hold back," he muttered darkly.

Viserra turned her head slightly, meeting his eyes with a mischievous glint. "If she does, you have my permission to deal with her as you see fit."

Aemond’s expression softened as he nuzzled her neck, his breath warm against her skin. "It’s a promise," he whispered, his voice filled with a protective edge.

Viserra tilted her head slightly to give him better access, her eyes closing as she enjoyed the closeness.

But after a moment, she asked, "How is Aegon? He drank a considerable amount of wine tonight."

Aemond chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her neck. "He’s fine. Daeron saw him to bed."

Viserra let out a soft laugh, turning her head to look at him. "Don’t you mean Dave?"

Aemond grinned, shaking his head in amusement. "Aegon is impossible, but he means well."

Viserra’s laughter faded as she turned fully in his arms, wrapping her own around his neck.

She leaned up and kissed him passionately, her lips lingering on his as the warmth of their love enveloped them both. But after a moment, she reluctantly pulled away, her forehead resting against his.

Aemond’s eyes were filled with understanding and patience as he gazed at her. "I-I’m not yet healed," she whispered, her voice filled with both apology and longing.

Aemond cupped her face gently, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "There’s no rush, my love," he reassured her, his voice tender. "We have all the time in the world."

“I may not be able to indulge in the pleasures of the marriage bed, but I could always treat you-” said Viserra.

“T-Treat me?” gasped Aemond, his breeches becoming uncomfortably tight.

“Well, I see the way you gaze at me as I feed our children, so I’m assuming you would like a taste-” replied Viserra.

Suddenly Aemond became very flustered, his cheeks felt like they were on fire.

“Plus, I’m sure if you taste me, then I shall taste you in return, Issa prūmia” exclaimed Viserra as she undid the ties of her night gown and revealed her swollen breasts (My heart).

“Viserra, I-I-” stammered Aemond.

“Oh, is it not something you want. M-My apologise” exclaimed Viserra her cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment.

Aemond stood stunned as Viserra quickly gathered the front of her night gown and turned away from him, a small sob escaping her lips.

“N-No my love. I want too. I was just surprised by the offer” exclaimed Aemond.

“I-It’s ok. I will n-not o-offer a-again” whispered Viserra, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

With a growl Aemond took hold of Viserra and spun her around, his lips immediately on hers.

Viserra gasped as she felt Aemond hands pulling at her night gown, tearing the cotton fabric in his haste.

“Never-deprive-me-of-you” groaned Aemond against her lips, before he pulled away to remove his own clothes that were soon piled in a heap on the floor.

“N-Not my small clothes” muttered Viserra as Aemond slipped the ruined material off her body.

“I know” replied Aemond as he gently urged Viserra to lay on the bed.

Aemond then descended on Viserra’s soft lips, kissing her, his hands gently caressing her milk swollen breasts.

Aemond released Viserra’s mouth and bent down to lick her nipples, he couldn’t contain his excitement as he went back and forth between her wonderful, enlarged breasts that nourished their children.

“Oh” muttered Viserra as she flung her arms over her face, as pearly white liquid began to leak from her breasts, running down her body in rivulets.

Aemond ran his tongue over the milk that had dripped from his wife’s rosy nipples and delighted in the sweetened taste.

“Hmmm” moaned Aemond as he continued to lick and suckle at her breasts, gorging himself on her milk, his hard cock pressed against her thigh.

His tongue swirling around her stiffened peaks, his teeth scraping against her skin, the sounds of him swallowing.

It felt so good, it felt-

“-A-Aemond” gasped Viserra.

“What is it my love”.

“Don’t stop-please, oh gods-don’t stop” exclaimed Viserra as she arched her back, her cunny clenching around nothing as she unexpectedly climaxed.

“Did you just-peak?” asked Aemond smirking as he released her nipple with a soft pop.

“Yes” replied Viserra, her cheeks tinged pink.

“Well, that’s never happened before. I think I like it” muttered Aemond he moved forward and kissed her passionately, his tongue invading her mouth.

“L-Let me taste you. Please” begged Viserra.

Aemond moved and propped himself against a hastily assembled pile of pillows. His hard cock proudly on display.

Aemond stared down at his naughty little wife, his mouth hanging open as Viserra lightly ran her fingers over him, teasing the glistening head.

Next thing he knew, Viserra’s warm, wet mouth was wrapped around the head of his cock.

Viserra’s tongue ran around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Viserra!” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through his wife’s silver hair.

Viserra ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him.

Aemond’s heart almost stopped when she sucked his stones into her mouth, one at a time.

Her hand moving slowly over the hard length of him.

When she engulfed Aemond’s cock back into her mouth, he squeezed his eye shut.

Aemond forced himself to open his eye, he had to watch his precious wife sucking his cock. 

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl” moaned Aemond.

Her head moving back and forth, her pink lips stretched around him. Oh, it was heaven.

“I’m not going to last if you carry on” Aemond admitted, though it pained him to do so.

Viserra smiled slightly and began moving faster, also using one of her hands in rhythm with her mouth. 

“It feels so good” groaned Aemond.

Viserra responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her other hand cupped his stones.

Then she slid one of her fingers towards his hole.

“F-Fuck” moaned Aemond as she gently massaged over the tight ring of muscle.

“Do you like that raqiarzy?” asked Viserra (Beloved).

“Y-Yes” exclaimed Aemond.

“What about this?” asked Viserra as she put a finger into her mouth and then returned it to his hole before she gently slid the tip of her finger in.

“It feels so good-that’s it” groaned Aemond.

“More?”

“Y-Yes. P-Please. M-More” groaned Aemond.

Viserra responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of her husband’s cock as she could, whilst her finger slowly moved inside him.

“Another-p-put another inside me” begged Aemond his body rocking against her fingers.

Viserra smiled and gently added another and Aemond began to whimper as she curled her fingers inside him.

“Shit-Viserra I’m going to come. Oh, fuck, I’m coming!” shouted Aemond as he exploded.

His wife took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean.

When he recovered, Aemond saw Viserra’s self-satisfied smile.

“Was that to your liking husband?” asked Viserra.

All Aemond could do was nod.

Viserra smiled gratefully, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before resting her head against his chest.

Aemond held her close, the rhythmic beating of his heart soothing her as they laid together in the quiet of the night.

Eight months had passed since the birth of the twins, and the day had finally arrived for Aemond and Viserra to wed under the Faith of the Seven in the grand Sept of King’s Landing.

The city was alive with anticipation, banners bearing the sigils of House Targaryen fluttering in the breeze as nobles and commoners alike gathered to witness the union.

The Sept was a vision of grandeur, filled with lords and ladies adorned in their finest attire, their faces glowing in the light of countless candles.

At the altar, the High Septon stood with a solemn air, ready to conduct the sacred ceremony that would unite two powerful houses.

Aemond, resplendent in his red and black attire, stood tall and proud. His single eye was fixed on Viserra, who approached him with a grace that took his breath away.

She wore a gown of shimmering white lace, her long silver hair cascading in waves over her shoulders, and her eyes sparkled with a mixture of excitement and love.

The ceremony commenced with the High Septon intoning ancient words, calling upon the Seven to bless their union.

When it came time for Aemond to drape his cloak over Viserra’s shoulders, she leaned up to whisper in his ear, “I’m with child again-”

Aemond’s eye widened in surprise, and then a joyous laugh escaped his lips. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, causing a few titters of amusement to ripple through the gathered guests.

The High Septon cleared his throat, a slight smile playing at his lips, “We haven’t got to that part yet.”

Blushing slightly, Aemond and Viserra pulled back, but their hands remained intertwined, their eyes locked on each other.

The ceremony continued with the High Septon binding their joined hands with a ribbon of gold and silver, symbolizing their unity.

“We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” the High Septon proclaimed.

He then declared, “Let it be known that Aemond of House Targaryen and Viserra of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”

In unison, Aemond and Viserra recited, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger-” Their voices were steady and filled with conviction.

Aemond continued, “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Viserra followed, her voice soft yet firm, “I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

Finally, Aemond declared, “With this kiss, I pledge my love,” and leaned in to seal their vows with a kiss.

As their lips met, a cheer erupted from the gathered crowd, and the Great Sept was filled with the sound of applause and joyous exclamations.

The kiss lingered, full of promise and devotion, and when they finally parted, both were beaming.

Hand in hand, they turned to face their family and friends, united in love and purpose, ready to face whatever the future held together.

[sunnyie-eve]

5. Beautiful

Fandom: House of the Dragon

Series: Devious Opportunity

Pairing: (Aegon II Targaryen x Cousin! OFC Targaryen!)

Word Count: 1.1k

Notes: Hinted Smut, Incest, Pregnancy, Childbirth,

| MASTERLIST |

The two pass time catching up and just talking and sitting in silence. At the moment Aegon had his head resting on her lap as she played with his hair, "Lets go for a ride on Sunfyre." He sits up with a smile.

"And we run into my father up there on his way back?" She laughs.

"What if we just fly far away? Leave Westeros together. No one to stop us from seeing and talking to each other."

"Aegon, I can't do that." She tells him so he shuts her up by leaning in with his hand cupping the back of her skull making their lips touch. Aegon let his tears fall freely, and Celeste could taste them in the kiss. Sighing in slight relief as she cupped his face, her soft skin on his encouraging him to look at her.

"I'm here for you." She tells him holding his face as she placed feather light kisses all over him, hearing him let out a quiet whimper as she finally connected her lips with his on her own. Aegon suddenly became more forceful, his desperation pouring into the kiss, grabbing onto her waist with a bruising grip.

Right before the sunrises both Celeste and Aegon wake up from their little rest then she watches him fly off heading back to Kings Landing. She felt a bit bad because their last words to each other was her telling him to just move on and forget about her. She didn't want him getting in trouble from Otto, his mother, or her father. She cared about him and didn't want him going through it.

"You know how hard that is going to be for me?"

"Ageon, please for me so I don't have to worry about you." She tells him.

"Celeste please."

"Aegon, I care you but I don't feel the same." She lies to him, "I don't love you like that. I didn't feel anything during our time together."

He stays quiet getting on Sunfyre leaving her and that would be the last time they ever saw or talked to each other until another two years.

Walking back to her room she sees her father sitting on her bed waiting with a disappointing look on his face, "You have nothing to worry about, father. I told him to forget about me." She tells him.

"Aegon came all the way here to see you?"

"Yes, he just left." She looks over at him, "I'm not sorry."

"I know," He stands up walking up to her, "But I'm sorry." He lets her know before leaving her room.

-

Sitting on the sofa in her room reading Jace wonders in taking a seat next to her, "Are you here to bug us again with your presence?" She asks keeping her eyes on the pages.

"I'm not bugging them just you." He smiles, "They like when I poke at them." He pokes at her swollen belly making the babe move.

"They're moving because you're bothering them, Jace." She turns her head to look at him still poking her belly with a smile.

"I say differently. They love their uncle Jace."

"Technically you aren't their uncle. You're their cousin." She corrects him so he hits her.

"I'm their uncle." He smiles then notices the look on her face as she touches her stomach. "I'll get my mother." He gets up rushing out of the room.

Screams of pain ends up shaking the walls as hours pass by, "I can't do this anymore! Please make it stop!" Celeste yells, clawing at the bed-sheets.

"You can do it dear. You're a strong girl." Rhaenyra holds one of her hands to help her through it, "You're doing a great job."

"I can't take it anymore." She cries squeezing her hand as one of the handmaids dab at her forehead with a cloth.

"You're almost there."

Celeste groans in pain, "I can feel the head. Just a few more pushes." She's told.

Groaning even loudly, her teeth grinding together as another contraction wracked her frame. Pain radiated down her spine and into her groin. She felt like she was being ripped apart at the seams.

"You hear that? You're almost done. You're doing so good."

She squeezed onto Rhaenyra's hand as hard as she could, pushing with all the strength in her body. The harder she pushed, the sooner it would be over. She needed it to be over. With a final push, her vision began to blur and blank mind went blank.

Before she knew it, loud cries pulled her back to Earth, and coo's from the handmaidens filled the room. She laid back with a sigh of relief. As she relaxes Rhaenyra smiles at the baby before Celeste is told to keep pushing.

"I'm not done?!" She groans still pushing.

"It's twins." She's told as she gives birth to the last one.

"Both are girls." Rhaenyra tells her with a smile.

Celeste holds both of her babies to her chest while looking at them she starts to cry feeling something she's never felt before. "Is this feeling normally?" She laughs wiping her tears away.

"Yes, especially with your first." Rhaenyra tells her.

The handmaids clean up both Celeste and the babies before leaving her to rest for a bit. Laying in her clean bed she looks over at the babies next to her in a crib. She couldn't help but find her girls so beautiful. It was love at first sight with her.

