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imaginedanvrs · 11 months ago

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encrypted relations

part 9 l masterlist

summary: yelena belova x reader. when natasha takes you under her wing, she becomes like family, and the last thing you want is to lose that. but when you meet her younger sister who you know is off limits, you have to decide between what you really want and hope for minimal damage

word count: 5.3k

warnings: kidnapping, torture, drugging, significant injuries and blood loss, death, graphic violence, references to past sexual assault

You couldn’t move when you woke up. There were rough restraints wrapped around your torso and limbs but they weren’t necessary in keeping you in place. You felt stiff and unbelievably sore, like when a scab heals in an area that makes it hard to bend your arm or leg, except you felt it across your entire body.

There was a laceration from the bottom of your neck to your shoulder that stopped you moving your head, several across both legs that rendered them immobile, one on your right forearm, a multitude across your stomach and one deep in your back that was being dug into by whatever surface you were laying on. You exhaled shakily, feeling tears run down your already stiff cheeks.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Rae called from somewhere behind you. Your heart pumped wildly against your chest, despite already working to its limit to keep you alive.

The raven haired woman appeared at your side with an unmarked cylinder and gas mask in hand. She was smiling, beaming really, as she pulled up a chair and sat down next to you. You eyed the mask warrily, suddenly aware of the absence of blood in your mouth and how dry it had become since. You had no idea what they had done to you since you had been asleep, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

“I want you to stay awake for a bit so we can chat,” she told you, voice light as she fitted the mask over your mouth and nose. You tried to move your head to the side but the wound in your neck protested loudly at the stretch. You didn’t try to hold your breath, knowing it was futile as Rae opened the gas valve. You didn’t look at her as you breathed it in, instead focusing on the area around you.

There were clouded strip curtains that stopped you seeing any further than a few feet around you and the space was poorly lit. Next to your bed were machines you couldn’t make out without attempting to move your head again though you noticed several thin tubes entering your arms. You didn’t want to know what they were putting in your body. You didn’t want to know anything. You were trapped beneath a blanket of pain that prevented you from being able to focus on much else.

Rae pulled the paper thin sheet that was draped over your body off of you and you were somewhat glad that you couldn’t move your head to see the state that your body was in. But the vast stain of red was hard to miss, even out of the corner of your eyes, it was everywhere. She put her hand on your thigh where it seemed your trousers had been turned into shorts to provide access to your wounds across your legs. You winced at her touch, feeling it even through the pain.

“You haven’t really changed, you know?” She told you. “People like to believe they can change after they’ve done something bad. They decide to do some good acts, to try and make amends, but it doesn’t mean anything,” she sighs. “I suppose Natasha failed to inform you of that fact when she gave you a job, or maybe she thought it would be a good act of her own,” she pondered. You didn’t reply even when Rae removed the mask.

“Tell me about her,” she said as she put the equipment down and rested her forearms and head on the edge of the bed next to your face. “Come on, sweetheart, I didn’t touch your vocal chords for a reason. Tell me about what Natasha and Yelena are like now.” You frowned, not sure what exactly it was Rae wanted to know about the sisters. You couldn't trust that it was for a harmless reason either.

“I know you’re fucking Yelena, so there must be some interesting things about her you can tell me,” she pushed impatiently and began to trace the edges of you neck wound. You swallowed thickly under her touch as you registered that Rae knew about you and Yelena. That explained why she sent the photo that she did. But was she trying to get to the blonde too?

“She was the most ruthless child assassin the red room had ever seen,” Rae told you. You frowned, not understanding where Rae could have gotten that information from. “We were in all the same classes so I had to watch them praise her even after all the trouble she caused after her separation from Natasha.” You listened as intently as you could despite the occasional blaze of pain, trying desperately to put the pieces together but unable to catch on as fast as you would under any normal circumstance.

“No one ever seems to be punished for their actions anymore,” Rae told you as her fingers probed harder into your tender flesh. “Yelena and Natasha run away and are welcomed into the world. You go behind my back and get rewarded for it. And yet I stay loyal and get nothing,” she explained with clear agitation.

“Loyal… to who?” You forced the words out and felt like you were pushing them through a grinder. Rae looked down at you with a fond smile that made you sweat.

“The red room, malysh.” You stared at the woman above you as the temperature around you seemed to plummet.

“You’re a widow,” you whispered. Rae hummed, collecting some of your blood on her thumb and smearing it across your neck.

“There aren’t many of us left after what they did,” Rae recalled. “But we’re rebuilding. We’re replicating the serum Melina perfected when she was using her talents to their full potential and gathering the right people. And you, dorogoy, are one of them. You helped us years ago and you’ll do it again once the serums are ready,” she explained.

“I never helped you and I never will,” you protested weakly, trying to move your abused limbs to get as far away from Rae as you could but failed to her amusement.

“Yes, you did,” she corrected, producing a knife from the table next to her. “You were helping the moment I was sent to you and asked you out on that first date. That was always how it was meant to go,” she explained, picking something else up as you struggled, your mind racing as you realised how much worse the situation was than you had thought. Not only that, but hearing that even your best times with Rae were an act certainly pained you more than you would ever care to admit. You had once loved Rae, caught up in a relationship that had never been real.

In your panicked haze, you didn’t register the click or the dancing orange flame Rae placed under the flat side of her knife. “Though of course I’m not expecting you to do any work in your condition, so we’re just going to close up those nasty wounds first,” Rae explained matter-of-factly as she lifted up your shirt and placed the glowing blade on the deepest slash.

Your apartment didn’t provide the same comfort to Yelena as it usually did. Your absence seemed to have stripped it of its refuge entirely and it instead felt like being in an empty shell that she had no right to stand in. Yelena always loved your apartment, even from the first time she broke in and hadn’t yet met you. She liked the slightly mismatched furniture that always seemed to have at least one blanket each and the clean smell they always seemed to carry despite you insisting on using unscented fabric wash. She liked the display of random artwork you had placed around the space, most of which being slightly scratched from you walking into them so many times. She liked the soft lighting from various lamps placed in specific areas to create the right brightness level that was never too harsh or dim. She liked that the apartment always smelt of you, even in that moment when she wandered through it alone. That would fade, she realised, unless you were back there soon.

Yelena walked into the kitchen and spotted a neglected mug left on the side next to the kitchen. You would never have done that purposefully, always insistent on having everything washed up and put away before you left the apartment so that you wouldn’t have to deal with it when you got back. Yelena had sometimes done it for you if you had fallen asleep before you were due to go out.

The blonde picked the mug up, recognising it to be your favourite one, and began to wash it with a small amount of soap, rinsed it, and put it to the side to drain as her eyes scanned your home for anything else out of place. That was when she noticed a piece of paper folded up on your coffee table.

Yelena picked up the discarded paper as she sat down and opened it up, seeing her name on the top line and realising it was a letter to her. She paused and considered putting the letter back, feeling intrusive to be looking through your belongings without you there to nag her to stop being so nosey. You never did truly care though. You always just threw a pillow at her and continued whatever you were doing to let Yelena carry on with her overt snooping. So she opened the paper back up and began to read.

Yelena,

So I guess first and foremost, I’m sorry. I realised I’ve said that a lot by now, but I haven’t said what for. I’m sorry for being a complete moron for starters. It somehow never dawned on me that this was new territory for you so it was inevitable that there was going to be some confusion about what we actually were. Though I can tell you one thing, if we were dating I would have never wanted to keep that a secret, not that I enjoyed keeping the secret we had, but that would have been something I would want to announce to the whole world because you’re everything, Lena. You really are and you never deserved to be hidden.

I’m sorry I kept what we had a secret without giving it much thought about how you felt about that. You never said it bothered you, but I could tell in the last couple weeks that it did. I should have been able to tell sooner and I should have done something about it sooner, maybe even just addressed it better, but I was afraid of upsetting Nat. I know it's ironic and I definitely wasn’t trying to put my friendship with Nat above yours, but it terrified me to think I could lose her and I never once thought I would lose you.

I’m sorry for never telling you how I felt, that I was scared of us becoming something serious because last time that happened things didn’t end so well. That was something I never wanted to talk about, but that’s not just with you. I don’t want to think about the past, even though that’s what’s been holding me back this entire time, from not being able to give you all of me, from not being able to ask you out and from not being able to tell you that I love you.

A droplet fell onto the second paragraph and Yelena swiftly wiped her cheeks of the tears that continued to fall. She let the letter drop to the floor as she leant back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling as she fought to control her breathing. It was all too much. She had thought she lost you days ago, and then to discover that you actually loved her. Now you weren’t there for her to go to? It hurt almost too much to bear. She needed you but knew you needed her more in that moment. Things could have been different if she just stayed to hear you out. If she stayed that night, you wouldn’t have been on your own in the days that followed. If she had stayed that night, she wouldn’t have left your side until you were begging for space. Because she loved you too.

Yelena sprang up for her place on the sofa when she heard the lock on the other side of your apartment door being adjusted. The blonde raised her wrist with her widow bites wrapped around and narrowed her eyes at the door, ready to shoot whoever was about to invade your space. Yelena lowered her arm with a shaky exhale when Kate opened the door, stumbling slightly when she saw the Russian already there.

“Hi,” Kate muttered, taking in Yelena’s state. The blonde nodded, her eyes falling to the two dogs at her side and felt her heart squeeze when she saw Marty trot towards her. She knelt down on the floor within a second and pulled the dog close to her chest, feeling him nuzzle into her and taking little notice of Kate who awkwardly shifted in the doorway.

“Marty’s a fussy eater when y/n’s not around,” Kate explained as she trudged over to the kitchen where you kept the dog food.

“Marty,” Yelena scolded softly as she scratched under his ears.

“Any news?” Kate asked when a silence settled over the apartment. Yelena stiffened slightly and stood up, trying to recollect her composure in front of the young archer. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Kate seeing her upset, it was just that she didn’t like anyone seeing her upset.

“We found her phone. Stark reckons it had been hacked,” Yelena informed. “But I think she would have noticed something like that,” she added, not believing that that was really what happened.

“She wasn’t thinking properly,” Kate pointed out, despite how uncomfortable it was to do so. “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. It was only then that Yelena noted the redness and bags under Kate’s eyes. “I told her she should have stayed with me for a few days but she wanted to come back here. I should have insisted more. I was at home when it happened so I would have been able spot it or-”

“It is not your fault, Kate,” Yelena told her sternly, cutting off Kate’s rambles the moment she noticed the light shimmering off of her eyes. If Kate started crying, she probably would too. “She will be back soon,” Yelena assured as she picked up the letter and stuffed it in her coat pocket. Kate clocked it instantly and noticeably brightened at the sight of the paper.

“I hope she said everything she needed to,” the archer said.

“I will double check when I see her,” Yelena informed lightly, making Kate smile as her eyes still shimmered. She nodded, picking up the bag of food and called for Marty to follow her out.

“Call me if- when you hear something,” Kate requested.

“Okay,” Yelena said, unsure if she was going to actually do it. As far as she knew, Kate hadn’t seen the inside of that warehouse so she had no idea what she could be facing if she helped. For the time being, it was best if Kate stayed away. Besides, Yelena didn’t want the young archer to see what she would do when she got her hands on the people that took you from her.

Thankfully, you spent the majority of your time unconscious once Rae began to cauterise, your body able to spare you the sympathy of that alone. You spent most of your fleeting moments of consciousness alone and in incredible pain, but every so often there was someone in the room with you and it wasn’t always Rae. You didn’t recognise the others and they never acknowledged you. You didn’t try to talk to them, far too exhausted to even entertain the idea.

There was no possible way for you to know that several days passed with you laying in that bed. Every so often your condition would decline, then stabilise, sometimes improving. The widow’s resources weren’t as impressive as they were in the previous red room and at times they struggled to attain what you needed, having to cut corners that aided in your wavering recovery. You weren’t aware of any of that though, even when Rae told you.

She talked to you a lot. Rarely did anything she said actually process and perhaps that was why she did it, but her presence and voice agitated you at the times where you had the energy to care. She talked about Natasha and Yelena the most, telling you what they were like to grow up with. She hated them, that much was clear. And you hated her.

There was one thing you were aware of above all else and that was that you were beginning to lose feeling in your lower back down to your toes. It had just been numb at first, the pain still prominent in your lower half, but overtime you realised that you could feel the rough restraints against your arms and torso more than you could your legs. You tried not to focus too hard on it, knowing you were incapable of doing anything about it, but you couldn’t help but wonder what condition you would find yourself in in the month that followed, provided you made it that long.

“I’ve got something!” Tony called, taking Yelena and Natasha’s attention away from checking their phones for the umpteenth time to appear next to the American and stare at his screen. “I think I’ve managed to get through the fake traces and find the genuine one,” he explained, bringing up a satellite image. Several more pixelated images appeared alongside it to give the three a general idea of what the perimeter looked like.

“Are you sure?” Natasha confirmed as she examined the contents in front of her.

“Looking at the kind of defence they have on the perimeter of the sight and the kind of signals coming off of it, this is it,” Tony said. “Want me to call it in to the team?”

“No, just Wanda. We need to be subtle about this so that we don’t get noticed,” Natasha explained. “And make sure all the support vehicles stay clear until we give them the go ahead.”

“Got it,” Tony said as the sisters were already leaving to retrieve everything they needed. They didn’t have any time to waste, already made anxious by how long it had taken to get the location confirmed. You would have found it sooner.

“Yelena,” Natasha said as the pair slipped on their tactical suits and loaded them with the needed weapons. It didn’t go unnoticed to the older sister that Yelena was loading more than she needed. The blonde hummed in response. “Sestra.” Yelena looked up at that, noting Natasha’s concern. “You need a clear head for this, no one will think less of you if you want to stay behind,” she assured. Yelena scoffed and turned around as she finished securing her weapons.

“I’m coming,” she said, leaving no room for arguing.

“And I’m not going to stop you, I just need to know that you’re not going to be reckless,” Natasha insisted, concerned that there could be a red tint to her sister’s vision that could escalate the mission.

“Being reckless could cost y/n her life. I will not do that,” Yelena said, slamming a locker shut and marching out of the room.

Natasha wasn’t blind to Yelena’s cold shoulder since you had gone. She had been giving it to everyone, but the redhead knew that there could be several reasons why she was getting it. In Yelena’s eyes, Natasha’s disapproval of her involvement with you was what made you so scared to allow it to progress the way you both wanted. And she was right, but that was never the redhead’s intention and she was still trying to find the right moment to tell her that. For the time being, the best thing Natasha could do for her sister was stop her getting too hot headed.

Wanda was already waiting for them by the jet though one glance at Yelena told her that there wasn’t going to be much chat on the way there. She was concerned for your wellbeing too, but the Sokovian always needed an extra run through of the plan before a mission and Natasha didn’t hesitate to do so, their voices being the only ones to carry through the plane on the way.

They had to make the last stretch of their approach to the base on foot as despite the jet’s cloaking technology, they couldn’t risk being detected by whatever technology your captures possessed. The trio stopped short of the tree line along the edge of where the base was established in an abandoned prison in the 70s. There wasn’t a great deal of noticeable security, but the building's foundations played against the three heroes even with them knowing the rough floor plan.

Once they came across their first patrol, Wanda used her red mist to render the guard unconscious as the swiftest and most discreet way to do so, though a frown flickered across her features as red overtook the guard’s eyes and she slumped against the Sokovian. “What is it?” Natasha asked.

“Her mind,” Wanda began. “It’s… clouded,” her frown deepened and Yelena huffed.

“It doesn’t matter, let’s keep moving,” she insisted, already moving out from behind the corner and finding herself face to face with two more guards. They raised their guns with a shout but the blonde was quicker and stunned them both with her widow bites.

