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zepskies · 11 months ago

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Smoke Eater - Part 19

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real.

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.

🔥 Series Masterlist

AN: Deep breaths, my friends. We’re almost to the end. ❤️

Word Count: 5,800 Tags/Warnings: Violence, peril, blood and guns, character death…

Part 19: “Sacrifice”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted…but you didn’t answer.

“You there?” he asked. There was a pit forming in his stomach when he glanced up at John. His father met his gaze with furrowed brows that betrayed concern.

The line was silent for one more painful moment. Dean opened his mouth to call out to you again, but a smooth voice interrupted.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” a man replied. “Forgetting something?”

Dean’s heart began to pound. His mouth parted, but for a moment, the words wouldn’t escape.

“Who is this?” he said. His voice was a hint unsteady.

“I think you know, son,” the man replied.

Dean’s wide eyes flicked up to John’s, and the other man sprang into action. He shot a look and a whispered order at Cas, who went running for some IP tracking equipment back in the police car.

Meanwhile, John guided Dean to sit down on the couch. Sam followed them on his brother’s right, while John sat on Dean’s left.

Dean put the phone on speaker between the three of them.

“You’re Daniel Savage, huh?” Dean said. He tried to inject some more control into his tone, like he wasn’t freaking the fuck out. “Man, do I feel special.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Dean-o. I’m doing the same thing your dad’s doing. Hooking the bigger fish.”

Dean’s lips pursed. He glanced at his father, but his attention on the phone turned steely.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked. “Your lackey’s on lockdown. So’s your bastard son. If you want to help him, I’d suggest you turn your ass over to the cops.”

“Yes, Nick’s an idiot. But family, right?” said Daniel. He breathed out a sigh.

But then his voice was firm and calculating. It made Dean’s skin crawl.

“Cards on the table, son. Your daddy’s got something of mine. I’ve got something of yours.”

Dean’s face hardened, but John raised a placating hand; a warning to keep calm. Dean tried to take a breath.

His heart clenched at the mere thought of you being in the same room with that man. Having been taken and hauled to God knows where. He couldn’t imagine how scared you were. And if you were hurt…

Fuck. There was a roiling pit forming in his stomach, his head starting to pound in time with his heartbeat.

Already Cas was back with a laptop and program designed to track the caller’s phone. He connected a USB-like cord to Dean's phone and began fiddling with the settings, trying to get a read. Dean knew he had to keep this fucker talking.

“You have her with you?” he asked.

“Sure do. She’s a pretty little thing.”

Dean’s jaw clenched in a furious glare. “Don’t you fucking touch her, you son of a bitch.”

“Quid pro quo, Dean. What can you do for me?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, as desperation began to escape him. “There’s no way they’re letting Nick go before the trial. It’s out of my dad’s hands.”

“Your dad has no real evidence that my son is anything more than a successful businessman,” said Daniel. “If you really need someone to pin these unfortunate murders on, you had your man in custody…but, oh wait. You gave him immunity.”

Dean’s eyes were desperate when they met Sam’s worried ones, then their father’s. It didn’t matter that John and Cas did have evidence besides Alastair’s testimony. All Dean cared about was you.

He swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. It’s what I want John to do.”

Dean took a moment to close his eyes, pull himself together. His hands squeezed his knees to brace himself. When he next opened his eyes, he let out a sharp breath.

“What do you want then? Aside from Nick somehow breaking loose,” he asked.

“I want your dad to back the fuck off, once and for all,” Daniel said. His voice was more edged, with both warning and a hint of frustration. “Or I’ll make his son live the same pathetic existence he does.”

Dean’s next breath came out harsher, as both John and Sam sharpened at the threat.

“That’s right, Dean. These are my terms of engagement, else I’m gonna have a bonfire with your girl here.”

It all gripped Dean at once.

Panic, anger, and desperation.

He grabbed the phone and spoke harshly into the speaker.

“Put her on the damn line," he said. "I wanna hear her and know this isn’t a trick.”

Daniel sighed, like he was getting bored. “Oh, all right.”

There was some shuffling, the sound of Daniel’s steps echoing in what sounded like a large room. Dean’s brows furrowed as he heard sounds of your struggle, then your labored breaths, as if a gag had been removed from your mouth.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Go ahead and talk to him,” said Daniel.

Soon enough, your tremulous voice reached him.

“Dean?” you said. You sounded like you were fighting tears; maybe even losing. Dean’s heart broke all the more for it.

“Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah…yeah, I’m okay,” you said, though your voice shook. He hoped you weren’t lying for his sake.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He raised a fist to his mouth, ignoring how it shook. “You’re gonna be okay. I’m going to find you—”

All too soon, the phone was taken away from you.

“Rule number one of negotiations, kid. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Dean’s eyes widened. The next thing he heard was a hard slap. It echoed into the speaker, along with your shout of both surprise and pain, a chair toppling over.

“You fucking bastard!” Dean seethed. “When I find you—”

John interrupted this time, taking the cell phone from Dean. He shot his son a look that was meant to be reassuring, but Dean was too incensed. Sam gripped his shoulder and earned his brother’s gaze. Dean’s chest heaved with the effort of calming his breathing.

“What do you want?” John said into the phone. His voice was clipped and direct.

While he continued to speak, Cas was frowning in frustration over his laptop.

“Anything?” Sam asked.

“I can’t get a lock on his signal. He must have something throwing off the scanner,” Cas replied.

Dean growled in frustration and pushed off the couch. He began to pace the living room, all while he tried to keep an ear on what John was saying lowly into the phone.

By the time he hung up, Dean was raging.

“Fuck this, I’m gonna find her,” he said. John tried to stop him from going anywhere with a hand on his shoulder. Dean knocked him off angrily. Sam also stood, for once on the same page as his father, no matter how much he sympathized.

“Dean, you need to calm down,” John tried.

It was the wrong thing to say.

“I didn’t ask for this!” Dean shouted. The force of it echoed on the apartment walls. “Matter of fact, I’ve never asked you for a damn thing until now. Only that you’d keep me in the loop on Azazel, and keep her out of this. But you couldn’t even do that, could you?”

Sam was at a loss, looking between his father and brother. Cas was also caught in between, watching the scene with concern, and bated breath.

John’s broad shoulders sunk a bit, along with the deep breath he expelled.

“You’re right,” John said. "You're right, son. And I'm sorry."

His eyes held the weight of his words. Of sincerity. And by degrees, Dean’s anger lessened.

Again, not by much.

“Let’s fix it,” said John. “Once and for all.”

Dean wasn’t fully recovered from his TBI. He’d been cleared for driving, but not yet for full physical exercise, let alone going back to work. The stress of all this was giving him a powerful headache, but there was no way he was going to be sidelined now, on any part of it.

Sam was forced to withdraw the case against Nick Savage, citing lack of evidence to support a trial at this time. The judge gave Sam permission to refile when he was able to build a better case.

John was then tasked with escorting Nick out of prison. Cas, meanwhile, was sitting in his personal car outside the county jail with Dean in the passenger seat. Cas didn’t trust what his friend would do behind the wheel once he saw Nick.

“What happens after Nick gets out?” Dean asked. “Dad’s been cagey about the whole deal.”

“We’re escorting him to the airport,” Cas said. “There we’ll wait for Daniel and make the exchange.”

Nick, for you. That was the deal.

“And then?” Dean asked, his teeth already clenching.

Cas blew out a sigh. “We’ll have a unit waiting on standby. We’re going to try and get ahold of whoever has her, though I doubt Daniel will come himself.”

“What if you can’t catch him?” Dean pressed.

Cas didn’t want to have to tell his friend something he didn’t want to hear, but he didn’t make a habit of lying to Dean. He wasn’t about to start now.

“Then it’s over, for now,” he replied. “We each go back to our corners and regroup.”

“Dad’ll never stop hunting this guy,” Dean said.

“That may be,” Cas nodded. “But he does have a line.”

“My father’s an obsessed bastard,” Dean groused. “He doesn’t have a damn line.”

Cas looked over at him then. He was calm and sympathetic, and yet, still disagreeing in his silence. Dean knew he was probably wrong, but in the moment, he didn’t care. He was still angry.

He perked up, however, when the prison doors slid open. Out came John escorting Nick and his lawyer, Amelia. Nick looked as smug as ever now that his cuffs were off. He was given the clothes he was arrested in—a blue silk shirt, pants, Italian leather shoes, and a silver Rolex watch.

Screw this, Dean thought. He unlocked the car from his side and climbed out. He didn’t care that he could hear Cas mutter a curse behind him and follow suit.

Nick saw Dean coming and couldn’t help but smirk, even as John grasped his arm and led him to his police car.

“Hey, fireman,” Nick taunted with his waggling brows. “Where’s our girl?”

Dean’s lips edged at a dangerous smile. Cas came up just behind him, ready to restrain him if need be.

“You can finesse your way out of this, but remember our little chat,” Dean said. His eyes burned with a thinly veiled threat. “Not a dime in this world can protect you from me.”

Nick pretended to shiver.

“Ooh, I’m so fucking scared,” he snarked. He resisted John’s manhandling and ripped his arm out of the other man’s grasp to step further into the open, leaving just a few yards between him and Dean.

“You can’t touch me,” Nick taunted. “You won’t dare. Not unless you want—”

Three shots rang out in the open clearing.

All heads ducked, but Dean’s eyes widened. He watched Nick crumple to the ground as scarlet red plumed in the man’s silk shirt. The shock etched on his face drained along with his life, leaving blue eyes staring up at a clear sky.

Forensics at the scene found traces of a sniper on the rooftop of a building directly across from the county jail.

John and Cas already were mounting an entire unit search in locating Alastair Rolston, but he had apparently moved out of his apartment as soon as he was released from prison with his immunity deal. (The police officers escorting him into witness protection had been found dead at the scene of his designated safe house.)

The detectives were later called into the medical examiner’s office on the case of Nick Savage—not to examine the body, but the bullets that had carved into his heart, right lung, and throat.

One of the bullets had a special casing. Inside was a rolled-up note, not unlike a carrier pigeon. It had a simple message:

JOHN — STULL STORAGE. COME ALONE.

Once again, Dean refused to sit idly. He’d pushed back hard enough that John had eventually relented. This time, however, Sam stepped in to make sure his brother was reigned in. Dean’s knee was already bouncing with anticipation and nervousness.

It was nearly midnight on a Tuesday. The brothers sat in the surveillance van with Jody Mills, all wearing protective Kevlar vests as precaution. The van was removed from the immediate site of Stull Storage, which was made up of a main warehouse and several rows of storage units on the other side.

Cas was leading another police unit on standby, but John was going into the warehouse. He wore his usual leather jacket over his rumpled shirt, pants, and boots, but also a protective vest and hidden wire under his collar.

Sam, Dean, and Jody were able to listen in as John entered alone.

He had a flashlight positioned over his raised gun as he walked into the building. He found some light switches along the wall and was able to turn on half the room’s fluorescent ceiling lights.

He heard a whimper.

Moving towards the sound cautiously, John soon found you tied to a chair. You looked a bit worse for wear; though you were dressed for an interview in black slacks and a blouse, your hair was in disarray, your cheek still sported a fading red mark, and you likely had other bumps and bruises.

Your eyes widened with hope when you saw John. You made sounds of surprise around the gag tied in your mouth, but he shushed you with a finger held to his lips.

He went over to you after lowering his gun, cocking back the safety, and re-holstering. He went to untie the gag first. You breathed deeply when it was gone.

“You okay?” he asked, touching your arm in comfort.

“Yeah,” you nodded, but your widening eyes still darted behind him.

Another safety clicked back. John immediately drew his gun again and turned. He was met with the man of the hour.

Standing mere feet away with his own gun was Daniel Savage. AKA: Azazel.

“Ooh, you’re getting old, John,” he said with a smirk. “Wasn’t expecting to get the drop on you so easily.”

John subtly moved so he was standing in front of you. He hadn't had time to untie you from the chair. Your breathing came out shallow as you tried to spy around John to your captor.

“Daniel,” John greeted. “It’s about time, wouldn’t you say?”

“You cheated though,” said Daniel, despite his cocky smirk. Like father like son. “I know you’ve got a team waiting in the wings.”

“If you wanna get technical, you cheated first,” John pointed out.

Daniel shrugged. Behind him came around ten of his own hired men, armed with their own guns. “Hate the player, hate the game, my friend.”

John’s lips pursed, but he didn’t lower his gun. He had a straight shot at Daniel’s chest.

“Even if you do get off a shot, you’ll be Swiss cheese where you stand,” Daniel said.

“Small price to pay for ending your miserable fucking life,” John remarked.

Daniel’s brows rose. “Are you gonna make her pay for it too?”

He gestured behind John, where he glanced back at your face. Your red-rimmed eyes were shining with tears. And John knew that once his gun fired, his body would hit the ground. Yours wouldn’t be far behind.

His brows furrowed, and the hands holding his weapon wavered.

“So how you do think this is gonna play out?” John asked.

“Well, for starters, you’re going to drop that damn gun,” said Daniel. He cocked his own weapon. “Then, you’re going to get down on your knees and take this bullet, like putting down a rabid dog. Then maybe, I’ll let her go before the cops rush in.”

John’s hesitation was mere seconds. He clicked the safety back on. He set down his gun, and lowered to his knees in slow movements.

Your eyes widened further as incredulous tears slipped down your cheeks. You shook your head.

“Don’t!” you said shakily.

John didn’t look back at you this time, but he did answer you.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he said.

Daniel’s grim smile made you shiver.

“What a caring father-in-law,” he said, and he slowly stalked forward. “You know, I prided myself on delegating my operations well. Oh, it was a well-oiled machine back in the day. But some things…well, some things are just better handled yourself. Know what I mean?”

He tilted his head down at John.

“For example: I really regret the way I had your wife killed,” he said. “For all the trouble you’ve given me, I wish I’d actually burned the bitch myself.”

John glared up at the man with pure fury and hatred.

Though his eyes widened when the first shot split the air, and buried a bullet in Daniel’s left arm. Daniel shouted in pain as he unconsciously dropped his gun. John dove for it, and everything started to happen at once.

Daniel kicked at John’s chest while holding his wounded arm, tossing the other man back. John rolled onto his feet, and their full out brawl began. Meanwhile, a unit of police officers swarmed into the warehouse and sparked a shootout with Daniel’s men.

And in all of this, Cas came out from behind your line of vision to untie you. He wore a protective vest over his usual white dress shirt, now rolled up to the elbows.

“Cas!” you gasped. He gave you a smile, then used a pocketknife to cut through the zip ties holding your wrists behind you and your ankles to the chair.

“Come on, let’s go.” He helped you up and guided you out the back of the warehouse.

The last coherent sound Sam and Dean heard was a bullet fired and hitting its target. They couldn’t tell if it was John or Daniel that had been hit, or even you.

Above all things, Dean was a man of action.

He just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fuck this,” he growled. He got to his feet and went for the door of the surveillance van, but while Jody voiced her protest, it was Sam who reached him first.

“Dean, stop! You can’t go out there!” Sam said.

“The hell I can’t,” Dean said. The punch he reared back and threw was precise when it cracked Sam in the cheek. He went down hard. It was all Jody could do to keep him from knocking his head on the metal floor, but Sam was out cold, with his hair flopped over his face.

"Dean!" Jody yelled after him. She stared after the open door of the van with wide, worried eyes.

There were rows upon rows of storage units behind the warehouse. It felt like a maze in itself, one that you and Cas were forced to navigate alone in the crisp January night. Both of you saw your breath on the air as you tried to move quickly, but quietly.

Until a long arm reached out on the other side of a unit, and a hand closed on Cas’s gun, pushing it down and ripping it out of his hands. An elbow cracked into his face, making him grunt and stumble.

Your scream of surprise echoed in the night. You stared up into the familiar face of Alastair, whose mouth formed a sly grin.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he said.

Cas distracted him with a blow that Alastair blocked, but it gave Cas room to break the taller man’s stance and knock his head against the unit wall—once, twice, until the man stumbled and fell. He wasn’t knocked out, but Cas didn’t wait for Alastair to recover. He grabbed you and forced you to run.

“I thought he was in protective custody for the trial,” you said, through huffing breaths.

“Evidently he escaped,” Cas replied.

“God, Cas. You really need to hand out some pink slips,” you said, with a tremor in your voice. The police were supposed to have been watching you as well, before you were kidnapped. Cas conceded your point.

“We really shouldn’t have given him immunity,” he grumbled.

Dean knew he was being some kind of idiot.

Knew it as he carefully approached a side door of the warehouse. His vest wouldn’t protect his whole body if he entered the no man’s land shootout he could hear happening on the other side of the door.

Already he could see policemen escorting some of Azazel’s captured team around the front exit. Dean kept to the shadows, and he cracked the side door open.

There was still plenty going on inside. A few bodies were already strewn across the dusty warehouse floor. Large crates stacked up to the ceiling offered meager protection for both sides of the siege, including Dean as he kept to the wall and slid his way inside and behind a formation of wooden crates. He scanned the room until he found his dad.

John was fighting hand-to-hand with who had to be Daniel Savage. Even though the latter had blood dripping from his arm, John had his share of bruises and scrapes, including a long cut across his cheek from the knife clenched in Daniel’s non-injured right hand.

What the hell do I do? Dean assessed the situation, his eyes darting quickly between the men. He came in here without a weapon (another smart move). He went through most of the training a million years ago, but Dean wasn’t a police officer. He was a firefighter.

However, when he spotted a forgotten Glock on the floor, just a few yards away where the men were still tousling, Dean inched his way closer. He’d have to leave the relative safety of the crates and throw himself out into the open to reach the gun. At this point, Daniel was closer.

And he’d noticed the gun too, at the same time that John glanced up and saw his son. His eyes widened, and just for a moment he lost his grip on Daniel. The other man went for the gun at the same time Dean dove.

John yanked Daniel back by his collar and kneed him in the stomach. But Daniel had the longer reach. He cracked an elbow into John’s face and followed by a swift punch to the gut. John grunted and doubled over at the impact to his already battered ribs and stomach.

Daniel threw him head-first into a pile of nearby crates. He was breathing hard, but his lips twitched in satisfaction at the way John fell into a heap of broken wood. The detective was clearly waning.

Daniel stalked forward. Ignoring his still bleeding shoulder, he grabbed John by the jacket and collar of his shirt and hefted him up to his feet, prepared to deliver another blow. The cocking of a nearby gun made him pause. But in a moment, he twisted John in front him with an arm wrapped around his neck to face his next attacker.

While Daniel had been distracted, Dean had managed to dive and roll across the concrete, scooping up the gun on his way back onto his feet. Now he’d had the time to take aim and wait for his moment, which was right fucking now.

Slowly, Daniel tilted his head to look past John’s shoulder. He was met with Dean’s smirk and a gun pointed directly at his head.

“I think I’ve got something of yours,” Dean remarked. His fingers slid over the trigger.

Daniel tilted his head. A dry smile edged at the corner of his lips. “All right, Dean. Well played. But…”

He tightened his arm around John’s throat and held the knife poised at his neck.

“We’re at what you’d call an impasse, don’t you think?” Daniel asked.

“Dean,” John said. He met his eldest’s gaze as uncertainly crept into Dean’s stance. His hand was still held aloft, but there was an almost imperceptible shake.

“Just shoot him,” said John, with full conviction. “Don’t worry about me.”

Dean’s mouth pressed into a line, his brows furrowing. He wasn’t doing that.

“See, I don’t think he’s got it in ‘im,” Daniel said, speaking lowly in John’s ear. His knife tightened against John’s neck. “You’re out of your fucking depth, Dean.”

Dean flinched as a bullet zoomed past his head from across the room. He was reminded that there was still a fight going on, and the three of them were very much out in the open. John’s face turned more urgent, with thinly veiled worry.

“Dean, either shoot him or get the hell out of here,” he said tersely.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean said, with a small, stubborn shake of his head. But he was nervous. Despite how close he’d come with Nick Savage, Dean had never shot at someone, let alone taken a life. The gun was heavy in his hand.

“Running out of time, son,” Daniel taunted.

“I’m not your fucking son,” Dean gritted out. “Speaking of, did you have Alastair do your dirty work, taking out Nick, or did you pull that trigger yourself?”

Daniel’s smirk faded, his gaze tightening with resignation.

“Sacrifices, Dean,” he said. “We make ‘em to survive. To make sure our legacies survive.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he looked at this man, and he finally understood what his dad had been trying to tell him.

He ain’t a man. He’s a monster.

The gun was heavy in his hand…

“Come on, Dean!” Daniel shouted. “Make a decision—”

Dean still remembered most things he’d learned at the Police Academy. He’d lived, ate, sweat, and breathed those drills and tests for months. And yet, there was only one score he’d truly been proud of. It was the one record of his dad’s that he’d managed to beat.

You could guess which one.

Dean let his fingers squeeze the trigger on some instinct he couldn’t name. Daniel was forced to choke on his words.

Cas pulled you around the corner of a storage unit that blocked the light of the moon. It was just in time for a bullet to rip past where his head used to be.

You leaned heavily against the wall and heaved for breath, but Cas held a finger to his lips while he tried to calm his own breathing.

You held a hand over your mouth to try and stifle the sounds from getting out. Your eyes were wide and panicked, but Cas could only reassure you with a brief hand on your shoulder. He nodded and signaled with his free hand. Wait.

You gave a jerky nod in return. So he reached for his belt and brandished the only weapon he had left—the knife he’d used to cut through your bonds. The air was quiet, except for the distant shouts of police officers; it sounded like Azazel’s men were finally being rounded up.

Cas had called for backup earlier, but he didn’t think they could wait for it. Nor would he know if they were coming. He’d long since turned off the radio on his belt so that it couldn’t tip off his position with you.

He chanced looking around the wall of the storage unit. The coast looked clear, though he knew it wasn’t. Still, the best Cas could hope for was to cover you on the way back to the police barricade. He leaned back and reached for you. He guided you, both with his eyes and a hand on your back.

On the count of three, run, he mouthed. You wordlessly agreed. He saw the fear shining in your eyes.

One…two…

An arm shot out to grab Castiel’s collar the moment he stepped out from his cover, making you scream. The first punch came swift; Alastair was taller, perhaps stronger, but Cas recovered quickly.

He ducked the other man’s arm and delivered an uppercut that had his adversary careening back. With a well-placed jab to the wrist, Alastair’s gun clattered away across the ground.

Cas managed to shoot you a quick look. “Run. Now!”

You paused for a mere moment while Cas continued to grapple with Alastair. Then, in your frozen fear, you finally managed flight. And you took off running, even though Alastair tried to grab at your hair. Cas held him back and continued the fight.

You’d only managed a few yards of distance though, before you couldn’t help but look back. Something in you just couldn’t leave Cas behind.

You took cover behind another storage unit and watched Alastair slowly get the upper hand. He managed to pin Cas against the ribbed metal wall of a unit. He winced as it dug into his spine, but he had bigger problems.

He spat blood after the third blow to his jaw and tried to blink dark spots of his vision. Alastair looked down on him with the lean look of a predator. His smile betrayed the enjoyment he took in his work.

“Contrary to what you might think, I’ve never killed a cop before,” he said. “Just a cop’s wife.”

Cas’s eyes widened a fraction. Alastair’s smile deepened. He raised a bloody fist to finish his work, but he winced and weakened with a shout as a knife embedded deep in his thigh.

It was Cas’s knife that you’d found on the ground.

Alastair’s angry eyes looked down and met your scared ones. You let go of the knife and scrambled back. He backhanded you roughly. You cried out and fell hard on the pavement.

Alastair reached for the knife, but Cas grabbed it first. He twisted as he yanked it out, then jabbed it into the taller man’s neck. It choked his scream as he stumbled back. And yet, even that didn’t manage to kill him.

Cas dove for the fallen gun. It was mere feet away from where he’d forced it out of Alastair’s grip. Cas felt a hand grab his shoulder. He reacted fast—he turned and shot two rounds of hot led into Alastair’s gut.

His gray eyes went wide. Blood gurgled in his mouth.

And slowly, Alastair slid to the ground.

Cas was bloody, his shirt stained and torn, but he was still standing with ragged breath. You had managed to sit up, though your shocked eyes were trained on the body you’d just seen fall into a heap. The horrific spell of it broke when Cas gently touched your shoulder.

You gasped and raised your head.

“It’s okay,” he said, reaching a hand to you. “It’s over.”

Cas escorted you back to the police barricade. There you found Sam, and the mere sight of him relieved you so much you didn’t realize you were crying when you stepped into his embrace. He hugged you tight and asked if you were all right.

You couldn’t give him an honest answer, but at least you were alive.

“I’m okay,” you said tremulously, but you pulled back at grasped his arms. “Where’s Dean?”

Sam looked anxious as his gaze flit between you and Cas.

“That goddamn idiot, he went in there! They won’t let me through—”

“What?” Cas said incredulously. “Into the warehouse?”

Your tears fell anew as a new frantic worry took hold, churning in your stomach and making you feel sick. You turned, and both Cas and Sam had to stop you from heading towards the warehouse.

“Get him out of there!” you cried. “Dean!”

You tried to push past Cas and his attempts to calm you, but you stopped the moment you saw him…

Dean was helping John limp out of the warehouse. Jody was on John’s other side, supporting him as well. John looked beat to hell, and exhausted, but there was no mistaking the calm look on his face. Like he’d finally sleep tonight.

Dean, on the other hand, looked pale, haggard, and worried. However, his head perked up as soon as he heard your voice. His eyes widened. He turned to Jody to make sure she could support John on her own, and she nodded at him.

It let Dean make his way straight for you.

Sam and Cas finally released you, like a horse waiting to bolt out of the stables. Your tears blurred your vision as you went to him.

When Dean swept you up into his arms, you were able to throw yours around his neck and cling to him for all you were worth. You buried your face into his neck and sobbed your relief.

You wouldn’t know that Dean’s eyes were shining and red, his mouth trembling slightly as he sucked in a breath and held you as tight as he dared. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, over your wild hair. His lips pressed to the side of your head as he closed his eyes for a moment.

“You okay?” he asked, when he was able to speak.

“Mhmm,” you nodded, though his question prompted you to pull back and find his face. Your heels came back to the ground, and you reached up to stroke his cheek and search his gaze.

“What about you?” you asked tremulously. “Your head?”

“’M fine,” he said. Though the truth was, he was reeling. His ears still rung from the bullet that hit Daniel between the eyes.

The weight of that decision was almost too fresh to be real, but it was heavy on Dean all the same. He could even get in legal trouble for this. He wasn’t supposed to have entered that building. Hell, he’d picked up a gun and shot a man.

Though he already knew what Sam would say.

Justification. Imminent danger. Self-defense.

Dean just didn’t know if that would fly here, especially with the Fire Department.

Right now, however, you were his lifeline. You grounded him in reality when you held his face in your hands. Just beyond you, he could see the relief on both Sam and Cas’s faces.

Dean gave them a smile, but he focused back on you. He held your hand to his cheek.

“Promise me you’re gonna stay put for a while,” he quipped. “Preferably where I can see you.”

You scoffed at him through the tears glittering in your eyes.

“Dean Winchester, if that isn’t the most hypocritical thing that’s ever come out of your mouth!” you said, punctuating your words with a slap on his chest.

“Hey!” he protested, but you ignored him. You gripped his shirt and felt the Kevlar underneath. It might’ve protected his chest, but he hadn’t had anything to protect his damn head.

“You run into fires, not bullets, you idiot,” you said, now wiping frustrated tears from your cheek.

Dean’s tension began to ease with a smile. He held you more securely, pulling you flush against him.

“You sound like Bobby,” he teased.

“Good!” you snapped. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that. Do you hear m—?”

He didn’t think he’d ever miss you giving him shit, but this time, it just made him smile until the corners of his eyes crinkled. Shortly before he cut you off with a searing kiss.

You made a sound of surprise, even as you gripped at his shirt, then his face to keep him there. You both knew this night was long from being over. An even longer way from recovering.

But for now, this was a good start.