Later when Celeste was well rested enough Jace and Luke were excited to meet the baby, "We hear it was girls!" Luke shouts so Jace tells him to quiet down.

"Yes," Celeste smiles.

"What did you decide to name them?" Jace asks as she hands them each a baby..

"Dahlia," She motions to the one Jace was holding, "And Astraea," She looks at the one Luke was holding.

The boys found them both beautiful just like her mother was. They took turns holding them till Daemon entered the room so they left them alone. Daemon walks over looking at Celeste holding the girls. Stepping closer he takes in how they looked.

"They're about identical to you when you were born." He speaks up.

"I didn't know you were even around then for that." Celeste says not looking at him but her girls in her arms. "Do you want to hold them?" She looks at him and he steps back, "Father, please."

Daemon steps forward taking Dahlia from her first and she could have sworn she saw him smile a bit, "That's Dahlia, she has a mole near her eye while Astraea has one on the tip of her nose." She lets him know who was who.

"I thought I was doing the right thing with you. I should have had you with me." He lets out looking over at her.

"I forgive you, father."

[arafilez]

☆ ⼂ PUNCH THE WALL ﹗two

ꔫㅤㅤ ❜ [ skz hhj, hjs, ksm, yjn x any reader . pt2 to this ] ㅤ⋆ ㅤangst, estb. relationship ㅤ warnings arguing, moderate cursing, and anxiety attack ㅤ﹢ㅤ0.2k per member wc

◗ ៹ HWANG HYUNJIN ›

Hyunjin splashes his paint to the canvas to create an effect but he knew his anger was accelerating it somehow. He is angry at himself for getting all riled up instead of comforting you. The fear that has been grasping him since your hit has slowly dissolved to annoyance in himself and his trust.

Getting up he pushes the pallette away with force and takes off his smock throwing it to the corner. Tomorrow is laundry day anyway, he thinks before he leaves and walks towards the shared bedroom. His attempt is futile as he feels you bump to him and he stills himself before catching you so you don’t trip.

“Hyun-" your voice dies down in your throat as he presses his lips to yours in a desperate kiss. You stumble lightly from the pressure but Hyunjin holds your hands lightly before parting and says, “Sorry for that, I didn’t know how to fix it.” Your remorse dissolves into a giddy feeling as you mouth an ‘I am sorry’ and Hyunjin kisses it right out of your mouth. Again.

◗ ៹ HAN JISUNG ›

Jisung’s breath becomes normal as you follow the regular procedure his doctor has advised you about. His fingers which were formerly clutching your shirt are now loosening and you feel relief flooding your veins as his sobs reduce to light sniffles. You hold him tightly and your hands run through his hair trying to calm him more.

A few minutes later, Han looks up and it pains you to see his tear-stained face and you slowly dab under his eyes with your sleeves. “I am sorry,” you whisper and his hold tightens around you as he blubbers, “Please don’t leave me.”

Your heart clenches at his voice as you feel his head rest against you and you reply, “I won’t ever.” “Okay,” he replies and you stay in his embrace as long as he holds you. Because all you could want is to never let him go.

◗ ៹ KIM SEUNGMIN ›

Your sobs have died down but you keep sitting in the bathroom and look at the full-length mirror Seungmin had installed. There you are, a red-eyed monster who punches walls in anger. The gears shift in your mind and a stray tear rolls down your cheek as Seungmin’s expression paints over your mind again and again.

He is probably going to leave you now.

You jump lightly in surprise, feeling Seungmin’s familiar scent inside and quickly rub your eyes. Looking up, you see him walking towards you, sitting beside you, and saying, “Don’t overthink.” Two words. And suddenly you throw himself in his arms and your sobs return choking your voice while you desperately try to apologise. Seungmin shushes you and caresses your back as he holds you tightly. He quietly starts to tell you how he should have consoled you but you don’t let him talk too much as you peck him lightly and he stares at you with his bug puppy eyes before kissing you properly.

◗ ៹ YANG JEONGIN ›

You look at the clock and worry takes over your features as your boyfriend still doesn’t return from his walk. He had just muttered lightly about going before leaving through the door three hours ago. You had refrained from calling him knowing you messed up a lot but as the clock strikes twelve you reach for your phone and dial his number.

You expect it to go to voicemail so when Jeongin’s voice flows through the speaker you are more than surprised. You sit up straight and let your voice not quiver as you ask, “Where are you? It has been three hours.” He hums lightly and you hear a distant “thank you” from him as your brows furrow in confusion before you hear his answer, “Picking up our favourite take-away.”

“Oh,” you say and he adds, “Don’t worry, I am on my way home.” He cuts the call and you stare at the door forever until you hear the lock click and you jump up. As soon as the door swings you hurry over and hug him tightly as tears escape your eyes. He hugs you back, the boxes poking your skin but you don’t care as you feel him smiling against your neck.

ꔫㅤㅤ ❜ [ ara's notes ] ㅤ⋆ ㅤpart two because everyone requested. tysm for reading, please reblog to support me. ꔫㅤㅤ ❜ [ taglist ] ㅤ⋆ ㅤ@haneagerr @jeonghanfr @ka0ila @weird-bookwormㅤ to be added to taglist, send me an ask or comment under my postsㅤ⋆ㅤ main mlistㅤ skz listㅤ navi

© arafilez on tumblr. please do not copy and repost my work as your own.

[kingstonromcom]

Talk 2 Me // Miles Morales

Masterlist | Join Taglist !!

↳ tags : miles morales x male reader, miles morales x reader, male reader, marvel,itsv 2, itsv, spiderverse itsv

↳ pronouns used : he/him/his (I think they is also used)

↳ word count : 710

↳ note : i apologize for just now posting this bbgs here's a fanfic I would like to read :)).

The night was colder than usual, the city's skyline illuminated by the distant glow of neon lights. Miles Morales swung through the city as Spider-Man, his lithe form moving gracefully between buildings, but tonight was different. His movements were strained, every swing an effort, and the grace replaced with a hint of desperation.

Finally, he landed on a rooftop, panting heavily. His suit was torn, and bruises marred his skin. The pain was evident in his eyes as he contemplated his next move. The danger he faced tonight had been greater than he'd anticipated. He needed a safe place to rest and recover.

A familiar address came to his mind, a place where he knew he would find solace. With a renewed determination, he launched himself from the rooftop, swinging towards your apartment.

As Miles landed softly on your balcony, he rapped lightly on the glass door. His breath hitched as he waited, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety. The door slid open, revealing you in pajamas. Concern etched across their face as they took in Miles' battered appearance. Without a word, they stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

Miles managed a faint smile, gratitude shining in his eyes. He didn't need to explain; they understood. He was safe here.

The reader led Miles to the bathroom, where they retrieved a first aid kit. You motioned for him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and gently began to clean his wounds. The silence between them was comfortable, a mutual understanding that words weren't necessary right now. Your touch was gentle and soothing, each careful movement a balm to Miles' battered body.

Miles winced as you dabbed antiseptic on a particularly nasty bruise, and he instinctively reached out to grip their hand. His touch conveyed more than words ever could – the trust he placed in them, the vulnerability he rarely showed.

As you worked, tending to his injuries with practiced care, Miles couldn't help but let his thoughts wander. Why did he keep putting himself in these situations? Was he doing more harm than good? And why was he drawn to the reader like a moth to a flame?

His thoughts were interrupted your voice broke the silence, soft and comforting. "You're safe here, Miles."

He met their gaze, gratitude shining in his eyes. "I know."

You finished bandaging his wounds and sat back, studying him with concern. Miles mustered a tired smile, trying to reassure them. "I'll be fine. Just need some rest."

You nodded, but there was something more in your gaze – a question that went unspoken. Miles tilted his head, curiosity getting the better of him.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated for a moment before speaking, your voice gentle yet filled with curiosity. "Why do you keep pushing yourself like this, Miles? You're just a kid."

Miles chuckled softly, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone. "I guess I feel like I have to, you know? With great power…"

"Comes great responsibility," you finished for him, a small smile tugging at their lips. "But you also have the responsibility to take care of yourself."

Miles nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. "Yeah, I know. Sometimes it's hard to balance."

You reached out, tilting his chin up to meet their eyes. "You don't have to do it alone, Miles."

Miles held their gaze, a mixture of emotions swirling within him – gratitude, longing, and a newfound sense of connection. Without thinking, he whispered the words that had been on the tip of his tongue.

"Mi amor."

You blinked, surprised by the endearment in his tone. Miles flushed slightly, realizing he'd spoken without thinking. But your eyes softened, and you smiled warmly.

"Rest for now, Miles," you urge him, your voice a soothing melody. "We'll figure everything out together."

As Miles settled onto your couch, his exhaustion finally catching up with him, he couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort he hadn't experienced in a long time. In the quiet of the night, as he drifted off to sleep, he knew he had found a place where he truly belonged.

[dr-ground-zero]

Shameless

(just a self indulgen sick V!Deku x reader that i definately typed up while horny so sorry it sucks) (CW heavy mess + contagion)

You knew Deku would do anything for you, though what you didn’t expect was for him to indulge your kink! You see the villain had managed to catch a cold, nothing too horrible but you did make him take it easy since you didn’t want him getting worse. Which meant he would be at home with you doing paperwork. He was sitting in his office chair looking through intel files, refiling everything, and going over plans when you came in with a cup of tea.

“Hey Izu, how’s the work going?” He groans softly and turns around in his chair to look up at you.

“Monotonous but I’m getting close to finishing” You hand him the mug of tea which he gladly takes and sips on it. He sighed in relief and sniffled wetly as the warm drink eased the pain in his throat.

“Thank you, babe.” “You should take a break” You recommended, he shrugged and rubbed at his nose which was already turning and irritated pink color around his nostrils.

“It wont be much longer till I finish, once I’m done I’ll lay down.” You huffed and watched as he scrubbed at his nose harshly. Watching how his nostrils flared widely and hearing how his breath caught in his throat. You hardly noticed him grab his handkerchief and you only saw a flash of red before he sneezed.

“HHRRRRESSSH! HRRRRSSSSHHH! hEH! HHHREEEESSHHHMMMPH!” You didn’t have time to hide your blush and saw Izuku smirking.

“Damn bmy handkerchief is soaked” He started while lightly dabbing at his nose which still made stuffy squelching noises. This only made you blush harder though, making yourself look away until he grabbed you by the hand and pulled you onto his lap. You squeaked in surprise as he pulled you close to him.

“Awh what’s got you blushing darling?” Izuku asked in a low voice, you could hear him sniffling. Its thick, and slush-like, as if his body was struggling to contain it. You could hear the soft squeaks and sounds of his nose trying to get some air through it. You tried to make a coherent sentence but all you could do was hide your face. He hoarsely chuckles and snorts loudly.

“Ugh, I already know was it is baby, dno use id hiding from bme.” You whine a little at his teasing but don’t move from your hiding spot. Then the gasping came, you could feel his hot breaths against your shoulder and neck. The way his arms tightened around your body with each passing second. You looked up just in time to see that desperate sneezy look on his face before he dove down head first into your shoulder.

“HEH! HEEERRRRRMMMPH! HRRRRRSHHH! HHHPPPMHHHH!” The warm splatter of snot and spray on you shoulder almost made you scream. When he started rubbing his nose against you, you were almost bright red in the face and held onto his shoulders.

“I-I..Izu, wh-what are you d-doing?” “I told you, my handkerchief was s-soaked. And this c-cold ih is s-so….so. Hehh!” You braced for impact when his voice trailed off and the hitching started up again. He let out an urgent whisper ‘g-godda sdeeze!’ before he was back to messily sneezing on you. Squeezing you in his arms as if you’d run away, but he knew you wouldn’t. You were too flustered for that, and he knew you were into this. He knew you liked when he got all sniffly, when he’d complain about his nose, or when he’d quickly grabbed his bright red handkerchief because he needed to sneeze. You liked it even more when he’d use you as his handkerchief, yank you towards him, and let him press his trembling nose against your skin. How you could feel how warm and wet it was.

“I know you’re edjoying this, darling, so don’t hold yourself back.” He encouraged you while kissing you gently on the lips. You could see the mischievous expression on his face, he wanted to rile you up. He wanted you to wreck him! You adjusted yourself in his lap and smirked back.

“Well if you insist~” You drag your finger down the bridge of his nose. Gliding them down to the tip of his nose and gingerly rubbing back and forth at his septum. You could feel the wetness collecting there, how it scrunched up and twitched as the light touched. His hitching started up again, even if it wasn’t loud you could feel it against your palm.

“I-It iiih itches s-so bm-bmuuuh bmuch!” He whimpers, and you hum happily as you focus and coax out that awful itch plaguing his sinuses. You tilt his face up so you can get a better look at the red-rimmed nostrils that were leaking with snot. You watched as the more you rubbed the wider they flared out before that snarling face came down and buried itself into your neck again.