“Yelena,” Natasha warned. The plan had been for Wanda to deal with as many as the guards as possible. “They’re widows,” she announced when she spotted the identical weapons on the women’s wrists. Yelena paused, glancing back to where her teammates still lingered.

“I think they’re using the serum,” Wanda said. She of course had no experience with biotechnology, but from what she had been told about it and what she saw when she peered into just one mind, she was sure that was the cause.

“We’ll deal with it once y/n is safe,” Yelena hissed as she continued to stalk through the corridor. Wanda and Natasha exchanged a concerned glance and followed.

The new red room that the trio found themselves in was nothing like the original. It was clear that whoever was running it didn’t have the power, wealth or technology that Drekov did, but it was a running operation nonetheless. The control room that Natasha begrudgingly continued past had several screens set up with pinpoints coordinated though they seemed to only expand inside the US. There was a lab too, a simple one, that seemed to be producing the serum at a steady pace and those inside handling it appeared to do so with caution. Judged on these factors alone, Natasha got the feeling that no one in the base truly knew what they were doing. But the widows still knew how to fight.

As the three women continued to make their way through the building, Yelena showed no hesitance in handling the widows a little more aggressively than necessary. Wanda and Natasha reminded her numerous times that it would be more efficient for Wanda to handle the guards as Yelena’s advances were becoming gradually less quiet, but the blonde ignored them, set on getting to you. It took a while, but eventually Yelena opened the right door.

Peering around the compact room, all Yelena could see at first were the series of five strip curtains. The ones closest to the door were open, displaying an empty bed without any sheets or pillows with drawers overflowing with bandages and wraps next to it. It was some kind of medical ward, so Yelena crept in with Wanda behind her and Natasha watching the door.

The blonde pulled back each set of curtains to reveal more empty beds until she pulled back the last set and revealed your blood soaked one. Natasha swore internally when she saw Yelena take in your form, knowing that it was bad and that she should have prepared her sister for what she would find.

“Let me carry her,” Wanda said gently as she took the tubes out of your arms, watching the monitor next to you carefully as she did so. It was a gamble taking you away from the machines and medicine, but you couldn’t stay attached to them on the way out.

Yelena didn’t move. She stood in place and watched you sleep, noting how your chest wasn’t rising as much as it usually did and that you didn’t look peaceful like she always told you. She couldn’t help but stare at the deep wounds you wore across your body that looked as though they had been burned shut while others were wrapped. Even the bandages were stained red.

Once Wanda was done, she let her powers wrap securely around you, lifting you gradually into the air without you waking. “We need to go,” she said when Yelena didn’t move. Fortunately that was enough to break Yelena from her trance and she led the way out, avoiding Natasha's gaze.

The older sister let Yelena storm on ahead, knowing that she was in no mood to receive any comfort in that moment and that they probably didn’t have the time to give it. Given how many guards Yelena had left lying around, someone was bound to have noticed, and yet no alarms sounded.

“You guys are leaving already?” Rae asked, standing between the group and their exit. “And taking my stuff with you?” She frowned with faux hurt.

“She’s not yours, Rae,” Natasha declared as she stepped closer, immediately recognising the woman she had spent so long trying to track down. Natasha had never stopped, she promised you that, but Rae had been a ghost.

“But I thought we could talk before you go, it’s been twenty years,” she said as she stared at the widows with interest.

“Ruslana,” Yelena muttered as she registered that the woman in front of them wasn’t a stranger, but someone quite familiar. They had trained together, never with Natasha who she had only spent time with on that one mission, and the bitterness that had always been prominent in her performances was just as clear twenty years later.

“There you are,” Ruslana beamed. “Put y/n down and let me show you what I’m building,” she said, beckoning the widows that emerged from the surrounding corridors.

“Wanda,” Natasha warned.

“Going,” she agreed, having been in enough similar situations to know that a head start was always helpful. She started back the way she came with you close by her side.

“Tony, we need the widow’s antidote right now.” Natasha ordered into her coms. “Yelena, come on!” Natasha urged. As much as she wanted to stay to make sure Ruslana faced what she had assured you she would someday get, it wasn’t the time.

“Oh but Yelena, I was hoping we could exchange stories about our shared ex,” she pushed. Yelena’s gaze hardened. “Though I’m sure I'll win my y/n back once she’s got that serum in her,” Ruslana said, just as the widows around them bolted forwards as one.

“Yelena!” Natasha yelled, having no choice but to advance on the widows and give Wanda more time to get away with you. At that same moment, Yelena went straight for Ruslana who welcomed her advance with a grin.

The blonde struck at Ruslana just as she produced a concealed knife from her waistband and slashed it across Yelena’s forearm with precision. Yelena hissed at the burn but managed to land several punches with her anger driving her.

“I was so sorry to hear that things didn’t work out between you and y/n,” Ruslana continued to taunt as she outmanoeuvred the attacks she had been trained in. “You guys seemed cute together.”

“Fuck you,” Yelena spat. Her red vision was beginning to be a problem and stopped her noticing Ruslana’s tricks that allowed her to get a couple more swipes from the knife in hand. She couldn’t understand how you had ever been with a widow, or how Natasha recognised her.

“I’m sure you got enough of that from y/n. I taught her what she knows so you’re welcome for that,” she snipped.

“Yelena, we need to go now!” Natasha bellowed as the distance between her and Yelena gradually increased. She couldn’t keep the widows back for much longer and she couldn’t leave without her sister who wasn’t listening to a word she said.

One wrong move from Yelena and her legs were brought out from under her as Ruslana forced her to the ground with her knee in the blonde’s ribcage and her knife against her neck. Ruslana gazed down at Yelena with wild eyes, having anticipated that triumph ever since she was training in the red room. Yelena struggled, but the knee on her chest was pressing dangerously against her lungs.

“Oh you two really were perfect for each other,” Ruslana cooed. “You both look so good when you’re fighting for your lives,” she hissed with a manic grin. “And you both had it coming. I just wish I had hit her a couple more times with that axe,” she mused. At the confirmation that Ruslana was responsible for your injuries, something in Yelena snapped.

She hauled Ruslana’s head back by her hair and snatched the knife swiftly enough that Ruslana couldn’t stop her. She flipped their bodies over with enough force that the older Russian’s head hit the concrete with a sickening thud that Ruslana barely had the time to process because Yelena was bringing her knife down on her throat, digging it into the bone. Ruslana’s eyes widened as her lungs filled with blood and she gazed up at Yelena, gargling on the blood that had managed to pool in her mouth. Yelena lifted the blade out and brought it back down on her chest, directly into your attacker’s heart. The puncture was a deep one but drawn out enough that Yelena got to witness the moment it all registered for Ruslana.

“Suka,” Yelena muttered, keeping the knife lodged in Ruslana’s body and turning back to Natasha who had watched what she had done.

The pair didn’t waste another second in returning the way they had come with the widows hot on their trail. It would have been simpler just to take the exit in front of them, but they had to follow after Wanda to ensure she had made it out okay too. They had no reason to worry.

Just as the Russians made it out of the prison, they saw Wanda standing just several feet away with her arms raised and eyes set on the widows behind them. In an instant, a barrier was placed across the doorway much to the widows displeasure. They protested and fought against Wanda’s magic but it remained strong.

“Take her to the jet,” Natasha ordered to Yelena. “Me and Wanda need to keep the widows here until the antidote arrives,” she said with a finality Yelena didn’t question. She looked down at your still sleeping form and picked you up in the most comfortable position for your wounds, not wanting to cause more damage.

Yelena carried you for half a mile at the fastest jog she could physically handle. Though you didn’t wake for the entire journey, your rattly breathing echoed through Yelena’s consciousness and gave her the drive to continue to the awaiting jet. She couldn’t wipe away the sweat on her forehead or the tears falling down her cheeks because she mostly focused on the dampness that was spreading across her suit from you. Her own injuries were minor and foolish in comparison.

The medical team took over as soon as you and Yelena were in sight of the jet but Yelena was adamant on carrying you all the way, not trusting anyone to be as quick or careful as she was. When she finally laid you down on the awaiting stretcher, she took several stumbling steps back and watched on as the medics went to work, suddenly feeling useless as all she could do was observe the strangers save your life.

#marvel #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova #natasha romanoff #kate bishop #wanda maximoff

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srim01997 · 23 days ago

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Second Change| Aemond T. X OFC

Paring: Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen x Viseara Targaryen (OC), Aemond Targaryen x Viseara Targaryen (OC), Implied Aegon II Targaryen x Celtigar! OFC

Fandom: House of The Dragon (HBO)

Warning: Slight NSFW, Impregnant mentioned, Crispin being Crispin

Writer’s note: I tried to find that aemond gif lololo

Please ilke, comment and reblog!!

Previous Chapter | Second Chance masterlist | Next Chapter

Chapter 10 The wh*re of Red Keep

Viseara arrived on the battlefield, her figure barely visible from Aemond’s vantage point atop his dragon. Even from the distance, he could tell she was gravely injured from defending House Celtigar’s castle. The two dragons, one massive and one smaller but fierce, circled in preparation to clash, their riders issuing commands.

“Angōs, Nyx! (Attack, Nyx!) / Drakarys!”

The grayish-blue dragon roared defiantly, launching itself at the larger Vhagar with fearless determination. The sky lit up with fire so intense that soldiers below were forced to shield their eyes or scatter to avoid the inferno. Flames erupted from the mouths of both beasts, consuming everything in their path. Despite her experience as a dragonrider, Viseara’s disadvantage became evident. Vhagar’s sheer size and cunning overshadowed the smaller, valiant Nyx.

Nyx faltered, its neck caught in Vhagar’s jaws. Black blood sprayed like rain, scalding soldiers on the ground who screamed in agony. Viseara gripped her reins tightly as her dragon began to plummet. Her mismatched eyes caught sight of Vhagar diving after her, and she could barely make out Aemond shouting something over the roaring wind. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as her ears rang, rendering his words unintelligible.

She saw his gloved hand reaching for her, desperate and unyielding, before darkness engulfed her. Somewhere in the void, she thought she heard someone crying and felt the warmth of tears falling onto her face.

Viseara jolted awake just before dawn, her body aching from the aftermath of their passionate night. She shifted carefully, her limbs still tingling. The evidence of their union remained: the sticky warmth on her thighs and the soreness deep in her core. Grabbing a cloth, she dipped it into water and cleaned herself thoroughly, ensuring no trace remained.

Slipping back into the nightgown Aemond had stripped off her the night before, she walked to the balcony. The first rays of sunlight painted the horizon as she gazed out, lost in thought. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her from behind, startling her. Aemond was awake.

“Good morning, Viseara,” he murmured, no longer addressing her with the formal Aunt. The young prince, clad only in loose trousers, stood bare-chested behind her, his eyepatch absent in their privacy. “You left me alone in bed.”

“I didn’t leave you,” she teased, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I just didn’t want to disturb you.”

“When will you call me by my name? No—last night you screamed it until your voice gave out when I—”

“If you say one more word, I’ll kick you out of this room,” she snapped, her cheeks flushing at his audacity. She couldn’t deny the volume of their cries last night likely alerted everyone in the castle. Glancing at the bed, the soiled sheets bore testimony to their deeds. She pitied the maid who would have to clean the mess. “Are you feeling better now?”

She almost forgot he had been drugged the night before. But by whom?

“Aemond… Who drugged you?”

The one-eyed prince collapsed onto the bed, massaging his temples as if piecing together the events of the previous evening. After a moment, he spoke. “I drank tea given to me by Cassandra Baratheon. Not long after, I felt strange—almost lost control and pounced on her, but I managed to stop myself and came to you—”

“So you decided to unleash it on me instead?!” Viseara groaned, throwing his shirt at him. “Get dressed and go back to your room before your mother realizes you’ve been here—”

Before she could finish, Aemond sprang to his feet and captured her lips in a fervent kiss. She didn’t resist as his tongue sought hers, his hands pulling her closer. In moments, she found herself perched on the desk, his tall frame slotting between her legs.

Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, smirking. “If I hadn’t been under the influence last night, I’d have taken you somewhere other than the bed.”

Her palm smacked against his chest, the hard muscle beneath her hand reminding her of how much he’d grown. Meeting his gaze, she tilted her head up to kiss him again, guiding his hand beneath her nightgown. “See how much of a mess you made?”

“It’s still warm enough for me to enter again…”

“I’m sore.”

“I know…” Aemond murmured, nuzzling her neck as his hands began to unlace his trousers—

The sound of the door creaking open froze them both. Viseara’s children stood in the doorway, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief as they took in the compromising scene: their cousin and their mother, both partially undressed.

Scrambling to fix her clothing, Viseara turned to face them, cheeks aflame. “I can explain.”

Now, Viseara and Aemond sat side by side at the edge of the bed while Aenys, Maeria, and Elia stood before them with scrutinizing gazes. Aenys, the eldest son of the Rogue Princess, directed his sharp words at his cousin, who wore an annoyingly innocent expression.

"You slept with my mother, Aemond?" Aenys demanded, his tone icy. "You lay with her knowing she's my mother!"

"I know," Aemond admitted calmly, meeting the older cousin's piercing stare. "And I love her."

"How many times?" Aenys pressed, his voice rising. "How many times have you done this with my mother?"

"Quite a few," Aemond replied nonchalantly. "Sometimes she comes to me, but mostly, I come to her room."

Maeria and Elia exchanged wide-eyed looks, utterly speechless at their cousin's candid confession. Maeria, the eldest daughter, raised a hand to her mouth, stunned. She couldn't believe that this particular cousin, who had always shown disdain for marriage alliances, had been so consumed by their mother. It was not uncommon for Targaryens to marry within the family—siblings, cousins, or relatives of similar age—but an aunt-nephew relationship was far less frequent.

If this cousin became their stepfather, it would be utterly unsettling.

"Does anyone else know about this?" Maeria asked cautiously.

"Larys knew," Aemond replied flatly, "but he's dead now, so his loose tongue is no longer a concern. Don't worry; I plan to marry your mother."

"That’s not the point!" Aenys shot back. "You’re betrothed to Lord Baratheon’s daughter, yet you’ve been sneaking into my mother’s bed—"

"I am not betrothed," Aemond interrupted, his voice hardening. "I will not marry anyone except Viseara."

At that moment, Aenys wished his uncle Daemon could hear how desperately the one-eyed prince wanted to wed his mother. Aenys's mind raced with questions—had his mother become pregnant? Aemond showed no remorse for his actions, sitting there as though everything was perfectly acceptable. The Celtigar heir spoke in a measured tone.

"At least the Baratheon girl is closer to your age," Aenys said, glaring. "Your grandfather and mother will never—"

"Then I’ll take her to Dragonstone or one of the Free Cities and have a priest marry us," Aemond declared with a smirk. "In nine months, you might even have a new sibling."

"You!" Aenys lunged at Aemond, but the three women quickly intervened, pulling the two apart. Viseara’s voice cut through the tension.

"Aemond, how could you say such things?" she chided. "I’m too old to bear children."

"I know," Aemond replied, placing a firm hand on her lower stomach. "But what if you already are, and you don’t realize it yet?"

"I drank moon tea after you left my bed, Aemond."

"Seven hells, if I get a new sibling now, I’ll throw myself off the battlements," Aenys groaned dramatically.

Elia cleared her throat. "Let’s focus on the real issue. Lady Baratheon is furious because Aemond disappeared. She claims—or rather, insists—that he abandoned her after taking her maidenhood—"

"I did no such thing!" Aemond’s voice thundered, then steadied as he explained. "I was drugged and came straight to your mother—"

"Drugged?" Maeria interjected. "Cassandra Baratheon, of all people, drugged you? That woman is too dimwitted to pull something like that off unless someone gave her the means."