AN: And so, we're drawing near to the end. 🥹 What did you think of the respective ends of Nick and Daniel Savage, and even Alastair? And of course, her and Dean's reunion. 💗

Soon (this weekend), we have the epilogue...

Next Time:

“So…I’ve gotta tell you something,” said Dean, after he parted from your lips for a moment, and allowed you to breathe. His tone made you tilt your head in suspicion.

“It’s nothing bad,” he said, though he looked a bit nervous.

Your brows furrowed. You led him to the couch, where he took your hands in his. It took him a moment to get started. He seemed stuck on what he wanted to say, or maybe just how he wanted to say it.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure I can handle it,” you teased.

Dean gave you a smile. His shoulders relaxed a little...

Keep Reading: THE EPILOGUE

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb

@vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420 @illicithallways

#Sacrifice #Smoke Eater #Part 19 #dean winchester #Firefighter!Dean Winchester #dean winchester x reader #Dean Winchester x female reader #firefighter!Dean Winchester x Reader #dean winchester x you #firefighter AU #dean winchester AU #spn #supernatural #john winchester #sam winchester #Castiel #zepskies writes

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vessel-token · 5 months ago

Text

— sugar, i’ve got a taste for you now.

Sleep Token Vessel x F!Reader x III.

Tags ; Explicit Sexual Content. Dom/Sub Undertones. Implied Polyamorous Relationship. Implied Established Relationship. Fingering. Cunnilingus. Threesome. Hints of Exhibitionism & Voyeurism. Minor Breathplay. Aftercare. Fluff (at the end).

AN ; did you see what i did there with the title. smirks. do you like that. lmao man idk why i’ve been writing so much with the reader getting eaten out, it’s just lowkey fun to write and i don’t think there’s ever enough of it ykwim?? so enjoy this nasty idea that came to me while listening to sugar and remembering that time when vessel straddled iii on stage. they’re highkey gay for each other in this, hence why i went ahead and tagged it as poly, but they’re also down bad for reader so??? also, before anyone asks, i do plan to write a part 2 and maybe 3… as always, this is NSFW, so MDNI. ⚠️

Divider ; @benkeibear-deactivated20240529

How you got here, splayed overtop Vessel’s lap, largely remains a mystery to you. What you had been doing, why you had been doing it, all of that has essentially left you. All that registers in your clouded mind — all that is important enough to register — is the sensation of Vessel’s hands groping at your naked body and the sight of III kneeling between your parted legs.

Your back is flush to Vessel’s chest and his thighs are hooked beneath your own, ensuring that they stay open nice and wide for III. It puts you on a downright lewd display, worsened only when Vessel decides to tease III further by reaching his hand down and spreading your slick folds apart. Almost instinctively, you clench around nothing, terribly aware of the invitation Vessel is making out of your evident arousal. You can’t help but squirm against him, equal amounts shame and desire painting your face with a red flush. It crawls down your neck and reaches the tips of your ears, but there is little you can do about your current predicament.

Vessel’s arm remains a firm barrier around your middle, keeping you trapped against him. It’s not that he’s holding you there against your will, but rather to keep you from thrashing in the midst of whatever he has planned for you. You’ve already got a pretty good guess, seeing the blatant hunger that burns in III’s eyes as he drinks in the near-pornographic view Vessel is presenting him with. You’re unsure which of you he aims to torment more, yourself or III. It’s likely both of you, if you’re thinking realistically.

Vessel isn’t exactly a sadist, quite the opposite in your opinion, but he is most definitely a tease in almost all that he does. Whether it be his performances, his rituals, or his general appearance, all of him seemed to be designed to leave one wanting more. Perhaps that was why he’d snagged the attention of Sleep, having been enough to entice even an ancient deity.

“Look at you,” Vessel murmurs, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “So eager for us.”

You make a noise that ends up sounding like some pathetic amalgamation of a whine and a moan, agreeing but begrudgingly. You hear III laugh between your legs, but the clear strain in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You shoot him a pointed glare, hoping to convey your feelings of faux betrayal. He holds your gaze steady and unwavering, his mask pulled up just enough to reveal smug grin.

Bastard.

“Go ahead. Taste her,” Vessel instructs, nodding to III. He rests his chin on your shoulder, making sure to give himself an unobstructed view of the other man as he retracts his hand. He places it instead on III’s cheek, stroking the revealed skin beneath as he guides him closer to you.

Whether III’s quick response time is due to him receiving permission or because it’s a command from Vessel, you don’t know. You sure as hell don’t care either, not as you watch III delve between your thighs. You feel his tongue before you see it, swiping across your neglected cunt in broad strokes. All at once, your head falls back against Vessel’s chest, a punched-out moan ripping free from your throat. Hearing it only spurs III on, no longer simply teasing but instead devouring you.

Much like Vessel had appeared to predict, you begin to squirm in his lap, trying in vain to grind yourself against III’s face. Both men take notice, with Vessel groping at your tits and III giving an acknowledging hum against you. The sounds the latter makes are nothing short of perverse, sucking and licking at you like you’re a delicacy and he’s been fasting. His nose bumps against your clit a few times, but you can tell he’s purposely avoiding it, something which nearly makes you cry out in misery.

“Please,” you beg, too caught up to give a damn about your pride. “Please, I’ve been good. I’ve been patient.”

Vessel’s lips graze your ear. You can’t see him, but you can tell he’s smirking. “This isn’t about punishment, my love.”

Just when you’re about to protest because that’s exactly what this feels like, you catch sight of Vessel’s free hand sneaking down, blackened fingertips dancing over your skin. He’s almost graceful as he does it, like this is some kind of intimate ritual he has to be mindful to perfect. You watch with heaving breaths as he seeks out your swollen clit, rubbing at it while III groans into your cunt. You can’t stop your hips from bucking this time, a broken cry fleeing your lips as both of them work at you. This time, Vessel mercifully doesn’t stop you from moving.

Not one to be outdone, III adds his own fingers, pushing two inside you. He curls and flexes them, seeking out the same bundle of nerves that Vessel is currently targeting on the outside. The dual stimulation has all kinds of sounds leaving your mouth, your eyes squeezing shut and your brows furrowing. The arm that once wrapped around your torso finally departs, Vessel’s hold relinquishing in favor of migrating further up your body. You feel all five points of contact from his warm palm as it closes around your throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult.

All at once, your orgasm hits you with blinding force.

Both men release gutteral groans as they feel you cum, fingers and tongue insistently working you through it. Vessel abandons your clit in favor of pressing down on the back of III’s head, practically smothering the other against you. III doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, if the way his hips jerk against nothing is anything to go by. For a brief moment, you swear you see stars behind your eyelids, your moans trailing into whimpers once overstimulation begins to set in.

“Too much,” you choke out, floating on the border between pain and pleasure. It mixes together to create a heady sensation, giving you a high like no other as Vessel and III finally begin to ease back.

III presses a featherlight kiss to your lower lips before resting his head against your inner thigh, panting just as heavily as you. Vessel soothes you both, loosening his grip on your throat and massaging it instead. He mirrors the action on III’s cheek with his other hand, murmuring soft praises to you both. He’s often like this with the two of you, ignoring his own needs in favor of tending to you both.

That isn’t to say he can’t be selfish when he wants to, the man can be one hell of a brat, but he’s nothing if not devoted. You can still feel his hardness pressing against your ass, silently pleading for some attention. You can clearly see III’s in the same predicament, but neither of them make any moves without your permission or request.

As your senses gradually return to you, you release your death grip on the couch cushions beneath you, flexing your aching fingers. You shift on Vessel’s lap, angling your head back to place a kiss on his jaw. You can feel III’s gaze on you and before he can dare pout or complain, you reach down to take him by the chin, gently urging him up to meet you. You can still taste yourself on him, but it’s a very small price to pay to kiss him. Vessel hums from over your shoulder, basking in the mutual affection as he kisses your cheek and then moves to III once you’re done.

Their lip-lock, you notice, is much more heated than yours had been. You watch as Vessel tongue swipes across III’s lips, undoubtedly enjoying the combined taste of him and you. As III moans into Vessel’s mouth, you find yourself reminded that this night has yet to be over.

Taglist ; @that-unfortunate-crow @moni-cah @avagraceiossi @miss-multi45 @adenobabe @swissy23 @justarheaslut

(Let me know if you’d like to be added to future fics!)

#mdni #smut #fanfic #sleep token #sleep token vessel #iii sleep token #iii x vessel #iii x reader #vessel x reader #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token fic

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alchemistc · 5 months ago

Text

chisme 1/1

read on ao3

“I still don’t know the guy under the engine, Hank.” “But...you could find out.” “Didn’t you date one of the paramedics on the B shift over there? You were always yapping about how your schedules never lined up.” Thomas’ face goes a little pale. “Yeah, uh... that didn’t work out.” “Yeah, don’t shit where you eat, Henry.” ___ The LAFD likes to gossip. They all take advantage of the fact that Tommy knows their favorite subject to gossip about.

“You see that kid on the news?”

Jones shoots him a raised brow, and Tommy shrugs. “Captain Nash will sort him out.”

“Or he’ll wash out in a month,” Jones singsongs, and Tommy bites back on the defensiveness he feels bubbling up.

They’d been growing towards something, when he left. Even he knows that whatever Bobby Nash was doing was rare. He... misses it, some days.

He’s still getting used to this new crew. They’re... there’s nothing wrong with them, it’s just that Tommy’d been at the 118 for years, and even though he doesn’t look back fondly on most of it, or the person he’d been, that had been home for a long fucking time. He’d made a decision, the moment Bobby slid the LAFD pilot certification paperwork across the desk to him, his last review, that he wasn’t gonna hide himself anymore.

It’s fucking work, being genuine. Honest. Open.

“You got any plans for the night?”

Tommy takes a deep breath through his nose, stretches his shoulders back. Tilts his head a little, tips his chin down so he doesn’t look so fucking tense. “Does trawling the horrific depths of LA Grindr until I fall asleep count?”

Jones goes still. There’s a terrible, horrible moment where every shitty thing Gerrard, his father, his CO’s, his high school buddies ever said washes over him. And then Jones’ face does something strange. Pursed lips, raised brows, scrunched nose, like the surprise is washing over him uncontrollably, and then — “Well shit, Kinard, that’s just depressing. Let me and my man take you out tonight.”

Tommy blows the breath back out, feels the corner of his mouth tilting uncontrollably up, has to roll his tongue over his teeth to keep it from going too wide. That — he hadn’t known that. Everyone here uses ‘partner’ to describe their significant others, he figured it was just some initiative they’d all taken to be inclusive. “As long as you’re not looking for a third. No offense, Jones, you’re not my type.”

Jones smirks. “Who says you’re mine?”

Tommy slaps a hand over his heart, really plays up the hurt expression. “I’m everyone’s type.”

Jones’ eyeroll is a thing of beauty. “You’re too pretty for me, Kinard. And I’m too mean for you. You need a nice boy with a heart of gold to keep you humble.”

Tommy thinks, fleetingly, of the lost little look in that kids blue, blue eyes, camera shoved in his face and the flashing lights of a tilt-a-whirl behind him.

“I’d eat him alive,” Tommy says, and Jones’ laugh follows them both out of the lockers.

---

“What a fucking day,” Gatlin says, laid out across the length of the bench, one arm over his face,

It’s been a series of days, actually, but Tommy doesn’t feel like being pedantic about it.

Tommy just hums, and does his best not to be annoyed about having to juggle his duffle in one hand while he shifts the sad, unused basketball out of his locker to stuff it in the open neck of his bag. They’ve all been through the ringer, Tommy’s gonna give the new guy a moment to regroup.

“Hey, did the 136 ever find their captain? In all the chaos I don’t remember anyone radioing it in.”

Tommy nods an affirmative. He’s so fucking tired from calling out locations of trapped survivors that he’s sure his voice sounds like sandpaper. “Swept up in it like all the rest. Someone on patrol found him pinned under debris. An officer had to saw off his arm, poor bastard.”

Gatlin sits up like he’s rising from the dead. “You’re making shit up. This is a hazing ritual.”

Tommy slides him the most serious face he can manage around the yawn threatening to escape. His phone is blowing up — texts from dozens of people who’d been working the same shit as him, and it’s the first time in a while he’s regretted deleting Facebook. The marked safe function would have saved him about sixty texts so far.

“Heard from Waters that one of the 118’s kids was on the pier when the wave hit,” Gatlin tells him, finally groaning and rising to gather his own shit.

Tommy’s gut drops even as he’s opening up Hen’s contact in his phone, gratefully dumping the duffle onto the bench, now that Gatlin’s legs aren’t taking up the entire thing.

“Kid has CB or something, some lady found him and carried him around for like half a fuckin’ day until she found the old VA popup.”

“Mr. Rogers would have been proud,” Tommy says, and stares at the unsent text he’d typed out with shaky hands. Is Denny okay?

“Huh?”

Jesus, he’s young. “Look for the helpers?” Gatlin blinks at him. “Never mind. Change your clothes. Drink some water. Go the fuck home and get some shut eye, Gatlin.”

“You too, Kinard.”

He deletes the text the moment he’s in his truck, but scrolls back to her contact about twenty times, lying in bed that night, trying to get some sleep.

When he wakes up there’s a text from Hen.

Tommy scrolls up to find a keyboard smash he’d somehow managed to send at 2 in the morning.

Hen 3:27 AM: ???

Hen 3:28 AM: You good?

Hen 3:31 AM: We’re fine. If you were wondering. I assume you fell asleep talking yourself in circles about whether or not to reach out.

Hen 3:42 AM: One of our guys was at the pier with the probies kid. They’re both fine. Tell your crew to stop gossiping so much.

Hen 5:53 AM: Call me if you need anything

Tommy ignores the ache behind his ribcage.

Tommy 7:33 AM: Glad you’re okay. Tell Karen I said hi.

Hen 8:24 AM: Karen and Denny send their love.

---

Tommy’s elbow deep in wiring when Thomas sidles up to the cockpit. He’s got a look on his face that Tommy would normally like to entertain, but there’d been something fiddly with the altimeter his last flight out and he wants to check this before they get called out again — better to ground her until someone can take a real look, if he finds anything, than wave it off ‘til the end of the day.

Thomas shifts closer, tips his head in so he can duck under the open door.

“So, you still know a couple of the guys over at the 118, right?”

Tommy grimaces.

The fact of the matter is, Tommy knows a few guys from all over the city. He’s been around a while, has made many an appearance at the bars first responders like to flock to, has seen enough people come and go from stations to know a guy here and there everywhere. He’s thinking of setting up a pick-up game for whichever LAFD members want to show, maybe seeing if he can wrangle enough people for at least a bi-weekly trivia night.

The breakup with Jason sucked and he’s definitely trying to avoid going home to his empty apartment. Maybe he should get a dog.

“I still don’t know the guy under the engine, Hank.”

“But...you could find out.”

“Didn’t you date one of the paramedics on the B shift over there? You were always yapping about how your schedules never lined up.”

Thomas’ face goes a little pale. “Yeah, uh... that didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, don’t shit where you eat, Henry.”

And now he’s thinking about Jason, again. Christ. Don’t date anyone you meet on calls, Sal had told him, five years in, when everyone still thought his flirting with every hot chick they ran into meant anything other than him desperately trying to cover for the way his eyes were always drawing to the wide stretch of shirts across broad shoulders and the tight fit of a pair of classic 501s.

How he’d managed to convince himself Jason would be the exception is beyond him.

And the guy pinned under the engine had only made things worse, so he’s not particularly in the mood to gossip about him when Jason had used the whole ordeal as an excuse to start a massive fucking fight about the risks of the job for the fifth time in as many months.

“Yeah, I get it, oh wise one. Are you wise enough to figure out why the fuck the guy is suing the department?’

Tommy’s interest is piqued.

God damnit.

It hasn’t even been that long since Chim called him last, Tommy rationalizes as he tips the flashlight in his mouth with his bottom teeth.

“Give me ten minutes to figure out if there’s a short and I’ll make a call.”

---

Tommy’s got one eye on the television and another on the pool table. Brody’s got a pool cue tipped under her chin, and he can already see the chalk shifting onto her skin.

“So, we all agree they’re fucking cursed, right?”

Tommy takes a sip of his beer while a few of the guys make noises of agreement.

“Like, I’m thinking of starting a pool to decide what disaster they’re gonna have a starring role in next. But I don’t want repeats, and at this point I’m not sure how to list them all.”

“Rebar through the brainpan,” Trent says, shaking his head. Tommy feels a flash of guilt for never calling Chim after the initial text he’d sent.

“Plane crash,” lists Jones, eyes still on the reporter being drenched in the downpour as she recites the same tired story about the boy down the well.

“Bath salt werewolves.”

“Earthquake high rise rescue,” Tommy tosses out. He’s still a little annoyed he’d missed that one.

“Unwitting bank heist,” Brody says, phone out and typing furiously. “Oh, do we count ‘targets of teenage Unabomber’ and ‘pinned under a fire engine’ as two separate events?”

“This is getting a little morbid,” Trent says. Still no updates about the guy who’s been buried alive with the kid down the well.

“Armed chicken,” Tommy contributes, hoping to lighten the mood, and grins when they all turn to him with incredulous looks. “Maurice. Knives for feet. He introduced Nash and Grant, technically.”

Brody rolls her eyes. He never should have let her in on his secret love of love stories, she’s such a cynic, she hates when they all gossip about each others love lives.

“This is life or death situations, not dangerous fowl turned rom-com moments. C’mon, what else have we got? I’m including tsunami. Wasn’t your buddy’s girlfriend at dispatch when it got taken hostage? I’m counting it.”

Christ, he really needs to do a better job of keeping in touch.

Tommy’s eyes flit back to the screen. He can see the NASH dashed across the back of one set of turnouts, the end of a name, just ‘LEY” on the set next to his. He’s suddenly not feeling great.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” he tells them, and Jones raises a brow at his half-full beer.

Tommy chugs it and tries to ignore Brody continuing to list things off.

---

Tommy’s getting a little tired of the argument about his job. There’s always a fucking argument, and he’s always somehow the bad guy for being the one saving lives day in and day out.

At least Peter hadn’t lasted long enough for Tommy to really get all that invested.

The house is too quiet, though.

And the dating scene is hell. He’d never —

The whole landscape of dating had been a shit show from the moment he’d decided he was done fucking around with hookups and lies, and it’s only gotten worse. He feels old, and he hates that he’d never let himself try when everything wasn’t app based and fraught with weird expectations.

He shoots off a message to Chim before he heads in to work. He needs a break, maybe. He’s got half an empty drawer and one less toothbrush in his bathroom and there’s an ache, in his bones, for the easy way he’d always been able to let loose with Chim and Hen.

(He’s not sure they even know he came out, and the superficial relationships in his life just keep smacking him right in the face.)

The pileup on the freeway provides a nice distraction, for most of the day, and he tries not to feel too disappointed when the message he sent to Chim goes unanswered.

It’s three days later before he gets a slightly blurry picture back. It’s — it’s a baby, and Tommy is unprepared for the wave of longing that threatens to crush him.

Howie 4:35 AM: I’m a dad!

Howie 4:35 AM: I made that!

Howie 4:36 AM: Sorry, man, I’ll be tied to this pooping, crying creature for the foreseeable future. But we should grab a beer sometime

Tommy 4:45 AM: Congratulations. She’s beautiful. You get out in, what, 18-20?

Brody pokes her head over his shoulder when he pulls up the picture again. “Cute baby.”

“Chim’s,” he tells her, and her expression shifts.

“Wasn’t his brother in the pileup last week?”

Tommy keeps his eye on the picture, wets his tongue against the top of his mouth before he speaks. “He didn’t say.”

---

They’ve all been on edge for days, now. Technically most of them aren’t in much danger, eyes in the skies that they are, but there’s not a single one of them who doesn’t have a friend or two outside of Harbor that wears the uniform.

They’re already two men down. And they’re all going a bit crazy.

So of course, when Tommy lands the bird and steps into the hangar, it’s to find everyone huddled around the TV set up in their little rec area, murmuring to themselves. Tommy runs a hand through his hair and makes his way across to them.

“Is he —?”

The guy’s insane. He’s got a vest and a helmet and no cover at all beyond the metal bars encasing the ladders of the crane tower. He’s surrounded on three sides by high rises, with wide windows and balconies just ripe for someone to set up an easy fucking shot.

The news crew pans to the witnesses on the ground, and there’s 118’s engine.

“Didn’t his partner just get shot? What is the 118 even doing out there?”

Someone hums. There’s a line of tension in every single set of shoulders huddled around the TV, watching, waiting. If Tommy was a praying man, he’d send something up to the big guy. Too bad they don’t believe in each other.

He’s still climbing. Three points of contact always, Tommy thinks, watching, holding his fucking breath the higher he climbs.

The camera cuts away once he’s out on the arm.

“Did anyone see who it was?” Remy asks, and they all shake their heads, but Tommy’s got a mental list from his sparse contact with Chim. Diaz is in the hospital. Bobby’s on the ground. This is Buckley, the kid he’d missed meeting by the skin of his teeth, when Bobby fast tracked his transfer.

In another life, under a different set of circumstances, the idiot making himself a target for a psycho would have been Tommy.

Tommy watches with bated breath until they switch back to the desk, both anchors looking a little wide-eyed as they report that the guy on the crane has been successfully freed from the cable that had had his arm pinned, and both him and the firefighter are fine. On the ground. Out of danger.

For now.

---

“Pay up, dickheads. Prison riot officially made it on the list.”

Tommy shakes his head, amused more than anything else. He pulls a five from his wallet, and Brody stares at it.

“It was twenty. A piece.”

“This is a gesture of goodwill, Youngs. You never paid me for the mudslide.”

“We worked the mudslide, it doesn’t count.”

“Oh now you’re creating arbitrary rules after the fact? Give me my five back.”

---

Brent smiles with his whole body, and kisses Tommy like he’s proving a point, and he doesn’t care that Tommy’s job is dangerous. The problem is that Tommy would like him a little more if he wasn’t so obsessed with the job.

“He worked out of your old house, didn’t he?” Brent asks, legs up on Tommy’s coffee table and a gleam in his eyes as Taylor Kelly reports on some Angel of Death wannabe who’s been shuffled from station to station, city to city, state to state for years with no real oversight, and Tommy — Tommy is tired of talking about work.

He hums, and takes a drink. Brent’s a Heineken man, and for some reason takes real offense to Tommy’s inability to drink them without making faces. Tommy stopped drinking them a month ago.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, anymore.

“Isn’t Taylor Kelly dating one of the guys from the 118?”

Tommy hums again.

“Feels like a quick turnaround on that news story. You think she’s getting an inside scoop?”

“I think we should break up,” Tommy says, and Brent blinks once, twice.

“Yeah. Probably for the best.”

Brent sees himself out. Tommy throws out the lone bottle of Heineken left in his fridge.

---

Donato is a breath of fresh air. She’s brash, and kind of an asshole, and dead set on proving herself a better pool player than he is.

She’s also a newer source of information for the gossip mongers of Harbor station.

“No, that’s the same guy,” she’s saying, biting her lip as she tries to beat Jones’ high score in Asteroids. She’s got a choking grip on the joystick and Tommy can already tell she’s gonna miss it by a mile.

“I — sorry, the guy who got pinned is the same guy who climbed the tower before the sniper was in custody?”

“Same guy. Also the same guy who hopped into that Speed style runaway truck with me. He’s kind of a badass. I mean, they sort of treat him like the station dalmation, over there, but that’s because if you rub behind his ears he wags his tail.”

“He’s not the same one Bosko accidentally got into Fight Club, is he?”

Lucy laughs. “Uh, no, Buck is absolutely a lover, not a fighter.”

“So which one —?”

“Probably the one I was filling in for.”

“The one who got shot, you mean.”

Lucy hums.

None of them have brought up Greenway, which Lucy seems to be marginally grateful for, but Tommy knows she’d worked with him. He hasn’t worked out why she’d worked with him — he’s pretty sure she’d been on the same rotation as Chim and Hen.

Tommy doesn’t feel like touching that with a ten foot pole, if he’s being honest. “So how are Chim and Hen?”

Lucy looks a little cagey. She curses up a storm when she collides with a pixelated flying saucer. “They’re — chugging along.”

“Oh, there’s a story there,” says Lemming, and Lucy shoots Tommy a look between her lashes, something fierce and vulnerable that tells him she’d throw down to protect the open wounds of the 118, same as him. He tips his chin, raises his bottle.

“Boring story,” Lucy says, eyes gleaming. “I bet you’ve got plenty of more interesting stories, Lemming. Weren’t you the one who had to rescue the UFO guy?”

Lemming is easily distracted, and happy to toot his own horn.

Tommy thinks of text sitting unsent on the blank conversation history with Chim.

---

“That wasn’t on the list,” Tommy says, trying for levity and failing miserably. His throat feels tight, and there’s an ache somewhere in his torso that feels like it’s spreading.

“Man, any time you think things are gonna stop happening to that house, they gotta go do something to prove you wrong.”

Tommy’s phone buzzes against his hip. It’s Lucy.

Donato 6:30 AM: Hen says he was down for three minutes.

Tommy 6:31 AM: He good?

Donato 6:33 AM: Inconclusive. He’s got a pulse, but he’s not breathing on his own.

Tommy 6:37 AM: You good?

Donato 6:55 AM: I worked with them for five minutes, Kinard

Donato 6:57 AM: Buck’s a good guy, though. I know you’re not a praying man, but maybe we could all send some good vibes the 118’s way

Tommy 7:01 AM: Jones’ is doing his mindfulness shit in a few. We’ll all be thinking of them.

Tommy hasn’t prayed since he was seventeen, but when Young ducks his head a few minutes later, eyes closed like he does every time they get news of one of their own going down, Tommy lets his own mind drift to his old house, and the people there who’d made him brave enough to live an actual life. Jones’ little meditation practice turns the hanger quiet, and Tommy listens to them all breathe, and breathe, and breathe.

He tries not to think too hard on it when they get the news, days later, that Buckley’s expected to make a full recovery.

---

Tommy’s been eyeing the guy at the bar through his lashes for the past fifteen minutes, and he knows Donato has clocked it. But there’s something — there’s something that keeps drawing his attention.

He’s — objectively attractive. Tall, broad shouldered, jeans that fit nice. Full pink lips and a flirty smile aimed at the woman he’s with.

Tommy’s always refused to bring dates to a ladder bar, even when his crew gives him shit for it. Mostly it’s because the conversation always eventually turns to all the crazy shit they’ve all pulled, all the risky maneuvers, all the scars. It’s always a pissing contest, and Tommy’s been burned a few too many times by guys who like the look of him, and not the reality of his career.

Tommy loses sight of Lucy for half a second only to find her approaching the couple as they move from the foosball table to the bartop.

He shakes his head. She’s spent weeks trying to squirrel information out of him about his love life, which is distinctly lacking at the moment. He doesn’t expect that to change any time soon.

Maybe he’ll hit up Brian once he’s had a few more beers. See if he’s seeing anyone. See if he’s still as flexible as Tommy remembers.

She doesn’t linger when Thomas calls her back for her turn, but by the smirk on her face she’s managed to put her foot in it exactly how she meant to. The couple are closing out, the guys head tilted to stare at his tab, color high on his cheeks. Tommy takes a deep pull off his drink and rolls his jaw when Lucy sinks three in a row, and then the eight ball too.

He gets a full thirty second reprieve before she’s sidling in to the seat beside him, a knowing look on her face.

“Look, I get it,” she starts, and Tommy takes another drink as Young starts a to rerack. “When the bar light hits just right on those broad ass shoulders, you really can’t help but wanna see if his lips taste as sweet as they look.”

Tommy knows his expression is long suffering.

“They are, just in case you were wondering.”

“Donato,” he warns, and she grins, playing with the pool cue with her free hand.

“Got it, Kinard. Backing off. But you know, I’ve got a cousin...”

“Not interested,” he tells her, already swinging out of his seat to break for his round.