“! HRRRRRSHHH! HHHPPPMHHHH! Heh hheeh! HEH! HRRRRRSHHH! HHHPPPMHHHH!” Even with them being muffled into your body the force and volume was still loud enough to make you melt. His sneezes always sounded rather ‘growly’ from how he snarled or gritted his teeth which would make more snot ooze from his nose.

Just as you managed to get out a small

“Y-you done, y-yet?” The villain pulled your chest to him to let out one last

“!HRRRRRSHHH!” When you thought your shirt couldn’t get any more ruined he pressed his nose against you.

“Guh s-so st-stuffy, y-your skid is s-so soft” He blew his nose into your cleavage, some saturating your shirt and the rest slipping down. You could feel all of it cooling against your skin. He ended off with rubbing his nose into your chest and sat up still leaving strings and cords of snot connecting you both. He smirks a the expression on your face since you really didn’t expect him to do all that to you.

“Sorry darling, i just could’t help bmyself. I feel bmuch better dnow~”

You were definitely redder than his handkerchief now.

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 8: Firelight

The wagon had turned cold in their absence. Feeling his way through the darkness, Tommy sat the doctor down on the edge of the bunk. With his cigarette lighter, he quickly started a fire in the wagon’s hearth. He poured water in the hanging pot and left it to heat, then started rummaging for whatever medical supplies he had.

“Listen,” he said as he dumped out the contents of a medical kit, “This is important. When you were on the telephone, did you tell them where we were camped? Did you mention a Gypsy caravan?”

“N-no.” Holford’s voice had given out, and he could only whisper. “No, I didn’t. I just said that I was being held captive. That I’d escaped. I described my surroundings. They told me to sit tight while they looked for me.”

“So nobody knows where we are now? Nobody knows they should be looking for a black caravan with a white horse?”

“No.”

“Alright, good. That’s good.” Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. At least he didn’t have to worry about moving camp while tending to his prisoner.

Holford’s clothes were stained with blood and dirt. They would have to be removed before his injuries could be examined.

“I need to undress you,” Tommy said matter-of-factly.

“But I’m cold.”

“I know, but these rags need to come off.”

He briskly pulled off Holford’s bloodied shirt, socks, and pissed-in shorts, tossing them in a pile on the floor. The doctor’s body - pale, a little soft, surprisingly strong - was lightly scattered with freckles.

Tommy grabbed a bottle of whiskey - his last one, since he’d drunk the rest - and carefully poured it down the doctor’s arm, washing away the blood to reveal the flayed site. It was bleeding, but sluggishly - the cold had constricted the capillaries and slowed the flow.

Holford wheezed as the alcohol stung fiercely. Tommy handed him the bottle.

“Drink. For the pain.”

The doctor took a swig - his first taste of alcohol in almost two weeks. He felt it warming his insides, dulling the aches and pains of his tired body.

“Irish?” he whispered, reaching desperately for a mundane topic of conversation, a trace of normality.

“Of course,” Tommy said. “The only whiskey worth drinking.”

“I thought you quit alcohol, Mister Shelby.”

“I did. I took it up again after the tuberculoma diagnosis. I decided it wouldn’t do any harm, since I was going to die anyway.”

“...Oh.”

Holford took another gulp. Tommy quickly applied a clean gauze patch to the raw area, and started fixing it in place with a bandage. Holford sucked in his breath sharply.

“Almost done,” Tommy assured him. “Funny. Here I am, patching up my own doctor.”

“I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”

“You’d better not.” Tommy tied off the last layer of bandage. “There. All done.”

“Thank you.”

The water in the pot was warm now. Tommy poured it into a bowl, then fetched a clean cloth and let it soak.

“Right. Let’s clean you up.”

Holford’s face was caked with dark, dried blood - some of it his own, but most of it Pascoe’s. Tommy pressed the damp cloth to the doctor’s face and held it there, then started to wipe away the softened crust. He tried to be gentle around the eyelids and lips.

“Why didn’t you take my gun?” he asked. “I was unconscious. Why didn’t you just shoot me where I lay?”

“I’m a doctor. I couldn’t…How could I?”

“You had no qualms about tricking me into suicide. But you draw the line at getting your hands dirty, I suppose. I’m not surprised.”

“That was…that was different. I put the idea in your head, but that was all. It’s…it’s not the same.”

“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?”

Holford didn’t reply, but took another gulp of whiskey.

“Those men,” said Tommy as he dabbed Holford’s cheek, “They alluded to a secret. Something you were ashamed of. An...inclination.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Holford winced. “It’s just…It’s private.”

“...I see. Does Mosley know?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you do his bidding?”

“No. We’re friends.”

“Friends?” Tommy scoffed. “A friend who threatens to expose you to the world, uses you as a tool against his enemies, and then sends men to kill you when you stop being useful. Is that what you people consider friendship?”

“We do what we have to do, just as you do,” said Holford defensively.

Tommy squeezed the wet cloth over Holford’s chest, wringing out shimmering trails of warm water which - exposed to the night air - quickly cooled. Holford shivered.

“So how did he learn about you? Did you confide in him?”

“No…He found out by himself. He had suspicions, and he wouldn’t rest until he’d confirmed them. He’s held it over me ever since...He won’t let me forget that he knows.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. Mosley’s time is running out. You won’t have to worry about him much longer.”

Tommy turned the dirty cloth over until he found a clean side, and wet it again. In a business-like fashion, he washed Holford’s soiled thighs.

Pascoe’s words were still running through Tommy’s head: the threats, the disdain, the allusions to blackmail, revealing a dynamic that Tommy hadn’t considered. He’d always assumed that Holford was a loyal member of the British Union of Fascists. He was old friends with Mosley, after all, and anybody who knew Mosley for more than five minutes knew that he was a political extremist.

But the reality was, despite his unfortunate connections and dubious morals, Holford had never been a fascist. He’d never been anything but a doctor - a doctor unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with the wrong people. Using Holford’s greatest fear, they’d coerced him into becoming the instrument of Tommy’s downfall.

Tommy remembered the courtyard, the cobblestones, Holford on his knees. Holford had pleaded for mercy, tried to persuade him not to pull the trigger; but he’d never actually denied any wrongdoing. He’d never protested his innocence. Because in his own mind, he wasn’t innocent. In his own mind, he was just as guilty as Mosley and all the rest of them.

“You’re a fool, Holford,” said Tommy quietly. “All you had to do was be honest with me. All you had to do was say ‘Mister Shelby, I’m sorry, but I’m working for the BUF’. I would’ve understood. I would’ve shown mercy. But no. You chose to lie. You chose to be Mosley’s right hand. You chose to be my enemy.”

Holford said nothing, and downed the rest of the bottle. He was already tipsy - he was drinking on an empty stomach and the alcohol was going straight to his bloodstream. His mind was fuzzy.

“Turn a little,” said Tommy, nudging him. “You’ve got blood on your back.”

Holford half-turned to the side. Tommy paused to add another piece of wood to the fire. As the flames burned higher and brighter, he noticed that there were tiny marks on the backs of Holford’s shoulders. Little curved scars, which he hadn’t noticed under the blood. He couldn’t make sense of them, until he arrived at the trapezius, where the indentations coalesced into a large circular scar, bearing the unmistakeable shape of a human bite-mark. He brushed his thumb over it to let Holford know that he’d noticed it, and asked:

“Who?”

“Oswald,” Holford muttered.

“Oh? I didn’t think he was the type.”

“He’s a man of…vigorous appetite. As long as he finds satisfaction, he doesn’t care where he finds it, or with whom.”

“Does his wife know?”

“Yes. Diana knows everything. She doesn’t mind. I think she rather respects his potency.”

An unsavoury image flashed through Tommy’s mind - Mosley on top, rigid, sinews straining with fervour. Exerting dominance by biting down on Holford’s skin hard enough to break it. It wasn’t a scene Tommy enjoyed picturing. He couldn’t imagine Holford had enjoyed it much either.

“Did he force you?” Tommy asked bluntly - not because he wanted to hear the sordid details, but because he wanted to know how many bullets Mosley deserved in the skull.

“No,” said Holford, but he didn’t sound convinced. “It was just...It was a favour to a friend.”

“So you didn’t mind this?” Tommy touched the scar again, but he wasn’t referring to the bite itself - rather, to the carelessness and disrespect that it represented.

“No...Yes. I don’t know.”

Tommy saw his uncertainty, and understood. Even an intelligent and knowledgeable man like Holford could be fooled by his own misguided affections - and by the uncontrollable reciprocations of his own body.

“I did like him once, a long time ago,” Holford said. “But not in a serious way - only in the fleeting way that a youth likes someone...I didn’t think he’d notice, I didn’t think anything would arise from it. Perhaps I was too obvious...Perhaps I lacked discretion.”

“Or perhaps he has a good nose for sniffing out weakness. People like that will seize any advantage they can get.”

“I did like his wife, Cynthia. I felt sorry for her.”

“Oh?”

“She was unhappy with how his politics kept changing - it was putting a strain on their marriage. They were both socialists, but he lost interest in it when it no longer served him. She couldn’t support him any more.”

“Cynthia died a while back, I heard.”

“Yes. She had peritonitis. She died in May, and by October, Oswald and Diana were married. They married in Minister Goebbels’ house in Berlin. Hitler was there. But I suppose you know that already.”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out, anyway? About the wedding and...me?”

“It was in the newspaper. Your face was right there on the page, and your name was on the list of attendees.”

“Oh...Oh, of course. We all thought you were dead by then, so we didn’t mind being photographed together.”

The empty bottle slipped from Holford’s fingers. Tommy caught it before it hit the floor, and set it aside.

“Lie down,” he instructed.

Holford hesitated, a new worry entering his eyes. Tommy knew instinctively what he was thinking.

“You’re safe with me. You have my word. Lie down.”

Holford lowered himself painfully onto the bunk, stiffening as fresh pains spiked through him. He exhaled, trying to force his body to relax.

“Oswald always invites me to these things...I think he likes to have me in attendance. To keep me in the same circle. To remind me that all of my friends are his friends too. I can barely socialise without him or someone close to him being there.”

The wagon was warming up, and his shivering was becoming less and less.

“I remember we were…at a party. A Christmas party, the Christmas of 1932. I brought Cath with me, and Oswald brought Cynthia. But he brought Diana along too - she was still married, but she was filing for divorce. He stayed with her and complimented her all evening. Everyone could see what was happening, but he didn’t care what people said. He didn’t care what Cynthia thought. I think he wanted to punish her for not being more supportive. Diana found the whole thing very amusing.”

“Sounds like they’re perfect for each other.”

“Yes...I think Cynthia left the party early. I considered leaving too because I wasn’t feeling well, but Cath persuaded me to stay. She was enjoying herself, and I was afraid people would speculate about us if we went home separately. So I stayed.”

Holford’s eyelids were growing heavy; he forced them to stay open.

“It was a nice party. There were flowers and oysters and roasted pheasants. There was a dance…Oswald wanted to dance with Cath. He insisted on it. He wouldn’t even let me have my own wife to myself...He told me I should dance with Diana, but I didn’t want to. After the dance, I felt sick from the oysters and I went upstairs. I lay down to rest. Then he and Diana came in. They were laughing…she was laughing. She gave me brandy, and she - she - ” Holford was becoming agitated.

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Tommy said, but Holford was beyond hearing.

“Mosley sat there and watched. He thought it was funny. He knew I hated it, he knew I didn’t want her. It amused him. When I complained afterwards, he said I owed it to him as a Christmas present.”

“That’s enough,” Tommy interrupted. “That’s enough now.”

“The band was still playing. Everyone was still enjoying themselves. Singing carols. Laughing. I could hear them. Afterwards, I had to go back downstairs. I had to go back to the party, back to the dance. Like nothing had happened. Like nothing…”

“You dance, eh?” Tommy tried vainly to change the subject. “I was never much of a dancer myself. The waltz I could manage, but those new American ones…those were too much for me. I did my best at my wedding, but I looked like a fucking donkey next to my Grace. Do you like dancing?”

“I do. I like dancing. I can do the Charleston - I did it with Cath at our wedding. I can sing too. Would you like to hear me sing?”

“Maybe another time.” Tommy tossed the used cloth into the almost-empty bowl, and rose to his feet. Holford was clean now, or as clean as he could be under the circumstances. “I’m done. Try to get some rest.”

“Wait,” Holford mumbled, “Don’t stop.”

“I’m done,” Tommy repeated.

“But…wait.” With difficulty, Holford rose onto his hands and knees on the bunk, cringing as pain shot through his limbs. The blanket slipped down to expose him.

“What are you doing?” said Tommy.