"There aren’t many who could make such a potion," Aemond said, rubbing his temples.

"And you were foolish enough to accept a drink from someone you barely know," Maeria said, narrowing her eyes. "It’s a miracle it wasn’t poison, or you’d be feasting with the Stranger instead of sitting here with my mother."

"Maeria," Aenys cut in, confused. "How do you know it was Cassandra?"

"Do I have to deal with both a dense brother and a clueless cousin?" Maeria sighed.

"Maeria!"

"Apologies, Mother," she said, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Here’s what I know: I overheard Maris complaining about how she didn’t want to marry Aemond because of his missing eye. As for Ellyn, she’s been flirting with Aenys—"

"Hey!" Aenys protested. "I was merely being polite to her."

"Think carefully," Elia chimed in. "Which is worse: Aemond being accused of abandoning Lady Baratheon, or the entire Red Keep finding out that Aemond and Mother have been sharing a bed?"

"Considering how loud it was last night, I’d say everyone already knows," Aenys muttered, shooting a glare at Aemond. "And you’re not even sorry!"

"I am sorry, cousin," Aemond said, his smirk returning. "Sorry that I’ll be doing it again."

He was pulled from his reverie of last night’s escapades by a knock at the door and a servant’s voice.

"Prince Aemond, Princess Viseara—Queen Alicent requests your presence."

“Seven hells”

Alicent tried to comfort Cassandra, who continued her theatrical sobbing beside her. The queen’s dark eyes scanned the people entering the hall. She strode forward and slapped her son hard enough to make his face turn. Viseara quickly interjected.

"You should hear him out first, Your Grace—"

"He violated her and then disappeared to be with you. He must take responsibility for this," Alicent said, her voice heavy with disappointment as she looked at her son. "I never raised you to behave this way."

Viseara noticed the defiant glint in Aemond’s single eye and quickly spoke up.

"Your son was drugged, Your Grace. It was an aphrodisiac, the kind used in brothels. How Lady Baratheon came into possession of such a substance, I do not know. Perhaps from one of the Maesters?"

"Or perhaps someone gave it to her," the rogue princess suggested, tilting her head. "Don’t you think that if it had been poisoned instead, you and your family might now face charges of attempting to assassinate the royal family?"

"I... I can’t say," Cassandra stammered, avoiding the rogue princess’s piercing gaze. "But the person who gave it to me said it would help me win the prince’s favor. I didn’t mean to drug him, and… he got up and left. He didn’t… violate me."

At that moment, the queen felt as if the world was crumbling around her. Her second son didn’t want to marry, the issue with Lady Baratheon was unresolved, and now Viseara was involved in this scandal. The rogue princess continued.

"That night, he was with me, and I—"

"I lay with her," Aemond declared unapologetically. "I didn’t violate Lady Baratheon that night because I went to my aunt’s chambers, as you all heard."

The rogue princess wanted to scream. That wasn’t part of her plan! She had been trying to help cover up Aemond’s indiscretion, not throw gasoline onto an already blazing fire.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Ser Criston murmuring something, and she caught the words "Red Keep harlot." Her hand twitched toward her sword, but Aemond’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Ser Criston, what did you just call Princess Viseara?" Aemond’s sharp gaze locked onto the Kingsguard knight, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. "Say it again."

"I said nothing, Your Grace," Criston replied flatly.

"Such a liar. Not that I’m accusing you, Ser Criston," Viseara quipped with a smirk before turning to Alicent. "So, Your Grace, what will you do about this?"

The queen inhaled deeply, then spoke. "Princess Viseara, I must admit this is a difficult decision. But I beg to discuss this matter with you privately after this issue is resolved."

Viseara spent several hours in her chambers after the heated discussion between Lord Baratheon, Otto, and Alicent about how to handle the scandal. The best solution to quell the rumors surrounding Aemond and the rogue princess seemed to be sending Viseara to Dragonstone or the Silent Sisters. But such a move might result in an outcome similar to Princess Saera’s, or worse, Daemon might burn King’s Landing to the ground. The Dragonstone option was deemed the lesser evil.

The rogue princess arrived at Dragonstone on the back of her dragon, greeted by none other than Daemon. The rogue prince frowned as he noticed servants unloading her luggage and belongings from the ship.

Before he could speak, she raised a finger. "Don’t ask."

"If you don’t want to explain, fine. Welcome to Dragonstone, dear sister," he said, throwing an arm around her shoulders. "Don’t worry, you won’t starve. Just don’t touch my lady’s lemon cakes."

"Better guard your wine, or it’ll vanish bottle by bottle," she retorted.

For months, she settled into Dragonstone, finding solace in her twin brother’s mischievous grin. But something still felt missing, though she chose not to dwell on it.

Aenys remained by his mother’s side, while Elia stayed with Aegon as his wife and Maeria, as Alicent’s handmaiden, could not follow Viseara.

Though banished to Dragonstone, Viseara had no intention of fading into obscurity. She predicted that in three or four months, Vaemond would seize the opportunity to challenge Lucerys’s claim to Driftmark while Corlys was still recovering. If successful, House Velaryon’s fleet would fall to the Greens, and Daemon would inevitably kill Vaemond in the throne room.

Her role now was to navigate the coming storm, knowing full well the stakes at play. If she wanted to ensure Rhaenyra’s ascension to the Iron Throne, she would have to be ready for the real battle ahead.

TBC.

#house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hotd #aemond targaryen x oc #hotd smut #aemond smut #aemond fic #prince aemond targaryen #aemond x oc

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emerald-chaos · 1 year ago

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hehehehe hey y’all it’s me again.

Remener how nothing bad at all happened on this season of jjk and we got to watch Nanami go to Malaysia with absolutely nothing else occurring? me too. What a fantastic season. :-)

In the process of mourning, grieving, sobbing, coming to terms with the fact that the season was over—I spotted this piece of absolute gold on Twitter and it gave me a little bity idea. Thus, this fic was born! I hope you enjoy loving on Kento as much as i do <3.

pairing: Nanami Kento x gn!reader (no descriptors mentioned)

warnings: none :-) just a fluffy little self-indulgent piece (to stave off the horrors)

divider by by @/cafekitsune

not beta’d, we die like men

After finally finishing some work that you’d been putting off until the last minute (one of Nanami’s lesser enjoyed traits of yours), you stood up from the chair and stretched your body out. A few pops here and there as well as a soft groan tumbling from your lips as your sore muscles cursed you for the horrible posture you’ve never bothered to fix.

“Sweetheart, how on earth do you sit like that?”

“I’ll have you know this is my body’s natural position.”

“To curl around yourself like a shrimp?”

Nanami’s teases dance through your head as you smile to yourself, turning off the lamp at your desk and retreating from the room—making sure to close the door behind you so none of your pets made their way inside.

Tired feet carry you toward your bedroom, a yawn rippling through your body—one strong enough to cause a tear to well up in your eye. A hand, balled into a fist, reaches up and catches it before it threatens to drop down your cheek. Stealing a glance at the clock in the hallway, you couldn’t help but grin to yourself.

Barely half past midnight.

You couldn’t wait to gloat in Kento’s face about how quickly you’d finished all that work. His nagging words entering your head again—something, something, “you’ll be in here all night trying to finish what you could’ve done throughout the week”.

Never underestimate the power of a stressed individual who’s put off every single task until the last possible minute.

Your fingers curl around the doorknob, preparing the must smug face you can muster as you turn it and push the door inward. Stepping in to the room, you open your mouth to begin your taunts but as your eyes fall on your bed you find yourself rendered silent.

There, sat up against the headboard with the covers over his lap, was your sweet husband—fast asleep. The book he’d been reading seems to have slipped forward out of his hands onto his lap, page still open to where he’d presumably left off as his thumb barely pressed the pages apart.

The sight made you want to rip out your heart (in a good way).

Taking careful steps forward, you investigated the scene before you a little more. Kento’s head was leaned back, slightly tilted to the side as his glasses rested upon his nose. There was a soft rise and fall to his chest, lips parted as he exhaled air through them. At his feet on top of the blanket was the cat he said he didn’t want, curled into a perfect little ball—snoozing just like their father.

As your eyes wandered over to your side of the bed, you felt your heart clench in your chest once again. On your nightstand was your water bottle and the sheets had been pulled back for you, as though he was doing his best to stay awake until you came back to bed.

Turning back to him, you gently slipped your phone from your back pocket and snapped a few photos of the too perfect for words sight in front of you. Smiling, you tossed your phone on your side of the bed and gently removed the book from Kento’s hand—ensuring to capture the page he was on with the bookmark on his nightstand. It was obvious how exhausted he was, given that he didn’t move an inch as you did so.

Gently pulling the glasses off of his face, you placed them on top of the book you’d just retrieved. Smiling at the soft sigh Kento let out in his sleep, you brushed a few stray strands of blonde hair away from his eyes before getting your own self ready to climb in bed.

Finishing your routine, you’d plugged your phone in and sighed your own soft noise as you slipped into the comfort of your sheets. Triple checking you’d set your alarm one last time, turned off your bedside lamp, and you turned to the sleeping man beside you with a smile. You leaned in gently, pressing a few kisses to his cheek and jaw before snuggling down and draping yourself over his chest. The smile on your face only grew as you listened to the soft thump of his heartbeat in your ear.

Within seconds, that familiar heaviness of sleep found itself in your eyes as you began to drift off to sleep.

You supposed gloating could wait until the morning—moments like these with Nanami were already so few and far between.

#nanami kento #kento nanami #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fluff #kento nanami fluff #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #kento nanami x you #jujutsu kaisen fic #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk fluff

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dontknowmanijustworkhere · 2 months ago

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Summary: (In this, Hermione plays quiddich). Harry makes the mistake of joking that Hermione and Ginny are both sweaty which sparks ruthless revenge

Takes place during HBP

@ultimatelee19

I know I already apologized for taking so long but again, I'm very sorry! Next time you have a request, it won't take as long as this did

///

After an intense practice, Harry snuck the girls up to the sixth year boys dormitory to catch their breath and relax. The other boys were out elsewhere, though Ron should be back soon. Harry had lost track of his best friend once practice concluded.

"I'm so sore," Hermione grimaced. "I don't know what I was thinking when I let you all talk me into this."

Ginny didn't have that same ache. She was used to playing with her brothers back home. "Come on, Hermione. You'll get over it. You just have to keep practicing."

Hermione didn't look convinced. "I suppose."

"You were great out there," Ginny continued to encourage her.

"She's right," Harry piped up. "It was really impressive for it only being your third practice."

Hermione was smiling, her cheeks pink.

"At this rate, we'll definitely win against Slytherin," Ginny said, throwing her arm around Harry's neck.

"Maybe you can manage that without being so sweaty," Harry joked, sliding himself out of Ginny's hold.

"What?" The redhead demanded.

"Err, you're sweaty, Ginny. Hermione too."

"What?" Hermione said, frowning. "So are you."

"It's not that bad," Ginny protested. He shrugged. "It's not!"

"Sorry, Gin. Just telling the truth," he said, a small smile of amusement peeking out.

Ginny narrowed her eyes playfully. "You've done it now, Potter."

"What does that-" Harry was tackled to the floor. She straddled him. "What the- What are you doing?" He'd gone a little red given the position they were both in, her on his waist like that.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson on how not to talk to a girl," she mock scolded him.

Harry let out a high pitch gasp when her nails softly began to tickle his stomach. He'd never been tickled too much, so this sent shockwaves through his body. His shirt was pushed up, her fingers dancing over his bare skin.

"G-Ghihihiny!" He spasmed with laughter.

Her eyes gleamed mischievously. "Next time you don't remark on a girl's appearance."

He was laughing much too hard to respond.

Meanwhile, sitting with her back against the end of the bed, Hermione was watching them, lips tugged up in a smile of her own. "I didn't know he was this ticklish."

"You and Ron never tickled him?" Ginny said, surprised.

"Well, no. We've never really thought about it, I suppose."

"Me and my brothers had tickle fights all the time," Ginny said. "Fred and George were ruthless."

"It seems to run in the family," Hermione remarked, referring to how Ginny had yet to stop.

"This is nothing," Ginny laughed. "You haven't really seen me have a go at it yet. Watch this."

She blew a raspberry on Harry's abdomen. His laughter came out as a half scream. It was singlehandedly the worst thing he'd ever experienced in all his life.

This made Hermione giggle. It was so unlike Harry to be this way.

"Ticklish, Harry?" Ginny teased. "Better hope Malfoy doesn't find out about this."

Even though Harry was technically stronger than Ginny, he was helpless in this situation. She'd rendered him weak in a matter of seconds, unable to do more than laugh and spit out gibberish.

"He's worse than Ron," Ginny said, delighted. "Fred and George used to get him good. Hermione, come on and have a go."

"Oh, I don't know-"

"Come on," Ginny insisted. "Help me teach him a lesson."

Hermione sighed. "Oh, alright..."

Harry still couldn't get his words out. It made it difficult for him to form anything resembling a coherent sentence. The last thing he could handle was for Hermione to join in. But much to his horror, one of his shoes was pulled off, as was his sock. His laughter escalated in pitch once more when Ginny gave him another raspberry, and here came his supposed best friend, tickling the middle of his bloody foot.

"Nohohoho!"

Ginny cackled, clearly pleased with how this was turning out. "I think I have a brush in my bag."

Hermione was confused for a moment, until the reasoning became clear to her. "Won't that be too much for him?"

"Fred and George did it to us and we're fine," Ginny said dismissively.

However, for Harry, he was not fine. The bristles tickled worse than Ginny or Hermione's nails did. His laughter was louder, panicked. He'd meant to say stop, but it came out unintelligible.

It was horrible, much worse than the tickling curse could ever be. It was also massively embarrassing. The door to the dorm was shut but Harry shuddered to think of what people might think should they be able to hear him.

"Hey, Hermione, switch with me!" Ginny called.

He hoped his best friend, who was much more sensible than the rest, would decline and leave his feet alone instead of engaging in such foolishness. But as it so happens, Hermione did not feel that way.

He was given a brief resting period where they quickly changed positions. Harry heaved a breath of air. His stomach as sore, his throat dry and there were tears that'd leaked out of the corners of his eyes.

But just as quickly had it stopped did it start yet again.

The dormitory was once again filled with his desperate laughter. Harry thought he might truly be dying. It must be it. He would meet his demise right here and not at the hands of Voldemort, but two ruthless girls he'd mistakenly considered his friends.

Hermione's fingers on his stomach were no better than Ginny's had been. She skittered them all around his abdomen, sliding them up and dragging them back down. She left no part of him untouched.

And then, unexpectedly, the door opened up.

He supposed luck was on his side for once when it turned out to be Ron. Harry would have been quite mortified if it had been one of the other boys.

He expected some sort of questioning to commence, with him wondering what the bloody hell they were doing and why they were doing it. But nothing of the sort happened.

"Rhohon!" He yelled out. "Phlhlease help!"

Ron's eyes darted from him and to the girls. Harry wished he could use legilimency to find out what he was thinking, because all he did was come down on his knees, giving Harry a false sense of hope, giving him a raspberry and leaving just like that.

"Nhohoho! Comehehe bahahck!"

#tickle fic #tickling #harry potter tickle fic #harry potter tickle #harry potter #hermione granger #ginny weasley #ron weasley

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kylobith · 1 day ago

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Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 6 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Epilogue

Summary: In the dawning hours, Éomer confronts a reality he never anticipated.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Warning: Light NSFW passages in the beginning, but no smut.

Word count: 8,430

Read it on AO3 here.

‘You are not Éorhild.’

Éomer fixed the freckled young maid with a guarded gaze as she set the breakfast tray before him. Effluvium of scorched bread had awoken him with a start, its odour having offended his nostrils and disrupted his dreams. A sense of unease had stirred within him, and his instinct already heralded that something was amiss in Meduseld.