He barely even notices he couple leaving. He breaks clean, a few stripes finding their way into pockets, and doesn’t pay a lick of attention to the way the guys flustered laugh sounds as he guides his date out the door.

---

Donato still looks a little shell-shocked.

“They — uh — they’re all good?”

“They’re all pretty banged up. But yeah, from what I heard, they all made it out.”

“Cap — Captain Nash. They found him?”

“Pinned at the bottom of the rubble, but he got lucky. No serious injuries.”

Lucy slumps. She looks exhausted, minutes out from crashing. Tommy’s flown away from enough disasters moments before they get worse to know exactly how she’s feeling.

“Go change, Donato. I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m fine,” she argues, and Tommy’s gaze catches hers. Holds.

“Yeah, okay, fine. I’m gonna cry all over your nice leather seats, though.”

He doesn’t point out that they’ve seen his tears plenty, but from the look in her eyes he figures she kind of knows, anyway.

She’s quiet, for most of the drive. It’s a longer one than he’s used to, and the detour caused by the bridge collapse makes it longer.

“I don’t know what it is about them that makes me feel like I’m losing a limb every time one of those stupid assholes gets hurt. They’re a magnet for disaster, you think I’d be used to it. I didn’t even work with them that long.”

They’re still ten minutes out. Tommy had thought she’d passed out with her face plastered to the passenger window.

“You miss it?”

“Do you?” she asks, defensiveness creeping in to her voice.

Tommy flips his indicator as the light goes red in the turn lane. “I missed the bulk of the Bobby Nash Experience. Mostly I’m just bitterly resentful that I never got to experience the turnaround of my old house.”

He can feel her eyes sliding to him, the curious stare. “Is this what it takes for Tommy Kinard Honesty Hour? I witness something traumatic and you finally open up a little?”

Tommy shrugs, thumb tapping along to the sound of his blinker. “I’m old school, Donato. Usually you gotta save my life for a glimpse up here.” He taps to fingers to his temple.

She takes that in in silence. There’s always been a kinship there, between them, some part of Tommy that sees a lot of himself in the way Lucy conducts herself, the brash way she pushes past the rough days, the spark in her eyes when she’s seconds away from doing something ill-advised.

“Chim’s getting married,” she says into the silence, and Tommy hums. “I’m pretending not to be upset I didn’t get an invite.”

She’s the only one who gets being jealous of that tight-knit little group of psychos.

“So yours got lost in the mail too, huh?”

“Been a long time since I’ve been close to anyone there. I didn’t expect one.”

Lucy tips her head back against the headrest. Sighs. “Yeah. I guess eventually I’ll get there too.”

---

Jones levels him with an incredulous look.

“They should fire your ass.”

Tommy raises both hands in supplication, but he can’t quite keep the grin off his face as Diaz and Buckley both round the side of the chopper, both of them looking like they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. It’d been an uphill battle, trying to figure out the logistics of who was going where, after the fact. Chim and Hen had gotten stuck in the back of buses to the hospital.

Diaz and Buckley had ro-sham-bo’ed for shotgun to get back to Diaz’ truck, and Tommy had spent the short flight back from the rescue ship trying not to notice the pouty tilt of Evan’s lip from the back, or pay attention to the back and forth over the headset as Diaz reminded him he’d already had his chance.

There’s a thrum, under Tommy’s skin — the thrill of being reckless is fading, a little, but beneath that there’s a possibility opening wide — Eddie Diaz in the seat beside him pumping him for information on his army days, Evan Buckley shifting restlessly at his side as he comes to stand beside him, arms crossed and staring at Jones like he’s about to go guard dog mode.

All this time he’s been getting second-hand gossip about these people, listening to the wild and sometimes exaggerated rumors that follow them around the LAFD. This time he got to play a part, and neither one of these virtual strangers seems keen to let the moment pass.

Evan’s shoulder glances off of Tommy’s, and he fights the urge to dart his gaze to the side, to check out his profile, to see how ridiculous he looks when those puppy-dog eyes get defensive.

Eddie claps a hand to his shoulder on the other side. “They should give you medal,” he says, pointedly aiming the comment in Jones’ direction, and Jones huffs, eyes rolling.

“Get the hell out of my hangar before I find a reason to be anything other than jealous.”

Tommy laughs, cheeks aching as he waves his passengers out through the open bay door to guide them back to the spot he’d had them hide their truck.

---

Tommy rolls up to the court and watches as some ten-odd firefighters clam up completely.

Well, shit.

This is the first time he’s ever been on the other side of this.

Price is the first one to break. “You’re not bringing anyone from the 118 this time, are you? Seriously, Kinard, one was already pushing it, you’re tempting fate. I don’t want to catch the curse.”

Tommy rolls his eyes good naturedly, doesn’t mention that if the curse were contagious he’d be neck deep in it by now.

“Tommy’s the one we need to be worried about, Price. He’s lucky he wasn’t collateral damage in that lovers quarrel, last time.”

It’s been two weeks.

Tommy has to remind himself. It’s been two weeks. Since he’d gone to make it clear he had no intention of stepping into whatever shit was between Eddie and Evan, to make it clear that he planned to keep spending time with Eddie but he’d never meant to get between them. Two weeks since he’d taken a leap, hedged his bets, kissed a beautiful boy in the orange light of his kitchen.

Less than a week since he’d taken a sip of a terrible coffee concoction and leapt right back into the chaos.

“Are we playing, or do you all want to crack open a bottle of red back at my place and play at being Dan Humphrey?”

Tommy dribbles the ball, raises an eyebrow, watches them all shift guilty looks between themselves as they grumble and move to stand.

---

Lucy spins the metal chair across from him, settles with a leg over each side, arms crossed over the back of it, shit eating grin on her face.

“So. I heard a rumor.”

Tommy’s not sure what his face does. He’s hoping for disinterested, but more likely than not his lips are twitching bashfully.

“The nurses at PIH are incredibly easy to pump for intel,” she continues, and Tommy can feel his ears burning. Donato’s grin goes wide. “I can’t believe you didn’t get me a last minuet invite, too.”

Tommy recovers in time to avoid the full-body blush. “Well, the next time you No Homo me in front of a mutual friend and make up for it with a grand gesture, I’ll think about it.”

Lucy tilts her head. Her grin goes soft, eyes taking him in. “Shit, Kinard, you like him. Damn it. I can’t tease you about that.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

The expression goes mischievous again. “He really didn’t even wipe the soot off his face before he hard launched you?”

Tommy ducks his head, failing miserably at hiding the grin on his face.

#tommy kinard #tommy kinard fic #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #bucktommy #lucy&tommy friendship supremacy #i threw like five different headcanons in here so if you notice something specific it's probably bc i already posted the hc at some point

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hazelfoureyes · 7 months ago

Text

HateJokeFuck

*very sacrilegious*

Alastor knew the best way to have a laugh on Halloween! Bother the fuck out of Lucifer. Literally. Nuns don’t wear pants, right?

For my sweetest @minkdelovely

「warnings/promises: TopLucifer x BottomNun!Alastor, hate fucking, clawing skin, wings come out, HCU (hazel cinematic universe), threats to tear Alastor apart, The Lords Prayer bastardized, anal creampie, still ace ass Alastor, rough sex」

Minors dni

Alastor wasn’t particularly excited for a Halloween party at the hotel, even if he knew watching the others could be fun.

But then he had an idea to make the evening positively entertaining.

Which led him to where he was now, pressed against Niffty’s various cleaning supplies in a hallway closet, ass pounded by his furious majesty.

Alastor had thought it would be funny to wear a nun’s habit, having hand stitched little X’s and an inverted cross in red thread to personalize the outfit.

While heaven did exile Lucifer and systemically murder his subjects, Luci still had a soft spot for what was now religious imagery. Devoting your life and body to the Lord was something he thought to be quite admirable.

So when Alastor walked into the party dressed in holy attire, Luci saw red. And black. And white. The colors of Alastor’s sinful costume. Dressed as Dadcula, Dad Dracula, obviously (Which was just Lucifer in a black cape and bat ear headband), Luci marched up to the radio demon.

“Hallway, now.” He grabbed Alastor by the arm, the nun leaving the party as quickly as he had arrived. Charlie saw the men rush out the room and worried a fight was brewing.

“Yes, your majesty?” Alastor steepled his hands together, “what’s the matter, pray tell?”

Lucifer smacked his hands down, “Stop that! You are making a mockery of centuries of worship!” Sputtering, he gestured up and down. “Take that off right fucking now!” He stomped his foot and managed a calming breath, “Please.”

The grin should have been enough to tell Luci he’d walked into a trap, “Who am I to deny my liege?” Alastor found the zipper in the back and pulled it down, letting the smock open and fall forward off his arms. Lucifer’s eyes followed the habit down from neck, to bare chest, to toned stomach, to-

“Are you-!” Lucifer’s hands came out to hide Alastor’s exposed cock, “naked!?” He seethed.

A voice called from the ballroom entrance, “Dad? Is everything alright?” Charlie was positive her father and Alastor were already tearing into each other.

To her credit, they would be soon enough.

Panicked and terrible under pressure, Lucifer opened the closest door and shoved both himself and the now nude Alastor into it.

It was, to his despair, a broom closet. Perhaps two people could fit comfortably had it not been occupied with a shelving system of supplies, mops, brooms, and a large outdated vacuum cleaner.

As soon as he pushed them in and closed the door, he found his body pressing into Alastor’s bare ass.

Alastor was certain there was a God now, and he a favored child. What hilarious developments. Even he couldn’t orchestrate such comedy gold.

“Oh, Father, is this confessional? I have a mighty long list.”

Lucifer smacked at Alastor’s back, “Do not call me Father!”

“Daddy?” Alastor asked, coyly looking over his shoulder to the smaller man.

“Dad?” Charlie echoed.

Lucifer’s hands shot up to cover Alastor’s mouth, “Shhh, or I will kill you once and for aAAH,” a moan breaking through his sentence as Alastor ground back into his crotch.

Alastor mumbled into Luci’s palm.

“What’s wrong?” Vaggie joined, her and Charlie now feet from the door.

“I thought Dad and Al were out here bickering…”

Alastor began grinding himself into Luci, feeling something there for him in the King of Hell’s lap.

Lucifer couldn’t help the reaction, Alastor had been intentionally winding him up for weeks.

Reaching for the newspaper and slipping, hand coming down onto Luci’s crotch. Needing something on a high shelf and just having to press his much larger body upon Luci’s smaller frame. He even sat on Lucifer once, joking, “Oh I didn’t see you there, hmm.” A size joke and groping combo.

He was touch starved and primed, so when he looked down to see skin and curves and warmth offered to him, he simply lost it.

Angel Dust had been so kind as to teach him the word hatefuck recently. And he was going to hatefuck the sass out of Alastor.

Was he using that correctly? Unimportant, a fleeting concern as he fought to undo his belt with one hand.

“They’re probably here somewhere fucking around, don’t worry about it babe. Come back and enjoy your party.” Vaggie, a psychic of some sorts, led her love away just in time.

Luci wasn’t sure he could keep it up knowing his daughter was just outside the door. But that little obstacle was gone. When Luci didn’t immediately remove his hand Alastor snaked his tongue out and around his fingers.

“Gross,” Lucifer took back his hand, thinking for a second as he stared at the wet fingers before sliding them between Alastor’s cheeks. The taller man shivered. “Did you…” the realization he had been played hit him like a piano, oddly familiar but still quite heavy. “Why are you already lubed and stretched?”

Alastor reached down slowly, face smug as he slipped a tiny bottom from a single garter belt on his right thigh.

“Holy water?” Luci took it from Alastor before his face fell flat, nose curling as he sniffed the air, “Is this coconut lube oil? You’re foul.” He used his teeth to unscrew the lid and poured the contents down Alastor’s lower back, “I hope you understand. You make me regret millennia of human free will more than I already did.”

“Your majesty I cannot get any harder, please stop the dirty talk.” Alastor shimmied his hips, elusive plush black-topped, red-bottomed tail swishing along.

Lucifer was briefly mesmerized, why was it so cute? Alastor should enter every room ass first, tail out. He’d be much more palatable. Blinking away the thought he swiped his leaking member up and down the demon’s ass as he spread lubricant on himself.

“I hate you, please don’t forget that.” Lucifer lined himself up and pressed in, groaning as he effortlessly was taken to the hilt. Alastor had prepared well. Another second to imagine Alastor in the nuns' habit, legs spread and hands busy working himself open for Lucifer. Alastor’s breath hitched as Luci’s twitched and grew slightly in him.

Alastor hadn’t started the night planning to get fucked. Once the outfit was on and he decided pants weren’t necessary, he began to consider all the ways he could fluster Lucifer. Nothing would be funnier than making the king of hell fuck a nun.

So here he was, gripping the shelves as Lucifer’s hips snapped into him.

“Oh fuck,” Luci moaned, Alastor was so tight and hot, how could someone so horrid feel so damn good? His nails dug into Alastor’s hips, pulling him back to meet every thrust.

Lucifer was enjoying himself. It felt good, Alastor not numb to pleasure, but he wanted to rile up Luci even more.

“Our Lucifer, who art in hell,” Alastor began his bastardized prayer. It worked, Luci’s hips slowing.

“Alastor.” He warned.

“Sullied be thy name; my king shall cum,” Alastor’s grin was audible. A growl came from behind him as a faint glow of fire illuminated his face, “thy sin be done,” he choked, Luci’s hips snapping into him with a sting to his ass. The fallen angel’s wings erupting and knocking the supplies off the shelves around them, no space for them to flex. Even though he knew Lucifer couldn’t hear him over the sounds of crashing bottles and broom handles, even though he could barely speak through the painfully rough fucking he was taking, he finished his prayer.

“On earth as it is in hell,” the sentence was squeaked out in staccato, air sucked in with every stretch of his hole by his king. Alastor gripped the metal shelf side so tightly his fingers were losing blood flow, the rage behind Luci’s punishing cock making his eyes roll back.

Lucifer gripped onto Alastor’s tail with a silent show of force, “You will stop this sacrilege.” Words forced through clenched teeth, “Or I will rent your dirty existence,” a pause to momentarily bury himself as deep as he could reach, “body and soul, asunder.”

Alastor couldn’t respond, mind slipping into a new realm entirely. He understood a threat had been made, and nodded as best he could with his head hung low between his hunched shoulders. He was making sounds as Lucifer’s nails cut into him, but he couldn’t place from where they came, pain or pleasure, only that his chest rumbled and his mouth was going dry.

As his hips returned to their literally bruising speed, Lucifer felt his orgasm nearing. He’d never been so angry and so determined to fuck his own seed into someone else. It felt like giving a punishment, like a humiliation. He wanted Alastor to wobble out of the fucking closet, cum dripping out much later from the previously unreached place Lucifer marked.

Alastor’s body was hit up against the shelves as his knees gave out, Lucifer’s strength too much for him to withstand. As Lucifer came his wings pulled back before coming down and in. Alastor felt a heat deep in him, pooling in his guts. On his arms and forehead the soft touch of feathers caressed sweat slick skin.

They both stayed connected, only their chests moving as they heaved in and out. Lucifer waited for himself to go soft before he pulled out, forehead resting on Alastor’s back, both men on their knees.

Sometime after Luci’s wings folded back in and disappeared, Alastor regained enough sense to speak.

“Amen.”

Lucifer pulled him to the floor by his neck, fist cocked back when the door opened.

“Oh sir, not again*. Your jokes are really not funny.” Niffty scurried over Lucifer’s back to retrieve a roll of paper towels before flitting out the room. Before closing the door she huffed, “Please stop telling them. No one ever laughs.”

“Dad, why do you smell like a piña colada?” Charlie leaned into Lucifer, taking in the aroma. “Wait a minute…. I know that smell.” Angel brightened,’“Awww baby’s first hatefuck!!”

*Alastor’s other bad joke

ଳ⊹₊ ⋆ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay , @asleeponelmstreet , @tremendoushearttaco , @mutifandomkid , @sapphirecaelis , @itzzzkiramylove @saccharine-nectarine , @viannasthings

@looking1016 , @ultimate-duck-king-lucifer , @blakeaha , @astraechos

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

@faeoffaith ,

#nun alastor #radioapple #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor smut #alastor #hazbin alastor

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moonflower91 · 4 months ago

Text

Where You Go, I Go

"He's afraid of me."

"Yes," Saerah hummed back, her fingers running softly through the ends of his long silver hair. "He's an old man now. Short of time, patience and temper. Like as not to lash out. Daemon has spent his life at war -- in the Stepstones, with his brother, even poor Rhea Royce to a degree. Now, likely the biggest war looms on the horizon, and he did not draw first blood."

“The folly of the young, as grandfather said. Smarter to wait than draw first blood.”

She fixed him with a sidelong look. “I shall say naught, for to insult Daemon for his recklessness, is to insult my love.” Aemond only rolled his eye, and settled further down her body to rest his head in her lap.

"I do regret that business with Luke. I lost my temper that day."

"I know. You did not leave me intending to kill anyone, nor did anyone expect such a little fool to be the bearer of Rhaenyra’s business. You left me intending to make a marriage offer." She said it softly, stroking his hair, but he could hear the fire behind the icy tone in which she spoke.

"That work is done now, Saerah." He all but grumbled, turning his face into her lap.

"Yes, yes it is. Anyway, Daemon is full of bile and pride, but he is beholden to Rhaenyra. I can only imagine how burned he feels, to be reined in like a mad dog. Especially by her—not only his young wife, but the one whom Viserys chose over him.”

"You believe that whore would stop him from winning the war for her?"

Saerah thought for a moment. “To a point. She has ruined herself forever now with Jaehaerys’ slaughter. Mayhaps she takes pause now to act an innocent. But as her losses pile higher, I think it will make her desperate.”

“We fly with larger dragons and possess a larger army, with some of the best military minds in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Aye. She and Daemon will die for Helaena and Aegon’s boy. Imagining how I might kill them has caused me such dark thoughts of late. I’m frightened of them because I know I truly desire them.”

“Tell me.” He said, turning his head to look up at her.

She could not meet his eye, and stared out, watching the flames in the hearth. “I would burn all of her bastards alive, perhaps making her watch. And then, I'd keep her alive for a long while, to let her wallow in her agony, and have Daemon ripped apart by dogs. His limbs thrown into the filth of slums he once lorded over.”

Aemond scoffed. "You've thought about it quite extensively."

"What else can I do all day, trapped here in the Red Keep but think of ways to make them suffer?" Saerah did not enjoy the idea of murdering children, even if it was in vengeance. But that little child, sleeping in his bed, who loved stories and ponies and playing with his mother's long hair...to be butchered, to die in fear and pain…

Her fingers tangled in her brother's hair, heart speeding because it felt just. Almost. But she knew her pain and grief drove this feeling. It would not be justice, she knew. But how she longed for Rhaenyra and Daemon’s agony to sate the burning ache of her family’s suffering and grief .

"I was terribly lonely without you here, Aemond. If you leave me again, I shall follow you on Vexxa."

“And leave Helaena here? Alone with naught but her fears? With her broken heart?”

“Helaena has Mother beside her. And Jaehaera.”

“Whom she can hardly look at without running away in tears. Jahaera and the boy looked just alike.” Like we did , he thought. When they were very small, Alicent once told them, they’d looked so alike no one could tell them apart. Of course, that had changed as their personalities grew.

“I am a selfish creature, then, for I will still follow.”

“I am selfish then, too, for I would let you.”

#asoiaf #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x sister!OC #saerah targaryen #post blood and cheese