“I’ve always liked you.”

“What?”

“From the first moment…your first appointment at the sanatorium…I always liked your eyes. And I think you like mine too. Don’t you?

“Doctor Holford...”

“You can do as you wish.”

For a second, Tommy considered it. Holford was beautiful and naked. But then he remembered where they were, and everything that had happened to lead them here.

“Alright, stop. Stop it. This isn’t you talking - it’s the whiskey.”

“I wronged you. More than once,” said Holford. “Let me make amends. It’s the least I can do.”

“Amends? How? By letting me fuck you? That’s not who I am. I’m not fucking Mosley.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind. I won’t complain.”

And it was such a sad sight, such a pitiful thing to say, that any attraction on Tommy’s part fled instantly. They weren’t simply two men, alone together. They were a captor and a captive. Holford may have felt some degree of genuine desire, but it was tangled up in a million other feelings: relief at being alive, gratitude at being saved from Pascoe, desperation for a friendly human touch, fear for the future, obligation, loneliness...Even Holford himself probably couldn’t explain how he felt.

“Enough,” Tommy’s voice hardened. “You don’t need to do anything. It’s not a transaction. I don’t need payment.”

Too weak to stay on all fours, Holford sank down onto his stomach. Tommy pulled the blanket up to cover his lower body.

“Go to sleep,” Tommy ordered, “I’ll be outside.”

“Wait. Stay.”

“I won’t go far. I’ll be right outside.”

“Stay. Please.”

Holford was fading fast.

“Fine.” Tommy perched on the bunk’s edge. “Here I am. Now go to sleep.”

Holford retreated, making space in the narrow bunk.

“Come here,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“You’ll get cold.”

Tommy snorted, but it was true. He hung up his coat and his holster, and stripped to his sleeveless shirt and shorts. He sat on the bunk with his back against the hard wooden wall, sliding his legs under the blanket. Skin brushed against skin.

“What is that?” Holford’s bleary eyes were gazing at Tommy’s left upper arm, where a horseshoe curled around the green stem of a rose in full bloom.

“Horses. I bet on them. Or rather, I encourage other people to bet on them.”

Tommy moved his arm so that Holford could admire the green ink, but in doing so, revealed another tattoo hidden on the inside of his left bicep. An elegant calligraphic design, so ornate that it was difficult to distinguish as being three separate letters. T, G, and C, written in cursive.

“...And that?” Holford enquired.

“Tommy - me. Grace, my first wife. Charles, our son.”

“Oh.” From the ensuing silence, it was obvious that Holford had heard of Thomas Shelby’s murdered wife.

Holford’s breathing settled into a slow rhythm, and he no longer spoke or moved.

Tommy shut his eyes, planning merely to rest them, and tried to calm his swirling thoughts.

The image of Holford, ready to receive him, would stay seared into his brain. He would be lying if he said the idea didn’t hold some appeal. But not even his beauty and his bare skin could distract from what Holford truly was: a damaged, lonely man. A man so starved of genuine human connection that he couldn’t tell the difference between degradation and intimacy. A man so accustomed to a world of scheming and ruthlessness, that he assumed favours were expected of him in exchange for his life. In order to entertain the prospect of sex, Tommy would first have to lose all respect for himself.

But he remembered the touch of Holford’s lips on the back of his hand. Dry and cracked, yet somehow so soft.

Tommy sighed. Orange light flickered on the other side of his closed eyelids. He listened to the crackling flames, and felt the warmth dancing on his skin, and without even meaning to, fell asleep.

Chapter 9: The Way Home

[what-if-queen-camilla]

Chapter 11

Guys, it's happening!!!

04th August 1987- Part 2

"What do you mean 'the baby's coming?" Now it was him being in panic. She surely didn't intend to give birth right here and now…?! "I mean what I said, you idiot!", Camilla snarled, closing her eyes as the next contraction painfully yerked through her body. "I'm not a fucking midwife, Milla!", Andrew snarled back, looking at her in total desperation. She couldn't be serious. She couldn't have the baby here and now, with only him by her side, he was a man, he had no idea of these kinds of things, what on earth was he supposed to do? "No, but you're a fucking soldier so please start behaving like one, you wannabe Silver Stick in Waiting!", she almost screamed at him, not in order to be rude but in order to encourage him because she knew he could do it. Of course, this wasn't the birth any of them had been expecting or hoping for but sometimes nature had the weirdest of ideas and she'd rather have her baby delivered with the help of her husband at home than in the car on the way to hospital. "W-What… shall I do?", he asked, looking at her like a little boy on his first day at school. "What would you do if I was an injured companion of yours?", she countered and noticed in relief how this comparison seem to work: "I'll get you somewhere safe and quiet … and then get some… clean towels, sheets and blankets, hot water…" "Yeah…", she confirmed, desperately holding on to him when she was, again, struck by the next contraction. "You can do it, Andy! I know you can! Please…", she whispered and he gently lifted her up and carried her over to her bedroom again, placed her there and then rushed downstairs to go and fetch the other things. While Camilla tried to prepare herself and the baby as good as possible with some breathing exercises, her husband managed to organise everything they needed, including a tiny little glass of champagne for the mum-to-be. He had heard once that it made the birth easier but it was going to be her decision eventually; he was just trying to make it as comfortable as possible for her. Before returning upstairs, he called the Ambulance in Swindon and explained their situation and they promised him that a doctor and nurse would be there within less than an hour. 'Less than an hour…', he thought, shaking his head, trying to overshadow his anxiety with irony and emptied his own, not so tiny, glass of champagne in one go. "Alright, old man.", he said to himself when looking into the mirror in the staircase gallery. "Seems like you're going to be a midwife tonight."

The good thing was that none of them was afraid or ashamed in any way as they were still husband and wife, parents, a family and there was nothing breaking new to it all, even when Andrew helped Camilla getting rid of her nighty and spread her legs apart so that the baby would find its "way out" as smoothly and naturally as possible, there was nothing he hadn't seen before and nothing that'd have made either of them uncomfortable. "I'm so glad that the children aren't here.", Camilla sighed between two meanwhile immense painful labour contractions. "So am I!", Andrew nodded. "Imagine how they'd be making fun of their old dad playing midwife…" Almost tenderly, he dabbed her forehead with a towel and almost accidentally stroked her cheek. "I'm so proud of you.", he whispered and Camilla wasn't sure whether she'd rather laugh or cry about this unexpected declaration of love but was hit by another heavy labour contraction before she could have thought twice. "Okay, Andy…", she declared when the pressure to push became almost unbearable, bravely pulling herself together. "It's time now… it might take me a few pushes but… as soon as you see her head…" "Don't worry, Milla, I'll have it.", he assured her and once more she thanked God for having sent him to her in this very situation. As much as she loved Charles, he'd never have been able to keep as calm right now as Andrew but it helped a lot and she knew they were going to make it together.

It didn't take long until the head became visible and "midwife Andrew" was in charge gently holding it up while the mother gave another few pushes until the baby finally arrived, announcing herself with an enormous cry, which eventually made the mum cry, too. She didn't cry in pain, she cried in relief and in thankfulness that everything had gone so well and the baby seemed alright. Quickly Andrew wrapped the little girl up warmly in a clean towel and carefully cleaned her little face as Camilla told him to, before he placed the little bundle on his wife's chest. "Hello little one!", Camilla greeted her newborn daughter and kissed her softly on her forehead. "I'm your mummy and I love you so much.", she whispered teary-eyed. How beautiful her little daughter was, how absolutely perfect from head to toe… "Shall we thank Daddy for being our hero tonight?", she asked her, invitingly looking over to Andrew who seemed a bit awkward and overwhelmed, having watched the moving scene from the edge of the bed. "B-but what about… the… afterbirth?", he asked insecurely, looking at the umbilical cord that was still connecting mother and child, but Camilla shook her head. "Let the ambulance deal with that later. Come here." Sighing Andrew did as commanded and carefully laid down beside her. It felt strange to be so close to her again but not in a negative way, especially not after what had just happened. They had delivered a baby together. A wonderful, beautiful, perfect little baby which would hopefully be happy and healthy for a lifetime and have a glorious childhood in their family. Everything could have been perfect, if only he'd been the real father. "Sush, Andy. You're her daddy. You literally brought her to life. She's yours just as she's mine." These wonderful words made him tear up as well and, overwhelmed by emotions, he couldn't help leaning forward - and kissed her…

[ourtearsofrain]

Chapter 9- The Indigo Streak That Becomes the Eye

Pairings: Jake Kiszka x Reader

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: little over 1.8 k

Warnings: descriptions of the outcome of torture (not too explicit), cleaning severe wounds

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

You kneel by his side, reaching out to his back before stopping yourself. You bring your hand to his neck, desperately searching for a pulse. Finding it, you breathe a sigh of relief. His pulse was weak, but still there.

“Samuel.” You whisper. “Samuel, please wake up.”

You bend over, your forehead coming to a rest on the side of his head as you sob. You hear someone enter the room but don’t look over. Metal scrapes against the stone floor and the footsteps leave again before you look up. On the floor by the cell door are two small platters, each holding a piece of bread and a small metal cup of water.

An idea pops into your mind before you rip the rest of Samuels shirt, opening the back of it up completely. You grab one of the cups, returning to his side. You take a deep breath before you pour its contents over the mangled skin of his back. He hisses, his eyes barely opening as he frantically looks for you. He turns slightly, a broken cry leaving his mouth as pain claws at his back.

“It’s ok- I’m here, Samuel. Don’t try to move, please.”

He only sobs as you tear the sleeve of your shirt off, using the fabric to begin to gently dab at his skin. He cries out at the contact, sending more tears cascading down your cheeks.

“I know- I know it hurts, Samuel. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry but I have to do this, we have to clean it.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet and raspy, his throat sore from his cries. “Just do it, please get it over with.”

You wet the fabric with the remaining water left in the cup, once again gently dabbing his back as he winces. Once you’re satisfied enough, you place the fabric on the platter next to the stale piece of bread.

“I know it hurts, I know it hurts so much, but I need you to move a little. Just to get you more comfortable.”

He nods weakly, and you grasp his forearms as you help half drag him closer to the wall. You sit with your back against it, pulling Samuel towards you until he can rest his head on your thigh. He lets out a deep sigh, his eyes closing as he gets as comfortable as he can.

“Hey, you need to rest but- but you have to promise to stay with me. I can’t do this alone, Samuel. Please.”

Once again, he offers a weak nod, this time against your thigh. One of your hands finds his as the other comes to rest on his head, gently brushing through his tangled mess of hair.

“Stay with me, Samuel. Stay with me.”

~

You sit in silence for what feels like days, the sun setting and rising again through the small cell window the only clue to you of how much time had really passed. You don’t sleep, fearing that the next time you opened your eyes, Samuel would be dead. Each time he moves slightly in his sleep, wincing at the pain, you breathe a small sigh of relief. He was still alive. In excruciating pain, but still alive.

As the sun signals to you that it is midday, a man enters the room, two metal platters in his hands. He slides them into the cell next to the others that still sat mostly untouched. He looks at you, a hint of sadness on his face as he stands on the other side of the bars. You look back at him, surveying his face, sensing something familiar. Finally, recognition hits you, knocking the air from your lungs. You knew this man, he had been part of your father’s crew, one of his closest friends. He had been family to you growing up.

“Vail?” The name is a whisper, hoping that if you were wrong about who he was, he wouldn’t hear it.

He nods slightly. “Been a long time, kid.”

You move to stand, to rush towards him as far as your chains would allow you but stop yourself, not wanting to disturb Samuel beneath you.

“Vail please.” You say tearfully. “Please help us.”

“I can’t, I’m so sorry. Helena has this room surrounded. I could never get the two of you out unnoticed, especially with the state your friend is in.”

“Please, anything.” You sob out. “Medicine, a dagger, anything.”

He sighs deeply, stealing a glance at the door behind him quickly. He reaches through the bars, grabbing the empty cup you had used to clean Samuels wounds with.

“I’ll be back.” is all he says before he leaves you once more.

You wait with Samuel, still holding his hand as you lightly stroke his hair. Vail eventually returns, cup in hand. He sets it within the bars, quickly taking a step back as he nervously eyes the door.

“More water?” you say, confusion thick in your tone.

“Give it a whiff, kid. I’m sorry, it’s the best I can do.” With that, he leaves just as fast as he had come in, leaving you and Samuel alone once more.

You ease Samuel off your leg, gently lowering his cheek to the stone floor as he scowls weakly in his sleep. Making your way over to the cup, you pick it up and bring it to your nose. The intense scent of pure alcohol immediately burns your eyes and throat. Your confusion only lasts for a second before you whip your head back to Samuel.

You rush over to him, placing a hand on his bicep and lightly shaking him.