Éorhild would never have allowed the yeast to scald. She knew his tastes better even than her own, and if a dish had gone awry, she would have swiftly replaced it with something far more fitting. Yet here it was, this imperfect offering, placed upon his lap as though nothing differed from the ordinary course of his day. Something was wrong.

The girl curtsied, her awkwardness apparent as she stumbled upon her own feet. As he blinked away the last remnants of his slumber, recognition dawned. It was Wídrid, one of Edelmer’s newest recruits, whose arrival Éorhild had announced to him on one of their regular meetings by the hearth. The sight of her — so unsteady in her duties — gave him pause. The chamberlain must have been caught well unawares to assign such an inexperienced pupil to serve the prince.

‘G-Good morning, your Grace,’ she stammered, her voice barely rising above a mumble. ‘Indeed, I am not she; my name is—'

‘Wídrid,’ he cut her off coldly, regretting his attitude towards her within a heartbeat. ‘I have heard of you. Tell me, why is my chambermaid not attending to me today? Is she busy?’

The servant, not older than fifteen by the look of her, twiddled with a loose thread from her apron, her eyes downcast.

‘I reckon she’s fallen ill, sir — I mean, my lord. I think. Edelmer… he wouldn’t say.’

A glacial wave washed over him as Wídrid’s words sank in. Ill? Had he, in his unknowing eagerness, caused her more harm than he had assumed? The thought tightened around his bleeding heart like an iron band, and for a moment, the world around him began to spin.

He had seen little of the realm of the female body, had scarcely understood its fragility, its delicate composition. What if his ignorance, aggravated by the lustful impatience of an enamoured lover, had already brought her suffering?

The weight of the unknown bore its weight on him, curling his shoulders beneath its mass. Air eluded him, and he sat there, bewildered and suffocating, wrestling with the unsettling idea that he had been too reckless, too impetuous in his desire. Another eventuality presented itself to him, far more dreadful.

Could it be? Could he have already rendered her heavy, so early? His breath faltered. His stomach churned. Late at night, it had oftentimes occurred to him to imagine the two of them raising a bright little girl in the countryside. Their daughter would have been the jewel of Rohan, with her mother’s eyes and his nose. He would have Éorhild name the child, listened to her listing names while rubbing her sore feet, secretly hoping to find that she considered Olwyn or Widwena — his favourite choices. He would have cradled her all the way through her painful labour, held her up to aid with the delivery, whispered words of encouragement and reassurance into her ear. And he would have been proud — oh, so proud — to see the woman he loved above all else, weeping with joy while she held the fruit born of their union to her heart.

The beauty of the image turned sour at once. A child in their circumstances would constitute a threat — a precious but dangerous vulnerability. It would expose them, unveil their secret to the prying eyes of the court, and the consequences would be swift and unforgiving.

Théoden would not hesitate. He would strip Éorhild of her dignity and banish her as though she were but a discarded garment. And if the child was born, he would be no less cruel. He could see it so clearly — his uncle, with his icy glare on her, tearing the child from her breast, condemning her with a finality that left no room for mercy. And for Éomer, if he were lucky, he would only endure the king’s disapproval and the scorn of Éowyn’s reproaches.

But if the worst came to pass, if the full extent of his actions were to be discovered, if it reached the king’s ears — then no punishment would be sufficient to mend the ruin he had caused. The defence they had crafted to justify their joining would not change a thing. Her life would be forfeit. He would lose her. Lose everything.

And the bairn? It would be thrown into the arms of the guardians of an orphanage, far from Edoras, so Éomer would never find it, should his folly lead him to wish to raise it. Or, it would be abandoned, somewhere, to fend for itself and die from the cold, or devoured by a beast.

His mind spun in a whirlpool of terrifying eventualities, each one darker than the last, as he sought to quell the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Were the consequences of this forbidden, consummated bond, too much for them both to bear?

‘Are you not hungry, your Majesty?’

Wídrid’s voice lured him back to reason. Surely, it could not be that — Éorhild was not with child. The prospect was too far-fetched, and much too soon. No, this had to be something else. Something common, that he could explain.

Perhaps her excursion through the halls of Meduseld clad in naught but a worn-out shift and a thin robe had made her susceptible to the usual winter afflictions that plagued anyone exposed to them during these harsh months. That was it. She had awoken in pain, gathered her clothes, and returned to her quarters to preserve him. That was an attentive thing she was most capable of.

He let out a sigh and begrudgingly stirred his fork into the unappetising mush on his plate.

‘I am. Thank you for, um… breakfast.’

‘I will pour you a bath while you eat.’

The girl had barely finished talking before she turned swiftly, heading towards his private washroom. Caught off guard, Éomer dropped the fork into the plate, its loud clank stopping her in her tracks.

‘There is no need,’ he said, struggling to pass the raw meat down his throat. ‘You may take your leave. I shall first pay a visit to Éorhild to enquire about her state.’

‘Are you sure?’

His insistent stare dissuaded the maid from proceeding, and she bowed.

‘Very well. Please do tell us when you need something.’

Without further ado, the servant exited, her nonchalant footsteps echoing down the hallway. Éomer, vexed, spat out the disintegrating and bland food, its taste now bitter in his mouth. With a frustrated grunt, he shoved the tray aside and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. Stretching his fatigued limbs, he gathered the discarded clothes from the floor and draped them over his footboard, his mind still reeling. Much to his relief, he caught a glimpse of the garments he had taken off her when she was still unconscious after her journey to Master Guthláf’s office. He would bring them to her, he decided, when he would pass by her chamber.

As he dressed, his eyes lingered on the disordered bed, with its sheets untucked and ruffled. The vivid memories of the previous night rushed back to him — the warmth of her body, the caresses of her hands along his spine, the cautious clawing on his shoulders now marked with red, the refrains of her moans. What a delight it had been.

By merely glancing at the disarray of his bed, Éomer could envision the two of them once more. The crumpled linens still bore the imprint of their entwined bodies, their lingering whispers woven into every fold and crease.

A startling clarity was unfolding in his mind’s eye, and he could view himself, inebriated from the astounding velvety warmth that enfolded him when he first joined her. The sensation had been so profoundly arresting that it had momentarily disarmed him. His initial, unpractised movements had been erratic and clumsy — yet she had guided him with a hand cupping his buttocks, as if to remind him of the same confidence he wielded astride his steed.

It was then, with her soothing encouragement, that he had reclaimed the poise of a seasoned rider. Éorhild had taken her turn to lead him, too, for a brief moment — briefly mounting him with an elegance that left him awestruck, she had offered him the privilege to witness her abandon, to revel in her unguarded delight. He had traced the contours of her silhouette, explored the places his earlier attentions had overlooked, savoured every curve.

But it was as the commander of this unbridled dance that he had finally surrendered to her. He had come undone with a force he had not suspected, spending himself while desperately chanting her name against her lips. He had cradled her in his arms, holding her head as though she were the most precious treasure on Arda, even as they both trembled in the aftermath of the tempest of their own making.

Then, she had nestled against his torso, her golden head resting tenderly upon his heart, her delicate fist loose upon his sternum. He had crowned her silken tresses with reverent kisses, his fingers tracing soothing patterns upon her upper arm. They had remained in silence, the weight of words unnecessary, basking in the stillness infused with the afterglow of their earthly and spiritual union.

The quiet had stretched on, planting a seed of doubt within him. Though her warmth against him spoke of contentment, he dreaded the unspoken. Fearing that the first words to break this solemn moment would be an expression of regret, he had been the one to speak first, seeking to shield her from the burden that loomed over the pair.

‘I wonder what it is that lovers typically discuss after they…’

The candour of his observation had drawn forth unrestrained laughter from them both, a sound as pure and liberating as the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon. She had buried her smile against his chest, the succinct spurts of her mirth the sweetest alleviation of all of his worries. Her joy had become his solace, and he felt their complicity strengthen with each pleasantry they shared afterwards.

‘It must be said,’ he had suddenly remarked after they had conversed for a minute or two, their gazes lost in each other, ‘minstrels and bards do not sing the praises of earth-coloured eyes often enough.’

And she had blushed. And she had kissed him.

‘I love you, Éomer,’ she had murmured, mere seconds before her body surrendered to sleep.

Once more, a grin graced his lips. How extraordinary it felt to be cherished so ardently by one as pure as she. His heart swelled with the power of his love. All he could wish was to prove himself worthy of her by attending to her every need while she was ailing, with the same tenderness and dedication she had shown him for sixteen years, whether he saw it or not. If she lay unwell in her solitary bed, he resolved, he would not leave her to suffer alone. The world and its expectations could be damned, and the king could grumble all he wanted. It was his turn to care for Éorhild, and he would see it done. Duty could wait one day longer.

Éomer collected the clothes she had left behind in her haste, folding them again with care before departing his quarters. Each step he took closer to her lonely bedchamber was accompanied by a storm within him, a mighty swarm of butterflies thrumming and fluttering with the strength of a dozen spirited stallions. As the distance between them dwindled, their fervour only grew, his heart hammering against his ribs in anticipation.

At last, he stood before her door, the polished wood gleaming in the torch-lit corridor. He paused, smoothing the folds of his tunic and brushing a hand through his hair, a futile attempt at taming both his nerves and his appearance. With a deep breath, he raised his knuckles and gave the door a knock.

No response.

Assuming that she might still be asleep, he pushed the latch in a slow motion, not wanting to startle her, and the door opened. But as he peered into the room, the garments he carried slipped from his grasp and collapsed to the ground in a muffled thud.

The chambermaid’s chamber was vacant, its bed stripped bare. Éomer entered with urgency, his boots thumping upon the stone. His hands darted to the nearest drawer, flipping it open with little regard for decorum — but it was filled with nothing but neat and perfumed linens. He moved to the modest wardrobe, wrenching his doors apart and finding naught but bare hangers and folded head coverings, their pristine arrangement mocking his search.

No gowns, no personal tokens, no trace of Éorhild remained.

Only what had remained upon his chair.

A frost settled inside his chest, sinking deeper with each empty compartment he inspected. Bearing it no more, he fled the room, neglecting to even shut the door behind him or take her belongings with him. As he took the first corner in the hallway, he collided with Wídrid, who was on her way to bring him fragrances.

‘Your Majesty!’ she gasped in sheer shock. ‘I apologise for not looking where I was going.’

‘Where is Éorhild?’ he barked, grabbing her by the shoulders, barely refraining from shaking her.

‘I-I do not know, my lord, honest!’

The girl’s cry prompted him to release her. He buried his face into his hands and drew in a deep breath to steady himself. If Éorhild was in danger, he had to keep calm for her. He would be of no use to her if he lost his mind.

‘I am the one to apologise, Wídrid,’ he said, suppressing a sob.

‘That is quite alright, my lord. Come. I will pour you a bath.’

‘No. Take me to Edelmer.’

‘But—’

‘Will you not cease questioning my every command?’ he roared, losing his footing in his restraint. ‘Am I not your prince?!’

Frightened by his outburst, she gave a hasty nod and led him towards the hall. Her trembling hand dabbed at the tears pouring from her youthful eyes. There would come a time for him to offer her a sincere apology, but that was not this day. Urgency overshadowed contrition.

Servants leapt out of their course as they passed them by, celebrating his passage with respectful curtseys. Even as he entered the kitchens, where the royals seldom would set foot in, the maids and cooks were startled into dropping pans and brooms to bow in a cacophony that exasperated him to the highest extent. Among them, one figure stood, hunched over a ledger, his quill scratching away at a piece of parchment.

‘Edelmer,’ Éomer called out, drawing the chamberlain’s attention, ‘may I have a word with you?’

Edelmer dipped his quill back into its pot and dragged his chair against the gravel to rise. He acknowledged the prince’s presence with a single nod of his head and turned to the expecting personnel.

‘Now, now, do not stand rooted to your stations,’ his nonchalant yet firm voice ordered them, ‘back to work!’

As the raucous activities resumed, Edelmer, with the flick of his wrist, grabbed a single rolled-up scroll from his desk, and motioned for Éomer to follow him out. The prince obeyed, his eyes flickering around him, hoping for a glimpse of his lover. But there was, again, no sign of her.

Since neither Théoden nor Éowyn occupied the great hall, the chamberlain chose to take the conversation to the refuge beneath the lofty arches, where the light barely reached, and ears could not pry.

‘How may I be of service, your Grace?’ he enquired, although there was a glint in his grey eyes that the prince took for recognition.

‘Perhaps you could clarify an unfortunate situation for me, Edelmer,’ Éomer started. ‘This morning, it was not my chambermaid that brought me my meal. Why? Has Éorhild not fulfilled the expectations of her position? I would have preferred to have discussed it with you, first, considering that I appointed her myself.’

Edelmer let out a long, drawn-out sigh, his gaze fixed on the prince for an uncomfortable amount of time. His lips were pinched and twitched every few seconds, caught in a nervous tension that tightened and released with each passing thought. Éomer knew that look all too well — it was that of a man at war with himself, weighing his words in fear that they might breach a trust or cause offense, or spill out against his will before they were fully formed and crafted.

‘Your Majesty, Éorhild left Meduseld at dawn.’

‘And when is she set to return? Why not send another servant in her stead for whatever task you gave her? Surely, somebody else could have gone into Edoras. She would not have ruined my meal the way Wídrid did.’

The chamberlain leant heavily against one of the intricately carved columns, with a furrowed brow digging deep creases into the ageing skin of his forehead. His voice dropped to a whisper, cautious and measured, as though the very walls were prying.

‘You do not understand, my lord,’ he interrupted himself, his eyes darting to the three maids bustling past them. Each carried a chair fit for the king’s breakfast, their chatter and hurried steps resounding within the Golden Hall. Edelmer’s fingertip traced idle patterns upon the varnished wood, his tension most obvious as he braced for the prince’s reaction to what he would next unveil. ‘She left Edoras altogether, of her own volition.’

Éomer staggered back, his strength deserting him as the wall behind him cushioned his collapse before it occurred. The bitter tang of his ill-fated breakfast clawed its way up his throat, mingling with the violent churn of his stomach. Cold sweat broke over him, trailing down his spine and temples in icy rivulets. His quivering fingers curled tightly into his palms to stave off the urge to heave. The hall narrowed down upon him, his mind a battlefield of shock and horror.

Why would she leave him? The questioned hammered at his skull, slurring the distant blather of working servants. Its seething venom poisoned every drop of his blood, rotting him from the inside. All the light that had enlivened his gaze vacated it, rendering him hollow, an empty carcass that he no longer wished to fill.

Had the demonstrations of his adoration proved insufficient to anchor her to his side? The festering thorns of doubt snaked around his heart. Perhaps, as he feared, he had been too brutish in his ways — as the man of the saddle and the sword that he was, unskilled in the finer touch that love demands. Had his passion, raw and unrefined, overwhelmed her, leaving her to feel caged rather than cherished?

Or worse, had his hold upon her, born of desperation and yearning, been so fervent that he had bruised her in both body and spirit, proving to her that he was incapable of the gentleness she deserved?

Had the ecstasy they experienced betwixt the sheets been a mere figment of his longing heart? Two of his fingers pressed against his shoulder blade and there it was — that faint ripple of pain, a souvenir of her passion. Her nails had carved this reddened mark, left when her cries of delight crescendoed with the accelerated pace of his thrusts. And her scent — flowery and salty — still infused his hair, testifying of the hours she had spent nestled against him. No dream, however sweet, could have conjured this evidence. It had been real. Without a doubt.

Yet, what force could have compelled her to flee the capital at sunrise? Could he, unbeknownst to himself, aggrieved her spirit so profoundly that she could no longer bear to remain in his vicinity? Had she seen for herself no other path than that of a fugitive?