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midnightfox8 · 1 month ago

Text

Sexual Values

~~~~~~~ • Soap x Ghost • ~~~~~~~~

| John "Soap" MacTavish |

“He is young, fit and cocky” by Ghost.

Attraction: Masculine

• Soap is attracted to masculinity, based on his preferences in body shape and orientation, he is 96.4% gay. (Soap orientation is a gay, because he's like lads. In male society he easily finds company, he, like a daring god of sex, cleverly lures the victim into his trap)

Sex Drive: Hypersexual

• Soap is a hypersexual person, he loved to release the accumulated excitement, his libido and stamina amaze all his exes with the dexterity. John is a clever seducer, his easy smiles and fire in his eyes are captivating, his muscular, trained body, humor and deep voice are the main attributes, and of course, a Scottish twist with an accent. He is a passionate, loving and energetic lover (Ghost stirs the blood in his veins.)

Dominance Axis: Switch

• Soap changes positions, he can easily try on the role of a dom, dominating a partner, and he also manages to become a sub with pleasure (for the most part, he is pleased to be a passive with his lieutenant). Basically his dominant and submissive are distributed as 50/50.

Deviance Axis: Kinky

• Soap has deviations, he has peculiar preferences in sex, he is a rather artistic man. He can be flirtatious, passionate and ardent with playfulness giving himself over to the process, but he is also accompanied by softness and tenderness towards his partner (Ghost).

Affection Axis: Open

• Soap represents a hedonist man capable of stopping for one night (regular hookups for him relieve accumulated tension). There’s more to him than his easy smiles and shameless flirting. But these 37.5% also show that he is quite deeply sensitive and inclined to open his soul to his lover, especially he is loyal and devoted to his chosen one.

P.S Soap is in love with his superior officer, his lieutenant is his dream man. Later, they are in a relationship. Scot is the luckiest idiot in the world.

| Simon "Ghost" Riley |

“Big creepy bleedin’ bastard with dark humor” by Soap.

Attraction: Masculine

• Ghost is attracted to masculinity, based on his taste in men and sexuality, he is gay as a box of ribbons, 100% masculinity clearly indicates his preference for men. (His tastes fall on a loud Scot with a terrible hawk)

Sex Drive: Medium

• Ghost has an average rate of sexual activity, he is hypersexual 46.9% but by large estimates he is 53.1% hipo, so based on the fact that Brit is quite reserved and presumptive to hot things (like Johnny). A ghost can be an ardent and passionate lover, giving attention and reverent touches, he is excited in a balanced way and acts according to passion.

Dominance Axis: Dominant

• Simon is dominant by nature, the alpha among predators, his preferences for dominance are part of his essence. But Ghost has a tendency to make concessions towards his Sergeant.

Deviance Axis: Balanced

• Ghost has some peculiar deviations; he sticks to the middle in a balanced manner. He is pure in some aspects in bed, but at times he can be playful. Having experience with men (having sex before Mexico and Roba), he could indulge in hookups for several years after he became Ghost, but this happened extremely rarely, mainly due to his secretive personality and crush on Soap.

Affection Axis: Exclusive

• Ghost is a deep and eccentric man, he cannot have sexual intercourse without proposal (his past hookups made him realize this). 93.8% is the highest degree of trust and freedom in front of a partner.

He is looking for a deep connection, understanding and acceptance, and he can only open up to the one he loves, the man of his heart... Soap.

#soapghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost x soap #soap cod #ghost cod #just gay things #they are two idiots #soap are sexy gay bastard #ghost and soap #ghost and soap ate so gay #ghoap #ghoap values #call of duty #just do it for fun

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zvtara-was-never-canon · 1 year ago

Note

you once said that the ZK do not allow the canonical Zuko to show real, sometimes ugly signs of trauma. can you write more about this? because that's what I always felt when I came across their terrible takes, but I couldn't express it.

Gladly! But first, I need to mention the sign of trauma that Zuko usually lacks - and that, for some reason, the fandom insists defines his character:

Fear

Don't get wrong, I'm not saying Zuko never experienced fear. We all saw that poor boy on his knees, crying, begging his father not to hurt him.

But in "Zuko Alone" we also see 10-year-old Zuko get bitter that only his younger sister was expected to show off her firebending skills, and deciding that he would go against his father and demonstrate his own skills to the Fire Lord - that despite the fact that he knew Azula was better at it than he was. Even when it goes wrong, he is upset, but doesn't look afraid of the consequences.

That same episode shows Azula mocking him for playing with knives despite not even being good at it, and even though the fandom insists she was his worst fear ever since he was a child, Zuko responds with a "Put an apple on your head and we'll see how good I am." That little guy has exactly zero chill.

Let's not forget why he was banished either: Despite being considered too young to be in that war meeting, Zuko demanded to be there, eventually got his way, and despite having been told not to say anything, the second he hears a general suggest using their own men as "fresh meat" to lure the enemy, Zuko speaks out against it. And at the start of the Agni Kai, he looked 100% ready to fight a grown ass man with battle experience - until he saw it was his father/Fire Lord.

Let's not forget his Agni Kai with Zhao, which was his idea and that he actually won - and before that, he openly calls Ozai a fool, to which Zhao points out that banishment clearly not teach Zuko to watch his mouth. Or the time he openly challenged Azula in Ba Sing Se and they only didn't fight then and there because Azula knew she'd have the advantage by using the Dai Li. Hell, at the start of that very season, after she tried to lure him to a trap, Zuko's first reaction is to charge at her, fire-daggers in hand. That boy is the definition of "Fuck around and find out."

He has also done things like choosing to save his uncle from earthbenders instead of chasing Aang, crossing a blockade and going into actual Fire Nation territory even though he legally is no longer allowed to do that, and helped rescue Aang from Zhao as the Blue Spirit. It shows us that Zuko doesn't have an issue with temporarely deviating from his mission because of something HE deems important even though his father doesn't, openly disregarding Ozai's orders, and even basically saying "My father will have the Avatar as a prisoner only if I'm the one to capture him"

And, of course, on the day of the eclipse, Zuko grabs his swords and directly threatens Ozai, telling that bastard to sit the fuck down, shut up, and listen to his list of reasons why he sucks as a parent, ruler and person.

Zuko is brave. Unbelievably so. He is fierce, proud, and impulsive to the point of getting himself in situations that he should have known would not go his way (like fighting a waterbender in the snow, in the full moon) because he is very much a "act first, think later" kind of guy. So the fandom's insistence that he is constantly paralyzed by fear is a gross over-simplification of how his trauma affects him.

We only see him genuinely afraid of Ozai twice. During the Agni Kai itself, and then again when he WANTS to speak out against his father's plan to burn the Earth Kingdom to the ground, but can't bring himself to because he remembers what happened last time he spoke out against that kind of horrible thing during a war meeting, at that very room. It took something THAT triggering to make him cower before a challenge.

However, fear wasn't the only reason why didn't speak out during that moment, and that takes us to the first "ugly" sign of trauma that the fandom as a whole likes to pretend Zuko wasn't repeatedly shown to experience:

"My father is right about me, actually"

Zuko doesn't think Ozai was wrong to disfigure and banish him. How could he? Nobody in that entire room stood up to at least try to support him, not even his uncle - who also once said "Why would your father have banished you if he didn't care about you?" because, surprise surprise, nobody in that family knows how to help someone through trauma because they're all dealing with their own shit. Even his crew, who WAS sympathetic to him after finding out how he got that scar, were still 100% willing to not only support Ozai, but risk their lives for him.

Zuko isn't just trying to heal from abuse, he is trying to heal from victim-blaming, and to go against YEARS of indoctrination that say the Fire Lord can do no wrong. That's part of why it was so difficult for Iroh and others to help him: Zuko didn't believe that he needed or deserved help.

And that is also one of his three major unhealthy coping mechanisms. Claiming that HE needs to prove himself to Ozai, that HE needs to make up for HIS mistakes, not the other way around.

It might seem strange that this could be a way to cope, but look at it this way: If it WAS his fault instead of Ozai's, then that means his dad is not an unfair, abusive piece of shit that is unbelievably cruel and impossible to please. Zuko just needs to accomplish this mission of capturing the Avatar and everything will be fine, they'll be a normal family again, and he won't have to be afraid of someone he thought he could trust.

It was like Iroh said: Things are never going to be the same ever agin, but the Avatar gives Zuko HOPE. And that hope that his abuser will one day have a change of heart and be a loving father to him again is both what allows Zuko not to give into despair - and what keeps him trapped in that awful situation.

Misplaced Anger

Another "unpleasant" sign of trauma that Zuko has is how he clearly has an anger problem. Sure, he's a moody teenager with a short fuse, but we see over and over again that he tends to blow things way out of proportion, and that when faced a fact or opinion he doesn't like, he is quick to lash out at someone with VERY cruel words (see him calling Iroh a lazy, shallow, jealous old man in "Avatar State", or calling him crazy and saying if he wasn't in prison, he'd be sleeping in a gutter in "The Headband").

Through the entire show, many people faced Zuko's wrath - Iroh, Aang and friends, his crew, Azula, innocent people of the Earth Kingdom, Mai, Ty Lee, that one rando that talked to Mai, and even Zuko himself.

The one person that usually escapes said wrath is, ironically, Ozai. In "Zuko Alone" he refuses to believe his father would ever be capable of harming him, in "Avatar State" he snaps at Iroh for doubting that Ozai really changed his mind about the whole banishment thing.

He is mad at Aang for being too difficult to capture, and at Zhao for stealing his one chance to come home. He never stops to question if it's fair that his father had him chase someone that was presumed dead, aka an impossible task, as the condition to bring him home. He also never addresses how he feels about the reason WHY said banishment happened until the Day Of Black Sun.

He is mad at Azula for lying to him and trying to take him home as a prisoner. He never gets mad at his father for not only wanting to lock him away forever because ZHAO screwed up at the North Pole, nor how messed up it was that he put Azula in charge of said mission.

For fuck's sake, in the day of the eclipse, we find out that Zuko legit believed his mother was DEAD - and the entire circumstance was shady as hell and put Ozai in a very bad light. Yet Zuko still wanted his love, still wanted to be a "worthy" son.

He HAS to direct his anger at other people, otherwise he'll realize that no, his father, the adult that was meant to care for him, is a complete monster.

Everytime Zuko lashes out at other people before confronting Ozai, he's basically acting like someone who is drowning and, in a panic, is trying to pull the nearest person under so he can try to breathe. It is one of the most accurate and honest representations of trauma and abuse, and it makes me SO mad when people erase it in their fics because "poor, innocent, helpless turtleduck that can do no wrong" makes Zuko look like less of a dick - and also completely strips him of his agency.

And that isn't even the thing that fans ignore the most. That "honor" goes to the simple fact that Zuko, as expected of a child raised to believe the Fire Lord can do no wrong, decided that Azula had the right idea and that the best way to avoid being a victim again was...

Copying His Abuser

Zuko has REPEATEDLY let his "inner Ozai" out through the show.

He is all manipulative by not letting the pirates know he was chasing the Avatar who was worth A LOT more than the scrowl they'd get as a reward for helping him, and by using Katara's necklace as a way to try and get her to say where Aang was.

He repeatedly steals stuff from innocent people (including some who helped him, like Song) because, in his own words "These people should just be giving stuff to us" - aka he's very much an entitled prince.

He betrays his uncle by joining Azula in Ba Sing Se, leading to Iroh being thrown in prison. He also doesn't give a shit when Katara says "I thought you had changed!" and he sends a freaking assassin after the Gaang. Even him refusing to tell Azula that there was a chance Aang could still be alive works both as a "Zuko doesn't trust Azula to not use that against him, and for good reason" and "Zuko did not even stop to think that, since Azula was the one who killed Aang, him coming back also puts HER in danger, because he's too focused on his own problems to notice anybody else's."

More importantly, he rejected a chance of a ceasefire with the Gaang three times (The Blue Spirit, The Chase, Crossroads of Destiny), much like Ozai refused his shot at ending the war in the finale before his battle with Aang, and not only did he challenge Zhao to an Agni Kai and seriously consider burning him, he also threatened one of his crewmen by saying he'd "teach him respect" - which we found out later that episode was what Ozai right before disfiguring poor Zuko.

For fuck's sake, Ozai was literally designed to look like an older Zuko. One without a scar, one that was never banished, one that never had to see first-hand all the death and suffering war brings and reflect on the role he plays in it.

Finally, we have the war meetings in "Nightmares And Daydreams", in which Zuko doesn't speak out against his father's completely inhumane plans to deal with the Earth Kingdom. When talking about it with Mai, he says "I was the perfect prince, the son my father wanted. But I wasn't me."

That is the turning point for Zuko for a reason. It's him finally being forced to acknowledge that, to become Ozai's ideal son, to earn his (conditional) love, to not be his victim he has to be just as bad as he is, just as cruel, just as unfair - and we see in Azula's breakdown how Zuko likely would have ended up if he accepted that path.

But he didn't, and that was not easy because even though it was the morally correct choice, it'd require him to sacrifice everything - his title as a prince, his right to be in the Fire Nation, his relationship with Mai, his (extremelly complicated, sometimes good, often awful) bond with Azula, the "easy" way to get literally anything he wanted at everyone else's expense, and, of course, accept that his father was never going to love him, was never going to change, and was never going to feel sorry for abusing him.

Erasing such a central conflict of his character for the sake of denying he ever did anything wrong is, ironically, removing one of Zuko's most noble character traits: his inability to just live with himself after doing something horrible. There's a reason he is in deep conflict even after getting everything he wanted after the fall of Ba Sing Se - he knows he doesn't deserve it after what he's done.

If you ignore his mistakes and the horrible consequences it had for other people, you also ignore Zuko's growth. This puts him more in the position of a good guy being held hostage by the evil villain, not of a troubled child that redeems himself as he matures.

No flaws, no mistakes, no growth, no arc.

Trauma Doesn't Just Go Away

This one is, by far, the bad trope regarding Zuko's trauma that Zutarians are the most guilt of: assuming that if he just gets enough comforting hugs (mainly from Katara), all of his inner turmoil will suddenly be healed. No more sadness, no more fear, no more of the ugly traits they never acknowledge in the first place. Just a happy, fully recovered Zuko.

But that's just not how these things work. Having the support of a loved one helps victims feel better, but it won't magically make everything okay. Trauma is a really difficult thing to handle. There's good days, bad days, relapses, bad habits that are difficult to move past from. And not only are there cases in which people take YEARS to recover, there are also cases in which they never fully heal, and instead just learn to live with that burden that is still very much present.

I understand the desire to show in fics and headcanons that Zuko will eventually be fully healed and happy, but the way Zutarians make Katara act as not just his girlfriend, but as basically his therapist that needs to find miracle solutions for every single one of his problems, comfort him whenever any minor inconvenience happens until he's gotten enough hugs to be magically okay doesn't just reveal how hypocritical they are, since they insist Kataang is about Katara being Aang's girlfriend/mom/baby-sitter, but also that they legit do not understand a damn thing about trauma and how it works.

Which takes me to:

How Mai Actually Did Right By Zuko

Poor, poor Mai. She gets blamed for "bring out the worst in Zuko", for not being "supportive", for being too cold and unemotional, for not "seeing the real him" - yet she's one of the characters that CONSISTENLY help put Zuko back on his track.

She offers him emotional support and lots of signs of affection over and over again - telling him not worry when they're arriving at the Fire Nation, pointing out she doesn't hate him when she says she's beautiful when she hates the world, explicitly saying she cares about him in The Beach, being incredibly sweet and loving to him during all of Nightmares and Daydreams, and then again in the finale by helping him get dressed up and acting all cute as they get back together.

But she also holds him accountable when he screws up. She doesn't let him use his difficult life as an excuse to be a jerk and calls him out when he's being unreasonable, or when she feels mistreated/like he's making a mistake (see The Beach and Boiling Rock Part 2).

But since the fandom loves to completely erase Zuko's mistakes AND to not let go of a stupid ship war, this completely changes the context, making Mai out to be this awful, bitchy girlfriend, when in reality, she did a great job handling Zuko - sometimes even better than the fan favorite and mentor figure Zuko had through most of his arc.

Uncle Iroh Fucked Up

Before all of you try to kill me, let me make one thing clear here: I love Uncle Iroh. He is one of the most awesome characters in the show, and I fully believe he was trying his best to help Zuko.

But he is still a human being that makes mistakes, and he was raised in the same dysfunctional family Zuko was, meaning he often had NO IDEA how to handle his deeply traumatized teenage nephew/son.

Him spending all of book 1 trying to help Zuko capture Aang so he could go back to living with the guy that disfigured him is already bad enough, but we also have the episode "Avatar State" in which Iroh asks "Why would your father banish you if he didn't care about you?"

Obviously he only did these things because he didn't want Zuko give into despair and depression - but he is still, at best, ignoring the issue, and at worst actively making excuses for Ozai's abuse of his own son. This backfires on him spectacularly, as Zuko sides with Azula over him both in the first and last episode of the season specifically because he believes that appeasing Ozai is the right thing to do, as he was only banished "for his own good."

But THE biggest mistake Iroh made when it came to helping Zuko was his refusal to accept that no, Zuko was never going to be happy by living a quiet, simple life in Ba Sing Se - even after Zuko explicitly said as much to his face.

Obviously, to some extent, Iroh HAS to make Zuko accept that he won't ever be able to come back home after Ozai literally ordered Azula to capture him, but he could have tried to find some kind of middle ground with Zuko, since being a waiter clearly wasn't making him happy.

"Oh, but what about how Zuko started acting after his metamorphosis? He was so happy about working on the tea-shop with his uncle, and that was supposed to reveal his true self!"

Yes, it was supposed to do that. But we saw how Zuko acted after actually dealing with his trauma and redeeming himself. He was obviously in a much healthier place, both mentally and spiritually, but he was still moody, still sarcastic, still as proud as ever, and even Iroh recognized that he was meant to be Fire Lord.

Zuko's arc has a lot to do with identity, with how he sees himself. At that point, the only thing he still had in life was his uncle - so he was acting like him, because there seemed to be no other role model, no other path. Seeing that weird, cheery, relaxed, always-seeing-the-good-side-of-things version of Zuko was honestly unnerving.

And Iroh thought that Zuko basically giving himself the Lake Laogai treatment was okay because he following in his footsteps, doing what helped IROH heal and change - he didn't realize it was never gonna be able to do the same for Zuko.

The very second Azula shows up, even when she's being hostile, Zuko drops the facade, because she's a reminder of both his old life and what he thought his future would be. And when she offers him "redemption" Iroh tried to advice Zuko against joining her by saying "The redemption she offers is not for you" (as in not for someone who is doing better and doesn't need to return to the Fire Nation) and "It's time for you to choose. It's time for you to choose good." How is it a choice if Iroh is explicitly saying which option Zuko cannot pick, essentially making the decision for him?

Iroh didn't just get the way to help Zuko wrong - he didn't realize his nephew didn't believe he needed help. They were not on the same page at all, and that contribuited to Zuko betraying him.

Though, thankfully, it ended up being for the best, as Zuko found his own way to redemption by himself.

Conclusion

This fandom as a whole tends to not understand Zuko at all and just eat up a bunch of fanon while pretending to be so intellectual, which I very much resent it for.

#anti zutara #pro maiko #pro mai #zuko is not an awkward turtleduck

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xxladyballadxx · 4 months ago

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Against Me

Jason Todd x (Fem) Reader

- ANGST -

TW: Nothing brutal or dark written in this fanfic, just a few cuss words. Normally by Jason Todd. Just (Y/n) going through a terrible heartbreak ☹

Summary : You had a talk with Jason at the apartment right after the Black Mask incident. To reason with him about why killing criminals isn’t the right way to make the world a better place.

dividers by @rookthornesartistry

Bruce forbids you to go and talk to Jason. Not after what he brutally did. You heard the two argue in the batcave with Alfred trying to calm them down. Your whole world watching the two bickering at each other’s throats. Jason killed Black Mask while on the ship, endlessly beating him to a pulp and shot him through the head afterwards. Bruce couldn’t allow this to happen. Even though it just did. So he confronted Jason furiously about the incident.

Alfred couldn’t stand them arguing, he tried his best to help them. As for Dick, well, as much as he wants to lend Alfred a hand. He stepped back because he would rather not be involved between Red Hood and Batman.

After the argument ended, Jason stormed back to his apartment. You tried to go after him but Bruce stopped you, telling you to stay away from him. Dick agreed with Bruce that you should keep your distance from Jason. You ignored their order, hopping on your bike to go to Jason’s apartment.

Eventually you reached his place, rushing off only to see the apartment door was slightly left open.Your heart struck a panic through your body, placing your hand on the knob, opening it fully to see if he was still inside, “Jason? Jason, are you still here?” You called out, closing the door quickly before twisting the knob to shut it, “Jason, we need to talk, please…”

“About what?” Jason revealed himself, coming out of his room seeing that he’s packing his things in his red backpack. He was going to leave Gotham.

“Is it true? That you killed Black Mask?” He didn’t consider expecting you to ask him that. With a cold-killing gaze, Jason walked over to you , “I did. The bastard deserves it. I beat him to a pulp and shot his brains out.” He answered heartlessly.

You shake your head in disapproval, wishing that he didn’t say what he just did, “Jason, this isn’t how we do things around Gotham. We don’t kill.”

Jason threw his backpack angrily onto the floor, turning his furious scowl away from you, “You’re starting to sound like that old man. I’m doing things that he won’t do. I’m taking them all down!” He landed a hard punch towards the wall, consumed with anger and resentment. Causing you a little startlement, you took a step back. His outrage scares you, “J-Jason…”

“It’s always Bruce and his fucking moral codes.” His voice is still poisoned with outbursting hatred, “Do you know how many times the criminals escaped from Arkham Asylum? Criminals like Penguin, Scarecrow, Riddler, Mad Hatter and many others?!”

Your lips remained sealed, hesitating to answer his question. His behaviour worries you completely. “If you keep this up, Jason, you will never go back. I don’t want you to walk down that path. The more you kill, the more rage it will consume your body and soul. Your mind will be trapped in the dark forever.” You explained, conceiving him to change his ways on to deal with criminals in Gotham City, “I’m not a vigilante like you, Dick, or Bruce. I may not be one but all I know is that there are ways to solve the situation but that does not include killing. If you do that, you’ll be stuck there forever.”

Jason turned to glare at you silently before speaking up, his muscles tensing with bursting veins crawling through his skin. You can still sense the anger within him. Still praying and hoping that he will listen to you…but he didn’t

“I thought we were in this together, (Y/n). On the same side, you and I. Seems like I was wrong.” Jason began to doubt you, your body shaken by his words. It hurts to admit that he was right. “I thought you were the only one that understood me better than anyone…” he threw his backpack over his muscular shoulder, walking past you to the apartment door. You slightly opened your cold lips, then zipped it close not knowing what last words you wish to say to the man who’s breaking your heart as he leaves you.

Jason opened the door, looking over his shoulder to see you’re not facing his direction as he said his last words to you, “I don’t care what people think of me anymore. If you’re not with me, (Y/n)....then you’re against me.” He slammed the door and left, leaving you all alone in the apartment.

The man you deeply care about so much…

The one you loved more than anything…walked out of your life forever.

You dropped your knees to the floor, a river of heart-breaking tears streaming down your cheeks. Crying in your hands after watching him leave…

A Month Later…

Things haven’t been the same ever since Jason left Gotham and decided to leave somewhere else. He didn’t tell you where he was currently going before he even left his old apartment. Gotham is still falling into madness. Nothing ever changes there. Criminals roaming through the city as they rob banks, steal from people and commit other similar crimes. It’s a good thing Batman is around. Nightwing too. Normally he remains Bludhaven to protect the town but he helps out Batman sometimes.

Alfred constantly checks on you to see if you are holding up alright. He noticed that you haven’t been keeping up with your daily meals every time he cooks you something. He even tried to comfort you. He knows how much Jason means to you.

‘If you’re not with me….then you’re against me…’

His words haunted your mind and soul, crawling through your broken heart. All the memories you made with your former lover, how could you possibly forget? He was your first love too. With him gone…

It’s like you lost an important part of yourself…

You think about him every single day nonstop. Trying to erase him from your heart didn’t solve the heartbreak you’re going through at the moment. Finding it difficult to move on. Your heart aches whenever a memory of Jason continues to plant every inch of your mind.

Denying how much you miss Jason hurts so much. It made you painfully wanna throw up and snap yourself into pieces. Screaming inside with an aching heart.

Forever trapped in a mind full of memories of your first love…

a/n - Before anyone ask. NO, I will not be writing a part two for this because this looks better as it is. So, please don't force me to write a sequel for this. Thank you.

UNTIL NEXT TIME 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

#dc comics #dc comics x reader #jason todd #red hood #dc comics angst #jason todd x reader #jason todd x (y/n)#jason todd x you

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ncwhereman · 1 year ago

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spanish holiday: a collection

Let me ask you about something else that was in the Hunter Davies book. At one point you and Brian went off to Spain. Yes. Did you… you must have... We didn’t have an affair. You never had an affair with Brian? No, not an affair. Yoko: [laughs] What were the pressures from Brian? Cyn was having a baby and the holiday was planned, but I wasn’t going to break the holiday for a baby and that’s what a bastard I was. And I just went on holiday. I watched Brian picking up the boys. I like playing a bit faggy, all that. Yoko: [laughs] It was enjoyable, but there were big rumours in Liverpool, it was terrible. Very embarrassing. Rumors about you and Brian? Oh, fuck knows—yes, yes. I was pretty close to Brian because if somebody's going to manage me, I want to know them inside out. And there was a period when he told me he was a fag and all that. I introduced him to pills, which gives me a guilt association for his death. I mean they go that way anyway. And to make him talk—to find out what he’s like. And I remember him saying, “Don’t ever throw it back in me face, that I’m a fag.” Which | didn’t. But his mother’s still hiding that. But what I hate is the way they’re all attacking Allen. And Brian was a nice guy, but he knew what he was doing, he robbed us. He fucking took all the money and looked after himself and his family, and all that. And it’s just a myth. I hate the way that Allen is attacked and Brian is made like an angel, just cause he’s dead. He wasn't, he was just a guy. Allen will go berserk when he hears all this.

John Lennon, Jann S. Wenner, Lennon Remembers, 1970

Bob had insinuated that me and Brian had had an affair in Spain. And I must have been frightened of the fag in me to get so angry.

John Lennon, 1972, Peter McCabe and Robert D Schonfeld, John Lennon—For The Record, 1984

Brian was in love with me. It's irrelevant. I mean, it's interesting and it will make a nice Hollywood Babylon someday about Brian Epstein’s sex life, but it's irrelevant, absolutely irrelevant.

John Lennon, Playboy, 1980

I was on holiday with Brian Epstein in Spain, where the rumours went around that he and I were having a love affair. Well, it was almost a love affair, but not quite. It was never consummated. But it was a pretty intense relationship. It was my first experience with a homosexual that I was conscious was homosexual. He had admitted it to me. We had this holiday together because Cyn was pregnant, and I went to Spain and there were lots of funny stories. We used to sit in a cafe in Torremolinos looking at all the boys and I’d say, ‘Do you like that one, do you like this one?’ I was rather enjoying the experience, thinking like a writer all the time: I am experiencing this, you know. And while he was out on the tiles one night, or lying asleep with a hangover one afternoon, I remember playing him the song Bad To Me. That was a commissioned song, done for Billy J Kramer, who was another of Brian’s singers.

John Lennon, Rolling Stone, 1980

Very quickly John became jumpy and on edge. He was beginning to feel trapped and it was time for him to escape but before he left he told me that Brian had asked him to go on holiday to Spain with him and he wanted to know if I objected. I must admit the request hit me like a bolt out of the blue and I really didn’t take it in properly at first but when it sank in I suppressed my true feelings and acquiesced. I was well aware that John deserved a holiday. He had just completed a tour and recording sessions. In actual fact he had never really had a holiday as such. They had all been working very hard and under great pressure since the success of Please Please Me, so I concealed my hurt and envy and gave him my blessings. He was delighted and left me a happy man. I on the other hand was left holding the baby, and what a baby. As soon as John returned from his break in Spain, fully relaxed and raring to get going again, we went together to register our son’s birth.

Cynthia Lennon, A Twist Of Lennon, 1978

Some accounts of that time claim that Brian was in love with John, which was why he wanted to manage the Beatles. I don't believe this for a second. They had a good relationship, but Brian cared for all the boys and he wanted success for the group because he thought they had something unique. Claims have been made since that Brian and John had a gay relationship. Nothing could be further from the truth. John was a hundred per cent heterosexual and, like most lads at that time, horrified by the idea of homosexuality. The bond between John and Brian was one of mutual respect and friendship. They liked and admired each other. Brian could see John's intelligence and distinctive talent. John appreciated Brian's business ability and his ambition for the group. They talked for hours and planned the group's future together. They both wanted the Beatles to be the biggest thing since Elvis, and were hell bent on making it happen.

When Julian was three weeks old, Brian invited John to go to Spain with him. John asked if I'd mind and I said, truthfully, that I wouldn't. I was preoccupied with Julian and nowhere near ready to travel, but I knew how much John needed a break where he wouldn't be recognised and could really relax. I gave them my blessing and they went off together for twelve days. It was a holiday John came to regret because it sparked off a string of rumours about his relationship with Brian. He had to put up with sly digs, winks and innuendo that he was secretly gay. It infuriated him: all he'd wanted was a break with a friend, but it was turned into so much more.

Cynthia Lennon, John, 2005