“Samuel. Samuel wake up.”

“Hm?” He cracks his eyes open.

“I know one of Helena’s men. He was friends with my father growing up. He got me something to help.”

Samuel raises his head slightly, and you hold the cup out to him. The second he smells it, he begins to reach out for it.

“Good. Something to ease the pain.”

You move the cup out of his grasp. “No. If you’re going to drink anything, it’s going to be water.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Then what the hell is the point of that?”

You offer him a sympathetic gaze, saying nothing as the wheels turn in his head.

“Oh. Fuck.”

“We have to, if it gets infected, I have nothing else to treat it with. You’ll die.”

He props himself up on his elbows, and you hand him the fabric you had ripped from your shirt, something to bite down on. He takes it, placing it between his teeth before nodding to you. Your hand not holding the cup finds his, taking it in your own as you begin to pour the liquid onto his wounds.

Pain shoots through your hand as he grips it, squeezing his eyes shut, his scream muffled by the fabric in his mouth. You empty only half the cup onto his back, pouring a small amount onto his arm and wrists as well, wanting to save the rest for later if needed.

Samuel spits the fabric out, breathing hard as his tears fall onto the floor beneath you.

“Can you sit up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let me help.” He does, and you gently turn him to his side, helping him cross his legs beneath him as you push him upright.

His hands grip your shoulders as he adjusts to the new position, his back burning with a pain he had never felt before. You ease him out of his ruined shirt, placing it on the floor beside you before you grab the ripped fabric of your shirt sleeve. You tie it around the gash on his arm gently, finding his shirt once more as you move to kneel behind him. You fold it carefully, wanting what little fabric you had to cover as much as it could. Without saying a word, you press the fabric to his skin, drawing a cry of pain from Samuels lips. You tie the arms of his shirt around his stomach before making your way over to the platters still by the cell door.

You take two of them, sitting back down in front of Samuel hunched over on the floor. Bringing one of the cups up to his lips, you nudge him into a more upright position.

“Lean your head back a little.”

He glares at you, snatching the cup from your hands. “I’m not an invalid. I can do it myself.”

His words sting, but you say nothing as he tries to bring the cup to his lips on his own. He winces, immediately dropping his arm as his shoulder blade catches a deep gash on his upper back.

“I’m sorry. Can you please help me?” he asks quietly, shame in his voice from his treatment of you as well as not being able to take care of his own basic needs.

“It’s ok, Samuel.” you say as you take the cup from his hands, bringing it to his lips and helping him tilt his head back enough to drink some of the water.

You reach for a small piece of bread, ripping it into smaller pieces as you offer it to him. He takes it, bringing it to his mouth slowly.

“I should be ok. You need to eat, too.”

Seeing that he was managing alright on his own, you silently hand him the platter with the rest of his bread on it before grabbing your own. You try not to drink all the water in your cup, wanting to save some as you didn’t know when they would send food and water in again. You repeat the process you had done with Samuel’s bread to your own, chewing each ripped up stale piece thoroughly as you sit in silence.

You both eventually finish, pushing the empty platters and cups across the floor until they sit on the other side of the bars.

“Do you want to lay back down?” you ask quietly.

“No, that was killing my neck.” He winces as he slowly brings a hand up to rub at his sore neck muscles. “It’s fine, I can sit against the wall.”

You shake your head, backing yourself up against the wall. “We don’t know what’s been on those walls, we can’t risk infection.”

You open your legs slightly, raising your arms to offer him a seat in between your legs, his back against your chest.

He looks at the wall, next to you. “Fine.” Is all he says before he crawls over, sitting on the stone as he leans back into you, wincing at the contact. You drop your arms, and they come to a rest across his chest as he leans his head back against your shoulder.

“I’m glad I’m locked in here with you, Polaris.” He whispers before glancing over at you. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Of course, Samuel. We have to take care of each other in here.”

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

A/N: the title, of course, is taken from the lyrics to The Indigo Streak

[cyprus-green]

Dramione Prompt: Does it hurt?

NSFW 18+ , BDSM, Daddy Kink, Pain Kink

The heavy supple leather of the flogger connects again. Tender skin turns red, her moans echo around the room.

'Does it hurt?'

'No, Sir.'

'Oh, no?'

Before she can answer the swish and clack of 22 tails hitting her pussy steals her breath away.

Then he does it again and again. After a handful of hits, she's begging for relief. He tuts and coos at her pleas.

'Shhh, I know darling. I know.'

His cool fingers kiss her stinging skin, and she keens at the gentle touch. She's swollen. From arousal, from punishment, perhaps both.

A quick rub of her clit through her puffy outer lips gives her cause to buck against the pressure.

When she mewls he lifts his hand and he gets close to her ear again. She's nodding through tears, high off the lingering sting.

'Lets try that again, shall we?' He whispers.

Hitting her cunt with the entire flat of his hand, she squeals into the air and hes kissing her cheek, taking in her salty tears.

'Does it hurt?'

'Yes, Sir'

'How bad?'

'Please no more, please, Sir'

He follows a path of tears, kissing down her neck. His hand slaps her cunt again, and he kisses her jaw sweetly as she screams.

'Please, please...' ,she sobs.

'Please what, my slut?'

His fingers come down and spread her pussy, revealing an obscene amount of arousal pooling between her lips. He tuts at her vocal response.

'Oh, Gooooddsss' she's bucking, her face red, sweat on her brow. She's consumed by the heady high of pain and pleasure.

A few circles have her arching. She wails when she feels two fingers plung into her roughly. He's working her body into a frenzy.

His mouth sucks on her inner thigh. She wails again as he curls his fingers and begins pumping them faster. And faster.

Without any forewarning he pulls out and removes himself from her. The cry she makes is pitiful.

'What is it, naughty girl?'

'Daddy, please!'

An involuntary groan leaves his chest and he quickly rubs at her clit again.

'Oh...Daddy, is it?' His eyes shine in mischevious delight. It's always something special watching his Granger sink deeper into subspace.

'What do you need, my pretty girl?'

'Daddy! Please I need to come!' Her whine is high pitched and desperate.

He coos at her and slaps her cunt once before roughly pumping his fingers into her again.

'Daddy! Daddy-' she chokes on her words as he presses his lips against her messy, swollen cunt.

Her cries carry beyond the walls of the room.

'What do you want, Princess?'

'Please, can I come? Please? Daddy, it hurts. It aches so bad... I need it. Please!'

Her desperation peaks as she wails.

His answer nearly brings her over the edge, as he growls into her.

'Come on my lips. Come for me. Be a good girl and come for your Daddy.'

That's all the permission she needs as he licks and sucks on her clit mercilessly, still pumping into her over and over.

The orgasm that tears through her has Hermione bucking her hips as she clenches tightly around three of his thick fingers.

Her orgasm crashes over her, fire and sweet release, pain and delicious need as he finger fucks her through the blissful spasms.

Her comedown is long but it gives him time to lick her clean.

By the time she's done, his chin glistens with her come. She stares up at him with exhausted and vulnerable eyes. She's never looked more beautiful.

Before she can say a word, her hands and legs are released from their cuffs. He wastes no time gathering her naked body against his own.

His hard chest is hot against her cheek. His lips come down to her brow and she can feel him flicking his wand. When she turns, he's conjured a cup of water, a few rags and an ice pack. He hands her the glass and watches her patiently, as she gulps it down.

His hand gently spreads her legs and with one hand he gathers the damp towel, gently dabbing her sensitive core. He whispers gently to her as he cleans.

'Such a good girl, for Daddy.' ...'You did so good, darling.' ...'Gods, you're perfect.' ... 'You're so fucking beautiful.'

After drying her, he cleans his mouth and presses his lips against her temple. Gently he places the ice pack between her thighs.

'Feels better?'

'Feels perfect. Thank you, Daddy.' She sighs into him. She's exhausted, but oh so content. Floating above the clouds where subs go to dream. His hands caress and flutter over her body...

And before he knows it, his beautiful Granger is asleep against him.

Looking around the room he supresses a chuckle. It's thrashed. Rope and cuffs discarded on the floor. A flogger and riding crop lay halfhazardly on the sofa. Clothes are strewn about. The room smells like sweat and sex.

What a perfect night.

[cantuscorvi]

Nezumi forced a strained smile and bowed to the audience along with his co-actors.

He vanished from the stage as soon as the last curtain fell. His steps echoed hastily through the backstage hallway. He yanked the door, slammed it after himself, and roughly turned the key.

In the perceived privacy of his changing room, he finally allowed his expression to twist with pain. He walked up to the vanity table and, cursing under his breath, leaned both palms heavily against it.

A few deep breaths in vain, nothing could prepare him for the ache of taking his costume off. His hands began to shake. He reached for the buttons and laces of his shirt and corset and began to carefully undress. His movements were stiff as if his back got flayed bloody — minus the blood.

"Fuck," Nezumi griped, desperation clawing at his shoulders. He held onto the last bits of resolve, closer to giving up and crumbling than he'd like.

His eyes absently trailed to the mirror.

Nezumi paused. He sucked in a shocked breath, then immediately relaxed.

"—you're hovering," the accusatory words lacked their bite. Nezumi's voice was hoarse, strained with pain. He seemed to think as he trembled through pulling the shirt off to reveal one shoulder. And when a jolt of pain made him wince, he gave in.

"Would you help me take this off? There's—." Nezumi closed his eyes and sighed. "There's a blue cream in the bottom drawer; bring it out, please. It's for my back."

And should Raum comply with the request — should he enter Nezumi's personal space, Nezumi would lean his chin heavily on Raum's shoulder, moaning softly, pain and relief combined, when Raum began to apply the cream on Nezumi's scar.

@nezumivc103221

Leaning against the wall behind the changing screen, just barely illuminated by the yellow bulbs of Nezumi’s mirror, Raum watched an actor’s careful performance crumble before his eyes. While the muffled applause sounded from the stage, he partook in a privileged view, with even the star of the show unaware of his singular, avid spectator.

In this small room, Nezumi’s agony was palpable, piquant — close to intoxicating. It felt heavy and tangible to Raum, like something he could taste, a rough, febrile texture that was pleasantly unpleasant, bitter on his tongue when he breathed it in.

Like a thick mist, it slowly filled the atmosphere while Nezumi cursed and struggled, laces and buttons parting haphazardly beneath his shaking hands.

Raum observed him in perfect silence and without blinking — relaxed in his position like a feline in repose. If he were one, no doubt his tail would be swaying back and forth lazily, curious yet unmoved.

When Nezumi finally registered his presence, Raum met his eyes through the mirror and gave an ambiguous little hum in response. His pitiless gaze had scraped a trail down Nezumi’s back as he revealed one shoulder.

“Alright.” He nodded. At last, he departed his shadowy spot at Nezumi’s request.

It was simple enough to stoop and open the drawer to find what he was looking for. He twisted open the little container of cream and set it on the dresser. Raum tutted when he turned back to Nezumi and found him utterly rumpled. Patiently, he untucked Nezumi’s dress shirt from his trousers, unbuttoned the last two buttons, and pulled it off.

“There. . .” Raum placed both of his hands on Nezumi’s arms, a steadying action when the other man swayed a little with mixed relief and ache. A thin layer of sweat met his fingertips where he traced them to Nezumi’s scapulae, turning him to face away from the mirror. There, the scar revealed itself to him as he glanced over Nezumi’s shoulder. It stood out sharply on Nezumi’s skin, red-pink and reaching, like a Poinsettia, in all directions of the compass.

Raum traced the edge of that sinister flower with a dab of the cream on his fingers, and the sharp scent of Nezumi’s pain began to mingle with something fresh and herbaceous. The dull roar of their connection flowed through the contact, two live wires meeting, and Nezumi made a little sound, leaning into him. The weight of him was warm and yielding.

Raum cupped the back of Nezumi’s head with his free palm, gently pressing his cheek into his shoulder. He could feel rather than see him slowly starting to relax, although the odd hiss or murmur still escaped him when he brushed over a particularly sore spot. This uncharacteristic display of vulnerability held the demon strangely rapt — he kept his eyes on the movement of his hand in the mirror, pupils dilated with attention.

“. . . Does it trouble you often, like this?” He broke the silence to ask quietly beside Nezumi’s ear.

[starksvinyls]

Title: Bite Rating: Teen Pairing: None Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergence, Mentions of Past Drug Addiction, Injury Summary: Tony's leg is broken and needs to be set, and he is refusing the pain meds. Peter finds a solution. Notes: for @febuwhump day 3: 'bite down on this'

AO3 Link

“Stark.” 

“No.” 

The men glared at one another, until finally Steve sighed, throwing his hands up. He turned to stomp away. “Fine! Be stubborn!” 