His chest cramped, a knot of bewilderment and sorrow constricting his breath. No. It could not be as simple as his shortcomings. She loved him — he knew it, as surely as he knew that the sun would set for the moon to rise. Her every word, the tenderness of her caress, and the unconcealed devotion in her gaze had spoken for her in ways that words would have failed to convey.

If she had awoken forlorn enough to relinquish her sanctuary and livelihood, then something far more harrowing than his clumsiness must have befallen her. His mind, frantic in its quest for truth, circled one looming spectre — something that had shadowed their bond from the very start.

The crown.

The realisation struck him like a hefty mace’s blow. The very thing promised to give him power and status was the shackle that had bound them to secrecy. If his inkling proved right, then her departure was not a rejection of him but an act of self-preservation — a desperate flight from the peril their love had burdened her with.

After all, she would have been the only one to truly suffer its consequences. While he might endure scolding from Théoden or Éowyn’s sharp tongue, judgement from his peers or disgust from the other servants, their transgression would have fallen squarely on her shoulders.

Society would not have seen her as the woman he loved, but as the temptress who had overstepped her station to corrupt the prince’s attention from matters of state. They would have branded her as a schemer, a filthy whore, a manipulator. No one would care that their union had been forged in love instead of ambition or depravity. For her, there would be no reprieve, no tolerance. Her livelihood stripped away, her reputation destroyed, and her safety imperilled. While he, as heir to the throne, would emerge unscathed.

So, he reckoned, the forecast had pervaded her and forced her to leave him.

Unless…

Somebody had had a hand in her disappearance.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Éomer hissed, ‘was it by my uncle’s decree?’

‘No, it was not,’ Edelmer replied earnestly, hardly raising an eyebrow. ‘As I do every morning, I arose in the dark hours still and came to the hall to craft my usual list for task distribution. I had yet to complete the first column when she appeared to me, dressed hastily and with her hair dishevelled.’

The prince exhaled a breath of relief, his shoulders sagging. Éorhild lived. The haunting vision of her lifeless body, executed in secret and concealed from him so he would have no grave to mourn or flowers to lay, dissipated like a shadow chased by the dawn.

‘How did she seem?’ he intoned.

‘Terrified beyond belief. I had never seen her in such a state, not even in our exile to the Hornburg.’

The chamberlain turned his scroll between his hands.

‘All she did,’ he continued, his voice subdued, ‘was return her uniform. She was crying, apologising to me that she could not bring herself to continue in this task — or that of a servant — for a moment longer. I swear to you, my lord, that I did try to draw more from her, to understand the root of her anguish. But her weeping… it had stolen all coherence from her words.’

His eyes lifted, clouded with a deep sorrow that aged him beyond his years. Éomer had never witnessed such a disturbance within this steadfast man, the eternal voice of reason in Meduseld.

‘It was as if madness had struck her. That brilliance in her eyes, that spark that I have seen in her since she was a child under Hilda’s care and mine… it was gone. I no longer recognised her. That radiant and trustworthy woman was but the ghost of herself.’

A single tremor in his voice betrayed his grief and confusion. It was not only Éomer’s loss, but a tragedy striking Meduseld as a whole, echoing into the small, interconnected lives within its walls.

‘My lord,’ Edelmer spoke again, ‘I will say this out of the deep respect and paternal fondness I bear you too — too often have I watched my girls bestow their hearts and fancy upon the wrong men, and my boys waste their emotions on uncaring women. And it pains me beyond compare to witness Éorhild, my brightest pupil I thought immune to such folly, and yourself fall for the oldest trick of the heart.’

‘I know not of what you speak,’ Éomer dismissed his accusation, steeling himself for whatever questioning he might be subjected to.

‘I am not blind, your Majesty.’

‘All I did — I will confess — was to order her to share my bed in a bout of loneliness. But there is nothing in our laws forbidding a master to enjoy his maid’s body when he so desires.’

‘FALLACY!’

For the first time in his life, the prince saw the chamberlain’s composure shatter beneath a surge of rage. The greying man, who had always carried himself with ceremonious dignity, now stood rigid, clenching his fists. He straightened to his full height, his weary frame brimming with a defiance that was rare for one of his station addressing his lord.

When Edelmer cast him a glare, as frigid and cutting as a northern gale. It was not that of a mere attendant reprimanding his master; it was the expression of a man driven to his limit, the pain and fury behind it no longer bearable. For a moment, Éomer felt himself falter under it, as its sharpness rooted him to the spot. Even as the heir to the throne, he dared not challenge it.

‘She was not the wrong woman,’ he sobbed, his own vulnerability emerging. ‘She was the best of all. And I want her with every ounce of my being, Edelmer.’

The two men stared into each other’s eyes, shaken to the core and dropping their shields.

‘Every day, I awake with the wish that I had not been born with the privileges of my rank, or that she, too, had been granted them, so our love could have blossomed without restraint. If only you knew how far I would go for her. I would gladly forsake my throne for even a single second in her presence.’

‘I know all about it,’ the chamberlain whispered, his earlier defensiveness dissipating into a resigned tone. ‘From the start, it was plain to me how smitten you both were with each other. You were never subtle, no matter how much you may have tried. As I told you before, I have seen enough maids break their vows to recognise the signs.’

‘Has it truly occurred that many times?’

‘More than Éorhild cared to believe,’ he laughed bitterly. ‘She was too naïve to notice — she was not one to fathom the betrayal of promises, especially in the royal household. Most times it bears no consequence, I am here to swipe the evidence under the rug, and if courtiers are involved, I do hold the king’s trust, and I could unleash his wrath upon them. Rarely does a royal come to fancy a servant, however.’

Éomer buried his face into his clammy hands. Unburdening his heart to somebody who bore him no harsh judgement despite his actions proved much more of a relief than he had presumed. Better the chamberlain than the king, he thought.

‘Have you encountered others like us?’

‘Yes,’ Edelmer admitted, coming to lean against the wall beside him. ‘I remember your cousin, Théodred, in his youth — flirting with Ealida, if you can recall who she was.’

‘The maid who had shrunk Éowyn’s favourite gown,’ the prince snorted. ‘My sister was so furious that I thought she would set fire to Meduseld! And I was the one to commission a new one for her to stop her wailing.’

‘Precisely. Well, that incident had been caused by Ealida’s distraction. Théodred had sought her at the wash house to present her with a bouquet of flowers he had plucked on his return to the city after a patrol. That dress had soaked in the cold water for far too long, and the wool had shrivelled.’

The two men shared a brief smile at the recollection, before Éomer drew a long sigh, the conversation’s weight crushing him like a sodden cloak. The knowledge that he was not the first to have succumbed to the charms of a servant in Meduseld offered a strange solace to his gashing wound, but it came laced with an unsuspected sting.

Never had his cherished cousin confessed to such a liaison. They had shared much over the years, their confidences unshaken by the disparities in their ages and responsibilities. Edelmer’s admission now planted a seed of doubt within Éomer — perhaps he had not known Théodred at all.

While he understood, from experience, why the secret had been buried with him, the omission left Éomer with a hint of resentment. Much heartbreak could have been spared if the man he had admired most of his life had chosen to recount this shadow from his past.

Not that he would trade Éorhild’s presence in his life, not for all the wisdom in Rohan. Her disappearance did not make him repudiate her in the slightest. Every fibre of his being still yearned for her, an ache he would neither deny nor diminish. Yet had he been armed with his cousin’s cautionary tale, he might have protected her from the agony of their love. Her losses, her anguish — all would have been avoided had he not naively risked her life for a bond as doomed as it was precious.

Théodred could have taught him so much from his own missteps. And he had chosen not to.

‘No punishment befell them, I assume,’ Éomer reflected, focusing back on the core of the subject. ‘Théodred… he died beloved by all. His reputation was intact.’

‘Indeed, nothing,’ the chamberlain confirmed with a nod. ‘I ensured that the king knew nothing of it — treason, I suppose. But Lord Théodred was clever — he took the incident as a stark warning against his infatuation. He ended the dalliance and severed all ties with her. As for Ealida, she made her own choice — she demanded to serve the house of Lord Elfleth in Middlemead.’

‘Does she still serve him now?’

‘I was told that he forbade her from leaving his estate, fearing to lose his riches when the town came under siege during the war,’ Edelmer added grimly. ‘The town was razed, and she perished in the flames, scorched beyond saving.’

The image of the maid, her cries swallowed by the roar of the flames ravaging the estate, clawed at Éomer’s thoughts. He envisioned her silhouette, hands pressed against the excruciating heat of the barred windows, her voice hoarse from her desperate pleas no one would hear. The bile rising in his throat was more than just nausea — it was guilt, cold and unrelenting.

What if Éorhild met the same fate? Had his selfish longing set her upon a path leading to another master, one who might exploit her or view her only as a cog in the machinery of his household?

Would she, in the absence of Meduseld’s rigid orders, thrive in her new life? Would her wit and her diligence win her the favour she deserved, or would she toil unnoticed, her talents wasted?

Perhaps she was right to leave him. Without him, she might find the happiness he could never have provided her. What did he have to offer her? A love cloaked in secrecy, a bond that could never be celebrated. Over time, it would have crushed her spirit — the constant shadows, the endless whispers, the perpetual vigilance.

The tears she would have shed in moments of loneliness, her laughter growing strained by the day, her light dimming under the pressure of their foreordained love — she would have fallen prey to each instance.

And he? He would have lived in agony, torn between the life that his crown demanded and the consolation he could not procure her. Even worse, the day would have come when duty would force his hand — his marriage to another, a union born of obligation. How could he have let her endure such humiliation? She would have lived bound to a man whose affection she could no longer claim. Their closeness would have become a curse, an ever-present reminder of what they had lost. And they would have had no hope to move on.

Indeed, she had been wiser than he, in fleeing before it had all turned bitter. But the idea of her absence, of a life without her smile, her care, her affection, was a wound he could scarcely endure.

Éomer pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, as though by applying force, he might dam the tide of tears threatening to overcome him. His lip quivered, trembling like a fragile leaf caught in the first stirrings of a storm in early winter. Deep within his core, his stomach twisted in a sickening knot, a vortex of anguish boring ever so further into his soul. His chest burnt from a laceration caused by Fate’s halberd, cleaved through his flesh and bone, but Death was too cruel to let him fade away. It would never heal, and he knew it.

Éorhild… His sweet, beautiful Éorhild…

He had lost her.

Would he behold her again, other than in his dreams?

He felt as vulnerable as a child, drowning beneath a misery too vast for him to comprehend, or for his fragile heart to sustain. At his age, there was no loving mother to run to, no lap upon which to lay his weary head and spill his grief. There was no gentle hand to stroke his hair, no soothing voice to quiet the storm within him as he wept. Théoden, though fiercely cherished by Éomer, was not the solace he craved in matters of the heart. Soon, Éowyn would leave for Gondor, leaving him adrift and untethered.

Alone.

For good.

Before the sob could claw its way free from his throat, Edelmer interrupted the storm brewing within him. The chamberlain nudged Éomer’s arm gently with the rolled scroll he had fetched from his desk in the kitchens, a subtle gesture that pulled the prince back to the present.

‘Éorhild wanted me to give you this,’ the chamberlain intoned. ‘I believe it is the only thing she has left behind.’

‘A note?’

‘She did not say, and I wished not to pry.’

Éomer dabbed at his tears with the rim of his sleeve and felt the parchment between his fingers — the final remnant of her presence, her farewell note. A brittle smile ghosted across his cheeks. These words, hastily scrawled in her hands in her rush, were all she had left for him to cling to, a fragile bridge between her absence and his mourning. This letter held the power to unravel the entangled threads of his tormenting speculations, to affirm or dispel what he believed to have prompted her to leave. It was a key to the locked chamber of her heart, a faint hope that the mystery of her departure would be elucidated. So, with a trembling grip, he unrolled the parchment, but what he found there left him speechless.

Arranged in three rows and two columns were six sinuous lines, identical to one another. Above each were squared dots, haphazardly distributed on various levels — some would appear higher than their predecessors, yet lower than their successors, in multiple combinations. He turned it upside down, sideways, eyed the reverse, but no words had been written for him.

‘Are you certain that it is what she gave you?’ Éomer cast a puzzled glance towards the chamberlain. ‘This is no letter.’

Edelmer responded with a brief chuckle.

‘Such passion and devotion to one another, and yet she had kept her illiteracy from you,’ he teased. ‘May I see it?’

Unlearned in letters… Considering her path in life, it did not surprise him at all to learn it. Such simple things about her he had never deigned to enquire — would it have enhanced their connection? Most likely not. While he enjoyed ballads, he was not one for poetry, and he would not have wanted to outrage her sight with mediocre verse.

Éomer presented the odd note to Edelmer, whose eyes instantly brightened up in recognition.

‘Now, that is something that I have not laid eyes upon in decades,’ he muttered.

‘Can you decipher it?’

‘Aye, I can. I hail from a musical family, you know? Let it be a lesson, your Majesty, for when your turn comes to sit upon the throne of Rohan.’

His well-groomed finger pointed at the first series of dots, following their irregular curve above the single line they hovered above.

‘This is a series of musical notations, characteristic of the communities residing near the mountains in the Westfold. Usually there would be a marker to denote the starting tone, but here, I see none. Each dot represents a note, ascending or descending, weaving together the melody.’

‘Why would she leave this to me?’ Éomer pondered aloud, his confusion growing by the second.

‘That, I cannot say,’ Edelmer admitted with a shake of his head. ‘She scribbled it right before my eyes as she was about to depart. Truth be told, I was surprised to see her pick up my quill at all.’

The prince peered intently at the improvised music sheet, his brow furrowing as he crossed his arms. The neat arrangement of dots and lines mocked him with their cryptic simplicity. Grasping at threads of reason — or at least desperately reaching out for them —, his mind whirred. Why this? Why now?

What are you trying to tell me, beloved?

A hushed vocalisation startled him out of his introspection. Beside him, Edelmer’s voice wafted between them with remarkable clarity, as it investigated for the opening pitch of the scripted music.

‘That should be it…’

The chamberlain hummed the last tone, then proceeded to follow the sequence on the parchment. With each rise and fall, his hand floated, retracing the combinations that Éorhild had marked onto the scroll, as though conducting an unseen orchestra. The chant, at first elusive like mist over the plains, came alive.

A language without words, it plunged Éomer back into a haze of grief. His chest constricted as recognition bloomed in his heart, scathing and nagging. This fragment was no idle gesture. It was his mother’s lullaby — his anchor through the impetuous tempests of his youth and the gravity of war. It was this same song that Éorhild had sung that fateful evening on the hillside to put his restless mind at ease. It was what had compelled him to brush his lips against hers and drape her in his arms for the first time. It had been the start of everything — the fragile, forbidden love they had nurtured in the shadows, even for such short a time — and now, it marked its harrowing end.

Wind in the willows, glimmers on the streams, Clouds against the moon, moss on the burrow, Bestow on my bairn the sweetest of dreams, Bring forth delight; away with his sorrow.

Through this lullaby, Éorhild was reaching out to him across the vast distance that now separated them.

‘She remembered,’ Éomer wept now without restraint. ‘She remembered my mother’s song.’

Edelmer ceased to sing and lowered the parchment, placing it back into the prince’s hand.

‘Then she must have known that it held meaning to you, my lord,’ he said with quiet compassion. ‘Perhaps it is her way of saying goodbye, or—’

Éomer did not wait for him to finish. He clutched the scroll tightly to his heart while his shoulders trembled, hoping that the notes would become his lifeline in the storm of his sorrow.