Brian and John spent so much time together, scheming and dreaming about the Beatles' future, that they seemed almost inseparable. In April 1963, John went so far as to accompany Brian on a holiday in Spain, leaving Cyn behind with their newborn son. In the absence of this decidedly odd couple, tongues began wagging all over town. I visited John at Aunt Mimi's a few days after his return to England. And when he started in about how much he had enjoyed Spain, I could hardly resist taking the piss out of him. "So you had a good time with Brian, then?" I smirked. Nudge nudge, wink wink. I was somewhat taken aback when John didn't so much as crack a smile. "Oh, fuckin' hell," he groaned. "Not you as well, Pete!" "What do you mean, not me as well?" "They're all fucking going on about it." "It's O.K., John. Don't take it so serious. I'm just joking, for Christ's sake." "Actually Pete," he said softly, "Something did happen with him one night." Now that wiped the grin right off my face. Had I even dreamed there might be any truth what soever to the rumors, I would never have made light of the subject in the first place. Still— as John surely knew— I would have stood by him, and let the rest of the world handle the business of passing moral judgment, even if he had just told me he'd committed murder. And John would surely have done the same for me. Which, after all, is what true friendship is all about. "What happened," John explained, "is that Eppy just kept on and on at me. Until one night I finally just pulled me trousers down and said to him: 'Oh, for Christ's sake, Brian, just stick it up me fucking arse then.' "And he said to me, 'Actually, John, I don't do that kind of thing. That's not what I like to do.' "'Well,' I said, 'what is it you want to do, then?' "And he said, 'I'd really just like to touch you, John.' "And so I let him toss me off." And that was that. End of story. "That's all, John?" I said. "Well, so what? What's the big fucking deal, then?" "Yeah, so fucking what! The poor bastard. He's having a fucking hard enough time anyway." This was in reference to the "butch" dockers who, on several recent occasions, had rewarded Brian's advances by beating him to a bloody pulp. "So what harm did it do, then, Pete, for fuck's sake?" John asked rhetorically. "No harm at all. The poor fucking bastard, he can't help the way he is." "No need to get so worked up," I said. "You know I don't give a shit. What's a fucking wank between friends anyway?" We then moved on to other topics, and neither of us ever mentioned the incident again. (And as far as I was concerned, the real revelation that night was not that John had "had it off" with Brian, but that he had demonstrated— albeit in his own brusque way—such genuine compassion for that most hopelessly besotted of all his many admirers.) Unfortunately, certain Liverpool acquaintances (who had no way of knowing that there was a kernel of truth to their allegations) wouldn't let John hear the end of it. All in good fun, no doubt, but John was still too enamored of his macho self-image to take lightly any inference that he was anything less than 100 percent heterosexual.

Pete Shotton, Nicholas Schaffner, John Lennon: In My Life, 1983

John told me he had had a one-night stand with Brian, on a holiday with him in Spain, when Brian had invited him out, a few days after the birth of Julian in 1963, leaving Cyn alone. I mentioned this brief holiday in the book, but not what John had alleged had taken place. Partly, I didn't really believe it, though John was daft enough to try almost anything once. John was certainly not homosexual, and this boast, or lie, would have given the wrong impression. It was also not fair on Cynthia, his then wife.

Hunter Davies, The Beatles: The Authorised Biography (updated edition, 2010)

Almost three weeks after the birth of his son—whom he had seen only a couple of times by then—he agreed to go to Spain with Brian on a private holiday, while the other three Beatles flew to the Canaries for their spring break. I don’t think John told Cynthia what he was doing—he rarely told her anything—and he certainly wouldn’t have asked her permission. When she found out, she dissolved in tears, but she was scared of John and said nothing. To say we were astonished is an understatement. Much has been made of this trip. It was sun, sand and sea—but was it also sex? John himself said he finally allowed Brian to make love to him “to get it out of the way.” Those who knew John well, who had known him for years, don’t believe it for a moment. John was aggressively heterosexual and had never given a hint that he was anything but. If it had been George, we might have believed it. George could act camp and had many homosexual friends, but John loved to say things to shock, and his sly statement was probably just another in a long line of such provocative statements. In fact, it was more in character for John to taunt Brian with promises during those long hot nights in Barcelona than to succumb. Equally, it was in Brian’s masochistic nature to enjoy being tormented, then perhaps to rush off in search of a young bullfighter. Brian adored bullfighters so much, he ended up sponsoring one. (And I think Brian would have confided in somebody if it had happened.)

Tony Bramwell, Magical Mystery Tours: My Life With The Beatles, 2014

First, he wanted to make Brian the baby’s godfather. Second, he was leaving on holiday as soon as this tour was over. He was going away with Brian—just the two of them. The other Beatles were going to the Canary Islands. This meant John wouldn’t see Cynthia for several weeks, long after she had returned home from the hospital. Cynthia lay back in the hospital bed, her head spinning. How could John go off and leave her and Julian like that, she demanded, and with Brian Epstein no less? John flared up at her. “Being selfish again, aren’t you?” he said. “I’ve been workin’ my bloody ass off on one-night stands for months now. Those people starin’ from the other side of the glass are bloody everywhere, hauntin’ me. I deserve a vacation. And anyway, Brian wants me to go, and I owe it to the poor guy. Who else does he have to go away with?” Brian and John went to Barcelona at the end of April 1963. It was a city that Brian had explored on his 1959 solo trip to Spain. He had since become a great fan of the bullfights and considered himself something of an aficionado. He took great pleasure in introducing John to the pageantry and excitement. They spent the days shopping and taking side trips. At night they toured the nightclubs. Later in the week they rented a car and drove down the coast to the glistening white town of Sitges on the Costa Brava. Each night they would sit in the candlelit cafés and watch the couples stroll by in the moonlight. Over many bottles of wine they talked candidly about Brian’s personal life. It was a great relief for Brian to finally be able to talk honestly with John. He told John that for a man who valued honesty as dearly as he did, it was a terrible burden for him to live his life a lie. “If you had a choice, Eppy,” John said, “if you could press a button and be hetero, would you do it?” Brian thought for a moment. “Strangely, no,” he said. A little later a peculiar game developed. John would point out some passing man to Brian, and Brian would explain to him what it was about the fellow that he found attractive or unattractive. “I was rather enjoying the experience,” John said, “thinking like a writer all the time: I am experiencing this.” And still later, back in their hotel suite, drunk and sleepy from the sweet Spanish wine, Brian and John undressed in silence. “It’s okay, Eppy,” John said, and lay down on his bed. Brian would have liked to have hugged him, but he was afraid. Instead, John lay there, tentative and still, and Brian fulfilled the fantasies he was so sure would bring him contentment, only to awake the next morning as hollow as before.

Peter Brown, The Love You Make, 1983 can't wait for the full fic on ao3 peter!

One story the Press certainly didn’t get at the time was that in April, in the middle of the euphoria that followed all the early success and acclaim, Brian and John went off to Spain for a holiday. So much invention and rubbish has been made of this trip by so many people since, that the truth deserves at least a brief mention. The most sensational version, of course, is that the holiday was a chance for Brian to consummate his overwhelming passion for John, which inspired him to sign the group in the first place. I’m afraid it wasn’t like that. John roared with laughter at the rumours that began afterwards. Typically, he encouraged the stories that he and Brian were gay lovers because he thought it was funny and John was one of the world’s great wind-up merchants. He told me afterwards in one of our frankest heart-to-hearts that Brian never seriously did proposition him. He had teased Brian about the young men he kept gazing at and the odd ones who had found their way to his room. Brian had joked to John about the women who hurled themselves at him. ‘If he’d asked me, I probably would have done anything he wanted. I was so much in awe of Brian then I’d have tried a night of vice-versa. But he never wanted me like that. Sure, I took the mickey a bit and pretended to lead him on. But we both knew we were joking. He wanted a pal he could have a laugh with and someone he could teach about life. I thought his bum boys were creeps and Brian knew that. Even completely out of my head, I couldn’t shag a bloke. And I certainly couldn’t lie there and let one shag me. Even a nice guy like Brian. To be honest, the thought of it turns me over.’ All the same, John was very selfish to have gone off on holiday with Brian then because it was just after Cynthia had given birth to his son Julian. John’s whole romance and marriage to Cynthia was kept a secret at the time because Brian feared the effect of publicity about one of the Beatles having a wife, let alone a family.

Alistair Taylor, With The Beatles, 2003

While Brian thought a Beatle’s image could be affected by marriage and fatherhood, his next move proved wildly indiscreet and potentially dangerous. On April 8, 1963, Cynthia gave birth to Julian, and Brian was named his godfather. Shortly afterward, Brian invited John to join him alone on a holiday in Spain. Lennon had been working hard, writing songs and touring Britain. He needed a rest, and Cynthia relished some time alone to adapt to life with a baby. John accepted and flew to Barcelona on April 28 for the twelve-day break. John made it clear to everyone that he was a woman-chaser, a hundred percent heterosexual. But it was inept of Epstein to risk the whispering that was bound to ensue from such an expedition by a manager and a solitary Beatle. It was one of the few times when Brian’s perception of public opinion faltered, for the Spanish trip fueled rumors in Liverpool of an Epstein-Lennon relationship. Paul McCartney’s theory is that “John, not being stupid, saw his opportunity to impress upon Mr. Epstein who was the boss of this group … he wanted Brian to know who he should listen to.” Lennon knew that Brian held him in awe, regarding him as a genius. On their return to Liverpool, Brian and John decided to deal with the gossip decisively. At McCartney’s twenty-first birthday party on June 18, Bob Wooler and Lennon were seen chatting together and within minutes the Beatle had pummeled the Cavern compere to the ground. “He called me a bloody queer, so I bashed his ribs in,” John later told Cynthia. Epstein, no less angry but sensing the need for repairing all wounds, physical and oral, drove Wooler to hospital for treatment of torn knuckles and for shock. Next, Epstein moved swiftly to prevent the friction from escalating. Through his solicitor friend Rex Makin he paid Wooler £200 in damages and insisted that Lennon sent him a telegram of apology. The rumors were quelled. But nothing could prevent the attack on Wooler from reaching the Daily Mirror, whose pop reporter Don Short, in a first recognition of the group’s burgeoning importance, published a back-page story headlined: “Beatle in Brawl Says: Sorry I Socked You.” Since the deaths of Epstein and Lennon, many with no access to, or observation of, both men in their lifetime have peddled the assumption that Brian and John had a sexual liaison. This is despite the lack of any evidence, despite firm declarations of John’s heterosexuality from Cynthia and many other women, and despite the statement by McCartney that he “slept in a million hotel rooms, as we all did, with John and there was never any hint that he was gay.” Brian possibly had a homosexual fascination for Lennon but it could never be reciprocated. And since Epstein was not a predator, that eliminated the likelihood of such a link. More than anyone, Epstein saw the Beatles as an indivisible unit. He would never have risked so profoundly changing his relationship with them, individually or collectively. Nothing mattered more to Brian, after his devotion to his family, than the entity of the Beatles.

Ray Coleman, The Man Who Made The Beatles, 1989

Years later, John finally came clean about what had happened: not to anyone who’d been around at the time, but to the unshockable woman with whom he shared the last decade of his life. He said that one night during the trip, Brian had cast aside shyness and scruples and finally come on to him, but that he’d replied, “If you feel like that, go out and find a hustler.” Afterward, he had deliberately fed Pete Shotton the myth of his brief surrender, so that everyone would believe his power over Brian to be absolute.

Norman Philip, John Lennon: The Life, 2008

I don’t actually know the truth of the John rumour. I suspected that the John trip to Barcelona was a power play on John’s part because John was a very political animal. I think John went away on that Spanish holiday because nobody went on holiday. I would have gone, anyone would have gone. A free holiday? You’re kidding. I’m there. Number two, I’m sure John took Brian aside and said, ‘Hey, you want to deal with this group, I’m the guy you deal with, OK.’ John was that kind of guy. He was a very sensible, very pragmatic guy. So I’m sure that was the main reason John went there. As to whether there was any sort of gay dalliance or whatever, I don’t know. All I can ever say about it is that I slept with John a lot because you had to, you didn’t have more than one bed – and to my knowledge John was never gay.

Paul McCartney, Debbie Geller, In My Life: The Brian Epstein Story, 2000

Brian Epstein was going on holiday to Spain at the same time and he invited John along. John was a smart cookie. Brian was gay, and John saw his opportunity to impress upon Mr Epstein who was the boss of this group. | think that's why he went on holiday with Brian. And good luck to him, too — he was that kind of guy; he wanted Brian to know whom he should listen to. That was the relationship. John was very much the leader in that way, although it was never actually said. So there was the homosexual thing — I'm not sure John did anything but we certainly gave him a lot of grief when he got back.

Paul McCartney, The Beatles Anthology, 2000

My sense of the trip to Barcelona is that it was an intriguing situation because John left his wife to go on this holiday, who was still in hospital having given birth to her first child. So it was an extraordinary thing, but John wanted to go on holiday with Brian and there was a great bond between them. John knew that Brian was going and he also knew that Brian was very attracted to him and I think this intrigued John. My understanding only comes from Brian. I never discussed this with John but I heard that there were lots of discussions about the business of homosexuality and Brian’s homosexuality. But I think it’s wrong to discuss something which is really rather significant when I only know one side of the picture.

Peter Brown, Debbie Geller, In My Life: The Brian Epstein Story, 2000

It had nothing to do with advancement of career. John knew that he already had Brian as an ally; he knew that Brian liked him, was attracted to him and stimulated by his intellect. Anyway, I don’t believe John was that manipulative. And the idea of going along with it, and trying to take advantage of it, just wouldn’t have been Brian’s way.

Peter Brown, Norman Philip, John Lennon: The Life, 2008

It was during the same discussion that he told me that he and John Lennon had been lovers. Now that’s too much for me to take on. We’d never talked about his personal life before, so I left the room.

Lonnie Trimble, Debbie Geller, In My Life: The Brian Epstein Story, 2000

#mostly just for me to have it in one place :)#might add more if i dig something up #he was 100% heterosexual #but he 'encouraged stories about them being gay lovers.... because he thought it was funny'....................#(all straight people do that don't they?)#but he beat bob up for insinuating they were #but then again what's a fucking wank between friends anyway???#brian epstein #john lennon #jb #quote #ref #m

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ginnysgraffiti · 7 months ago

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blood, violence, cannibalism, stalking.

&. LEE x yn.

"LEE, WE ALREADY TALKED ABOUT THIS!" you yelled at the top of your lungs, pissed off as blood dripped from his mouth and his hand shook from anger on the steering wheel.

"I KNOW, BUT I WAS HUNGRY! NO ONE WILL NOTICE, WHY ARE YOU WORRYING SO MUCH ALL OF A SUDDEN?!"

"HE HAD A FAMILY! HIS HOUSE IS OVER THERE, HIS FAMILY WILL SEE THE CAR SOON!"

"I ALREADY TOLD YOU I CLEANED IT!"

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT-"

you couldn't stand him anymore.

you weren't an eater but his needs and urges were now everyday things for you, and you were sick of fearing that you'd end up behind bars every single time.

lee's bloody hand was still maneuvering the steering wheel when you opened the door and jumped out. you were in the middle of the countryside, but the streetlights still allowed you a view.

"hey- what are you-" he complained.

"leave, go away and leave me here, i'm tired of you!"

lee's eyes pierced your skin like cold needles, and for a moment you thought he was going to jump on you or run you over.

finally he left you there, and you heard the engine go wild as he drove away in the stolen pickup.

now there was only you and nature, if things were bad you would have asked for a ride to your house.

you walked under the dim light and the buzz of the street lamps, there were two or three houses lit up even though it was late in the evening. you didn't bother knocking, you wanted to stretch your legs for a bit.

you could still smell the acrid smell of lee's vehicle in your nostrils when you noticed that a still figure had been contemplating you for quite some time while your mind was elsewhere.

you approached carefully, but you stopped when you noticed some wrinkles illuminated by the street lamp.

you got a little closer, albeit at a safe distance, and recognized the strange man who had been chasing you around supermarkets or inhabited neighborhoods for weeks.

it was creepy, really, but you didn't tell lee.

you didn't want him to worry about something so small.

but maybe, just maybe, it was better if you did.

now you were the one staring at him, and you stared at his strange gray braid falling over his shoulders and his strange scout or fisherman uniform.

"long time no see, mademoiselle."

a smile moved his wrinkles, and you held back a retch.

"who are you...? why have you been following me?"

"haha, you're smart. it's that old sully just wanted to make friends. he feels so alone..."

why does he talk about himself as another person?

that guy needed to be taken to the mental hospital.

"i can give you a lift, you know. i saw that you and your lovebird argued, what a shame..."

"how long have you been stalking me?"

"no, don't treat old sully badly. i'm just protecting you, that's all."

now there were two options: run away...or run away.

you took a step back and felt the gravel slide against your sole, the old man raised a thick eyebrow and in an instant he was on you.

the view was foggy and the world spun around you like a top when your feet left the ground. the next moment he slammed the back of your head against the wall and the dull thud echoed in your head.

he had already restrained your wrists, and if you kicked or screamed it would be worse. he took his time to smell and imprint your scent into his nostrils, you closed your eyes until it hurt.

you understood.

you could already feel his sharp canines imprinting on the cool flesh of your neck and it made you sweat terribly.

a strong smell of mold and musk trapped you whole.

you tightened your fingers around the fabric of his uniform until you could see your hands shaking, but suddenly his teeth moved away and fell with him.

"DIE, BASTARD!!!"

lee was behind him with an iron pipe, the old man was reduced to a puddle of blood in front of your feet. you avoided touching it as if it was lava.

your boyfriend was still as dirty as before, shirtless and looking like a butcher, but now he was scratching his head with a strong itch and you held back a laugh.

"am i too late? did he hurt you?"

his eyes traveled over you frantically, as if to see if you were still in one piece.

"don't worry...i'm o-"

"i'm so fucking sorry about our argument...i should have listened and been more careful, sorry, i-..." his voice caught in his throat.

"shhh...i'm glad you're here."

your lips rested on his, you could feel the blood from his previous hunt running down your throat with a strong iron taste.

he didn't notice and pushed you against the wall, seeking your lips as his lifeline.

his fingers were quickly stroking your hair, now your shoulders and following your hips.

"i love you, i love you, i love you..."

the words slipped out of his mouth like his most precious mantra. you were so glad he had saved you...

luckily, his cannibal sixth sense never failed.

#timothee chalamet #timothée x reader #timothée chamalet #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #lee bones and all x reader #lee bones and all #bones and all #&. LEE #&. LEE x yn #&. LEE x reader

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zeciex · 5 months ago

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A Vow of Blood - 86

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 86: A Vow of Fire and Blood

AO3 - Masterlist

The incessant ringing in Daenera’s ears drowned out the clamor of the throne room, its persistence mimicking the relentless crash of ocean waves against rocky shores. A debilitating nausea twisted through her, churning in the pit of her stomach as she forced herself to remain poised and unyielding. Her eyes, sharp and blurry, swept across the gathered nobles–a sea of faces etched with varying expressions.

Her thoughts churned like a turbulent sea, threatening to engulf her from within. Aegon’s voice reverberated in her mind, each word a piercing echo of cruelty and mockery. His taunts were deliberate, designed to provoke and inflict pain-–‘what did you say, brother? You feed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?’

Whatever Aemond had once claimed about what happened in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay now seemed a faint echo to the harsh truth laid out by Aegon’s cruel words–a bitter truth that sliced through Daenera more sharply than she had anticipated. It gnawed at the already tattered remnants of her heart, for had he not claimed, with a voice bordering on repentance, that it had not been his intention to kill her brother? That he had never meant for it to happen?

Had that confession been nothing but a lie? Was his semblance of remorse merely a facade crafted to soothe the sting of his actions?

Aemond’s face bore no sign of regret or guilt as he was being celebrated for his deed. Instead, Aemond maintained a composed, chilling demeanor. The corner’s of his lips were slightly upturned in what was almost a smirk, his eye sharp and discerning, as he bore the weight of what he had done with his head held high. And somehow, this managed to tear even more at the remnants of her heart–betrayed by love for someone more beast than man.

Daenera swallowed hard, her throat parched as she clenched her teeth, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. She fought to maintain his composure, even as her heart pounded loudly, its beats echoing in her ears like the relentless drum of war. The turmoil within her threatened to spill over, yet she held herself steady, by driving her nails into his hand–she could almost hear the crack of thunder in the depths of her mind and the haunting sound of wings beating against the tumultuous winds as her brother attempted to flee. The sharp, metallic taste of despair lingered on her tongue, as she thought of the terror her brother must have felt, and for a fleeting moment between heartbeats, Daenera thought she caught sight of him among the gathered guests–his dark curls matted and sticking to his skin, his pale blue eyes, flecked with hints of brown, catching hers. His skin appeared ghostly pale as if he had emerged from water, watching her with a deep frown. He was there, and then, he was gone.

Was there even anything left of him for her mother to find? The thought lodged itself like some terrible blade driven between her ribs, twisting and burrowing deeper with each passing moment. She could only imagine her mother’s agony, scouring the rugged coastline of Shipbreaker Bay, her eyes scanning every cliff and rock, her pleas directed at the stormy, unforgiving sea to relinquish what remained of her son. She imagined her mother’s despair, begging the waves to return even a trace of him so she could be certain, so she could properly lay him to rest.

‘A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.’

The words reverberated in her mind, a haunting refrain amidst the cruel taunts of Aegon, who seemed to revel in her torment.

Laughter filled the grand hall, an echo of heartless mirth that mingled with the clinking of glasses and the swell of music, and Daenera felt as though she was going to be sick. They toasted the death of her brother as if it were a cause for celebration–a grand feast, complete with wine and song, treating his demise with a festivity that suggested his life had been devoid of any worth, as if his death were deserved.

Aemond was a monster, and Aegon, sharing in the revelry, was no different. None of them were. They had usurped her mother’s throne, they had killed Joyce and Darvin, they had hung Kevan and Sithric. They still held Fenrick, Eddin and Patrick in the dungeons, pawns to be used against her. They had coldly murdered Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell for refusing to bend the knee. They had conspired, stolen and murdered to put a monster on the throne. And now, they exalted the slaying of her brother as if it were a heroic deed, celebrating his killer as though he had won a great battle. But it was neither great nor a battle. It was murder. What chance did a mere boy have against a dragon like Vhagar?

Every cheer, every toast added weight to her condemnation. They were all complicit, every last one of them–and the Greens most of all. Daenera damned them, her heart seething with rage and despair.

Daenera stood abruptly from her seat, unable to remain any longer. Her voice trembled, tinged with emotion as she excused herself, “If you’ll excuse me, I fear I have worn myself out.”

Aemond immediately rose to his feet as she did, a frown etching itself onto his brow as he watched her intently. His hand stretched out towards her, pausing mid-air to reveal shallow cuts across the palm of his hand, and the bruising indent of her nails on the surface of it, “Let me escort you to your chambers…”

“No,” Daenera responded coolly, her eyes fixing upon him with a chilling detachment. He still bore the visage of the boy she had once loved, yet now he seemed nothing more than a monster disguised in the remnants of that past affection. “This feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

His reaction was immediate; his jaw clenched, muscles tensing as he gritted his teeth. He looked away, clearly stung by her rejection. Daenera turned her back on him, her movements graceful and deliberate as she gathered the heavy fabric of her skirts and moved around the table, descending the few steps from the dias and onto the floor.

Daenera drifted into the shadows cast by the columns, skirting the edges of the throne room where the dim light enfolded her like a shroud. Lacking the strength or inclination to take the same way back from which she had come, moving through the festivities, she chose a path less noticeable, one that avoided piercing through the throng of revelers. The thought of every eye upon her, scrutinizing her trembling form, was unbearable. It was already enough to have his gaze on her–she had felt it from the moment she had entered the throne room. His gaze had lingered on her, skimming across her skin like a gentle caress, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Once a thrilling sensation, it now felt invasive, as sharp and unwelcome as a cold blade pressed against her throat. She had refused to meet his gaze, fearing what she might find there–feared finding the cold cruelty of his mask, more monster than man. Or worse, she feared that if she looked at him, she might find some semblance of warmth there, a flicker of something once familiar–something terrible and loving. It had been almost a relief to find the mask he wore with such seamless perfection that Daenera had been left wondering if his visage of steel and ice was not a mask at all but rather his true self, sculpted to slice through whatever lay in his path. She had once believed she could see beneath his mask of steel, foolishly finding something genuine and tender lurking beneath. But had there ever truly been anything there other than the darkness?

As Daenera retreated into the shadows, she could feel his gaze trailing her every move, its weight cruelly tearing at her heart. The sensation was disquieting–and she loathed it, despised the way her heart still responded, still tore itself apart under the burden of his attention.

Daenera’s heart seethed with hatred. She hated Aemond for murdering her brother, for the lies he had woven with such ease, each one a silken thread that tied her hands together. She hated him for the mask he wore–if any–and she hated herself for the inability to discern where the facade ended and the man began–if there was a man at all beneath the facade. She hated him for the deep, aching pain that gnawed at her day and night, for the accolades he received with smug arrogance, as though self satisfied. She hated him for ensnaring her heart, for making her love him.

But above all, amidst the swirling tempest of her hatred, a dark, insidious thread wove itself through–the hatred she harbored against herself for still feeling, for still aching, for still loving the shadow of a man who might never have existed at all. She hated herself for it, and this self-loathing gnawed at her as deeply as any betrayal.

Amidst the tumult of her thoughts and emotions, which threatened to shatter her fragile composure, a figure suddenly blocked her path. The man, tall and lean, was adorned in a dark green robe edged with black fur lapels, his chest bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Otto Hightower stood draped in the shadows cast by the revelry, his gaze imposing as he looked down at her, effectively halting her retreat. His voice, carrying a measured weight, broke through her thoughts. “Princess…”

As Daenera faced the man whose machinations had brought them to this, she clenched her jaw tightly, struggling to maintain her composure. A strained breath escaped her as she fought to keep her voice steady, her fingers curling into fists at her sides while a surge of bile burned in her chest. His discerning eyes wept over her with a cold, meticulous gaze, always analyzing, always assessing.

“I offer my condolences for your brother,” Otto began, his voice low and even, stepping forward with deliberate calm, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is a shame, had your mother agreed to our generous terms, it would never have come to this. Your brother would still be alive and the heir to Driftmark.”

Daenera’s voice was sharp with scorn as she addressed Otto, her eyes wide with indignation and disbelief. “Do not lay the blame at my mother’s feet for the actions of your grandson. He has marked himself a kinslayer, and that stain is his alone to bear. And don’t dare pretend that the terms you offered were anything but a mummer’s farce.” She paused, her gaze cutting through the space between them. “Do you truly think the realm is blind to your machinations? That it will not see through your schemes? That it will not condemn him?” Her hand swept towards the ongoing celebration, where the clamor of conversation melded seamlessly with the lull of festive music. “Condemn you for celebrating the death of a child, honoring the very man who murdered him.”

“And yet, it seems we are not the only ones who may face condemnation,” Otto replied, his gaze steely and chillingly calculating–filled with intent. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself, and your attendance here will not go unnoticed by the realm.”

Daenera’s hand glided down the bodice of her dress, fingers tracing the cool, beaten metal of the dragon adorning it. The head of the dragon nestled snugly against her lower abdomen, its wings sweeping up to her shoulders and tapering to gleaming points just past them. The dress was elaborate and elegant, crafted from a heavy fabric designed to fall in perfect, graceful drapes around her form. It was dramatic and to that effect, was why she had chosen it–because of the spectacle it made of her.

“My mother’s colors are not only black,” Daenera asserted. They were also red. While the Hightowers had seen to the removal of all her black dresses, they had not thought to take the red ones as well. It was their mistake. “She will understand.”

“Will she?” Otto questioned, eyes flickering across her face. “Your grief is known–Maegor’s Holdfast has heard your cries. Yet here you are, adorned in finery, participating in the celebration. You sat by his side, holding his hand…”

The accusation twisted her stomach–that she had been there in support of him, that she had declared for Greens–draining the color from her face as dark spots danced at the edges of her vision. Through a sheen of tears, she met his gaze firmly. “My mother will know the truth of my heart.”

“Will Daemon? Will the realm?” Otto pressed, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying a challenge.

Daenera felt a surge of nausea as the bile rose in her throat, her stomach churning–turning in on itself. A coldness nipped at her fingertips and crept up her spine, her limbs growing heavy and her chest tightening as if her ribs were constricting around her lungs. With effort, she swallowed the bile and responded with a bitter edge, “My presence will be spoken of as defiance–a spectacle. You may weave your web of lies, and some may indeed become ensnared, but the truth will stand firm; I wore red. I am the daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, and I did not bow to your usurper king. The realm will recount my grief and my defiance, and it will also recount your cruelty.”

Otto inhaled thoughtfully–unconcerned–his eyes scrutinizing her intently, as if trying to peel back her skin and reveal the bloodied and broken girl beneath, and answered measuredly, “What is certain, is that you attended the celebration of your brother’s murderer. Your presence here will be noted across the realm, and whether you wore red or not, your intentions will remain in doubt–a grieving sister or a girl celebrating her betrothed…”

He stepped closer, his tone sharpening, “This is a dangerous game, Princess, one that I believe you do not fully understand. Remember, you hold no power here; you are playing on our side of the board, and it is only by our grace and mercy that you remain. I would advise you to think carefully about which… comforts you are prepared to forego, should you decide to defy us again. Or more pressingly, which of your men you are willing to sacrifice…”

With that, Otto stepped aside, making a sweeping gesture with his arm, indicating that she was free to pass. His demeanor suggested that the conversation was over, dismissing her with a finality that echoed the coldness of his warnings.

Daenera was certain that Otto would spin his web of deceit. He would craft the narrative to suggest that her presence at the feast was their decision–that it symbolized her endorsement of their regime.

Clenching her teeth tightly, Daenera forced herself forward, barely suppressing the urge to scream and expose the true depths of her grief and hatred and rage to the court–to the realm, to her mother across the sea. She managed to hold herself together, teetering precariously on the brink of madness. The abyss seemed to yawn open before her, beckoning her to succumb to its depths. It was unclear whether it was rage or grief that gnawed at her, but the sensation of unraveling was unmistakable–she felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness envelop her.