Peter scooted closer to Tony where he was sitting on his knees next to his mentor. “Mr. Stark,” He whispered. “Please, we need to set your leg.” It had already been five minutes of back and forth. 

The older man turned to look at Peter. “I- I can’t, Pete,” He frowned. “I have a history of addiction, I-“ 

“Okay. Okay,” Peter understood, he did. One of May’s friends at work used to be addicted to pills, he understood being wary of taking even over the counter cold medicine. But he knew they needed to get Tony’s leg set before they tried to move him. Dr. Strange was coming to portal them home, but Peter was too scared to lift Tony with his leg looking like that. The man was refusing to use any of the pain killers in the emergency med kit, though. 

Whatever planet they were on, it was semi-forested, which hadn’t been in their favor when that alien thing threw an actual tree at them, just ripped it out of the ground and chucked it, catching Tony and breaking his leg. It was now, though, as Peter spotted a couple of loose pieces of bark along the trunk that had been thrown at them, and popped to his feet to hurry over. 

Steve was watching him, now, with a raised eyebrow. He pulled off a chunk of the bark and came back over. 

“Bite down on this,” Peter held out the bark. 

Tony looked at him for a minute before nodding and taking the wood. Steve wandered over and knelt down on Tony’s other side. 

“Alright, Cap, let’s do this,” Tony put the bark in this mouth, his jaw clenching shut. 

Steve gave one nod of acknowledgment before reaching for Tony’s knee. The bone was broken just below that, it laying at a slight angle. It made Peter a little sick to his stomach, but he knew he needed to power through for Mr. Stark. 

There was a crack followed by a scream from Tony. Peter’s heart sunk and he reached out to take Tony’s hand. Tears rolled down Mr. Stark’s cheeks and his jaw was still locked shut around the edge of the bark. There was sweat around his temples and across his forehead, and Peter wished he had a cool towel to dab at Mr. Stark’s face. 

Behind them, the tell-tale sound of a portal opening started up, a second later Strange was there. Peter felt relief flood through him at seeing the Compound’s med bay behind the billowing red cape. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, this is gonna hurt,” Peter apologized, and then carefully placed his arms behind Tony’s back and under this knees. He lifted his mentor up, trying his best not to jostle the man, and did his best to hurry towards the portal. 

Strange stepped aside, reveal a team ready with a gurney. Peter set Mr. Stark down and stepped back to let the doctors and nurses get to work. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and he turned his head to see Captain Rogers. 

“Good work, kid,” The Captain kept moving, after a squeeze to Peter’s shoulder. 

Peter wrung his mask in his hands, nodded to himself, and then turned to head to his room. He desperately needed a hot shower.

[sublimecatgalaxy]

Hiii :)

You have successfully reactivated my love for Stiles by reposting 1 (one) gif set of him, so here I am with a request for him:

Maybe something about him coming home after a particularly rough fight/encounter with something supernatural and cleaning his wounds? Just taking care of him, because he looks bad this time, so you fix him up and get him all comfy :) and maybe with prompts 18 and 24 if you want :))

No rush though and I hope you have a nice day <3

UH DUH I'M SO HAPPY TO HAVE SPARKED THIS INTEREST.

"How come the best game of my life turned into getting kidnapped by my best friends girlfriends grandfather?" Stiles asks, hissing a bit as I dab gently at his cheek, my jaw clenching at the pain that riddles his fragile body.

"It's your luck, babe." I whisper, trying my best to suppress the anxiety that's bubbling in my chest, my heart pounding against my ribs at the thought of Stiles strung up and beaten into submission. His brows are furrowed as I glance over the rest of him, catching the bruises that are beginning to line his freckled collarbones, skin that's typically littered with different types of bruises.

"Don't look at me like that." Stiles mutters, reaching out to take the first aid kit out of my hands, tossing it to the bed beside us. My eyes lift to meet his sad gaze, watching as a sad smile stretches across his bloody and bruised lips.

"They hurt you-"

"I know-"

"I had no clue where you were for hours, Stiles. It was hell for me." I whimper pathetically, my shoulders deflating in defeat as I move impossibly closer to him, tucking my face in the crook of his neck. He wraps his arms around me without hesitation, pressing his lips to my hairline. "All I wanted to do was celebrate your win cuz I was so damn proud of you." I chuckle tearily, listening to the sound of his heart beating against his chest as laughter rumbles through him.

"I did pretty damn good, didn't I?" He asks quietly, tilting his head to look down at me, catching my gaze in a reassuring glance. His eyes flicker back and forth between mine, his hand reaching up to caress. my jaw sweetly as I try desperately not to look at his injuries. "The lsat thing I need is you worrying about me when I've already got my dad breathing down my neck and asking way too many questions." He laughs, trying his best to ease the anxious tension in the room.

Cracking a smile, his face falls a bit in relief as I relax a bit into him, realizing he's here, with me and no longer in harms way. I give him a simple nod before getting back to tending to his wounds, pressing my fingers against the muscles on his chest and ribs, listening for any noises of discomfort. He doesn't jolt away from my gentle touch, just watches me nervously work, knowing this is more for my state of mind than his.

"I think I'm okay." He nudges me playfully. "Statistically, if I had internal bleeding, I'd be long gone by now." He snorts, sending me a wink before pulling his bloody shirt over his head, tossing it to the ground before flopping back on his bed.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Stilinski." I chuckle, laying down beside him with a huff, relieved to finally be back in his arms and knowing he's safe.

"No problem, it's what I'm here for."

A few moments pass by, Stiles memorizing every inch of my face as I track his freckles and moles all the way down his chest to the plates of his abdomen, appreciating the quietness, the calm in the middle of a supernatural storm.

"I think that I’m going crazy because every time I look at you, my brain short circuits." He grins cheesily, his voice coming out barely over a whisper as my brows lift teasingly.

"I think that's called a concussion- are you sure you don't want to go get checked out by Melissa? We'll tell her you got jumped after the game or something." I taunt, watching his eyes roll with a sarcastic scoff.

"Oh because that's way more believable than what really happened? Ouch, babe."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane2828 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi

@crunchytoenailsyum@glizzymcguirex @beth123lg @melovesmut @rafecameronswhore @ariianelle @write-from-the-heart @vampviolets@haylee-e@popehaywardssecretgf @honee-chai-tea @lokiandbuckywife @smoke-and-fire @officiallyunofficialperson@heyaitsklaudia@rosepetalsparks @bluetreecloud20 @scenesofobx @double-shot-of-tequila @1dluver13xx @colbysbrocks @iamasimpingh0e @smoke-and-fire386 @loveshineslikethesky @id-3-kbro @diorsitgirl @errorfound101-allideasburnedout @neverwillknowme18 @ellyskey @taylors-folk @loversjoy @myaloveee @thyris-is @lagataprrr @aaaaslaaaan @minjix @luvrosee @storytellingwitht

[just-jordie-things]

A Lover And A Fighter - Richie Tozier

word count: 3122 warnings: swearing, sight sexual harassment summary: Richie promised (y/n) that he wouldn’t get into fights anymore, but sometimes he just can’t help himself.  Especially when it comes to protecting her.

___

It was an understatement to say that Richie was protective of you.  The boy was downright insane about it.  Everyone in Derry knew not to fuck with (y/n), not unless they wanted Richie Tozier tracking them down and beating them half to death.

You’d given him a talk numerous times.  But not once did they work, it always went in one ear and out the other..

He’d beaten up three ex boyfriends, a couple guys that looked at you the wrong way, and Greta Keene.  He was proud of that amount.

But he’d promised that he would try his best not to act out on your behalf anymore.  And you made him pinky promise.  That’s a big deal.  And he didn’t want to break your trust or your promise.

However… once he walked past Henry Bowers and his dumbass friends, and heard your name being mentioned, he couldn’t stop himself from getting involved.

“What was that?” He spoke before he could think things through.

The boys turned to him, each bearing a scowl that wasn’t out of character.

“I said, (y/n’s) not fucking worth it,” Henry practically growled out.  “Now why don’t you fuck off, Tozier?”

“Your damn fucking right it’s not worth it,” Richie spat back, turning away, doing the right thing.  “I’d break your goddamn nose” He muttered under his breath.

“It’s not worth it to try and get in her pants,” Henry called out before Richie could walk far enough away.

He stopped in his tracks.

“Cause she’s such a slut anyways, it’s not a real victory to fuck-”

Richie had never whipped around so fast.  And with the punch he delivered went all common sense, and all the promises and reassurances he’d given you to prove he was going to ‘mature’ as you’d begged him to do. ___

“Hey, Richie,” You held your phone between your ear and shoulder as you painted your toes.  “This is like, my fifth message… so… call me back, I guess.  Okay, bye”

You sighed as you set the phone back on it’s holster.  Richie wasn’t the type of guy to stand you up, especially on taco tuesday.  And even if something came up, he always always, called.  But now he couldn’t even bother to return one of your calls, leaving you to assume that he was upset with you for some reason, and therefore ignoring you.

You weren’t sure what you did, and at this point, you also weren’t sure that he was going to tell you either.

When Richie didn’t want to talk to someone, he was the damn best at avoiding them.

But he’d never given you the cold shoulder.  And there was a time that you’d thought he never would.  Richie was your best friend, you trusted and confided in him more than anyone else, even the other Losers.  And in the last seven years of being his best friend, he’d never treated you this way.  In fact, he always treated you amazingly, like a princess, it was very surprising actually, the way he cared about you.

It was that care that always led him to picking fights where he shouldn’t be, though.  It started with your ex boyfriend.  He broke up with you once a ‘better, prettier’ girl showed interest (his words), and the next thing you knew, Richie was throwing him against the lockers.

When your next boyfriend straight up cheated on you, Richie took care of him too.

He broke the third one’s nose.

And then there was the Greta Keene incident… Beverly may have let it slip that Greta had been writing nasty rumors about you in the girls bathrooms.  And Richie declared that he didn’t have a problem beating up a girl if it was justified (and if that girl had man arms).  That was when you drew the line, and made Richie swear to try and control his anger.  And he pinkie promised to work on it, and that he wouldn’t get into any more fights over you.

You weren’t sure why he got so enraged over these things.  It was just drama, and you found it pointless that he tried to bring you justice, since he was so reckless about it.

It was getting late, and you knew that Richie wasn’t going to return your calls.  So you finished painting your toenails blue, and decided to spend the night in your room, reading, alone.

Even though you should have been eating a bunch of tacos and gossiping with Richie.

Just as you got situated in bed, and had turned off the overhead light in exchange for the soft glow of your lamp on the bedside table, there was a knock on the window.

When you glanced over, you could tell it was Richie by his silhouette, and you frowned slightly.

Nonetheless, you got up and unlocked the window, before sliding it open.

“Where the hell have you been?” You asked.

He could tell that you couldn’t see his face very well.

“Busy, you gonna let me in?” He grinned.

“Richie, it’s-” You glanced over your shoulder to the alarm clock on your table, before glaring back at him.  “-midnight.  Are you kidding me? Did I do something to piss you off?”

“What? (y/n/n), no-”

“Then how come you were dodging all my calls? And you’re seven hours late?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest..

Richie crawled in through the window, even though you hadn’t invited him in yet.  But he figured it was only a matter of time before you cave anyways.

Your distressed face disappeared as you caught sight of him now that he was in the light.  His left eye was bruising, and so was his right cheekbone.  Along with a split lip and a bloody nose, it was clear what had happened.

“Oh, Richie…” You mumbled, hand reaching up to cover your mouth as your eyes widened at the sight of him.  “Tell me you didn’t-”

“Look it’s not what you think-” Richie tried to protest.

“Don’t give me that shit”

He knew he fucked up, because you weren’t yelling.  Your voice was soft, and low.  You were heartbroken.

He stared down at the ground, too anxious to look at you anymore.  Not when you looked so disappointed in him.  

“You promised- you-you pinky promised me-”

“I know-! I know and I’m sorry, really, I’m really fucking sorry” He told you, desperately hoping that you’d forgive him.

You shook your head at him, and gestured for him to sit before you left the room.  Richie was the most frustratingly complicated person that you knew, and it drove you insane.  Why he couldn’t just walk away and not beat the shit out of people… you weren’t sure.  But it really hurt you that he didn’t even seem to try, and he broke his promise.

Richie was sitting on the side of your bed when you came back into the room.  He chuckled as he eyed the first aid kit in your hands, the same one that you’ve used the last four or five times you dealt with the aftermath of his episodes of rages.

“You don’t have t-”

“Yes I do” You cut him off and unpacked what you’d need.

You were upset, you were fuming, actually.  It angered you that Richie broke his promise, not even a month after making it.  That promise was important to you, because he was important to you.  And now here he was, waiting to be fixed up by you once again after he so stupidly, so recklessly got himself beaten to a pulp.