‘She is telling me that she loves me,’ he whispered hoarsely, his thumb caressing the parchment as though he could feel her presence through the ink. ‘She is telling me that no matter the distance, I will be in her thoughts as much as she will be in mine. And that both she and I will be alright.’

His gaze lifted to find Edelmer’s, but the light that once enlivened his own had been snuffed. His reddened face, drenched with tears, contorted as another sob wracked him.

‘But how can I be when she is gone?’

The chamberlain placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

‘Then that must truly have been love, my lord. Not even the wide expanse of Rohan nor the dangers that lie within it can take that away from you.’

He stood up straight, smoothing his uniform with gentle pats, then puffed up his chest. And when he spoke, despite his calm composure, his words had lost every ounce of his sympathy.

‘Éorhild was a good person — too good for her own sake at times —, but you must not let her be the woman to capture your heart. She is baseborn and thus unfit for marriage with the heir to the throne, and I believe that you seldom need my reminder on the matter.’

Edelmer offered him a ceremonious bow.

‘Forget her, your Majesty, for her sake and your own.’

And he disappeared through the door to the kitchens, leaving Éomer at the mercy of Melancholy’s fangs. They pierced through his skin with such brutal force that his bones shattered under their might, while its maw reduced his limbs to a lifeless mash. He writhed in agony, his howls subdued in his prison of secrecy. It left him without hands to drag himself away; without legs to flee; and soon enough without eyes to see through the bleakness. All he could hear was the horrid squelches as the beast feasted upon him, hollowing him out of everything that made him Éomer, and leaving behind nothing but the empty shell of the man he once was.

The one who, merely hours prior, had found peaceful slumber in the arms of the woman he loved. The man who, despite the variety of obstacles in his path, would have willingly worked to make Éorhild happy.

She was all that mattered to him. And now, he was alone, pushed to the ground, biting the dust.

When, after long minutes of mourning, Éomer regained a semblance of composure, he harshly wiped his cheeks and nose dry and staggered out from beneath the arches. Across the hall, he caught glimpse of one of the men he had ridden with to Helm’s Deep, one that he knew he could trust with his life, should it depend on it.

‘Erkenbrand!’

The soldier, alerted by his calling, turned and came to meet him, nodding his head in respect upon beholding the prince.

‘Your Grace. How may I be of assistance?’

‘I shall spend the day in my quarters and overlook the relief of the Fold, and I wish not to be disturbed,’ Éomer declared, firm and stoic. ‘Tell my uncle’s advisors that I wish to further delay my engagement to the Lady Lothíriel — I refuse to hold celebrations and regal affairs when our people are suffering and homeless. Our treasury must serve them first and foremost.’

‘What of Lord Imrahil’s patience, my lord? I fear that he might soon retract his offer.’

‘Lord Imrahil is a generous man towards his people, he will understand.’

Erkenbrand bowed and scrutinised his lord’s face, not out of defiance, but rather concern. Truth be told, he looked a mess — his hair, still tousled from laying on his pillow, was untamed, and his eyes had swollen from crying. He was not himself, and the chief lord of could tell — but he would not disobey.

‘I shall ensure that your will be done, your Majesty,’ he acquiesced.

‘One other thing,’ Éomer said sharply before Erkenbrand left, ‘despatch a group of riders to search our lands and every village and town for a woman. Her name is Éorhild, she was a maid here at Meduseld and I know that she left Edoras during the night. Bring her to me, unscathed and in good health. If I learn that any of the men displayed any aggressive, violent, or obscene behaviour towards her, he will suffer my blad. Am I clear?’

‘Clear as day, your Majesty.’

‘And I do not want to see them return to Edoras unless they have found her.’

Erkenbrand nodded and departed to carry out the tasks now bestowed upon him. Left alone once more in the Golden Hall, Éomer dragged his feet towards the door leading to his chambers, his shoulders sagging anew. On his path, he found himself face to face with the throne of Rohan, presiding over the grandeur of the palace between two smaller chairs allocated to him and his sister.

Upon beholding it, rage boiled within him. If it had not been for his birth and his rank, Éorhild would have never left. None of the sorrow that now befell him would have had reason to exist.

He fell to his knees at the foot of the steps that ascended towards the throne, his arms limp and his heart dejected at the sight.

‘You stole everything from me.’

Nigh on two years later, he found himself kneeling at the same place. Clad in black, groomed, perfumed — only his appearance differed. His desolation had merely been amplified over time.

Théoden had died. After battling a terrible disease for a little under a year, the king who had led his impoverished army at the Hornburg, ridden to the Pelennor Fields and renewed the Oath of Eorl between Rohan and Gondor, was gone. The realm mourned their beloved king, and those who had the means had come to Edoras on a pilgrimage to pay a last tribute to one of the mightiest kings in their history. And that day, they had buried him beside Théodred, for father and son to rest for eternity under a canopy of simbelmynë.

And Éomer was king of Rohan.

His coronation awaited, not yet arranged, but inevitable. From that moment forward, the life he had known, the relative freedom he enjoyed, were forsaken for the welfare of the Rohirrim. He would lead his people, as was his duty, whether his heart willed it or not. Théoden had been a king whose wisdom and valour, although compromised at times, inspired men to follow him into hopeless battles and turn the tides. Éomer was determined to lead with that same fervour despite his fear and doubts, to uphold his uncle’s legacy and that of his forebears. The people of Rohan deserved a monarch who would brave the most tumultuous storms and ride at their head through peril for the promise of peace and sunshine.

He knew that to be king entailed sacrifice — not just of his desires, but himself. And yet, his heart did not yet belong to his people in its entirety — it still ached for Éorhild.

Beyond the doors of Meduseld, a solemn chatter of voices reached his ears, but he did not move. When it died down, the guards pushed the gates open, and slow and irregular steps made their way towards Éomer. They stopped behind him and a gentle hand came to rest upon his shoulders.

‘Rise, Éomer,’ Éowyn whispered, ‘and find your bed. I have seen the last guests out. Tomorrow will be unbearable if you do not rest.’

‘If anybody in this city deserves to find their bed, it is you, beloved sister,’ he scoffed. ‘Faramir should have helped with the mourners and let you rest. One more step, and your bairn will be born right here on the stone.’

He lifted his gaze up to behold Éowyn. Grief and exhaustion marked her delicate traits, and the pallor of her complexion was most alarming. She placed a hand over her round belly holding her and her husband’s heir, soon to enter and brighten up her life.

‘Do not be harsh towards Faramir,’ she scolded, flicking his jaw. ‘He did help, tremendously. Only, in your grief, you did not see it.’

‘Very well.’

At the same moment, Lord Fréaláf, one of Théoden’s chief advisors and now in Éomer’s service, appeared by their side. He bowed to the siblings and fidgeted with a scroll in his hand.

‘Your Majesty, I wish not to trouble you at this sombre hour, but there is a matter that can no longer wait.’

‘Speak plainly, Fréaláf.’

The advisor handed him the parchment, which he seized begrudgingly and unrolled to read, allowing Éowyn to read above his shoulder.

‘Prince Imrahil will no longer wait for the engagement to his daughter,’ he spoke softly, almost in fear that a regular volume would disrespect the memory of the deceased they had just buried. ‘Rohan does not only need a king, your Grace. Your line must be secured, now that you and Lady Éowyn are all that is left of the House of Eorl.’

‘What of the woman?’

Éowyn tutted and forced herself to look away to contain her nerves, at least for the sake of her unborn child. Fréaláf shook his head.

‘It has been over a year, your Majesty, and none of our men has found her. They have searched the whole kingdom under your orders, to no avail. Abandon the search, your Majesty, I beg of you! It is a folly to pursue it — it could jeopardise Rohan’s alliances.’

Being king entails sacrifice, indeed. And it was high time that Éomer dedicated himself to the task from which he had recoiled for so long.

‘Very well, tell the men to return to Edoras.’

Éowyn nodded her approval, her eyes sustained by the advisor’s.

‘And tell Prince Imrahil that he needs no longer wait,’ Éomer said, rising from the cold ground. ‘I shall marry Lady Lothíriel and have her crowned queen.’

Without awaiting the acknowledgement of his declaration, his first as king, Éomer bowed one last time to the throne, as though the phantom of his uncle still sat upon it. Then, he turned and proceeded towards the doors of Meduseld, each step bringing him closer to his destiny. His path had been set, and though it was steeped in uncertainty, Éomer resolved to walk it with unshakable purpose. For Rohan. For its people.

And for Éorhild.

Tag list: @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras

If you wish to be tagged (or no longer tagged), don't hesitate to let me know!

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jumpywhumpywriter · 2 months ago

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Spinoff Story Vampire & Vampire Hunter part 2

Warnings: severe silver poisoning of vampire, captured vampire, whumper turned whumpee

Alex's head was pounding when he came back to consciousness. He took a few shaky breaths to ground himself before forcing his eyes open. His whole body ached -- he could still feel the effects of the Hemlock and silver poisoning in his system, weakening him.

His gaze darted down, and he realized he was cuffed to a chair bolted to the floor. He was fully and thoroughly restrained. The hunters keeping him knew what they were doing, and had taken every precaution. And he could tell by scent alone that the cuffs were made of silver. The only thing separating the metal from his skin was some soft padding to keep it from burning him. But the silver would keep him from breaking free.

Then his gaze slid to the side where his arm hurt, and he realized there was an IV line hooked up to him. Probably pumping him with more Hemlock to keep him weak and... less dangerous.

His jaw was sore from the metal bit wedged between his teeth right behind his fangs and the straps holding the muzzle tightly to his face. The bit didn't feel like it was part of the muzzle itself, but it was almost like it was suctioned to the roof of his mouth – he couldn't move it with his tongue. But something told him it was the least of his worries right now.

Because Mallory. That cursed human. He should have known better than to let his guard down even a hair. He wouldn't have been caught otherwise. He should have seen it coming, should have heard or scented the accomplices he had come with.

But they had been downwind of him, and Alex had a gut notion that that had been the intention. The whole setup was professional and well-thought-out. But what did they want from him? Why would vampire hunters want to catch a vampire alive? Their whole job was about killing them.

Maybe to study me and create better weapons against my kind, he theorized. Mad science experiments, perhaps? I read a book about that some decades ago...

Now he really wished he'd read and studied more about human behavior and habits when he'd had the chance. He'd flunked it so spectacularly when Mallory had been his pet, but once he'd released him he thought he had no need to know such knowledge about humans anymore.

But ohhhhh how wrong he was. He gave his restraints an experimental tug, testing his range of movement and trying to strategize a plan. But they were too tightly clamped on his wrists for him to slip out of, pinned straight to the arms of the chair he was in. No give whatsoever.

He leaned his head back with a frustrated groan, mind buzzing as the silver poisoning wore off. But the Hemlock alone would still do the job of keeping him helpless and vulnerable. He'd never been rendered so useless, so defenseless before. He was a vampire, used to being at the top of the food chain. A creature few would dare even confront, let alone try to capture.

His gut twisted in knots of dread. He was way out of his element here, and the fear that had grabbed ahold of him was unlike anything he'd ever felt. Fear was something new to him, a foreign sensation. The last time he remembered being afraid was back when he was first Turned, over three centuries ago.

But right now, he was terrified.

The room he was in was large, but devoid of any art whatsoever, a blank box of four white walls blocking him in. He was pretty sure one wall had to have a one-way mirror, though. There was a chair placed a few feet in front of him facing his direction, like in an interrogation room.

His head snapped to the left at the sound of footsteps and voices, and he saw the door to his prison open. He stiffened, eyes feral and wary. If he had a heartbeat, it would be racing like a rabbit's.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy @floral-comet-whump

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @nevermore-ramblings @mj-or-say10

@tippytappytyping

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hegoeshardasfuck · 3 months ago

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whatever it takes

wordcount: 1.2K

tags: free use, stuck in a wall, voyeur hinata, the sex itself is non-explicit but he is fucked beyond belief, body marking

synopsis: Naruto didn't expect that he'd have to degrade himself so far to get respect from the village even after all he's done

authors note: whoring him out is my favorite hobby these days, hope ya'll enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59579065

Did you know that sharpie starts to sting after enough of it's ink has been laid onto your skin? After the pitch black markings cross over with fresh, skin deep wounds- it stings.

He learns that with another day of this god awful display of humiliation. He willingly put himself up to it of course, the public held displeasure that he became Hokage. So the next best thing to appease them would be to prove he could handle anything even if he had already proven himself plenty.

It's not his fault the votes where in favor of one Naruto Uzumaki becoming the town cum dump for a weeks time. He took on the challenge with a grin, said he'd be fine by the end of it. Completely unaffected both physically and mentally, even in spite of that fact it would be seven days of overstimulation.

Three days have passed and doubts are starting to settle in.

He's allowed to return home at night if he so desires, so he can eat and sleep and apologize to his wife. He spat a big fat fuck you at everyone who said it'd be wise if he did so the first night. Fuck 'em. He said he'd take it and by god he's gonna take it all, every last drop

and every last marking and every single filthy degradation he endures.

Of course, he can't say no when it's Hinata whose walking in. She holds a cup of ramen in her hands because they definitely weren't making sure he doesn't starve out there.

He perks up at the sound of footsteps and smiles best he can when he sees his wife, "Hi, Hinata." He laughs weakly, his entire body shakes. He's thankful they gave him a bench to use as support for his arms.

"Are you going to come home tonight?"

Hinata asked.

"Nope!" There's a sharp intonation in his voice and a flicker of red in his eyes.

"Should I leave?" Hinata asked.

"I mean, if you wanna watch your husband get plowed from behind feel free to take a seat in the cuck chair," Naruto offered. He shakily raised an arm to gesture to a fold-up chair as he spoke in spite of the breathiness to his tone. "I don't actually know why they put that in here."

"Sometimes people like to watch," Hinata said simply as she placed down the ramen on Naruto's bench before pulling up the chair, "Do you want to wait until after he's done fucking you, or will you not choke if I feed you while he's doing it?"

Naruto paused, "It's a she, I think-" This weird almost growly sound stumbles out past his lips as he grips the bench.

"You can tell?"

"It's really cold, glass i think."

Hinata gave a small hum, "Then she won't leave for a bit?"

Naruto yelped, and then yipped, and finally yowled.

Hinata doesn't speak.

A brief shudder of relief courses through him, she can only recognize it due to the way his entire torso heaves, followed by a sigh, "Can I have some ramen?"

"Of course."

-/-/-/-

Two more days pass and Sasuke comes in for a visit up front, there's even more marks on Naruto.

"Hey, Sasuke," Naruto started with sloppily, his claws bore into the bench, his fangs were pronounced quite a bit. He's having a hard time keeping up his grin with how sore his face is from being fucked and slapped and somewhat written on. He looks wrecked.

It renders Sasuke near speechless.

"Here for a turn?" Naruto asked, "Come on, facefuck me. Do it."

"I came here for a turn but holy fuck, Naruto."

"Wait till day seven, I'll be a real mess when we get there."

"You can't get much messier than this."

He means it.

There's so many markings on his skin it's unreal, he doesn't even want to see what's on the other side of the wall. Sharpie, claws, bites, sore red marks, all of it is accounted for on Naruto's flesh. The bench is damp with drool and sweat alike. It smells of nothing but sex even outside the door, the scent having seeped through an insane amount. It was a rich, pheromone heavy scent that Sasuke was very familiar with.

"Oh ho ho, you'd be shocked," Naruto laughed as he lightened his grip on the bench. He folds his hand under his chin, "Anyways, what can I do ya for? I usually have a dick in my mouth by now."

"Do you even know whose been here?"

"Sort of, most of them they left a signature though, check it out!" He raises up a shaky arm, "Shikimaru keeps dropping in for sloppy sevenths with Ino."