Otto’s web, spun with masterful grace, ensnared her–tying around her lips, weaving through her intentions, and tightening its embrace with each breath she drew. She could not move without the tightening of the strings, she could not breathe as it strangled her, she could do nothing. She was lost–lost and suffocating.

Daenera's mind was a tempest, relentlessly revisiting the cascade of events that had shattered her world: from Viserys's untimely death to the usurpation of her mother’s crown, the myriad humiliations she had endured at their hands, and the grim reality of the position they had forced upon her. She agonized over all that she had lost, all that she still stood to lose, and the relentless barrage of insults and cruelty she had faced–years of mockery and taunts, years of belittling and undermining. Aegon's cruel words echoed ominously in her head, her ears pulsing with the rush of her own blood, effectively drowning out the raucous sounds of the feast.

Edelin was waiting at the doors of the throne room when Daenera emerged from the shadows cast by the columns. Her expression was tight with worry as she quickly fell into step behind Daenera. Her pace was quick, hand pressing against her bodice as she felt the harsh burn of bile rising in her esophagus, threatening to choke her.

As she moved through the dimly lit hall, her movement was silent, her footsteps absorbed by the swish of her skirts and the steady, oppressive pounding of her heart. Each step carried her further into the shadows, away from the light and laughter that seemed so grotesquely out of place, isolating her in her grief and fury.

Bile invaded her mouth, and Daenera quickly turned towards a secluded corner, away from the view of people, as she heaved, emptying her stomach onto the floor. Her body convulsed, her skin clammy and hands trembling as she braced herself against the cool stone wall. The sound of her sickness hitting the floor was harsh, and the acrid stench filled the air immediately. The ringing in her ears persisted as her stomach churned again, expelling more bile and partially digested food. Her eyes ached with the weight of unshed tears. Amidst the turmoil, she barely registered her name being called, but she felt the presence of a gentle hand at the small of her back, drawing soothing circles, comforting her with the tenderness usually afforded a child.

“Princess,” Edelin murmured, her voice laced with concern, yet it wasn’t her touch that drew Daenera’s focus. Instead, another hand gently pressed against her back, steadying her as she lifted her eyes.

“Princess,” Finan said softly, greeting her with worried eyes–gray as a gloomy day.

“I’m fine,” Daenera managed to croak, and with a trembling hand, she wiped away the residue of spite and bitterness from her lips. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she swallowed, her throat still burning from the acrid sting of stomach acid. “It’s nothing…”

“I should fetch the Maester for you, Princess,” Edelin suggested, her hands persistently soothing Daenera’s back. Her expression of concern somehow made her appear older than her age.

Swallowing hard again, and placing a hand on her unsettled stomach, Daenera answered, “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s just a minor upset, nothing serious enough to bother the Maesters with. A cup of mint tea and some crackers should help settle it, I’m sure.”

Tears of indignation and embarrassment threatened to escape as they prickled behind Daenera’s eyes. Her throat constricted as she swallowed hard, her mouth dry even as the bitter taste of bile lingered on her tongue. Her heart thudded loudly, the pulsing in her temples and the continuous whooshing in her ears contributing to her dizziness.

“Let me escort you back to your chambers, Princess,” Finan offered, his hand poised near her back–not touching, but ready to offer support if she faltered again.

“Thank you, Ser…”

“Finan Pyne, Princess,” He formally introduced himself, maintaining the pretense that they did not know each other. There was almost a palpable insistence in Finan’s posture–his silent urging for her to allow him to escort her, and perhaps, for a moment alone to speak.

“Ser Finan, that would be most kind,” Daenera accepted, feeling the weight of his unspoken plea. She then addressed the attentive Edelin. “Edelin, would you please see to cleaning up this mess? I wish to avoid any further embarrassment.”

“I am not to leave you alone, Princess,” Edelin responded, her voice tinged with hesitation. The conflict was evident in her eyes, a desire to comply with Daenera’s request despite it conflicting with prior instructions. She was kind, Daenera thought and she appreciated that, even as the girl was wary to comply–it was understandable, and showed that she was not too foolish in her kindness to be blind to the world around her.

“She won’t be alone,” Finan quickly assured, giving Edelin a comforting smile. “I will ensure the Princess’s safe return to her chambers.”

Edelin paused, considering the situation for a moment before finally relenting. “Very well, see the princess back to her chambers,” she directed Finan with surprising authority. Then, turning her gaze to Daenera, she added, “I will join you shortly and bring some tea to ease your stomach.”

Daenera expressed her gratitude to Edelin and watched cautiously as she departed, presumably to fetch a bucket and cloth to cleanse the stone of the unpleasant evidence of her sickness. The acrid smell would linger, even after being cleaned up–a minor inconvenience that time alone would erase. Beside her, Finan offered his arm, which she gratefully accepted, leaning on him for support as they moved through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. They passed through the main doors into the cool embrace of night.

The sky was overcast, heavy clouds masking any sign of the stars or the moon, shrouding their path in darkness. The night air was crisp, biting gently at her clammy skin as they crossed the courtyard towards Maegor’s Holdfast.

“How are you?” Finan asked, his voice low to ensure their conversation remained private. As they walked, the crunch of gravel and stone beneath their feet gave way to the solid, smooth surface of the steps leading to the Holdfast.

Daenera’s expression tightened slightly, her brows furrowing as she moved up the steps, her hand clutching her skirts to avoid tripping over the heavy fabric. “Alive… if you can call this being alive.”

“It is more than what others can claim,” Finan replied, his tone equally solemn. He quickly caught the harshness of his words, adding hurriedly, “Forgive me, that was cruel of me to say.”

Daenera remained alive, yet it was a bitter mercy–if a mercy at all. She was not dead, but her existence hardly felt like a life at all. To her, it felt more a burden than a privilege at the moment. Being alive hurt, and she was so awfully tired.

“No, you’re right,” she said, her voice raw and constricted. As she swallowed, the scratchiness at the back of her throat mirrored the jab her emotions took at the reminder. “I am better off than my men…”

I am better off than my brother. A sharp pang of grief twisted her heart and she averted her gaze from Finan, attempting to shield herself as though the acknowledgement of it would be too much. She blinked rapidly, fighting to keep the surge of sorrow at bay–a sorrow that threatened to break free from its confinement, threatening to engulf her and pull her back to that sea of emptiness where she had been adrift, lost in another world. “What news of my men?”

They made their way along the sheltered path of the inner courtyard, where shadows cast by the columns deepened and stretched across the floor and the opposite walls. The feeble light from distant fires did little to dispel the encompassing darkness. Maegor’s Holdfast was wrapped in an eerie silence, devoid of any other souls–a peace that was both soothing and unsettling, though not unexpected given the ongoing festivities in the throne room. This solitude offered them a semblance of privacy, albeit one that still required vigilance.

Finan stole a glance at her, his eyes nearly as dark as charcoal, framed by a brow furrowed with seriousness. “They survive. The boy is frightened and longs for home. And Fenrick worries for you.”

They ascended the grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast, their path illuminated by flickering torches that cast long shadows against the ancient stones. Finan matched his pace with her’s, giving her the time she needed to move up the steps. Her body was weary, weakened by the turmoil of the evening, her stomach hollow and head light and throbbing with a persistent ache. Each step seemed to demand more of her than she felt capable of giving, yet she moved with determination.

“He ought to spare his worries for himself,” Daenera muttered. “Will you be able to free them?”

If she could free her men from the clutches of the Hightowers, Daenera knew she could finally breathe easier. No longer would the lives of her men be held over her, a noose tightening around their necks with every defiant move she made. Yet, with each man she lost to their cruelty, the noose seemed to loosen, a bitter form of freedom–freedom through the absence of anyone left to threaten. She might be trapped, but perhaps there was a chance for them to find escape.

As they continued their ascent, the harsh light from the torches cast eerie shadows on their path, Finan’s head shook slightly, his expression somber. “The guards are vigilant, especially after the escape of Princess Rhaenys. Even if it were possible to free them from their cells, sneaking them out of the Keep is another matter entirely. All exits are either locked tightly or kept under guard. There are too many eyes, too few allies.”

Daenera had assumed as much. The usurpation had ushered in a regime of fear and uncertainty, with anyone daring to oppose or resist bending the knee finding themselves imprisoned or worse. The Keep now thrummed with an undercurrent of uncertainty and distrust, as people concealed their true opinions and allegiances close to their chest, wary of crossing invisible lines and finding themselves at the end of a noose.

“Perhaps you could use your influence–”

“I have no influence,” Daenera interrupted him sharply, her voice trembling with bitterness and indignation. “I am powerless. The friends that I had won’t go near me in fear that any association with me might brand them traitors.”

As they continued through the corridor, the flickering torches sputtering around them, Daenera’s mind turned to the faces of those she had once considered allies–friends, even. She recalled Trish Caswell’s averted gaze after her father had been hung, her eyes finding the floor or a sudden turn away whenever Daenera drew near–a clear sign of fear and caution she couldn’t blame her for. Lady Fell had suffered a harsher fate, thrown into the dungeons for her refusal to submit, alongside other defiant lords and ladies. Kaylys Merryweather had left the city to visit her mother, and Alan Beesbury had gone home to Honeyholt long before his grandsire’s death.

“I have no friends left, no allies, no influence,” Daenera’s voice broke through the silence of the hallway, tinged with a profound sense of isolation. “Too many of my men have been hanged. I am utterly trapped and alone. I have nothing…”

She was acutely aware of the confines of her invisible cage–sensing the web of intrigue that coiled around her neck like a noose, poised to tighten with the slightest misstep. It was as if she were balanced precariously on a tightrope, hands bound behind her back, every movement fraught with danger. She had been reduced to nothing more than a pawn to be wielded cruelly against her own mother in their sinister game.

As they reached the solitude of her chambers, a bitter taste of anger and shame filled her mouth. With a voice sharp and laced with frustration, she confessed, “I can’t protect anyone, Finan. I don’t know how to free them.”

A profound sense of powerlessness settled over her, a pressing weight that made her footsteps falter as her remaining strength ebbed away. She staggered, barely a few steps from the doors of her chambers, her hand reaching out to the cold stone of the wall for stability. Slowly, her knees buckled, and she found herself sinking to the floor, the harsh reality of her circumstances once again pressing down on her with unforgiving weight.

Seeming to sense her distress, Finan reacted swiftly. He slipped one arm supportively around her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her with a quiet display of strength that nonetheless betrayed the effort required. Her dress was heavy, the fabric adding to the burden of her weight, and she could sense the strain it imposed on him as they approached the doors.

Using the hand supporting her knees, Finan deftly maneuvered the door open. The metallic head of the dragon adorned on her dress pressed uncomfortably into her lower abdomen, its snout poking against her upper thighs, creating a persistent discomfort–promising to leave a bruise. Clinging to him, Daenera’s fingers dug into the leather of his doublet, seeking stability in the warmth of his grasp as they crossed the threshold into the sanctuary of her chambers.

They moved through the quiet expanse of her chambers to the hearth, where Finan gently lowered Daenera into a chair positioned before the crackling fire. The warmth radiated from the lively flames, seeping over the cold stone and gently warming her chilled skin.

Daenera swallowed hard against the tightness constricting her throat, the sense of desolation and powerlessness wrapping tightly around her chest. As Finan knelt before her, his gray eyes were murky, reminiscent of the sky heavy with the promise of snowfall. He gazed at her with a depth of sympathy and something more–something that strained her already burdened heart with its intensity: faith.

“You possess more power than you realize, Princess,” he said, his voice soft yet earnest. “I could offer a poetic analogy about nature’s resilience–how even in the midst of the fiercest storm, flowers may be battered but still stand, grow, and survive. But I suspect you might find such platitudes wearisome.”

A small, fragile smile crept onto her lips, breaking through the solemn atmosphere–a fleeting moment of lightheartedness. “It does grow rather tiresome to be compared to flowers…”

As he rose from his kneeling position before her, a smile briefly brightened his features. Finan hooked his thumbs into his belt, a gesture so reminiscent of Fenrick that it momentarily caught her off guard–and though they didn’t share a drop of blood, it was clear that Finan had taken after the man he considered a father figure. The smile faded into a solemn frown again.

A pause filled the space between them as Daenera turned her gaze towards the hearth. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering light, illuminating the darkened space. When she spoke again, her voice was faint and weary. “Are there any news from Dragonstone?”

Finan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his gaze also drawn to the flames. He spoke gently, his voice a low lull, as if trying to soothe her worries before they could deepen. “Your mother has left Dragonstone. It is said that she is searching Shipbreaker Bay for your brother…”

Daenera gritted her teeth, struggling to swallow against the overwhelming surge of pain that threatened to wash over her. Aegon’s cruel taunts echoed hauntingly in her mind, battering against her resolve like rain lashing against a windowsill: ‘‘With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son, but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, Velaryon in death.’

Was there truly anything left for her mother to find, or would she be searching the sea for the rest of her life? The thought pierced her heart anew.

Her hand rose to her lips, fingers brushing lightly over the delicate, chapped skin, trying to hold back the sob that threatened to escape as tears blurred her vision. Daenera struggled to steady herself against the overwhelming tide of grief and fear that tightened around her heart. The image of her mother, alone and heartbroken, searching the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay for any trace of her son, was almost too much to bear. “She shouldn’t have gone alone–she shouldn’t be alone…”

The chilling cascade of ‘what ifs’ flooded Daenera’s mind, each more harrowing than the last. What if the Hightowers had dispatched men to hunt her mother down? What if an arrow found its mark? What if an ambush awaited her at every turn? The most terrifying possibility of all crept into her thoughts: what if they’ll send Aemond after her?

Each thought tore her heart further, rekindling the embers of fear and anxiety that she struggled to contain.

Her mother, now a queen fighting to reclaim her throne, had to recognize the gravity of the risks she had taken by going to Shipbreaker Bay alone. Without her, the losses would extend far beyond the throne itself; the greens would not hesitate to annihilate her siblings, erase their names from history, and in doing so, destroy House Targaryen from within. Moreover, her mother was with child, making her safety and well-being paramount–not only for her own sake but for the unborn childs. She’d have to consider Jace and Joffrey, Aegon and Viserys.

“If she’s anything like you, I wouldn’t fear for her,” Finan reassured her, his voice steady as he turned his eyes from the flames and back to her. “No man can withstand a mother’s rage, especially not one who commands a dragon. Anyone foolish enough to challenge her would quickly be reduced to nothing more than ash.”

Daenera’s hand dropped from her lips as her eyes met Finan’s. A flicker of hope ignited within her at his words–her mother was a force to be reckoned with, that much she had always known. If they dared send men after her, she would surely turn them to ash before they could even notch an arrow. And should they send Aemond after her…

“You may think you have no power here,” Finan continued, his eyes reflecting the intensity of the fire before them, flames casting a dramatic light that seemed to lick against one side of his head. “But you are Daenera Velaryon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. Your name and blood speaks for itself.” He paused, taking a breath as if to gather his thoughts, brows furrowing slightly before adding, “You are held in high esteem both by the smallfolk and the nobility, and the Hightowers are aware of this. Your refusal to bow to them—that alone takes strength, far more than many can claim for themselves. They would be fools not to fear you–they do fear you, and rightly so.”

A thoughtful frown settled on her face as she turned her gaze from Finan and to the flames. The wood in the hearth popped and sputtered, glowing white-hot with orange tongues lapping voraciously at the air, consuming everything in their path. Within her, something stirred–resignation and acceptance seemed to twist and turn, growing teeth in the process, a latent ferocity that had always lurked beneath the surface. They had cornered her, confined her to a place from which escape seemed impossible, leaving her few options. Like a mistreated animal driven to desperation, she understood the dangerous lengths which such creatures would go to secure their freedom, even if it meant gnawing off its own limb to escape the trap.

They intended to use her as their pawn–and a pawn she would be. Daenera resolved to play her part in their game, biding her time with calculated patience. Once freed from the leverage they held over her–the lives of those she cared for–she would become a thorn in their side, she would make them suffer as they had made her suffer. Even a caged animal had its claws.

A twist of ruthlessness unfurled within her, coiling like a serpent ready to strike, as an inking of a plan began to form at the periphery of her mind. Daenera’s gaze remained on the flames as they devoured the wood, fierce and unyielding. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Finan turning to leave, perhaps interpreting her silence as an end to their discussion. Finding her voice, she spoke in a low, measured tone. “Can you arrange to be assigned as one of my guards? I am in desperate need of someone close whom I can trust.”

Finan paused and turned back towards her, his expression lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction–bordering on smugness. The corner’s of his lips curled slightly. “I can and will, Princess.”

Daenera adjusted her posture in the seat, straightening up as a renewed sense of purpose filled her. “I need you to reach out to Joyce’s informants,” she instructed, her voice carrying a quiet authority. “I’m certain she shared some of their names with you. We need to ascertain who still remains loyal to me. But tread carefully,” she added, her eyes narrowing slightly with the gravity of her words. “There are eyes and ears everywhere–spiders, worms, fireflies… Your safety is paramount. Do not expose yourself unnecessarily.”

Finan acknowledged her directive with a simple, resolute nod, straightening his own stance in a subtle mirroring of her determination. “And what shall we do about Fenrick, Eddin, and the boy?”

Daenera absently picked at the dry, chapped skin of her bottom lip, lost in thought. “The Hightowers are unlikely to release them.”

“Fenrick–” Finan started to say, but quickly stifled himself, stopping short of speaking out of turn. In that moment, it became apparent why he had come to her side this night; he wished to free Fenrick from the dungeons. “We must get them out.”

“Concern yourself with getting assigned to my detail and making contact with the informants,” Daenera instructed with a measured calm. “And there’s a girl in the kitchens–Cerys. Ensure her safety and well-being. Inform her that she must not take any action without my explicit command; reckless moves could doom us all…”

A look if inquiry flickered across Finan’s features, though he held back from voicing his questions. Nevertheless, Daenera responded, “It’s not my story to share, but understand this–it’s not easy for her to watch her tormenter ascend the throne. I need her to know that my life could very well be in her hands. If she acts impulsively to spill blood, she risks spilling mine as well.”

Finan regarded Daenera with a solemn expression, offering another cut nod. He refrained from pressing her for more details or demanding explanations, a restraint for which she was grateful. The intricacies of Cerys’s past and her incident with Aegon was hers to disclose, should she choose to share them with him. For now, Finan was left to his assumptions.

“Your dagger,” Daenera said, her gaze finally shifting away from the flames. “I would have it.”

At her request, Finan’s initial reaction was one of hesitation. His hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his hip, a protective gesture born of reflex. His gray eyes searched her face, seeking an understanding of her intentions and perhaps gauging the gravity of the situation that would warrant such a request.

“It would provide me a small sense of assurance that should the need arise for me to defend myself, I would have it.”

Finan responded with a firm tone, “I cannot give you my issued dagger.”

However, his hand moved past the weapon at his hip to a smaller blade discreetly concealed within his boot. With a skilled motion, he drew the hidden blade, its steel catching the light from the flames and gleaming with a cruel sharpness. He then expertly turned it around, extending the handle towards her. The dagger was slender and designed for precision, ideal for piercing rather than slashing.

As Daenera’s hand wrapped around the hilt, a modicum of comfort washed over her. “Thank you, Finan.”

“I trust you know how to use it?” Finan asked, taking a step back to give her space, his expression a mix of solemnity and curiosity. Behind his gaze, Daenera sensed a flicker of concern–perhaps fear that she might use it on herself.

“I know how to use it,” Daenera responded firmly, leaving no room for doubt. She then nodded towards the door, a silent signal for him to leave. Finan acknowledged her gesture with a respectful bow of his head before turning on his heels and exiting through the doors. The doors closed softly behind him, sealing her within the solitude of her chamber.

Clutching the blade firmly, Daenera rose from her chair and moved toward the hearth, drawn irresistibly closer to the flames. As she knelt down, the skirts of her dress spread out around her, pooling like a puddle of blood on the cold stone floor. The warmth of the flames caressed her skin, almost an embrace. The fire’s glow was brightest near the wood it devoured, white-hot and all-consuming.

What brought her here, she couldn’t say; it seemed almost instinctual. This feeling was inherent, both familiar and dangerous, wrapping around her like the heat radiating from the earth.

It was as if the flames echoed the same ancient song that coursed through her veins–a visceral melody of destruction and devouring, of death and rebirth, of fire and blood.

Daenera lifted her hand, her gaze falling to the array of wounds that marred her palm. Some of the deeper gashes were held together by a few precise stitches, while others were healing naturally. Amidst this intricate web of healing wounds, one stood out–a long-healed cut that traversed half of her palm, a permanent reminder etched into her skin.

Love, it seemed, was either a shrine for worship or a lasting scar. For Daenera, it was more akin to a bleeding wound–still fresh, unhealed, and raw, inflicted by the sharp blade of his love.

Daenera carefully positioned the point of the blade against the curve of one of her stitched wounds, its sharp edge slicing through the tread with ease. As she removed the stitch, the wound parted slightly, revealing a fresh vulnerability. She then pressed the blade deeper into the opening, parting the flesh anew. Blood welled up at the incision, the sting of the blade making her teeth clench. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she watched as the blood began to flow, tracing a crimson line to the center of her palm where it pooled ominously.

The pain, though sharp and unwelcome, had become an almost familiar companion. How many ties had her blood been spilled? How many scars marked her body? How much had she endured?

Echoes of the tumultuous events following Viserys’s death reverberated through her mind–the usurpation of her mother’s rightful throne, her own imprisonment, the haunting image of Joyce’s body swaying alongside Lord Caswells, being forced to bow before the usurper, the vigil she kept over her men whose lives ended at their orders. She could almost sense their presence, specters standing among the shadows, silent and judging, aligned shoulder to shoulder with the other ghosts haunting the Red Keep. The firelight flickered, catching a glimpse of dark brown curls and blue eyes flecked with hazel–features set in a face she would never see again. The memory twisted inside her like a cruel blade, each flicker of the flame reflecting a moment lost, a face forever gone, stirring a deep and relentless ache within her heart.

They had killed her brother, mocking him even in death, dismissing him as a bastard as if his life held no value–as though he didn’t come from the womb of Rhaenyra Targaryen and had her blood flowing through his veins, as though Laenor Velaryon hadn’t claimed him as his own, as though he wasn’t a dragonrider, as though he deserved his cruel fate. Her brother, who was nothing but good and brave and kind, had been cruelly ripped from this world.

And it had been by the man that she loved.

The boy with the stars in his eyes.

Tears burned Daenera’s eyes as she felt the familiar tearing of her heart—a raw and relentless pain. Within her, a fierce wrath burned, fueling a desperate desire for retribution–vengeance–against those who had caused her such loss and suffering. She blamed them all, each one who played a part in her brother’s demise and her torment.

Daenera murmured a curse under her breath, her voice low and resonant against the hymn of the flames–her blood seemed to sing along with it’s own evensong. “I curse you, Larys Strong. May your deceitful nature lead to your downfall–may you meet the sword’s edge, and may the earth upon where your body lies barren. May the wolves feast upon your flesh and may you be forever remembered only for the worst of your actions.”

She extended her hand over the flames, allowing the heat of their flickering tongues to sear her skin–intense yet not enough to burn her flesh. And then, after a moment, she tilted her palm, causing the pool of blood that gathered at its center to cascade over and dripple down into the fire. The droplets sizzled as they struck the hot wood, sending up a scent of smoke and ash and burning blood that clung to the air and filled her nostrils.

With bitterness edging her voice, Daenera continued her dark litany of curses. “I curse you, Ser Criston Cole,” she declared, her hand curling into a fist above the flames. She allowed more droplets of blood to fall into the fire below. May you meet your end as you have lived, without honor. No songs shall be sung to commend your name, for you will be remembered only as the disgrace you truly are–a man who has sullied his white cloak with blood, whose vows mean nothing, a man bereft of any decency.”

Pressing her fingertips into the reopened wound, Daenera barely felt the sting, distant against the heat that licked at her skin from the flames below. The pressure coaxed more blood forth, dripping steadily into the fire. “I curse you, Otto Hightower. “May your ambition lead your house to ruin, and may you be stripped of the power you so desperately seek, and may you face the executioner’s block as the traitor you are.”

The shadows around her seemed to writhe and swirl, deepening as if alive, responding to the dark timbre of her curses–her heart beat discordantly within her chest, a strange litany that filled her with a sense of power. Her hand trembled slightly as she stretched it out above the flames, then curled it in on itself again, squeezing more blood from the wound.

“I curse you, Aegon Targaryen, second of your name,” she intoned, her voice solemn. “May history remember you as the usurper. May you know the fear and humiliation you seek to instill in others. May your existence be besieged by pain and torment–may you endure suffering at every waking moment.”

Her words emerged deliberate and somber, a dark incantation reflecting back the agony he inflicted, their resonance hanging in the air as densely as the smoke curling from the fire. The firewood crackled and popped lousy, sending up a gust of embers as the structure of wood collapsed inward. A muffled noise momentarily drew her attention away from the flames, her eyes searching the dimly lit room. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end, giving her an eerie sensation of being watched by countless eyes, though the room held only shadows. She was alone, accompanied solely by the flickering light and her own echoing curses. Finding only silence, she quickly dismissed the disturbance, refocusing her gaze on the fire.

“I curse you, Alicent Hightower,” Daenera continued. “May the weight of your decisions forever burden you, leaving you unable to flee the consequences of your own ambition. May your heart swell with regret as you come to understand the depths of the pain you have inflicted. May you lose all that you love, and may you endure the agony you have inflicted upon my mother.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, tracing lines to the corners of her mouth where they mingled with the salty taste of her anguish–a bitter flavor of heartache, grief, and wrath. Each tear seemed to carve deeper into her soul, as the words lodged in her throat seemed to slice her heart open. With a voice quivering with emotion, she spoke her curse into the flames, a dark wish mingled with the blood that dripped from her palm, sealing her bitter hopes for his fate.

“I curse you, Aemond Targaryen. May you get a taste of that which you desire and may it turn to ash in your mouth–may it be forever beyond your grasp. May you know the sting of betrayal, and may you lose that which you have taken from me…” Her heart ached painfully within her chest as tears continued to stream down her face. “May you suffer as you’ve made my mother suffer.”

Blood dripped from her clenched fist, falling into the eager flames, sealing her curse. For a moment, Daenera held her hand suspended above the fire, indifferent to the heat that licked close to her skin, the flames that hungered for more than just the wood they consumed. She stared intently into the fire, feeling her heart beat a discordant rhythm within her chest–an ancient, chaotic hymn that felt beyond her understanding.

The world seemed to pause, caught between light and shadow, in a quiet so profound it felt like a breath held. Her voice broke the silence, a careful lilt of finality, “With fire and blood, I curse you all.”

Then, slowly, she withdrew her hand, uncurling her fingers to reveal the blood-smeared skin of her palm and the gaping wound from which it came. The act, though simple, felt immensely significant, if only to her.

Daenera rose, stepping back from the warmth of the hearth. As she moved away, she immediately felt the retained heat radiating from her skin, sharply contrasted by the cold air that lashed against her. She walked over to the table behind the settee, bending down to tuck the dagger into a previously unused hiding spot. The dagger couldn’t just be hidden anywhere lest the servants find it.

A wave of sheepishness washed over her as her gaze drifted back to the flames for a moment. It felt almost childish to believe she possessed the power to truly curse anyone–childish to think that speaking words into the fire and feeding it blood could actually wield any effect. And yet, she had done it, if only to soothe herself with the thought that one day, they’d face the consequences and come to understand the pain they have wrought. But she couldn’t rely on mere curses; if she truly wanted retribution, she would need to seek it for them. It would require time, planning, and sacrifices.

As Daenera secured the dagger beneath the settee, the doors behind her swung open, revealing a slightly disheveled Edelin, whose cheeks were flushed red. Their eyes briefly met before Edelin’s gaze dropped to Daenera’s hand, noticing the blood dripping from her fingertips onto the floor.

“Princess!” Edelin exclaimed, stepping quickly into the room. She set down the tray on the side table, which held a plate of dry crackers, some bread, and a steaming mug of tea, then swiftly grasped Daenera’s hand to inspect it closely. “What happened? Was it the man? Did he do this to you?”

“No,” Daenera reassured, gently extricating her hand from Edelin’s soft grasp. “Ser Finan was quite helpful. He carried me here after I stumbled on my skirts while ascending the steps. The fall simply reopened the wound.”

Edelin gave no indication of doubt; if she harbored any, she kept it to herself. Instead, she took a deep breath, brushing a stray strand of red hair from her face with a sense of urgency. “We should clean and bandage this.”

Picking up the tray once more, Edelin carried it across the room, setting it down on a table and gesturing for Daenera to sit, then quickly turned and disappeared into an adjacent room. Daenera obeyed, seating herself at the table, raising a hand to rub against the ache that prickled at her temples. Moments later, she returned with a small chest, setting it on the table.

As weariness began to claw at her once more, Daenera felt it nibbling at the edges of her consciousness, her eyes heavy and scratchy. The ache in her body returned gradually, accompanied by a creeping chill.

Earlier, when she had donned her dress and walked down the aisle of the throne room to face her captors, she hardly felt the ache. Her spine had been straight as a sword, her heart aflame with hatred, and the fire within her seemed to dispel all sensation of pain. It had burned away the aches in her muscles and the creaking in her joints, masking the weariness that now overwhelmed her, leaving her dizzy and exhausted.

Edelin meticulously cleaned the blood from the wound, and Daenera barely felt the sting of the water as her eyelids grew heavy with the struggle to remain awake and in her body. As her gaze drifted from her hand to the young woman tending to her, Daenera observed the freckles scattered across Edelin’s button nose and the youthful plumpness still evident in her rounded cheeks. She seemed about Daenera’s age, though at the moment, appeared younger.