But no matter how angry you were, you remained silent.  Dabbing at the excess blood under his nose, which at least wasn’t bleeding anymore.  And when you were finished with his cheek, you moved on to rubbing cream over the bruise on his cheek.  Richie’s eyes fell shut as he sighed in relief at the feeling of the cool lotion, and your gentle fingers.

He knew your silence wasn’t a good thing.  In fact, it was the worst thing.  It meant he messed up beyond redemption.  And he’d never fucked up that bad before.  Sure, he’d pissed you off and frustrated you on the daily, but that was just the hallmark of his friendship, and it was never anything serious.  Just when he dragged you out in the middle of the night for slushies, or got you in trouble in class because he was running his mouth.  He’d never made you this genuinely upset before.

“(y/n)-”

“Save it” You muttered before he could even start with the apologies.

That was another hallmark of his friendship.  You knew what came next.  The apologies, the excuses, the begging for your forgiveness, followed by a playful ‘you know you love me, you need me’ and puppy dog eyes that you couldn’t refuse.  Except tonight, you might just be able to.

He took you by surprise when he didn’t protest, and snapped his mouth shut.  Your eyes met his for a moment, before you started applying a smaller amount of lotion on the bruise surrounding his eye.  It was going to look a lot worse in the morning, but this would help with the pain now.

You hated that your heart ached for him right now.  You hated that you wanted to cry and hold him and make him feel better.  Because you were so fucking mad-

“I don’t understand,” The words suddenly spilled out of your mouth, as if your mind just couldn’t take them swimming around in your head anymore.  “I just- I- I don’t fucking get it”

He nodded, ducking his head down, only for you to lift it back up by his chin and continue with the lotion.

“I care about you, dumbass, and all I asked, which I thought was simple, all I asked was for you to stop with the fighting-”

“I know” He mumbled back.

You stared at him skeptically, wondering if he really did know, or if he’d show up again in a few weeks with the same battered face and guilty look in his eyes.  Richie didn’t look back at you.  He couldn’t.

“Who?” You asked, trying to soften your voice so he wouldn’t whither away from you like he was doing right now.

“You’re not gonna like it” Richie answered, fingers pinching at your bedsheets in an attempt to distract himself.  From the pain that burned across his whole face, or from the intensity in your eyes, he wasn’t sure, but he needed the distraction.

He hadn’t had a smoke in months, but it sounded pretty damn good right now.

“Well, newsflash, I don’t like any of this,” You told him.  “But I think I deserve to at least know what happened”

Of course you do, Richie hung his head in his hands.  You deserve so, so much better.

You watched as he rubbed his palms over his eyes, and it took everything in your power not to take his hands and hold them in yours, to tell him it was okay and you forgave him.

“Bowers”

He muttered the single word without even looking at you.  But he didn’t have to look at you to know exactly what you looked like in that moment.  You probably had a dropped jaw and furrowed brows.  Disappointment, disgust, anger, all displayed in one heartbreaking look.

“Richie…” You murmured without meaning to.  “Why? Why would you-”

“I had to, okay?” He shot up suddenly.  “I know that you hate it, and as soon as I swung I- I knew I fucked up, but I had to”

You wanted to argue it, argue that there’s always another option, that he can always walk away.  But you bit your tongue.  Something about the way he spoke told you that there was more to this than his stupidity.

“I’m sorry, (y/n/n), I am.  But I… I don’t regret it”

Your heart sunk all the way down to your stomach.  Richie had such a toll on your emotions and he didn’t even know it.

“Tell me what happened” You said quietly, and shifted closer to him.

You wanted him to know he had your undivided attention, and that he should have the chance to at least explain what happened.  You pulled your leg up to rest on the mattress, and turned your body to face him.

Richie looked at you before looking back down at his hand, which was now fisted in your blankets.

“Richie,” You hummed, brows furrowing as you saw how reluctant he was to opening up.  “Tell me” The words were so soft, it was almost inaudible.

You wondered what Henry could have done that Richie didn’t want to tell you about.  He must have really outdone himself.

“He was just talking shit-”

“Richie,” You cut off his bullshit before he could even start.  “Come on, the truth”  

“It’s not-”

“I deserve to know, Tozier! Whatever it is, I don’t care, okay? Just tell me-”

“He said you weren’t worth sleeping with!”

Just like that, you’d gotten him to snap.

And you shut up instantly, shocked by the outburst.  His words processed slowly in your head.

“He said it wasn’t worth trying because you’re- because you’re a slut, and it wasn’t fucking true!” Richie continued to yell.  Not at you, he just couldn’t contain his own anger anymore.

And you thought you were pissed.

“Motherfucker had your name in his nasty fucking mouth and he was telling his buddies fucking lies and I couldn’t- fuck I couldn’t walk away.  I should’ve fucking killed him”

You were staring at him, speechless.  You should’ve known it was about you, Richie was always so fiercely protective of you.  And Henry’s wouldn’t be the first nose that he’d broken protecting you.  But this wasn’t like before.  He’d beaten on your ex boyfriends after they broke your heart.  Henry hadn’t said or done anything to you, he was just doing what boys do.  (Make shit up because they think it makes them impressive when really they’re even shittier than they look)

“I didn’t mean to break your promise,” Richie huffed.  His face was slightly flushed after his mini tantrum.  His hands grabbed both of yours, holding them close to him.  “I’m so sorry I put you through this again”

You were still silent, but he knew this wasn’t a bad silence.  You were still processing, still trying to figure out how to forgive him while making sure this was the last time he crawls through your window looking like this.

“I hope you know that it came from a place of- of caring about you,” He added.  “Caring about you too much, I guess” He mumbled as an afterthought.

Your stupid lovesick heart skipped a beat at the sweet words.  Richie wasn’t one for words, at all, but he somehow managed to say the most loving things without even realizing it.

“I can’t promise it won’t happen again, that much is clear.  And if Bowers says one more goddamn thing about your ass I’ll fucking string him up- I will- but I can promise I’ll try, okay? I will, I’ll really try”

He squeezed your hands a little bit, hoping you believed him, hoping you trusted him.

Your eyes flickered between his for a moment, and you could see in them that he was being sincere, and that he was broken up over hurting you.

“You…” He started to speak, but trailed off unsurely.  “You deserve better” He finished.

His eyes flickered to yours for a brief moment, before he turned away.

You shake your head, before you let go of one of his hands, and took his chin between your thumb and index finger, turning him to look back at you.

“(y/n/n)-”

You cut him off when you leaned in and gently kissed him, trying to be mindful of his split lip.

Richie’s eyes remained focused on your closed ones, too stunned to close them, or really kiss her back.

He wanted to kick himself when you pulled away.  He managed to miss his fucking chance because he was too slow to do anything about it.

Your eyes fluttered open in such a beautiful way Richie swore you were holding his heart in your perfect little hands.

His brows were furrowed like you’d confused him, and you absolutely had.  He hadn’t expected you to kiss him.

“Why’d you do that?” He asked breathlessly, and your cheeks burned pink.

Your shoulders raised a bit in a shrug, and you had to bite your lip to keep from smiling too much.

“I just… wanted to” You whispered.

A smile twitched on the corner of Richie’s lips before his hand cupped your cheek, and he pulled you in again, so he could kiss you right this time.

Your lips were just as soft, if not softer, than he’d imagined they’d be.  And he’d imagined countless times what they’d feel like.  Daydreaming in class, before he fell asleep, and being right by your side for the last seven years.

Kissing you was bliss.

He did it again, taking your face in both of his hands and pulling you impossibly closer.  He could feel your lips smiling against his own, and once again, his heart was beating out of his chest trying to get to yours.

“I’m in love with you, (y/n/n)” He murmured when you parted, and you laughed softly.

“That makes sense,” You replied, reaching a hand up to play with the curls on the back of his neck.  “And… I love you too”

Richie gave you a sunshine smile, which you couldn’t help but return.

“I’m still upset, by the way,” You told him, still playing with the curls.  “But only cause I’m tired of seeing you covered in bruises, okay?”

He nodded, and you leaned your cheek further against the palm of his hand.

“I promise to try” He said, and then raised his pinky.

You looked from his hand and then back to him, a slight glare in your eyes.

“Come on, just do it,” He urged, you rolled your eyes, but he was persistent.  “Just link fuckin’ pinkies with me”

With a giggle you hooked your pinky with his, and held it for a moment.

“You want to go get tacos now?” He asked, and you grinned, nodding your head.

“You read my mind” You answered, and followed him back out the window.

It dawned on you that Richie was both your lover and your fighter.  And he held those titles proudly.

As he took your hand and walked alongside you down the street, he decided there were no other title he’d want to be labeled, besides yours. ___

taglist: @thegr8kush​

xoxo ~ jordie

[samstree]

For the reverse trope ask: the soft character comforting the tough character after a trauma

Piece Him Back Together

Part of the reverse trope series.

When Geralt gets kidnapped, it's up to Jaskier to rescue him. Some truths about a witcher's worst weakness come to light.

(geraskier, 2.1k, hurt/comfort, geralt whump, mutual pining, competent jaskier, love confession, mild blood)

read on AO3

"Shit, shit, shit..."

Jaskier lets out a string of curses all the while balancing the weight of two fully grown men with stumbling footwork. He desperately tries to keep Geralt up with a hand on the small of his back but fails to stop the injured witcher from drooping with each step, until, at last, both of them wind up in a heap of limbs by the road.

Geralt lets out a pained grunt and Jaskier scrambles with apologies.

“Fuck, sorry.” The bard shifts Geralt’s bulk with all he can muster and finally settles him on a patch of soft moss under the tree. The witcher hisses as his back hits the bark rather heavily. “Shit, I’m so sorr—”

“You already said,” Geralt interrupts him but there’s no anger in his tone.

“Still. I am.”

Jaskier retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to dab at the mess of blood at Geralt’s temple, wincing when he finally sees how bad the blow is. Blood oozes from the gash, slower than a moment before. The fabric is soaked through and the skin there is still tender.

It’s all witchers’ weakness.

The temple. A blow to the head.

It messes up all their senses and coordination, leaving them in the most vulnerable state. If Jaskier had reached him any later, this might have done Geralt in.

Jaskier lets out a distressed sound at the thought.

“Stop fussing. We need to go.” The witcher, against all odds, remains level-headed.

“No, it’s all right. I knocked out all the guards and servants, along with the duke and his mage.” Jaskier tilts Geralt’s head for a better angle to press the handkerchief down on the wound. “I may have given the two of them a little more than the recommended dose. The lady at the apothecary warned me about the risk of choking with much sleeping potion, urgh, like I give an ounce of fuck if they die a gruesome death or not. It’d be a favor to the town.”

The venom surprises even Jaskier himself, and Geralt lets out a meaningful hum.

“Rest assured, my dear. No one will be looking for us today.”

Up close, Jaskier can feel Geralt scrutinize him intently as if to burn a hole into his face. He meets the amber gaze, the dark pupils still a little blown wide from the shock, but there’s also something akin to relief flowing in those beautiful eyes.

He revels in the silence, observing Geralt in return for further signs of hurt, but finds none.

The witcher relents first, the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So you drugged an entire castle?”

“Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?” Jaskier teases. “The White Wolf, saved by a humble bard and forever impressed by his wit.”

“Hmm.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up, oh mighty witcher. I’m sure you only needed the rescue because those villains took advantage of your only weakness.” The bard adds his usual dramatic flair into the last two words.

Geralt blinks. Something shifts in his expression, his breathing picking up and his eyes darting everywhere. If the bard didn’t know better, he’d say the witcher is flustered, which makes it all the more confusing.

“Mocking me, are you?” Geralt drops his gaze and tries to shy away, but the bard holds him in place with the other hand. Under Jaskier’s palm, the frame of the witcher’s ear is heating up.

“How am I mocking you? Geralt, even you must admit witchers aren’t all-powerful beings.” Jaskier frowns. “They messed up your head. I know all your senses get muddled when you’re like this. Seriously, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“What are you talking about?” the witcher snaps his gaze back to Jaskier, a puzzled crease deep between his brows, which only makes the bard scoff with amusement.

“The head wound, of course. How did they get you? An ambush and a blow to the head, I’m assuming.” Jaskier explains. “How else did you get yourself into a dungeon and dimeritium cuffs? What, are you telling me you walk into their trap voluntarily?”

He rolls his eyes at the offhanded joke but the silence from the witcher leaves the mood heavier. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a denial of what he just said. Geralt is staring at him with an inexplicable look on his face, and these looks are hard to come by these days. Jaskier prides himself in being the best on the continent at reading his witcher, and he has no inclination to break the streak.

“What happened then? Talk to me, Geralt.”

Jaskier removes the handkerchief a little. The gash has stopped bleeding, so he ties it around Geralt’s head carefully to keep the wound shielded, at least until they can wash it properly. His hands stay with Geralt afterwards, waiting for him to open up.