Sasuke takes Naruto's hand and reads all the names, insignias, and logos on both arms.

Just about everyone noteworthy in the entire village has hit him up. Some probably didn't even leave a signature at that. It's both horrifying and impressive to imagine that one of the strongest most influential figures in the shinobi world has whored himself out so thoroughly in the course of five days. Just five days and his hair is matted with cum and sweat and his face is marked up with sharpie, cum, and tears alike. Only five days out of seven.

"You really think you can make it through?" Sasuke asked.

Naruto scoffed, "After enough time you don't really feel it as much, it's pretty tingly for the most part. I will say that nobody fucking cleans up after themselves- my thighs are so sticky right now it's insane. Walking home after this is gonna be horrible."

"As soon as you get out of this me and my wife are taking care of you." It almost sounds like a threat.

Naruto smiles lazily at Sasuke, "Really?"

"A promise, we'll get off all the sharpie."

"Will Hinata be there?"

"If she wants."

"Alright-! Fuck!"

Claws rip into the cushions once again, heavy panting, and Sasuke can hear the sound of a hand hitting skin.

"Looks like Sakura's back." Naruto laughed before whimpering.

"How can you tell?" Sasuke demanded.

"Hunch- go give her a hand, get in your fucks while you still can legally," Naruto taunted. He moans again and fuck that's a rich sound, absolutely delicious. He missed it quite a lot when it fell out of his best friends mouth, be it in the sheets or a fight.

But Sasuke doesn't budge.

"It'll be infidelity in two days..." Naruto drawled in an almost melodic rhythm.

That gets Sasuke moving.

And in a brief moment Naruto can feel a second set of hands on his body.

-/-/-/-

Just like Sasuke said, three sets of hands are on him.

They hold him gently, scrubbing the ink off of his flesh as he soaks in a lavender scented bath. Suds rest atop the water in a thick layer that he wants to sink into entirely. They won't let him though, holding up one sore leg and then the other to try and get off as much sharpie as they can.

He's almost worried that some of it has sinked so far into his skin it won't come out again. Sakura assures him it'll wash out eventually, even if not entirely right now.

"If it doesn't all come out now could we do this again next week?" Naruto asked, raising himself out of the water just enough that his speech wouldn't be distorted.

Sakura nodded, "Of course we can."

#naruto smut #naruto x everyone #writing #lemon #smut fanfiction #smutfic #kinktober #kinktober 2024

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foxydivaxx · 1 year ago

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Another classic example of Wrestler Au Sanji’s stellar mic skills

Judge: I wonder what Sanji even sees in you

Sanji: *walks down the ramp* Who the fuck told ya it was open night mic bitch?!

Everyone: Whoa!!

Sanji: *gets in the ring and glares at his dad* What’s wrong old fart? Did ya see a ghost? Or is that old rotten brain of yours short circuiting? Is that an electric spark I see going off there?

Zoro: *snickers*

Sanji: Either way, since I am Smackdown’s general manager, let me make some things real clear to you. You see this guy right here? *points at Zoro* Don’t you ever ever fucking yap my husband!! Like bitch that is my fucking job!! I mean granted, Marimo here cannot control his fucking dick half the time. But who am I to talk? I open my damn legs to the other motherfuckers at the back and none of them ever fucking satisfy me!! I mean, they are not as deranged as Marimo here.

Yusuke: Shit *laughs*

Gojo: *falls over laughing*

Sanji: Now Mossy and I have one rule. If we are gonna get frisky with the others, never ever bring that shit to the house. I am saying this now because the last time Marimo tried that shit, I gave him a nice trip to space mountain and milked him dry to the point where he spent all month long screaming, “WOOO!!” Because I am that bitch in case he did not say so and why would he since I am his bitch!!! Like I am not that same Sanji you bastards used to fuck with!! I guess having that monster dick up my ass 24/7 has brought out my inner bitch!!

Everyone: *laughs*

Sanji: He may be the Demon Prince but I do not fear this motherfucker in any shape or form and I make sure he knows that once I have him begging and moaning like the fucking bitch that he is!! But the very next day, he gets to have his revenge for obvious reasons and he fucks me so damn good that I am literally sore the next day. That’s how we roll. So your stupid talk about Marimo’s dick is rendered invalid.

Commentator: Uh oh

*Everyone’s jaws drop at that revelation*

Ichiji: Bitch what?!

Sanji: So I suggest you bitches take your fucking asses and get out of my fucking ring before I fucking kill someone!!

Dio: He got a big mouth *laughs*

Gilgamesh: Man Zoro is one lucky S.O.B

#one piece #sanji #zosan #Zoro #tsundere Sanji xD

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eternal-silvertongued-prince · 1 year ago

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Rules: post 3 snippets from published work and 3 from your wips

Oh boy, having to choose which WIP to take snippets from took way too long.

Published:

The Thanksgiving Dilemma

The heat that radiated off his body was a surprising contrast to his normally chilled hands. The need for air finally broke the kiss, but it didn’t stop him from stealing a few more pecks. “You– Severus, overwhelm me in the most wonderful way.” You pulled away just enough to see his whole face. “Whenever you are around it’s as if all my thoughts cease to exist and there is only you. The simplest of your touches render me without breath. Severus, you have no idea how long I have been waiting, hoping, to hear that you felt the same way that I did about you.”

Family

"...what are you doing still standing there! Get into something cosy so you can help your wife and child out decorating this tree.” You spun him around and gave his tush a tap to get him moving. His glare was harmless, but the smile was sincere. He gave you one last kiss and bent down to give your belly one for good measure as well.

A Birthday to Remember

It seems that you weren’t the only one who noticed Severus zoom by because the second he disappeared around the corner, two Slytherins beside you began a hushed (not really) whisper. “There goes Snape again. Do you think that bloke has a single friend?” “Not that I know of. Heard Lucius say that it’s his birthday tomorrow. Wonder if…” The rest of their conversation was lost on you. It was his birthday tomorrow?! That’s it!

WIP:

Be My Valentine

It was abundantly clear to everyone after the years of being single and alone, that he was not a fan of the holiday. So why in the nine realms did an owl drop off a bloody Valentine for him? Thinking it was a mistake, he grabbed the paper and cautiously flipped it over. Sure enough, written on the top in white ink was one Severu– wait. Did he read that correctly? Bringing his finger to the paper, he traced over the faint ridges imprinted by the delicate script that definitely spelt out his name. Okay… so it wasn’t an illusion of some sort, and all his years of solidarity have not rendered him delusional. His fingers tightened around the note as he stood abruptly to leave the hall, not giving breakfast a second thought. In his rush to separate himself from the rest of Hogwarts, he failed to notice a pair of eyes follow his frame as it made its way out the door.

Duelling Partner for Life

“Yeah, to be fair, I am a little bit of a sore loser.” “You and Professor Snape went on a date?!?” The students could not fathom the idea of their tall, rude, and snarky Professor going on a date, let alone be interested in someone as bright and happy as you. “Dates”, you corrected. “He and I still go on them whenever the time allows it.” “Why?” A Gryffindor pipes up from the side. Snape answers before you can say anything. “It is as if that is what people who are in a relationship do.” Sarcasm heavy in his voice as you giggle at his response.

Reminisce

“Normally I would not take any help from anyone, especially not a student, but seeing as this is a real urgency and you are not totally incompetent in potions, I suppose an extra set of hands would not be the worst thing. We could certainly produce more than enough to hold the school at bay with this retched virus going around.” “Wow, that was the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.” His nose twitched as he tried to suppress the sneer on his face. “What else would you want from me?” “Maybe a please, professor” you smirked. “Don’t push it Miss L/N.” “Very well, sir. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

BONUS WIP (Bc I feel so bad being MIA for so long)

Snape took a sip from the tumbler you placed in front of him, letting the amber liquid warm his throat. “You were my favourite student, you know?” “Really? That's surprising and not at the same time. You were my favourite professor.” He shot you a look with raised eyebrows as if to tell you he hardly believed that. As skeptical as he looked, you couldn't help but laugh at how absurd it also sounded to you. “It’s true. It just so happened that you taught my favourite subject, too.” “Does that mean I have to watch out for you trying to take my job?” He drily stated as he took another sip. You chuckled and moved to clean up behind the bar just to keep your hands busy. “No need to worry. I am applying for the open DADA position.” He looked sullen for a second before replying, “You’d make a good DADA professor.” You stopped what you were doing because hearing that from him certainly surprised you. “You really think so?” A smirk appeared on his face.

#tag game #wip game #snape x reader #snape #severus snape #severus snape x you #severus snape x reader #pro snape #snape x y/n #snape x you #snape fic

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finite-breakpoints · 9 months ago

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phantom pain (Angstpril 2024, #10)

[ Previously: a little too late ]

::Your shoulder's acting up.:: Julia nudges him a little, trying to get a better look -- Siv can't see it, of course, but he can feel that tiny bit of resistance under her fingertips, resurfacing pin sockets reducing her touch to nothing but faint pressure on his skin. ::Doesn't look good. You need to have someone look at it again.::

::Yeah, I know.:: The medical center's still short-staffed, even with the influx of programs from Advan's… rehabilitation centers. If he can avoid making it worse, he does. ::Give it a couple cycles, it'll calm down.::

::Siv.::

::What?:: He sits up, stretches out -- it's sore. Been a while since that's happened. ::The circuits haven't split off, right? Doesn't feel like it.::

::No. Looks close, though.::

::You know it's not a big deal. As long as the port stays closed, anyway.::

::I know it means you're stressed, and that you're acting like things are fine, and you won't tell me why.::

::Do we really have to do this right now?:: Immediately hates himself for the way it sounds. She isn't wrong, but it's not like he can tell her what's going on. Not without freaking her out, which is the last thing either of them need, lately. Besides, she has a point, and he can't fault her for being worried about him. ::…Sorry. I'll go to the medical center first thing next cycle. Promise.::

::Gonna hold you to it.::

::I know. --But you don't have to. It's not your job anymore.::

::It's not about obligation. Never was. You know that.:: She yawns. ::I mean, you'd still do it for me, wouldn't you?::

::Yeah. Of course I would. No question.:: He leans over -- carefully, just in case she's right -- and kisses her on the cheek. ::Alright, I'll go patch this up. Go back to sleep.::

She hums something like an assent, and he watches her circuits dim to a slow pulse. A little too proud of herself, honestly…

Siv stands up, doing his best not to disturb her. He's a little out of practice, but he manages it. Closes the door behind him before turning on the light. He's missed this. Missed her. When did they start to drift off in separate directions?

The answer, of course, is looking back at him in the mirror. And then in triplicate, as he unfolds the panels. Shifts slightly, trying to get a better look at the dense array of silver scars stretching across his right shoulder, beginning to mirror to the left. Glowing brighter than they should; maybe it's worse than he thought.

Pulls out a set of patches, the wide ones that will cover most of it. Even the damage patches designed for data processors can't always handle it. The pin sockets are too close together, and there's too many of them, for it to adhere properly. And this doesn't quite stick, either.

It'll do for now. A stopgap, just like everything else.

This is a face he's become more comfortable with, over the cycles. Something that has to be settled into, every time his render changes -- and it hadn't come easily, this last time. A bigger change than it usually is, something that almost felt like a rollback. Too much like his sister -- who isn't exactly herself anymore… not really.

"And whose fault is that?"

The figure standing behind his reflection has no circuits to speak of -- but she radiates a faint light nonetheless. Someone both distant and achingly familiar. Not Yori -- no, Advan -- although easily mistaken. The same look Advan had given him, when she'd arrived in Gallium -- surprise, then disappointment, in how much he'd changed.

"Clu did this to her," he says quietly. "I don't know how. She should have been safe from it. It shouldn't have worked."

"You could have stopped her. You could have stopped so much of this -- but you've left behind everything I gave you."

--And then his input regulators wake up, the impossible sensation of all those pins reconnecting. For just a clock-cycle, he wants more than anything to feel the rush of free-flowing information through his circuits. The chance to chase down the root of the corruption spreading through the Grid, hold it up to the light… and pull it apart, line by line.

She's right. He could have, at one time. But the data rig in the Archives, the one Polaris had taken with him when he left Tron City, refuses to wake for him. Siv isn't a processor anymore -- the System's given him another purpose. The prototyping lab; giving his betas a home, untangling them from what the Occupation's done to them. The network; keeping watch over the programs of Gallium, giving them the tools to fight their own battles.

In the mirror, his circuits shiver -- momentarily giving way to those waveform patterns that increasingly feel less alien, the more he shifts into them, interacts with the network in them. And he knows then, beyond any doubt, that his User's wishes are no longer a factor. Not in his render, not in his function, and not in his decisions.

"No. I took what I needed, and left the rest." Siv takes a deep breath, willing himself to look her in the eye -- and then to stay standing, under the crushing weight of her gaze. "And I don't need you anymore."

"Do you really believe that?"

Before he can answer, the regulator circuits branch off, spidering across his shoulders with no input to temper them. Some long-sleeping part of his code reactivates, reaches out in a desperate reflex… and finds nothing in return, as Lora-Prime watches his circuits burn with something that might just be a smile.

"When you change your mind, I'll be here."

And then the whole room spins, and blinks into nothingness.

#signal to noise breakpoints #siv #julia #lora #data processors #breakpoints archive #angstpril 2024

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airandangels · 1 year ago

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Okay so my cat's 15 and she's getting arthritis in her back legs. My mother and sister took her to the vet about it yesterday because I had to work and my mother's retired and my sister's part-time. I greatly appreciate their help.

She had to be drugged before going because when I took her in for her check-up and vaccination last weekend she brought shame on our family with her behaviour and bit me on the hand inflicting a puncture wound which I can still see today, thanks Pearl, love you too. I know you were scared and your legs hurt so I'm not angry with you but it was both painful and embarrassing.

Anyway she was fine when she was doped up (my mother and sister texted me pictures from the appointment so I could see she was okay, also appreciated). The vet wants me to give her pain relief medicine for the arthritis and I'm absolutely down with that, I want my cat to be comfortable.

HOWEVER

the medicine is Gabapentin which comes in 100mg capsules of a very, very fine white powder.

the instructions on the prescription are to give her "half a capsule twice daily."

do you see the difficulty

I do not have a scale that can measure fucking milligrams

Trying to cut the dose out on a hard surface like cocaine means losing a lot of it because a) it's a very, very fine powder and b) I have shaky hands because of this fucking neurological condition the fucking neurologist couldn't identify.

And if I say fuck it and give her a whole capsule once daily, well, that's what I was required to give her before the appointment to render her dopey and tractable, which made it hard for her to walk, and also it would wear off so she'd only have 12 hours' relief while being too dopey to enjoy it and the rest of the time she'd be sore

so what I have to do, after a very frustrating phone call with the vet nurse during which I assured him I knew it was not his fault and hoped I didn't sound angry with him but I was finding this very stressful and was concerned that I would not be able to dose my cat properly, and thought the instructions were incredibly impractical, is this

using a syringe measure 2 millilitres of water and put it in a shot glass

with great care twist the halves of one capsule apart and pour the powder into the water

stir it with a toothpick until it appears more or less dissolved

draw up one millilitre with no real idea how much of the drug is suspended in it BUT HEY

squirt it down my startled and offended cat's throat

put Glad wrap over the top of the shot glass so it doesn't dry up and put it away to dose her again at night

There's another medication in gel form that I'm supposed to put on her wet food/meat but she doesn't like it and tried to eat around it, so I'm probably just going to squirt it down her throat too.

and do you want to know what is really fucking rich about all this

the medication the neurologist prescribed which has NOT fixed my tremors?