“We should have the Maester look at this,” Edelin commented, her voice laced with concern as she dabbed at the blood that continued to well from the cut. “It is deep and needs stitches.”

Daenera traced her fingers along her forehead, feeling the onset of a headache beginning to throb within. “I do not want to disturb the Maesters at this hour. They’d insist on milk-of-the-poppy, and I do not want it.”

“But it will help with the pain.”

“The pain I can endure,” Daenera responded firmly, pinching the bridge of her nose to starve off the encroaching headache. She left the sentence hanging without further explanation, though her distrust of the Maesters was implied. The Maesters at the Red Keep were, first and foremost, loyal to the Hightowers, bound to do their bidding. She did not trust them, acutely aware of how simple it would be for them to administer poison under the guise of medicine–the line between medicine and poison was perilously thin, dictated only by dosage and deception.

Daenera offered a slight, reassuring smile. “You can do it.”

“Me?” Edelin’s face paled, her eyes widening with uncertainty as they flickered between Daenera’s bleeding hand and her face. At least she wasn’t squeamish, Daenera thought, if she was, she’d have fainted long ago.

“Yes, you. You know how to make a stitch; it’s much the same.”

“It’s not much the same at all! It’s flesh and–and it will hurt.”

“It will, but I trust you to do it gently,” Daenera answered. “It will hurt far worse if you don’t stitch the wound and it festers. I might even lose a hand…”

Edelin narrowed her eyes, a look of exasperation crossing her face. Nonetheless, she picked up the needle and thread, cutting a suitable length before expertly threading it through the needle’s eye. With hands that betrayed a slight tremor, Edelin took hold of Daenera’s outstretched hand. The needle hovered uncertainly over the tender flesh. She looked up at Daenera, her eyes flickering through her eyelashes, seeking affirmation to continue.

Daenera gave a nod, gently guiding Edelin’s efforts, instructing her on how to position her hand and where to insert the needle. The sharp point hesitated at first as it touched the tender skin, then decisively pushed through to the other side. The needle emerged through the parted flesh, drawing the edges of the wound together as Edelin pulled the thread through.

The sharp bite of the needle made her grit her teeth. Edelin, following Daenera’s guidance, pushed the needle through the opposite side of the wound, threading it carefully and tying off the ends with a simple knot. She then snipped away the excess threat. The stitching wasn’t as precise as the work Daenera might have done herself, but it was competent and held the wound closed effectively.

Daenera brought the tea to her lips, savoring the calming blend of chamomile with milk and honey, yet her voice was hoarse with fatigue as she asked, “What happened to your cheek?”

Edelin’s face flushed, her hand instinctively rising to touch the tender, reddened skin of her swollen cheek. “Lady Mertha wasn’t pleased with your presence at the feast. And she was even less pleased that I wasn’t with you…”

A twist of pity coursed through Daenera as she softly said, “I’m sorry.”

Edelin looked up, her expression settling into a frown that creased her brow. She continued to wrap Daenera’s hand with bandages, securing the dressing with a knot similar to the one used for the stitches.

“Don’t be,” Edelin replied, standing up and beginning to tidy away the medical supplies. “It wasn’t right to keep things like that from you…”

Silence enveloped them as Edelin assisted Daenera in removing her dress, the heavy fabric slipping from her form like a layer of armor. It felt almost surreal, as if the fabric itself had been what held her together, as though it was made of something more solid and impenetrable–fabric made steel. The dress pooled around her feet like a spill of blood, the metal dragon ornament on the bodice clattering against the stone floor, then scraping slightly as Edelin carefully lifted the garment.

With each layer removed–first the dress, then the crimson underdress and then finally the chemise beneath–it felt as though Daenera was shedding more than just clothing. And yet, despite getting lighter, her body felt heavier and heavier with each removal. A chill seeped into her bones, gooseflesh dotting her skin and prickling at the nape of her neck. The light blue nightgown she donned offered little in the way of warmth. Swiftly, Edelin wrapped her in a silk robe and guided her to the dressing table, the movements methodical and protective.

The intricate process of styling Daenera’s hair, brading it into a crown and weaving a ruby hairnet through it, was just as laborious to undo at the day’s end. As Daenera wiped her face with a damp cloth, removing the minimal powder and lip color she had worn, Edelin carefully removed the hairnet. One by one, the pins were taken out, and the braids loosened. Daenera watched her reflection wearily in the mirror, her gaze distant, barely recognizing herself. Her dark curls, finally released from their confines, cascaded over her shoulders, prompting her to emerge slowly from her reverie.

Edelin then assisted Daenera to bed, tucking her in with a tenderness that evoked the care usually reserved for a child. “Sleep well, Princess.”

“Wait,” Daenera called out, halting Edelin’s departure. “Would you… would you lay beside me?”

Edelin paused at the threshold, her red eyebrows lifting in surprise, her eyes widening slightly as she contemplated the request. It was an unexpected childlike plea, and Daenera felt a rush of embarrassment warming her chest.

Without uttering a word, Edelin returned to the bedroom, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet room, accompanied only by the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth. She sat down on the bed, carefully removed her shoes, and then lay down beside Daenera, bringing an unspoken comfort to the dimly lit room.

“You are kind,” Daenera murmured, lying on her back and gazing up at the canopy where a carved dragon chased dragonflies and birds in a perpetual dance. “Kindness is a rarity.”

“I try to be,” Edelin responded softly, her voice carrying the honest tone of children whispering secrets under the covers in the dark of night. “I try to keep my head down; it’s easier, I think. But I am not as stupid as Mertha would claim. I see things, hear them too, and I know when to pick my battles…”

“And yet, you are kind, even when you don’t have to be, even if it might put you at the hands of those who are cruel.”

Edelin shifted slightly, turning her head to meet Daenera’s gaze directly, and Daenera did the same. “Perhaps it is because I like you… You are kind too, even if your kindness is sometimes an act of deception.”

A tightness lodged in Daenera’s throat as she averted her gaze back to the canopy. A wave of shame suddenly enveloped her, burning beneath her skin. “I don’t have anyone I can trust.”

“I know.”

“But,” Daenera continued, turning her gaze back to Edelin, her eyes searching, “I do consider you a friend…”

Edelin’s face tightened, and she suddenly confessed, her eyebrows drawing together in a furrow of concern. “I report to Prince Aemond.” Her eyes held Daenera’s, filled with a plea for understanding. “He wishes to be kept informed of your health and well-being, and has ordered me to report to him. Mertha keeps the Queen Mother informed, and the guards report to the Lord Confessor.”

Daenera wasn’t exactly surprised to learn that Mertha was a pawn of Alicent, nor was it shocking that Larys had his spies within her staff too. Yet, hearing it confirmed aloud still seized her with a visceral tightness. She felt the bars of her invisible cage draw tighter, the intricate web woven by the Greens constricting around her neck. She blinked rapidly, struggling to suppress the tears threatening to betray her emotions.

“I wish to consider you a friend too,” Edelin continued, her voice carrying a gentle sincerity. “I do not have many of those, but I wanted you to be aware of my obligations. I do not wish to deceive you, and I thought it right that you should know. The prince… he cares for you. Deeply.”

Daenera turned her gaze away, the weight of Edelin’s words pressing down on her.

“Mertha insisted on having you removed from your chambers,” Edelin continued, her voice trembling slightly. “When you refused to eat or drink, she wanted to force it… but the prince stopped her. He told me that we should let you mourn in whatever way you needed, to leave you be until you were ready to rise. He was confident that you would… He was greatly concerned about you.”

Edelin’s words lingered in the air, resonating with sincerity that filled the silence of the room. The words twisted inside of her like a cruel blade, invoking a tightness in her chest and a tremor of grief in her heart that she detested.

“I understand,” Daenera finally managed to say, her voice steadying as she turned back to face Edelin. “Thank you for telling me. I understand the position you are in–I realize you must keep him informed… However, I would ask you to consider the information you share with him. Not always, but at times, discretion would be appreciated…”

“Of course,” Edelin responded, her agreement quick and earnest.

“Thank you, Edelin.”

Alicent sat silently before the hearth, her fingers deftly pushing the needle through the fabric as she added another stitch to the shirt. She had begun mending her husband’s shirts shortly after their marriage–a task he had once praised, claiming he favored the way she repaired his garments above anyone else’s. She had smiled and thanked him then, and from then on, had tended to every single shirt.

This act had evolved into a routine, another quiet way of caring for her husband, even as his appreciation waned, replaced by an indifferent expectation. This ritual had crystallized into habit, and habits, she knew all too well, were seldom acknowledged or thanked, and yet, she continued to do them.

On the fourth night following his death, Alicent found herself mending his shirts when it dawned on her with sudden clarity, and the sudden weight of desolation had settled on her. There was no longer a husband for whom to mend shirts; the expectation, like his presence, had vanished. She was a wife without a husband, a queen without her king.

How strange it was, to no longer bear such titles. It had been all she was for so long–it had shaped her existence for longer than the years she had lived without those titles. How much she had sacrificed and suffered for them, only to lose them with her husband.

The freedom that came with shedding her previous titles felt less like liberation and more like the burden of finding a new role to fulfill. Alicent had diligently preformed her duties as wife and queen, but now, in the absence of carrying such titles, she found herself assuming another set of responsibilities–that of the widow and Queen Mother. These new titles and the expectations accompanying them were chafed at her. Yet, despite the discomfort, she continued to carry them with the poise that was expected.

A part of her missed her husband. Over the years, she had found purpose in caring for him, attending his needs as a wife does, overseeing his well-being. This had become second nature to her. It wasn’t the love she had envisioned in her childhood fantasies, nor was it the love she had once envied in others, but it was something–companionship, a sense of duty.

Now, with her husband gone, Alicent had taken up the task of the mending of her son’s shirts.

The needle slid smoothly through the white fabric, and the gentle hiss of the thread pulling through was a strangely comforting sound in the quiet of the room. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, radiating warmth into her chambers–chambers that would soon become her daughters. Alicent rested her bare feet on the footrest, drawing warmth from the fire’s glow.

She had departed the feast earlier that evening. Her exit was timed carefully–not so early as to openly display her displeasure, yet not a moment longer than necessary.

The feast was an affair of excess, which Alicent found wholly inappropriate. She had voiced her objections clearly, both when Aegon had first proposed it and then again when it was brought up during a council meeting. The death of Prince Lucerys was a grave enough matter; to celebrate it was to compound the tragedy with insult. Aegon, however, insisted on the feast, deaf to her protests, and Aemond had not opposed his brother. Both her sons disregarded her warnings, failing to recognize the folly in the demise of a prince–bastard or not, and their nephew no less. Such actions, Alicent feared, would only invite trouble and scorn.

Alicent was certain that once news of the feast reached Dragonstone, Daemon would mount his dragon, fly to King’s Landing, and unleash fiery vengeance upon them all. There was also a part of her, a deeply unsettled part, that dreaded how Rhaenyra would react upon learning that her son’s death was being celebrated so brazenly.

She had harbored the hopes of avoiding a war and bloodshed, clinging to the belief that there was a path through this that did not end in death. The letters she had sent to Rhaenyra expressed as much, though there had been no word in return.

A seed of anger still grew within her. She had explicitly warned her son not to undertake any action that would invite scorn–to refrain from drawing first blood and ignite this war.

Alicent held her son responsible for the grave turn of events. There had been a chance–a chance to avoid a war, a chance for peace without bloodshed. Yet, he had extinguished that possibility when he killed Lucerys Velaryon in an act of vengeance. Any hope for surrender and peace had sunk to the ocean depths along with the boy her son had slain.

Her condemnation extended beyond the mere act of vengeance; it was what it wrought upon her son that distressed her most deeply. He had become a kinslayer, a man cursed by the gods.

Amidst her reflections, a troubling thought nagged at her–was she, in some way, to blame for his actions? This question lingered in her mind, adding a layer of personal torment to the already heavy burden of her son’s deeds.

For years, Aemond had been the son she could trust, the dependable one that she could rely on. While her eldest had shrugged his duties, succumbing to his own indulgences and vices, her second son had strived to uphold his responsibilities, bearing them with determination and integrity. He had always listened to her guidance–until now, until her.

The needle pierced through the fabric and unexpectedly pricked the soft pad of her finger, the sharp sting pulling Alicent from her thoughts. She glanced down at the small droplet of blood that had formed and drew her finger to her lips. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth for a moment.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. She looked up at Lady Talya, who met her gaze and then nodded in understanding. She rose from her seat, carefully setting aside the dress she had been mending. Talya’s footsteps were soft as she crossed the room to answer the door.

Alicent could hear the door open, followed by low murmurs.

Returning to the room, Talay stood at the steps, smoothing her hands down her dress. “The Lord Confessor is here to see you.”

“At this hour?” Alicent responded, her tone tinged with surprise. She straightened up, withdrawing her feet from the footrest, and then slipped them into her slippers, letting her nightgown and robe fall over them neatly.

The rhythmic tapping of a cane echoed through the room, each click sending a spike of apprehension through Alicent as she rose from her seat. Lord Larys Strong entered, pausing beside Lady Talya, leaning heavily on his cane. He offered Alicent an apologetic smile.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “I bring news from the feast.”

“What is so important that it cannot wait till morning?” Alicent asked, setting aside the shirt she had been mending and crossing her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of her attire. She was clad in a long, silken nightgown with a thick robe of silk and green velvet wrapped snugly around her–and yet, it seemed not enough beneath his gaze.

Despite not having been invited to proceed further, Lord Larys advanced towards her, ignoring the customs and the discomfort of Lady Talya, who shifted uneasily at the edge of the steps.

“I thought you might wish to be informed of what has transpired at the feast in your absence,” he explained, his tone suggesting the urgency and significance of his news without revealing what he might bring. The tap of his cane against the stone floor punctuated his approach, drawing him down the steps into Alicent’s sitting room. While his demeanor remained friendly and unassuming, there lurked an undercurrent of something more calculating, a subtle assertion of dominance that filled Alicent’s stomach with dread.

Larys settled himself into the chair that Lady Talya had just vacated, his cold gray eyes meeting Alicent’s with an expression that was unassuming yet expectant. Reluctantly, Alicent looked up at Talya and gave a subtle nod, signaling her dismissal. Talya, her loyal lady-in-waiting, curtseyed gracefully before departing, effectively closing the doors behind her. The act seemed to seal Alicent within her chambers, leaving her in the company of a man, who despite his unassuming exterior, held a sickening twist of cruelty to him.

“Let it be quick, my lord. I wish to retire to bed,” Alicent stated, resettling herself in her chair with a visible hint of irritation flickering beneath her composure.

“Do you recall, years ago, when you first took to wearing green?” Larys began, his voice smooth, tinged with an amusement that seemed to taunt her. He always kept the true purpose of his visits hidden, only to be revealed once he had played his game. His manner was polished, akin to the deceptive smoothness of a well-honed blade. It always left her dirty.

“I remember it vividly–the entrance you made during the king’s speech, and the immediate silence that followed. It was then I knew I had made the right choice in serving you–”

“Where are you going with this?” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp with impatience, too wearied for such games at this late hour.

Larys offered a cold smile in response. “It is said history has a habit of repeating itself. Tonight, it appears, such repetition has indeed taken place. The Princess decided to attend the feast.”

For a moment, Alicent could only stare at him, perplexed, her heart pounding tumultuous before sinking into the pit of her stomach. Her brows furrowed in a frown, her head shaking slightly in disbelief. “The princess hasn’t been well these past few days. She has scarcely moved, or so I’ve been told…”

“It seems she found the strength,” Larys remarked casually, his fingers rhythmically tapping against his cane. “The princess was quite a sight to behold, clad in a dress as red as blood, adorned with a dragon on the bodice. She made quite a spectacle of her presence, refusing to bow to the king.”

Alicent turned away with visible irritation, her gaze settling on the flickering flames of the hearth. She absentmindedly lifted her hand to trace her finger over her lower lip as she contemplated the news, muttering under her breath, “Insolent girl.”

The dress, Alicent knew, was more than mere attire–it was a statement, a bold declaration for her mother as much as it was a direct indictment against their own actions. It was a declaration of war.

Honoring Aemond with a feast for the death of Lucerys Velaryon was contentious enough, but for the sister to attend such a celebration would be seen as exceptionally cruel. Yet, that very implication was why Daenera had chosen to appear. She knew how the realm would be likely to perceive her forced attendance at such a celebration as not just cruel but a calculated indignity.

Daenera had manipulated her grief into a public spectacle, wielding it as a weapon against those who orchestrated the event. In doing so, she wasn’t just mourning her brother; she was condemning those who celebrated his death.

“It is not all,” Larys interjected, recapturing her attention with his deliberate tone. “The king held a speech to commemorate his brother for his victory…”

The implication of Larys’s words hung heavily in the air between them. Alicent closed her eyes, a gesture of resignation as she rubbed her brow. She didn’t need Larys to elaborate on the details; she could well imagine them herself. Yet, he continued, and despite her expectations, the actual recounting of her son’s actions shocked her with its cruelty. Aegon had always possessed a certain callousness, a trait she had longed hoped he would outgrow.

Another knock at the door broke the tension-filled silence, followed by the creaking sound of a door swinging open. A low, urgent voice called out, “Your Grace?”

“You may enter,” Alicent responded, straightening herself in her chair. After all, hadn’t her chambers turned into an audience already?

Lady Mertha appeared at the doorway, descending the steps into the sitting area with measured steps. She moved to stand by the hearth, casting a brief, wary glance at Larys before her eyes settled on Alicent. And with a respectful curtsy, she spoke, “I beg your forgiveness for intruding. I have urgent matters with you that cannot wait until morning.”

Alicent, her tone sharp with reproach, responded, “I’ve just been informed of the princess’s decision to attend the feast…” She paused, her gaze fixed sternly on Lady Mertha. “Were you not tasked with ensuring that she did not leave her chambers unbidden, let alone make a spectacle of herself?”

Alicent stared at the older woman, her eyes sharp and discerning, as a flicker of annoyance twisted within her chest. This woman had been entrusted with the responsibility of keeping the princess compliant, tasked with keeping a vigilant eye on her to prevent precisely the kind of spectacle that had occurred. Did no one heed her any longer?

Lady Mertha had been part of Alicent’s staff ever since she’d moved from Oldtown to King’s Landing, when her father had assumed the role of the Hand of the King. For years, she had served her well and without complaint, a respectable woman who had always demonstrated faithfulness to the gods, to House Hightower, and to her duties. Alicent’s expectations had been clear, and the breach was not taken lightly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mertha responded, her hands folded in front of her. Her posture did not suggest cowering; rather, she bore the weight of Aliceent’s reproach with firm shoulders. “I left the princess in Lady Edelin’s care. She hasn’t moved in days, doing nothing but staring into the flames. She has scarcely taken food or drink, accepting it only when offered directly by the Queen herself. I did not expect that she would choose to leave her chambers, much less attend the feast–”

“But she did,” Alicent interjected sharply. “And she made a spectacle of it.”

“I will see to it that the girl is reprimanded for her lapse,” Mertha responded, her gaze briefly flickering towards Larys before settling back on Alicent. She shifted uncomfortably, an air of urgency and discomfort stiffening her movements. “But… that is not why I have come, Your Grace. I would prefer to speak alone if you would allow it.”

Alicent drew in a deep breath, the onset of a headache beginning to throb at her temples. She glanced towards Larys, intending to dismiss him with a silent look. However, Larys met her gaze with an expectant, almost challenging expression and made no move to leave. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Mertha, who remained standing, effectively ignoring Alicent’s unspoken command to leave. Feeling the invisible strings of influence Larys seemed to have tied around her tighten, Alicent’s irritation churned in her stomach. She gritted her teeth in exasperation, exhaling sharply before turning her full attention back to Mertha.

“The Lord Confessor has my confidence,” Alicent stated, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. Although she didn’t look at him, she could sense Larys’s satisfaction radiating across the room, palpable through the web of control he had woven around her. She supposed that his presence, though oppressive, was perhaps a lesser evil compared to other demands he might impose.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mertha responded in deference. “Not long after the princess had excused herself from the feast, I too took my leave. I had intended to look in on her when I encountered a most unsettling scene…” Her voice trailed off, tinged with hesitation, and her expression twisted into a deep, almost fretful frown. “The–the princess was sitting before the hearth…” Her gaze faltered from Alicent as she took a deep breath, seemingly gathering her composure. She reached up to touch the seven-pointed star resting against her chest, a gesture of seeking reassurance. “The gods protect me, the princess was spilling her own blood into the flames and uttering curses into the fire…”

“Curses?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Of what kind?” Alicent pressed, feeling the weight of dread settle in her stomach like heavy stone, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. “What did she say?”

“It was the most vile of curses, those that are made in blood,” Mertha replied, voice laced with fear. She clutched the seven-pointed star necklace more tightly, as if seeking protection from the gods. “She condemned that your name alongside those of the Lord Hand and the King, invoking a life of anguish and despair for you—Your Grace, she cursed you to endure the same pain and suffering her mother has faced, to face the same loss as she has…”

Fear clawed at Alicent’s heart, its grip tightening, nails digging into the tender flesh as dread seeped into her veins. Her throat constricted, tears burning at the back of her eyes as her gaze shifted from Mertha to the flames of the hearth.

Alicent swallowed the rising tide of fear, steeling herself against the disturbing revelations, even as her heart trembled within her chest. Striving for composure, her voice emerged measured but with a discernible tremor. “Lady Mertha, thank you for bringing this to my attention. It is clear that the princess is suffering. Your guidance and the sanctity of the gods may be what saves her soul.”

And what saves us from her, she thought silently, the weight of the responsibility and the potential threat pressing heavily on her mind.

With a solemn nod, Alicent dismissed her. “Let us discuss our course of action on the morrow.”

Mertha hesitated, her eyes flickering uncertainly between Alicent and Larys. She released her tight grip on the seven-pointed star pendant and placed her hand against her chest briefly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She then smoothed the fabric of her dress with a composed gesture and replied, “Yes, Your Grace.”

As soon as the door closed behind Mertha, Alicent rose from her seat and walked over to the hearth. Her fingers brushed anxiously over her lower lip, the impulse to bite down, to tear at the skin beside her nails, itched beneath her skin. She began to pace the floor, her mind racing with the weight of the night’s revelations.

“I wouldn’t concern myself with curses,” Larys spoke up, breaking the tense silence.

“What do you know of curses, my lord?” Alicent asked pointedly, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth. Her fingers pressed against her lips as she nibbled at the skin, the urge to bite down growing stronger still. Was this her punishment?

“They say Harrenhal is the most cursed place of all,” Larys answered, slowly rising from his chair. His cane tapped coldly against the floor as he leaned on it for support. “The only real curse is the one we forge for ourselves…”

His footsteps echoed heavily across the floor as she moved towards her, each step deliberately closing the distance between them and subtly invading her personal space. “If such things as curses exist, they are not brought into being merely by speaking them. If that were so, we would find ourselves cursed long ago.”

Sooooo the new episode is out and I've gotten A LOT to work with; so I've decided to go back to DS the next chapter, but the chapter will likely be wedged between existing chapters which means that while there might not appear to be a new chapter, there is, it's just added between ch. 82 and 83--so 83 will become 84 and so forth. You can also expect some events to be changed in order to fit with this story, as there's just about 7 months from the pregnancy reveal to B&C--which means in that time, we'll focus on characters and some minor events; a battle over the blockade, a battle near Harrenhal, trying to win House Tully and the Riverlands to each side + House Tyrell, 2 assassination attempts, trying to establish alternative trading routes to get food to KL which gives the Blacks chances for guerrilla warfare, and growing tensions between Daemon/Rhaenyra as Daemon presses for escalating the war while she tries to keep it together because the Greens has her daughter. I will do my best to finish next chapter by Friday, but I can't promise anything, it's a long one that stretches from the moment Daemon received word of Luke's death to the day after and contains multiple scenes. Some things will also be stretched because it didn't make sense how fast they all travel between great distances and I just need it to make sense. I will say, we will also get a chapter following Rhaenyra as she searches for Luke because I'm a glutton for angst, and I will add more details because I need it. But this chapter will likely be chapter 87? I think. or 88---we'll get a KL chapter before it and after.

#a vow of blood #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x oc

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crys-tal-fly · 6 months ago

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Loosen Up, Won't You? (Wriothesley X Reader)

A fic by yours truly

“No offence, but that is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.” You say bluntly, staring at Wriothesley with a murderous glint in your eye. “Now, why would you even suggest something so-”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” He smiles at you almost innocently as he casually spins a pair of handcuffs around his index finger. “Asking you to participate in the prisoners’ reforming program tomorrow isn’t a crime.”

“It should be. Why do you think I’ll accept in the first place?” “Credit coupons.”

“No way in hell.” You say stubbornly, jutting your chin out in defiance and crossing your arms. “Your Grace, I am a guard, not some petty criminal you can bribe-”

“How about a day off?”

You know it’s a trap, you see the gleaming satisfaction in his bright grey eyes because he knows you’ll succumb to his dangling bait like a dumb rabbit.

He’s right. You are pretty dumb. And predictable.

“Fine,” you sigh as you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “What do I have to do?” “Just one or two quick lessons for the inmates on how to repair a meka.” He says, pocketing his handcuffs. “Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Have you upped the security this time?”

He frowns, recalling (like you are) the time a prisoner tried to assault a trainer. Wriothesley had to personally step in, as everyone else was too shocked to react properly. “I assigned more guards to the administrative area, if that’s what you’re asking.” Damn it, there goes your last excuse.

“I’ll be there.” You say grudgingly. “But don’t expect me to stick around after my lessons are done.” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins, mock-saluting you as he turns to leave. “Oh, and don’t forget the promise you owed me!” He calls out as he walks away, jovially humming some tune to his heart’s content.

What a bastard. How are you supposed to forget that you have to do his paperwork for the day?

If only you hadn’t been caught sneaking to the overworld during your shift, you groan to yourself as you bury your face in your hands. And by Wriothesley nonetheless. Your luck has to be the worst in Fontaine, no doubt. You watch Wriothesley's retreating figure through your fingers with a hefty amount of annoyance and resignation. The man really knows how to push your buttons, doesn't he? You let out a frustrated sigh, realizing you've been backed into a corner once again. It's not like you have much of a choice, though. His offers are always too tempting to resist, even if they come with strings attached.

And he didn’t really punish you for your misdemeanour. Letting you off with some paperwork was nothing compared to the actual fate that awaits slackers.

“Everything alright?” You let out a small involuntary shriek at Clorinde’s sudden voice. “What was that for?” You demand, turning to face her as you rub off the goosebumps on your arm. “You couldn’t approach me from the front like a normal person?”

“I’m the most normal person you’ll find around here,” she smirks as she crosses her arms. “I don’t have much competition when you’re surrounded by criminals.”

“Whatever,” you grumble, silently agreeing with her statement. “How come you’re down here, though?”

“I had to deliver some tea to Wriothesley, but since I was here anyway I thought I’d look for you.”

"Tea delivery, huh?" you say, raising an eyebrow. "Seems like an odd task for someone of your... talents."

“I lost a bet.” She says brusquely. Ah, so it’s not just you that has to deal with the prison warden’s antics.

“My condolences,” you say, offering her a small smile. “ Anyway, you found me. What's up?”

“Same old. How’s your stint as a prison guard holding up?” “Terribly,” you admit, letting out a sigh. “His Grace has a tendency to make my life as miserable as possible. I might have to make an attempt on his life at this point.”

Clorinde lets out a light laugh at that, covering her mouth with her elegant gloved fingers. “Don’t take it personally,” she says after recovering a bit. “He doesn’t do it with malicious intent. I think.”

“You think.” You echo, still not convinced. “Since when have you been defending Wriothesley? Maybe I should end our friendship right now.”

“Ah, I’d be so heartbroken.” She grins, ruffling your hair up a little. “Don’t let him bother you too much. See you later, then.”

“See you. Take care, Clorinde.”

As you watch her leave the fortress via the elevator, you notice the envious and slighted awed glances of other people. They’re probably wondering how a nobody like you is even on friendly terms with the highest ranked champion duelist in Fontaine.

To be honest, you don’t really know either.

…

You manage to do the paperwork with incredible speed and efficiency, much to your surprise. Wriothesley isn’t there to watch you wrap it up, but Sigewinne does shoot you a quick look of sympathy as you get ready to leave.

“If you need anything, please tell me.” She says in that quiet, gentle voice of hers, but you wave off her concerns with a smile.

“It wasn’t a big deal, head nurse.” You say as you walk towards the exit, turning your head to reply to her. “Just tell Wriothesley to-”

“Tell me to what?”

As expected, someone’s blocking you from leaving. You look up at his smug face and defensively cross your arms as you take a step back. “To- to improve your handwriting.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans in a little closer and places his hands on either side of the doorframe to further cage you in, and your heart does not skip a beat. “Don’t bullshit me. We both know my handwriting is better than yours.”

“If you don’t mind, your Grace, can I get going?” You hiss through gritted teeth. “I need to attend to my shift.”

“Mm. Of course.” He abruptly lets go and walks past you without another glance, instead turning his attention to Sigewinne. “So, how are the patients doing?”

What is this man even playing at? You bite back another snappy remark and leave, trying your best not to give him another reason to antagonize you.

With a determined stride, you head towards the training grounds, where your next task awaits. The prisoners' reforming program may not be your idea of a good time, but you're nothing if not diligent in your duties. Maybe that’s what Clorinde likes about you? You make your way over to the nearest group of inmates, steeling yourself for the task at hand.

"Alright, listen up," you announce, trying to project an air of authority. "I'm here to teach you how to repair mekas. Pay attention, and we'll get through this together."