“I—” Geralt purses his lips before continuing, golden eyes meeting the bard in earnest. “They didn’t ambush me, Jask. I walked into that castle unarmed by choice.”

“What?” Jaskier’s jaw drops.

“It’s because—” the witcher scowls. “Because I thought…that they had you.”

It’s like a lightning strike, where their skin connects tingling all the way from the tips of Jaskier’s fingers to a warm pool of fuzziness in his stomach. The air is suddenly too hot so Jaskier decides to put more space between them.

“Oh.”

Geralt chases him ever so slightly before settling back with resignation, his eyes still bare and vulnerable, as if he just revealed the darkest secret when it is only the sweetest thing in a horrible, horrible way.

“A whisper of you being held hostage and suddenly I couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember to check the truth. Couldn’t waste another second.” Geralt hovers a hand near the bard’s face before retreating to his side. “You were right that they got me because of my one weakness, Jaskier. Just not the one you assumed.”

The pounding in Jaskier’s chest is jumping out of his throat. He’s sure he will die within the next minute if he doesn’t speak to ease this ache in his heart.

“Oh.”

He ends up saying dumbly.

“It was too late when I noticed the absence of you. Your voice, your heartbeat, your scent. Nothing. You weren’t in that castle or the cells. All I could hear was silence and all I could smell was blood.” Geralt draws a shuddering breath. “I hoped, when they kept me in the dark, that they were lying about ever having you. That you were nowhere near that damn place instead of—”

The witcher swallows, unable to finish the sentence.

“Instead of,” Jaskier adds for him, “they’d already killed me.”

The tension hangs between them. The bard sits back on the heels of his feet and finds himself at a loss for words for the very first time in his life.

Geralt might be the only person who can force Jaskier through so many firsts in his life. His first time writing a hit song, first time smashing into someone’s face with a lute, first time saving a witcher’s life, and perhaps, first time murdering two evil overlords obsessed with collecting witchers for experiments.

Hmm, it’s not like Jaskier regrets any of these.

Geralt reaches out again, tentative and patient like he’s approaching a spooked horse. This time, Jaskier takes pity and meets him halfway, his thumb rubbing small circles at the sword callouses that he adores so much.

“Say something,” Geralt pleads.

Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat and sniffles to ease the congestion in his nose, his vision blurring in desperation.

“It’s the most words you’ve said in one sitting, Geralt. You’ll have to allow me a moment to figure out what you are saying and, most importantly, not saying.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “It’s you, you know? There’s always something you are holding back and that is often the crux of it. I thought I got good at reading between the lines, but this is…overwhelming.”

With the enhanced healing kicking in, Geralt is looking much better by the minute. The blood dries and crusts over and his eyes almost shining in the daylight, or is it just the emotions within them? Jaskier can’t tell.

“Maybe I can help you. With the hidden words.” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s fingers reassuringly. He tilts his head in the most endearing way. It happens to be that particular head tilt that Jaskier treasures with his life, the one that manages to always take his breath away.

“I love you, Jask.”

The warm pool of fuzziness in Jaskier’s stomach turns into a bottomless pit, and he’s falling.

And soaring.

“I love you.” Geralt smiles sadly. “In the dark of that cell, it became…ever so clear and so loud that I couldn’t deny it anymore. I love you, in spite of myself. Gods, I’ve loved you for so long.”

Geralt picks up Jaskier’s hand and places the barest touch of a kiss there, his lips chapped but oh so gentle. Jaskier lets out a soft gasp and the tears roll down uncontrollably. The next thing he knows, he’s buried deep in Geralt’s embrace. The sobs choke in his lungs like a dam has been broken.

“I—” Jaskier is amazed to find that their roles have reversed. The witcher has expressed everything but the bard becomes mute. So he takes up Geralt’s role gladly and replies with actions.

Jaskier’s lips are pressed everywhere he can reach: the soft, warm skin of Geralt’s neck, the sharp of his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. He disregards the grime and dirt and kisses Geralt’s uninjured temple, the single most fragile part of a witcher’s body—barring their heart, so it seems. He tucks away a strand of white hair and kisses Geralt’s temple one more time, tasting the salty tang of tears.

When he pulls back, Geralt’s smile is blinding.

He hears Jaskier, even though—

“I still don’t know what to say,” Jaskier croaks, sniffling hard.

The bard rests his hands at the nape of Geralt’s neck and loses himself in the sunlit golden honey, his favorite color in the world and the most beautiful dream that’s ever come true.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Geralt wipes away the wetness on Jaskier’s face with the pad of his thumb. “Master Jaskier, poet, minstrel, professor… Stumped for words and forever impressed by a witcher’s love confession.”

He mimics Jaskier’s phrasing and the bard can’t help but chuckle despite the tears and snout, his hand swatting at Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier knows he must look so absurd, laughing and crying all at once, but it’s the last thing in the world that matters.

Geralt loves him, and—

“You got hurt because of me.”

The remorse licks up, along with the urge to protect and to care. The sight of Geralt limp and bloody, bound by the wrists in a dark cell is something Jaskier never wants to relive again.

“I don’t care, Jask.”

“I care.”

“Then make it better.”

So he does. Geralt never wavers as Jaskier captures his lips and pours everything he cannot voice into the kiss, drawing a contented moan out of the witcher.

“Does it still hurt?” the bard whispers between one breath and the next.

“A little.”

Jaskier resumes his work and cards deft fingers through silver hair, careful not to nudge the handkerchief. His nails ghost over Geralt’s scalp and scratches gently until a purring sound rumbles deep in the witcher’s chest. The bard giggles proudly.

“Now?”

“Keep going.”

Geralt traps Jaskier between his strong arms devours him with passion, the heat of his body solid and calming.

Jaskier has never thought of himself as a protector, except at this moment with his witcher arching into his every touch and producing those heavenly sounds. The world is too bent on hurting Geralt, too eager to take and take and take from him.

A bard is not a fighter. Jaskier cannot stop monsters from tearing through armors or crossbows fired with ill intent.

But a bard is a lover. What Jaskier can do is heal, is piece Geralt back together with gentle words in the dark and soft lips on the thin skin at his temple.

“How about now?”

They are panting in tandem, the gold of Geralt’s eyes dreamy and out of this world.

“Still dizzy.”

“That’s from all the kissing, you oaf.”

But Geralt begs wordlessly with those wide, puppy-like eyes so openly, and Jaskier’s already non-existent resolve breaks into a million pieces. He kisses Geralt until the witcher melts into a puddle of purring mess, sun-warmed and pliant.

And he kisses Geralt more.

Again and again.

---

Thanks for the prompt. I kind of just rolled with the concept. The twist looks a bit obvious from the beginning, but feel free to tell me what you think. <3

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @dapandapod @artisanbaguette @birdsflyhome

Please tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[parkswritessometimes]

You Have No Right

Day 4 Egotober: Grey

Marvin held Chase’s hat tight in his hands, the blood quickly drying against the light gray fabric. His thumbs dragged over the rough rim of his brother's iconic cap, a reminder of how he failed. A hole in the left side, where just hours ago Chase put a gun and fired. 

“Hey, Marv,” Jackie mumbled sitting down on the crappy hospital waiting bench. “Any updates?”

Marvin shook his head as he leaned against his older brother. A sad sigh fell on Marvin’s ears as his body was pulled into Jackie’s chest. Desperate fingers clung to Jackie’s iconic red hoodie as the hurricane of emotions hit Marvin full force. His little brother. His baby brother was dying. He felt so pathetic and useless that he needed to take his own life to feel relief. Black, mascara-filled tears fell from Marvin’s eyes onto Jackie’s chest. Bloody, bruised hands rubbed over Marvin’s back in a desperate attempt to calm him down. But nothing could comfort the pain of a brother dying.  

“Hey, Marv,” Jackie’s voice broke as he tried to get his little brother's attention. Marvin lifted his head, wiping away his tears, smearing all of the makeup he worked so hard on. But that didn’t matter. Nothing except for Chase mattered. “Stacy is on her way. Chase’s producer let her know what happened.”

“She won’t see Chase. I won’t allow it.” Marvin snarled, artificial nails digging into Jackie’s arm. Stacy was the reason this was happening. Stacy left Chase, turned his children against him, and left him with nothing. Chase lived in his car for a week before finally coming back home. She could rot in Hell.

“Marv, I don’t like her either but she is on her way to offer her support-”

“We don’t need her support!” Marvin shouted, cutting Jackie off as he rose from the bench. “We don’t need her anywhere near our brother. He is dying because of her. She might as well have pulled the trigger herself.”

Marvin held himself tightly as Jackie cradled his face. Gentle thumbs wiping away tears that fell like a waterfall. Marvin leaned into his brother's touch, his own arms wrapping around Jackie tight. 

“I don’t want her here.”

“Well, I think that you better get all your rage out now, because she’s right outside.” 

Marvin pulled away from Jackie’s warmth, pulling their handkerchief that Chase had gotten him for Christmas out of their pocket, dabbing their tears and smeared makeup away. Marvin turned around to face the horrid creature that took his Chase away from him. 

Marvin watched as the sliding glass doors opened just for her. Her brown hair pulled back in a braid, her face red and blotchy from underserved tears. Her gait was fast and determined like she had a right to be there. She walked up to them in her grey yoga pants and a black t-shirt. She couldn’t even dress correctly for this horrid occasion.

“Is Chase okay? Is he alive?” Marvin held back a growl as faux tears rolled out of her red eyes onto her neck. Marvin felt Jackie’s hands grab his shoulders holding him back from absolutely mauling the women in front of them.

“He-He’s in surgery. Henrik is taking care of it.” Jackie mumbled.

“Oh thank God. I was so worried.” Stacy’s foul voice said. 

“You were worried?” Marvin asked, anger rising up in him like a volcano ready to explode. “You, the woman who ruined Chase Brody’s life, my brother’s life. You were worried?”

Marvin pulled their hair back as their hands glowed a sick green. All their anger and magic bubbling to the surface. They haphazardly tore their diamond earrings out of their ears placing them in Jackie’s hands. He didn’t fully understand how he got out of Jackie’s grasp and appeared three inches from Stacy’s face, but at that point, he didn’t care. 

“You don’t get to worry! You lost that privilege when you fucked over his life!” Marvin shouted, their artificial nail just millimeters from Stacy’s eye. “You ruined him! You ruined my brother! You have no right to be here!”

Marvin’s furry only escalated as Stacy calmly moved Marvin’s finger away from her face. Her calm demeanor making her seem like the sane one to everyone in the hospital waiting room. Marvin hated it. He hated her. 

“Chase and I tried everything to improve our marriage. The divorce was very hard on me as well.” She talked to him like he was a child. But he wasn’t a child. He knew everything this succubus did to ruin his life.

“Oh really,” Marvin started “Fucking Chase’s producer was hard on you. Taking his children away from him was hard on you. Chase being fucking homeless was hard on you.”

Stacy backed away from Marvin, her jaw practically on the floor. Marvin smiled as he stepped closer, his eyes glowing bright green. The fear and shock on this woman's face filled him with pure ecstasy. Marvin's mouth spread into a sick smile, his prey backing into a corner, with no way to escape his fury.

“I have every right to be here. You can’t say the same.” Marvin whispered into Stacy’s ear. His magic threatening to burn her delicate skin. 

Marvin’s body was lifted up suddenly and without warning. Strong arms wrapped around his midsection, pulling him away from the horrid women in front of him. He desperately reached out for Stacy, wanting to tear her apart for everything she did. 

“I’m so sorry Stacy, maybe you should go for now. Be with the kids.” Jackie said, struggling to hold Marvin back. 

“Get out of here! Go back to your new boy toy! Go back to the perfect life that you wouldn’t have without Chase!” Marvin screamed as he thrashed and kicked against Jackie’s body. “Get the fuck out!” 

A wave of calmness rushed over him as she turned towards the door and ran. Marvin’s feet touched the ground as Jackie slowly moved his hands from Marvin’s stomach to his back. The compassion of Jackie’s touch helped him bring him back down to earth. Every inch of Marvin’s body became heavy as the full force of reality hit him full force. 

“Hey, hey,” Jackie soothed, rubbing Marvin’s back as gently as he could. “I’m here. I’m here. I gotcha. I gotcha.” 

Marvin collapsed to the ground taking Jackie down with him. Tears and sobs falling into his brother's shoulder. 

“I just-I just wanted to protect him. I couldn’t-I won’t fail him again.” Marvin mumbled. 

“I know. I know. You’re just protecting him. It’s okay. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. We’ll protect him. We’ll protect him.”

Marvin nodded into his brother's shoulder, letting the waiting game of news resume.

Prompt by: @tracobuttons