You're met with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. It's clear that they're not used to having a guard participate in their training sessions, but you're determined to prove to them (and Wriothesley) that you’re better than what may seem at surface level.

With that in mind, you roll up your sleeves and dive into the lesson, guiding the inmates through the intricacies of meka repair with some degree of patience and expertise. You used to be one of Fontaine’s famed underwater mechanics, and you’d graduated from The Akademiya with the highest degree in Kshahrewar, but here you are. Working as a guard in the Fortress of Meropide. Really humbles someone, you think to yourself as you teach a woman how to polish a rusted gear piece.

“You can use a little bit of oil or grease if you really need to,” you advise her as she goes at it with a scrap piece of cloth, but she barely registers your words. Eh. You’re not really paid enough to care, so you don’t bother repeating yourself.

“Does anyone need any help?” You call out, and you’re relieved to see everyone shaking their heads, more preoccupied with the very cute mini-mekas they have on their hands. Great. That means you can go. You clock in your shift with the nearby attendance meka and leave the training grounds, wondering what to do with the one hundred and fifty credit coupons you earned. Maybe something edible in the cafeteria to treat yourself- after all, they don’t really treat the guards here much better than the inmates.

Or you could hang out with Sigewinne in the infirmary and save the coupons for a rainy day. Maybe not the most exciting thing to do, but the head nurse is good company and helps you out with your mental state when you’re in a bad mood.

You’re not really in a bad mood right now, but she might help before it gets worse. You just hope Wriothesley isn’t there, or your plan will backfire horribly.

With another quick look through your options, you decide to head to the infirmary.

You're greeted by the soothing scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint aroma of herbal tea. Sigewinne looks up from her clipboard, an excited smile spreading across her face as she sees you enter.

"Hey there," she says softly, setting down her pen. "Is everything okay? Did you hurt yourself?"

You offer her a tired thumbs-up. "Don’t worry, I’m fine. Just thought I'd drop by for a chat. Maybe see if you're up for a game of TCG or something."

Her eyes sparkle with amusement. "TCG, huh? You know, you're lucky I'm terrible at bluffing."

"You’d be surprised," you reply with a chuckle. "Because my bad luck just might be the reason you win."

Sigewinne laughs, the sound like bells tinkling in the wind. Melusines are fascinating creatures for sure. She gestures for you to take a seat, and you settle into the chair opposite her. It's nice to have a moment of respite from the chaos of your duties, even if it's just for a little while.

"So, how was your day?" Sigewinne asks, her tone gentle.

“Alright.” You shrug, crossing your arms. “I’ve had worse-” like the time another fellow guard punched the daylights out of you “-and better, so it’s just another day in the cycle.”

The two of you fall into easy conversation, discussing everything from the recent events in Fontaine’s overworld to your plans for the upcoming weekend. They are nonexistent- but Sigewinne reassures you that it’s the same for almost everyone else.

“I might be visiting Neuvillette this weekend though,” she says offhandedly, which takes you by surprise. Sigewinne rarely goes anywhere on her own. “Do you want to come along? It might be a nice change from the usual grind.”

“Sounds good.” You say with an easygoing grin. You’re a little scared of the overworld to be honest, what with so many months spent in Meropide, but maybe some sunlight will do you good. “I can do some shopping while I’m at it.”

“Mhm. Do you need any Mora?”

You shake your head, laughing her question off. Mora? Why would you need-

Oh right.

That’s what they use in the rest of Teyvat.

#fanfic #wriothesely x reader #wriothesley #wrio x reader #boss/employee relationship

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year ago

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His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Twenty-Eight

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: From here on out, the story deviates from the HOTD timeline. Viserys didn't die the night of the dinner, and Rhaenyra never came on dragonback like she said she would. The next few chapters take place during months leading up to Viserys' death in the winter, and they'll be a wild ride, so buckle up, besties!

Chapter Warnings: white knight Arryk, toxic relationship, we're both mentally ill.

The countless drinks of wine swirled through your head, your body exhausted from the whirlwind of events from the day prior, but you couldn't turn your mind off. Everything felt different. An air of heaviness settled over your bones, disconnecting you from the world.

The Keep, its massive walls ever-encompassing, closed you inside its pale redstone, making it incapable of finding peace in the hours of the ghost. The blankets of your bed were too heavy, thick, and suffocating as your lungs struggled to breathe. It felt as if you were not in your body, your spirit torn away from its core, crushed by the future that loomed over you.

You couldn't stand another moment locked inside this castle, haunted by things you have done and things that have yet to be. Throwing the covers off your dampened limbs, you padded over to your winter boots, shoving your bare feet into the tight fur and throwing a cloak on. You needed air. You needed to be outside, to feel the realm between your toes and ground yourself within it.

Ser Arryk stood steadfast at your door as you swung it open, causing the knight to jump. After your heated argument, you still hadn't spoken more than brief sentences with the White Cloak. He remained dutiful throughout the limbo, a sworn protector no matter the circumstances. You were terrible towards him, a man who was loyal no matter the mistreatment he faced. Arryk did not deserve it.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you stood before the knight, your gaze downcast. "Ser Cargyll. I..." You started, the words becoming trapped in your throat like you were trapped within your heavy blankets. "I apologize for my behavior this past fortnight. You are a good and honorable man, and," your voice faltered again, looking up into the pools of sapphire that stared down at you. "And I extend my deepest, most profound apology for my actions. You do not deserve my ire."

"Princess, you needn't apologize. 'Tis my duty to serve Your Grace without fault."

"No, Ser," you quickly interrupted, stopping any further words from escaping his mouth with the grab of his bicep. "Do not deflect my apology with your honor. You are entitled to be angry. You are entitled to make me feel the way I made you."

"My Lady," Arryk spoke, his gaze serious as he stared into yours. "I shall deal with all your wrath with a stiff lip for I know you are a true person. You have never forgotten your roots, the people who made you. Your kindness for those around you is more admirable than anything I could do within my life."

Before he could continue, your body flushed with his, your warm cheek cooling against the metal of his breastplate. "Cease this. You are everything and more. Even when I have been such an imbecile you continue to hold me above you." You released him from your hold, hands sliding to his forearms instead. "We are equaled despite what statuses have been put upon us."

Ser Arryk was at a loss. His mouth parted in shock as he processed your words. "I meant what I said all those moons ago. You are my friend, my ally, and I wish for you to be by my side," the knight sucked in a breath, his digits gripping your elbows as he took a step closer, "as my protector for as long as you will have me."

Arryk felt himself deflate, though not enough for you to notice, ignoring whatever feeling of hope for the future he had with a nod of his helmeted head.

It wasn't very reasonable of him to have hope you would love him the way he does you. You were a princess, meant to wed Lords and high-ranking knights who could provide lands and gold.

Arryk supposed it was better this way, even if it felt like a blow to the chest. What would the future look like for the two of you? He couldn't very well go into hiding. That was dishonorable. He couldn't expect you to leave your comfortable status to live in a village in the Riverlands. If you were found, Arryk would be charged with treason against the King and his family and sentenced to death, recalling the last time someone attempted to whisk you away for love.

Ser Cargyll's affections for you would never be. Forever tucked away close to his heart in secret, no matter how much it pained him.

His movements were rigid and strained under the weight of his armor and something else he refused to name as he kneeled.

"I swear to ward you, Princess," the knight declared, unsheathing his sword with upturned palms, placing it in yours, "with all my strength, and give my blood for yours. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard your secrets, obey your commands, ride at your side, and defend your name and honor. I shall always do more than what is expected, never less. I shall never flinch at any task or hardship."

Arryk inhaled a staggering breath, his gaze unwavering and voice firm. "I shall be loyal and serve you from this breath until my last, Princess."

The sword was heavy within your grip, the kingsguardmen's words burning into the metal. You had never experienced such devotion before, his oath etching into your heart and soul. Your limbs knew what to do before your mind as you brought the longsword to Ser Arryk's shoulders.

"From this day until your death, I accept your fealty and service." The blade's tip scratched on the stone floor as you lowered it, and the chestnut-haired man before you bowed his head. "Rise, Ser Arryk Cargyll, and serve your Princess."

He obeyed your command, reaching his full height as a smile graced your lips. Returning the weapon, your sworn shield's fist wrapped around your own, his touch calloused and relaxed before you slipped it away.

"I know what the future holds is unsure, but I am certain with you by my side, Ser Cargyll, we can brave it together." You stood on the balls of your feet, your hands wrapping around the back of Arryk's head as you placed a chaste kiss on his helmet.

The deed was done, and though you felt light, the world still called you, vibrating through the soles of your fur boots and into your chest.

"My first command of you, Ser, is to rest. You have served me well all this time and deserve the rest of the night to yourself." His eyes flickered from your head to your toes, examining your attire and what you were planning. "I can hear your questions," you jested teasingly. "I'm going to the Godswood, my protector. The Gods will watch over me.

Arryk returned the smile, though not as bright, bowing before he bid you goodnight and readied to his quarters. You were surprised that he did not protest as usual, never ceasing in his endless allegiance but keeping it hidden from his view as you both departed.

***

Beneath the Weirwood, the crimson leaves whispered above. You found peace, connected with one and nature. The late winter breeze chilled your feet as you leaned against the blanched trunk, your boots discarded next to you neatly. Even though you were still within the castle's parameters, the world felt vast. Stars shimmered endlessly in the midnight sky, the clouds minimal as you stared at the waning crescent.

It would be spring in a moon's time, the air cool instead of biting, buds sprouting, and insects emerging. Helaena loved the season for that very reason. She doesn't do well cooped inside, tucked away from what she enjoys most. The Princess had her children, and one could argue that should be enough for a mother, but those who say such things do not understand the complexity of a woman's heart-- a woman's desire to be human.

The grass was comforting between your toes despite the lifelessness of it poking at your skin. This was what you needed. Just a moment alone. A moment to think without the crushing weight of the unknown squeezing at your lungs.

"I'm sorry."

The words caused you to jump, your serenity forgotten as your hand immediately slid to your ankle, only to find your dagger long discarded for sleep.

"I'm sorry for what I did, for what I did to your kin," the drunk Prince spoke, a jug of only one thing looped around his finger. "They were only trying to protect you. I would have done the same thing if someone tried to take you away from me. I would burn villages to keep you with me."

"What were their names?" you countered, stopping Aegon from wherever this drunken ramble was going. He gaped at you, confused, his eyes like amethyst sparkling in the night. "You don't even know who you're apologizing for." You turned away with a sneer and rose to your feet before you were shoved down with desperate, grabbing hands.

"Please, I beg of you, my love," Aegon sniveled on his knees as his gaze became glass, the jug of alcohol forgotten. "Cease this torment!"

"Torment?" you scoffed, tilting your face to the sky. "You believe you are being tormented? You? The man who sent my mother's only surviving family to the executioners block?" Your laugh was cold, devoid of the usual warmth it rang with as you spoke. "You know nothing of torment."

"I did not know what would happen to them. I-I only wanted you to stay with me!" Tears flowed freely down the Prince's cheeks, the streaks shining in the moonlight.

"You did not know that the attempted kidnapping of a royal person would be punishable by death?" Rolling your eyes, you stood, Aegon wrapping himself around your ankles. "You are a craven as well as a liar."

"No. Please. Please, don't call me that," he begged, his voice reedy.

You ignored the aching feeling in your heart at his hunched form, looking everywhere but. Kicking your legs from his grip, you stormed away with a growl, done with whatever he had to say. No words Aegon could speak would change the past. Nothing could bring Lyra and Sara back.

"No! Please, come back to me!" the Prince cried, his voice raw as his hands and knees dug into the dead blades of grass.

"I love you!"

The confession stopped you in your tracks, knees becoming weak and eyes hot. You couldn't think, suddenly, the Godswood not feeling as free.

Aegon observed how you stood, shoulders hunched and tight as your breathing became ragged, ingraining every detail and burning it into his mind forever.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice still hoarse but less desperate as he crawled closer. "I love you."

Your nose began to itch, lashes fluttering as words escaped you. Your body refused to turn and face the Prince. It was as if your heart had been torn from your chest, your bosom ripped open, and your ribs dripping with the viscous liquid of your blood, saturating the dirt below. You felt Aegon before you saw him, finding his place once more at your feet as he wrapped his arms around your legs, burying his tear-stained face into your cloak.

It was instinctual as your hand gravitated towards his head, gently stroking the frizzy, silver waves. You were uncertain when you, too, began to cry, fat droplets of saltwater running down your cheeks and onto his crown.

"I-I-I can't-" you stuttered, unable to form words that matched the race of your thoughts.

"I love you," he murmured into your thigh, rubbing his wet nose into the woolen fabric.

"You... love me?" The words sounded foreign on your tongue. "You love... me?"

"Yes!" Aegon panted, his gaze earnest and piercing yours. "You are the blood in my veins. The very marrow in my body. I love the bones of you."

"You..." His hands traveled upwards, his digits digging into the plush flesh of your waist.

"I crave your mouth, your voice, your touch. Your breath nourishes me, feeds me, keeps my stomach full."

Your lips trembled, vision becoming blurred as you sank to the ground. He loved you? Aegon loved you? How could you have been so ignorant? He did what he believed to be the right choice in keeping you by his side. Is that different from what Lyra did? It was why she chose to sneak into the most heavily guarded castle in Westeros. Because she loved you, Aegon would have done the same if the Gods had flipped the coin. You understand that now. He did not knowingly and maliciously murder your kin. He hurt you because he loved you.

"I know what they say about me, that I'm a monster. But you will be my salvation. You will make me repent for my sins," Aegon confessed as he stood to his knees, a child desperately clinging to its mother.

Your hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears that leaked from his amethyst eyes. You knew in your heart that you could never forgive him for what his actions caused, and he understood, but had you not done the same, killed two men for simply following orders? You ripped them away from their families in such a gruesome way and defiled their deceased bodies in a manner that would send you to the Seven Hells.

You both committed vile actions and did awful things, yet there was love in them. Love for you. Love for Aegon. You both would burn for your sins but accept the punishment with your chin high and your hand in his. Fire and blood, even in death.

Your stare flickered to his lips briefly before they were on yours, sharing a raw kiss of viscera. Tears and pain collided, moons of want and denial pouring into each other's mouths as your tongues danced to a melody of soft moans and grunts. His fingers tangled into your hair, gripping the roots roughly and causing your head to tilt with a gasp.

Your nose slotted against Aegon's, catching your breath, his body warming your skin. "I am the blood in your veins as you are mine," you sighed against him.

Pulling back, you brushed the stray strands of white from his face, tracing the structure as your digits gripped his jaw, having no desire to be without him, and devoured his lips in another demanding kiss. The Heart Tree hid your shadows; its pale bark and rustling leaves provided cover from all eyes except the Gods'. You could feel their stares, the whispers from above, though you could not register them over the sounds of bated breath, the shimmy of fabric as your cloak was strewn open.

Aegon's kisses soon became lower, creating splotches of cold to bloom in the brisk midnight air. They traveled to your jaw, neck, and clavicle, his hands not staying in one place long as you blindly unlaced the front of his soiled undershirt. The Prince shivered at the gentle touch of your fingertips against his hot flesh, voracious in their actions and seeking anything they could find.

A knot formed in your stomach, frayed threads of emotions tangled into a ball until they became one thing.

Lust.

The desire for Aegon, to touch, to feel his heartbeat inside you, to hear his idolatry as you become one. Nothing could stop you from taking what was yours, what you denied and hid from since the moment you were sent away.

You brought his hand to your chest, your nipples taught through the thin fabric of your nightdress. It couldn't wait. You couldn't stay as Aegon kneaded your flesh like dough, the skin molding perfectly under his fingers as you released a demure whine that caused you to flush with shame. His mouth soon found the other and latched onto the covered mound, laving it with his tongue and soaking through the fabric.

Your legs rubbed together at the sensation, squeezing the little nub at the apex of your thighs until pleasure bloomed and your mind became fuzzy.

"I want to be by your side always," Aegon mumbled against your breast, your nails scratching his scalp. "I want to suffocate you with my devotion."

You bobbed at his words, yet he couldn't see, using his weight to push you against the prickly grass. "Say it," the Prince commanded, his voice more firm than you had ever heard as he straddled your waist. He need not say what he meant. You already knew.

His fingers came to wrap around the column of your throat as your mind swirled, not squeezing, simply resting there in a necklace of implied dominance. "Fucking say it."

"I love you," you declared, your hand pressing into his to apply more force, conveying more than words ever could as his eyes dilated in the night. "I love you, my sweet boy. I have loved you longer than allowed, and I will not waste another moment of my time denying it any longer." Your voice came out breathlessly as his grip left your neck, deft fists unbuttoning your nightgown.

Aegon's hips twitched against you, a noiseless whimper spewing past his pouted lips as he revealed the intimate crevice between your breasts. He slotted himself between your legs as he pulled down the upper part of your garments, your skin pricking at the rush of cold winter air. He came to your breasts again, squeezing and pinching one while he suckled the other, your legs cinching around him. His cock was hard against your womanhood, languidly rubbing the covered member over your pulsing mound to relieve some of the ache.

Aegon wanted to savor this feeling, the warmth of your clothed cunny against him, before he stretched it to fit his needs. He could sense your impatience, the avidity radiating off of you with each moan, but he did not care. The Prince was right where he wanted to be and had no intention of leaving. You would stay like this for hours for all he cared, reduced to a whining and wanting puddle of desire before him.

All the whores and drinks were naught compared to the intoxicating flavor of your skin, the harmonious song of your whimpers, and the unpracticed choreography of your movements. Aegon would gladly rid himself of all vices to have a taste of your slick again.

His fingers bunched the hem of your dress, slowly pulling it until it rested on your stomach. He was unsurprised as his digits traced over your lips, gliding smoothly over the flesh, dragging them up your torso until they reached your open mouth.

"Taste it, my love. Taste what my mere touch does to you." You obeyed Aegon's demand without a second thought, wrapping your tongue around his glistening tips. "You will be mine tonight and forever. We will never part from this day forward. Any man who seeks to strip us of this love will be met with dragon fire."

You whimpered, your brows pinching together as your heels dug into his lower back, pressing him impossibly closer. Aegon pulled from your mouth, his damped fingers directing your lips to his as he drank your combined essence.

He returned his hand to its rightful place, dragging it through your folds to create languid circles around your pearl. It was too much but not enough. The pressure was feather-light over the thin hood and heightened your senses as your hips twitched against his fist. Aegon chuckled nasally on your countenance, a proud grin stretching his mouth as his free hand came to your hair, pulling away.

"You shall deny me no more. I will take your maidenhead and ruin you for any man." Aegon's smile grew wider at your accepting gaze, welcoming him into your heart and body without the reservation he had grown accustomed to. His cock flushed with blood, further tenting his trousers.

"You would like that, wouldn't you?" You nodded your head aggressively, feeling his fingers slide from your nub down to your slit.

"I want no one other than you," your voice panted, a moan punching further words from your lungs as two digits entered you.

You had grown tighter from the lack of use, the stretch of his fingers catching you unaware and biting back a wince as you adjusted. Aegon's face contorted in satisfaction like he was the one being pleasured as he explored your walls. It had been some time since they welcomed him in, if they truly ever did, and he needed to ingrain the structure to memory once more. Feeling the rigid patch at the top, he barely brushed over it, deciding to pull his fingers out to the first knuckle, scissoring the thin veil of skin.

Your cunt would forever be his home, a place for him to forget duty and responsibility and just be. Aegon did not worry about the future or the past with you. He existed—a body in the vast world around him, not a Prince or an heir, simply yours.

Hips bucking against his teasing fingers, he finally pushed them in, a purposeful air to his movements as Aegon stroked the spot that made you keen. The knot in your belly began to loosen, his ministrations pulling the thread that would unwind the tangled mess.

You couldn't control your breathing, the way your lungs inhaled and exhaled rapidly, eyes shut. If Aegon continued on this course, you would peak at such an intensity that you feared you would faint. Yet you didn't stop him, instead moaning and whining soft mummers of his name as your thighs trembled.

The Prince's hand came back to your neglected breasts, his thumb and forefinger pinching at an erect bud as your back arched in pleasure.

It had been so long since you let yourself feel anything other than melancholy. You accepted that life would be filled with sorrow and anger, burden and responsibility. Joy was meant for others, not you, but Aegon showed you otherwise. He showed you many times that your existence could be happy and that bliss could coincide with obligation, though you were too thick to accept. You were unsure if that was something you would have achieved without him and felt a strong wave of gratitude for the man above you.

Your hand snaked its way down to Aegon's trousers, untying and undoing the buttons that confined him. You could hardly see his member in the darkness, shadowed by his body in the moonglow, but you could make out the drop of pearlescent liquid seeping onto the wrinkles of your palm. Wrapping your hand around his cock, he groaned, knees buckling and movements faltering as you swiped a thumb at his slit, collecting his seed to aid in the glide of your fist.

The Prince stifled noises of satisfaction with the grit of his teeth, redoubling his previous efforts inside your cunt. He wanted to prove to you, no, needed to prove to you, that he could be good, that he could take care of you the way you do him. You went limp momentarily, unable to do anything other than take it. Still, you steadied yourself, inhaling a calming breath as you refocused, bringing your other hand to pet his stones gently.

"Fuck," Aegon growled through a clenched jaw, his movements halting as he composed himself. "I need you. I need this pretty cunny now."

You opened your legs in acquiescence to welcome him inside, impatience getting the better of you.

He pulled the hem of your night dress higher, fully exposing your aching womanhood to his hungry gaze. Aegon looked ready to devour, his violet eyes black with want, a dragon with its sights set on a lamb. You laid pliant for the Prince while waiting for him to gather, appearing as if this was the first time he had seen you bare.

Finally, he moved, smoothing a hand across your thigh to wrap it around him, dragging his cock through your glistening folds. The sensation was unknown yet pleasant, his ruddy tip brushing against your pearl with a jolt through your body as he covered himself in your juices.

When you both could wait no longer, he pulled away, a clear string of your slick connecting your bodies as slid his cockhead to your entrance, his stare focused between your legs as he watched the flesh stretch around him. It hurt like your Septa and Mother told you, but it was not painful. You sent a silent thank you for Aegon's forethought to your comfort as the expending dulled, contained to the area as Aegon pushed past your maidenhead. You felt the tip nestle

inside you, barely kissing your sweet spot as your cunt fluttered around him in anticipation.

Your walls swelled around the Prince as he watched you swallow him, warm and inviting as he continued forward, causing a deep, long, drawn-out moan to force its way through your throat. Struggling to ground yourself to the intense pressure, your nails dug into the decaying blades of tan grass, dirt wedging underneath them.

"That's it, little one. Take it."

You could feel every centimeter of him, the slight curve to his cock, the full roundness of his shaft leisurely glide through you until he connected his pelvis with yours. Aegon dropped his head into your shoulder, a throaty groan dampening your skin as he waited for your muscles to unclench.

"It-It feels," you stammered, eyes rolling back at his heart beating inside. Your body had no choice but to accept him, encircling his cock in a vice-like grip nestled so closely to your womb.

"I know, I know," Aegon cooed against you, placing a kiss where your shoulder became your neck as he drew his hips back unhurriedly.

"So full," you managed to finish desperately, head lulling atop his crown.

Your fingers carded through his hair as his cockhead caressed your spot, gradually finding a pace that did not overwhelm you or him. Aegon had no intentions of finishing yet, content to feel the pulsing of your walls surrounding him. His thumb began circling attention at your nub, his palm flat against your wirey curls as you mewled.

"Such a pretty cunny," the Prince whispered breathlessly into your throat, "so puffy and wet just for me." You nodded at his words, unable to form a verbal response as the stimulation overwhelmed you, your body sucking him inside. "So good for your sweet Prince, aren't you? Always so good for me."

His thrusts began to pick up in speed, still keeping the same mind-numbing intensity. Aegon was deep, buried so far inside you that you felt he was mere moments away from entering your belly.

No words could describe the magnitude of this sensation. It was far better than any pleasure he had given you, let alone yourself, causing your limbs to become like wet clay under his touch. Aegon could mold you in any way he saw fit, and you were helpless but to bend.

The Prince straightened his back, your eyes opening to see his cock going in and out of you, his free hand digging into your waist. The veins of his shaft shined in the silver light as a ring of white formed at the base, dark blonde hairs connecting to it. The image was so lewd, so primal, that it sent a wave of consuming arousal rolling through your body as you struggled to stifle a pitched moan.

All you could think, all you could feel was Aegon's thrusts pounding you into the packed dirt below. Nothing but him, his matted hair stuck to his forehead, his disheveled tunic, his digits digging into your flesh, his thumb playing with your pearl, his cock spearing its way through your spongey flesh. Your legs began to tremble, your hand flying to Aegon's as you attempted to ground yourself as he continued unrelentingly.

He felt your walls clench around him with each quick inhale you took, subconsciously milking him for his seed as he doubled over, bracing himself on his forearm. He knew you were close. With a few more thrusts of his hips and swirls of his thumb, you would be gushing around him, succumbing to your ancient desire. The thought overwhelmed him, tears pooling in his eyes as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

You felt the tiny droplets before you heard him, Aegon's voice wet as he whimpered on your skin. Immediately, your fingers went to his hair, carding through his waves in the manner you knew he enjoyed.

"I love you," he mewled into your ear, his breath hot. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Turning your head to face him, you stared into his glassy eyes, yours mirroring his cheeks tinted pink. "My sweet boy. Such a good boy. I'm so proud. You're making me feel so good." Your voice failed into a moan as your abdomen clenched, trying your best to stave off the crescendo of satisfaction. "I'm going to peak. I'm going to come because of you, my love. My darling boy, I'm-"

Ecstasy ran through you, your hips jerking into the air as you came with a rush. Your fingers pulled at Aegon's roots as roaring waves of pleasure submerged you, causing him to move faster at an animalistic pace. It feels as if you've lost control, unable to do anything but thrash and accept his hash movements jolting your body. You are unsure if you want him to stop or continue to prolong this high.

His thumb leaves your swollen and abused pearl so as not to overstimulate you, the hair on his navel sending shocks as it brushed with each punctuating thrust.

Aegon came soon after with a prolonged whine, his belly tightening and quivering as he haphazardly left his home, spilling the remnants of his seed on your lower stomach and curls. His cock twitched with each spurt as your mind focused, observing with fascination at the physical display of his passion. He panted heavily against your neck, beads of moisture collecting in the area and falling onto the dead blades of grass as you regained your senses. Your hands rested limply at the base of his scalp as the Prince mouthed at your skin, softening above you.

As the haze of lust left you and clarity returned, you slid your palms down his arms, caressing the skin as you directed him to where you needed him most. The Prince kissed you with unwavering devotion, lips unhurried, simply savoring the taste that was you.

"You are so beautiful." His breath tickled your skin as your cheeks became warm.

You giggle, affectionately petting Aegon's hair before he looks at you with the softest expression you've ever seen. It is as if his eyes are sparkling in the near-nonexistent light of the moon. You lean forward and ever so gently kiss his forehead, then nose, before you reach his pink lips. You peck them tenderly, pulling back for just a moment before you truly kiss him again.

"I love you," he whispers so softly that you barely register it.

Your heart began to race. You almost struggled to find the words to reciprocate. But when you do, Aegon smiles and tucks himself into your side, his head resting on your steadying pulse.

***

The Queen watched as her very world was razed before her. Hidden within a red rock alcove, hands clutched to her beating heart; she listened to the sweet nothings of two lovers beneath the Weirwood.

She initially thought, as she traveled to her and Rhaenyra's favorite spot, hearing the distant moans of coupling, that Aegon was bedding another one of the serving girls. It had become more frequent. Just the day prior, she had walked into whatever he had drunkenly planned with one of Helaena's maids, stopping him with a slap before it could go further.

Had he no shame continuing to tarnish the already precarious nature of his legacy? Alicent had not raised him that way; years of lessons in the Sept with her and his Maesters turned him into no son of hers.

When she had requested your help leading up to Aegon's nameday, the Queen had no intention of you staying in King's Landing for as long as you have. She knew of his sinful affections for you but believed that once you fulfilled your duty, you would return to Dragonstone like Rhaenyra. She had naught the foresight to know how you had not become like her old friend but like the Rogue Prince. Cunning and manipulative, bending society's unspoken laws and rules to weasel yourself into a position on the Small Council. Asking for your help was one of her many regrets in a lifetime filled with them.

The quiet rustling of movements and fabric perked Alicent's ears, swiftly leaving the stone wall she pressed against to peer at you and her son.

He had moved from you, curled into your side as you stroked his hair in a nature that reminded her of her own. It was almost... sweet, the way you touched him, so gentle and kind and full of love that reminded her of the past.

The Queen wiped at the tears that stained her cheeks with her green dress sleeve, nails picking at her cuticles as she slowly retreated into the Red Keep in a manner a frightened doe would, her slippered feet carrying her to the rooms where another one of her regrets resided.

Masterlist of Series

I hope you enjoyed my little Olivia Cook interview reference in the middle XD.

I'm letting y'all know that future chapters will get a lot darker from now on. I won't spoil anything, but it involves Larys, Alicent, and the reader. Some content may be triggering, too, so if you have any concerns, please message me! I'll, of course, put trigger warnings above each chapter like I always do.

Thank you so much for reading!

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