GABAPENTIN 100mg CAPSULES

FUCKING IDENTICAL TO THE ONES THE VET GAVE ME FOR THE CAT

yes I have cried with frustration about this today

my cat's getting old and sick and I can't help her, I'm getting old and sick and nobody can help me

#life with airy

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dickfics69 · 2 years ago

Text

Emotional Motion Sickness | Part 3 | A Rickyl ficlet

Rick x Daryl

AO3

Summary: Daryl gets sick before a supply run, and denies it vehemently. He is a big tantrum baby. Rick is constantly worried and drama ensures.

Chapter 3 summary: As Daryl prepares to leave for the run, he is accosted by other members of the convoy.

AU: This fic has some timeline and plot-point changes. They are still in the prison and the second Governor fight never happened. He died in the first one and the last few months have been them adjusting to all the new Woodbury inhabitants. Rick and Lori broke up when Shane was killed, but Rick still lost his mind when she died. Daryl and Rick have just recently gotten together. Farmer Rick era is lot shorter than in the show. An original character is introduced for plot furthering purposes.

Content warning: adult language, sickfic, mess, snot, bodily functions, hurt/comfort, vivid nightmares, adult content, 18+ for eventual smut (still deciding hehe), ORIGINAL CHARACTER MAKES APPEARANCE IN THIS CHAPTER

Word Count: 3k+

My personal Daryl Dixon playlist

As always, huge shout out to @dumbslxtclub for editing my grammar and being the best hype girl ever <3

Chapter 3: People are annoying, leave me alone.

Daryl placed a cigarette between his chapped lips, fiddling with his lighter until flame made contact with paper. He knew better than to aggravate his delicate immune system with a wave of hot tobacco, but right now he didn’t really give a shit.

He took a tentative drag. The heavy smoke permeated through his upper respiratory tract, lighting up inflamed airways like a forest fire. The deep burning, unsurprisingly, caused an almost vomit inducing coughing fit, launching Daryl forward once more. He was getting really fucking sick of this.

Tears, snot and saliva joined together to render the hunter’s face a wet dripping mess. Recovering enough, he returned to vertical and dried the mess with a cleanish section of his sweatshirt. Glancing down at the cigarette that was still turning to ash in his fingers, he contemplated trying again. ‘Mm, better not,’ he thought and stubbed the rest of it out, throwing it to the wayside. Breathing shakily, Daryl brought the back of his wrist up to his sore nose and gave it a tired rub, trying to ascertain whether he should expect an encore from his sinuses, determining that he was safe. For now.

Daryl was leant up against one of the external prison walls overlooking the courtyard. There was just enough of a lip above his head to keep the October rain from completely drenching him. Although running between the truck and prison had definitely dampened him enough for his fever to start rising again. Fortunately for Daryl their vehicle had pretty much been stocked by the time he got out there. Normally the hunter preferred to be in charge of the cargo that left the prison walls, but today he was just grateful that he didn’t have to exert himself too much.

Continuing his respite against the cold brick, Daryl was shivering and desperately trying to wipe his memory of the events of the morning. Guilt was an emotion that he despised and something he certainly didn’t have time for today.

Just as he was about to head down the stairs, the door to the left of him opened with an obnoxious laugh and a whip of long brunette curls. Peri.

‘Peri…Peri, uh, what’s-her-face.’

Peri What’s-her-face, was the group's latest addition, being welcomed in by Rick and the council when they had found her wandering about in a daze several weeks ago. Daryl didn’t know a lot about the woman except that she had an unusual aptitude for knife throwing but was bullshit with a gun. “Be nice, she’s improving,” Rick had said to his partner after a less than spectacular training session a week prior. Maybe she was. Too many people to keep to keep tabs on. Oh, she was Australian too, a geographical concept that seemed to flummox Daryl on a regular basis. Peri was charming enough, making everyone laugh with her Oceanic idioms and generally sunny disposition. She had a mad temper too and seldom took crap from anyone, resulting in a lot of heated arguments between the two. Recently she’d taken it upon herself to repeatedly guess Daryl’s middle name; a game that was endearing and irritating at the same time. Overall she was the type of person Daryl knew he’d end up loving and laughing with, but he didn’t have the energy to try today, especially with her weak skills accompanying him on the supply run.

“Oi kndife girl!” He rasped out as she started heading down the stairs.

“Yes bow-boy?” She retorted.

“You fired a gund without jumbping yet?”

“I’m getting there, Dixon. You know I actually grew up in a country with gun laws?” She leant back on the railing nonchalantly, drops of rain gathering atop her curly hair. “Thanks for the concern, but I can definitely hold my own in a Zombie crisis.”

“I’ll believe it wheheh-n I heh s’h’h’ETSCHUuu… hih’ATTCHtuu…heh…heh’snNXXTt oo-, ugh, fuck.” Daryl sneezed openly and suddenly, leaving a line of not-so-clear-anymore mucus trickling out of his left nostril.

An awkward silence followed as Daryl attempted pitifully to clean himself up.

“Dude you look like shit.” She said bluntly. A drastically different comment to what he was used to hearing today. Daryl laughed.

“Fuck you,” he finally said between sniffles and chuckles.

“Hey, fuck you too, mate,” she laughed loudly and heartily, holding up a middle finger to retain an amusing upper hand.

It was a weird and wonderful moment between prospering friends.

“Aah, alright D-man, I’m going to do a round, see if anyone has any item requests.” Throwing him a halfhearted peace sign. “Meet you at the truck, Daryl Norman??”

“Ndot even close.”

She smiled, shrugged and walked away, twirling a couple of daggers around her hands as though it was as easy as breathing.

Daryl pulled out another cigarette.

‘Strange girl.’

———-

A couple of barebows, fuel tanks, and silencers; Daryl loaded them into the Jeep, feeling the sickly heaviness grow worse with every single item. He stupidly expected to feel better with every new turn of the day. But denial is a silly creature. His congestion was so bad that he could barely even sniff anymore, no air able to pass through the swelling and snot that had made extended residence above the hunter's red-raw nostrils. It was still constantly dripping though, rendering the sleeves of his sweatshirt as good as a pack of tissues. Daryl was too tired to contemplate the juxtaposing predicament that was afflicting his sinuses. Running his hand across the arrows that sat atop his crossbow, he felt a couple of notches that were threatening to snap. He knew he should make some sort of repair attempt, but found that he could not move at this juncture in time, hands holding strong on the back of the truck with a little bit too much need.

“Daryl!” The newly adolescent voice of Carl frightened him out of his febrile stupor. How long had he been standing there?

“Shit kid, your daddy ever teach you ndot to sndeak up on people?”

“Uh yeah but I’ve been saying your name for the last thirty seconds so…” Yeah, Carl had been there a while.

Not knowing how to respond, Daryl went with a trademark grunt and busied himself with items in the back of their vehicle.

“Why aren’t you taking the bike?”

“Ndeeds fixin’.”

“If I help you when we get back will you teach me to ride?”

“That ain’t up to mbe, Carl.” Daryl brought his gaze to the young man, gazing apologetically down at him, pushing the deputy hat down over his eyes in a show of affection.

“Fine. Well Peri and I did a round and got a list of requests from people.” Carl handed a slip of paper to the man that landed itself directly in a damp pocket.

“Uh, thangks kid,” He said with a pitiful sniffle, hoping that the smaller Grimes man would walk away so he could cough or sneeze or blow his nose or something else gross and humiliating. But the boy hovered.

“Daryl, you okay?” Asked with more concern for general safety than anything else.

“Yes, Carl.”

“I was in the dining room earlier, so really. Are you okay?”

“Christ! Yeah! I’mb getting real fucgking sick of that question today!” He used his outburst as a good excuse to wipe some excess snot from his upper lip. Gotta keep up appearances.

“Okay.” Carl shrugged. “My dad’s looking for you by the way.”

Shit.

“Mb’kay, he kndows where to find mbe.” Daryl mumbled, hands on his crossbow again. Silence. Please leave me be. Daryl normally relished his time with the boy; teaching him card tricks, browsing comics, and fighting alongside him. But today there was no room for civility.

“Are you and my dad- I dunno- okay?” A hint of discomfort adorning the pubescent voice.

‘Are we?’ Daryl pondered melancholically. Truth be told, Rick and Daryl hadn’t been quote unquote ‘together’ for very long. The pair had always possessed an unbreakable resolve to protect each other, a friendship growing deeper as their found family triumphed over and over again. And then Lori died. While the husband and wife had separated long before the birth of Judith, the trauma of her passing sent Rick down a psychological rabbit hole and Daryl lost his best friend to an avalanche of grief. Unable to help, unable to ease the pain of his loss, Daryl redirected his affections and fell hopelessly in love with Judith, the tiniest addition to the family. The hunter made sure the beloved baby girl was alive and well for when her father came back to them. Then all of a sudden, he did. Rick had entered his room in the middle of the night, a face full of tears, glistening in the faint moonlight. He finally granted himself the comfort that Daryl ached to provide. The pair had held each other hard, long into the morning, falling asleep in a tangled mess of limbs. Nights like this became commonplace for the duo. At this point, they were both well aware of their mutual affections, but lacking Shakespeare’s apt for romantic declarations, they went unvoiced for much longer than anyone deemed necessary. Months of longing stares, gently brushing fingertips and falling asleep in the same bed culminated in a tearful night of emotional exclamations and explosions of physical passion. It was new. It was exciting. It was terrifying. But they loved each other, and that was enough for now.

Coming back to reality,Daryl reduced his immense thought process to a mere two word sentence.

“We’re finde.”

“Good.” Carl took a moment to choose his next words carefully. “Just so you know, if you hurt my dad, I’ll kill you.”

Daryl didn’t know how to fathom a response to this. Carl had virtually become a man overnight, protecting them all in ways he probably couldn’t comprehend. Now, there’s no way the boy could actually take the fully grown crossbow wearing man, but Daryl understood. The kid had lost so many people in such a short time. He understood. ‘I love him beyond comprehension, killing me is the least you could do if I ever hurt him.’

He settled for a curt nod.

“Good then. I’ll meet you back here soon, gotta say goodbye to Judy.” They shared a smile of understanding.

Carl walked away, passing the older Grimes man who was walking towards Daryl, joining the queue of personal irritants plaguing his morning.

“Hey.”

Rick lay the leather jacket he was holding over the side of the truck and wrapped his arms around the back of the sick man. Nestling his head into shoulder, he felt Daryl melt into the embrace. They stood there in comfortable silence, the manly scent of sweet tobacco and fresh cotton joining together as they breathed the other man in.

“You good?” Rick whispered delicately into his lover's ear.

A shiver of pleasure trickled its way through Daryl’s body and all he could manage was a tired, congested, “mmhm.”

“Carl ask you ‘bout the bike again?”

“Yep. Don’t worry I said ndo.” He responded with a small but wet cough. “Oh, and he threatened to mburder mbe if I ever hurt you.”

Rick turned his head away from Daryl’s and laughed heartily.

“It ain’t that funny!”

“No…I know!” He responded through fits of giggles. “He said the same thing to me!”

Daryl chuckled as much as his body would allow him without coughing. “Good to kndow he don’t play favourites.”

He was so comfortable in Rick’s arm’s he’d almost forgotten how goddamn awful he felt. The pressure in his head seemingly melted away as the weight of his skull rested on another. The strong arms enveloping his torso provided much needed warmth against the harsh, miserable weather. He was safe. He was warm. He didn’t want to go anywhere or move any muscle of his angry body. But they were in the midst of a supply crisis, and there was no time for selfish comforts. Not today. His nose chose his next move before the hunter could even formulate another thought. He shrugged Rick off as quickly as he could and grabbed hold of the trunk to steady himself for another onslaught of fittish sneezes. Daryl’s head reared back, mouth parting slightly.

“Hh…ehh..Hh’ExTChUu…H’HasTCHhUU…Hh’NXXtchu…heh…Hehh—! Jesus Fucking Christ!” The final sneeze never came, leaving him damp, teary and frustrated. A heavy drop of snot landed on the back of his hand that continued to hold onto the jeep for dear life. He snorted back as loudly as he dared, wiping the rest away with his forearm. A concerned hand reached to comfort him, but the belligerent man swatted it away. He abhorred being seen like this.

Rick watched Daryl struggle with pity and heartache, wanting to hold the man until he was okay again, but equally wanting to slap him for being a stubborn prick. He chose neither and became a gawky witness to the grossest sneezing fit he’d ever seen.

“So um…” The Deputy started, but didn’t know how to articulate his thoughts, scared of the reaction from partner. “Back in th’ dining room…I was…I was talkin’...”

“Say what you gotta say!” Daryl spat. Emotionally and literally.

“Well, I was talk’n to Glenn, and he’s willin’ to come today in your place if you’re not up for it.” A tense silence followed, and when no answer came, Rick continued. “You need to rest Daryl! God, how’r ya supposed to get through a trip when you can barely stand?”

A taut silence perfused the air, and Rick prepared himself for the Daryl Dixon onslaught.

“You. Fucking. What?” He whipped around to face his partner, eyes filled with that same unbridled fury that premiered during the breakfast showdown. “Whatever happened to givin’ me space and ndot saying stupid shit huh? Jesus, how mandy times do I gotta say I’mb finde for you people to leave mbe the fuck alone?!” Daryl was on the edge of pure ferocity, pacing around in a feverish tantrum.

Rick knew the telltale signs of a Daryl Dixon meltdown and would usually intervene, but he was so pissed off with the contentious man that he decided to add fuel to the fire.

“Y’know, sometimes I can’t believe how goddamn idiotic you are! The fuck you think you’re gaining by being so pigheaded? God! You’re such an irresponsible asshole y’know?”

“You wannda talk about irresponsible, Rick Grimbes? How ‘bout thinkin’ before you let half a dozend strangers into the prison without stocking up on rations huh? Or what about that damnbed farming bullshit? Christ, you’re su-huhch a f-huh-cking…heh..h’hypocrite…hih!”

A secondary ripple of irritation surged through Daryl’s nose, leaving him powerless to continue the fight. He held up a middle finger to his boyfriend, a lax attempt at appearing tough when he was truly the picture of misery.

Rick stood impatiently, watching the other man getting sicker with every painful, waist-bending sneeze. Did he want to punch Daryl? Yes. Did he want to hold him? Yes. Did he want fuck him sideways because he was feeling very weirdly turned on? Also yes. He sighed, shaking away bewildered frustrations. After the attack on the prison, both men found it difficult to reign in their tempers, and were quick to lash out, often at each other. With some wise suggestion from Herschel Greene, Daryl took to going on solo hunting trips to clear his head, and Rick turned his focus on the developing prison farm. At this juncture in time, the Deputy willed himself to be the bigger person and back down. Daryl would come to his senses sooner or later. Hopefully before he passed out.

“You done?”

“...Yeah.” The hunter breathed shakily, rubbing his nose hard with the palm of his hand.

“Here, put this on and let's go.” Rick held out the leather jacket to Daryl with a sigh. It absolutely wasn’t warm enough, but it would have to do for today.

“I aind’t your kid Rick, I’mb finde.” He looked down on the jacket with contempt, although at this point he didn't know why. He was fucking freezing.

“It’s forty five fucking degrees Daryl, put the damn jacket on!”

Snatching the coat from the outstretched arm, the sickly man broke into another wet coughing fit. He wanted to have the last word but couldn’t seem to catch his breath. ‘Jesus. Merle and dad were right, you are pathetic.’

“Oi!” He finally croaked, drawing the attention of his partner who had started walking away. “I’mb drivin’!”

“Whatever, Daryl.” Rick tossed his arms up in weary defeat. “And hey, do us all a favour, cover your damn mouth!” He slammed the door of the passenger side closed, beckoning the others in. Unbeknownst to the lovers, Carl and Peri had witnessed most of the heated argument and stood gaping at them in shock.

“Do your dad’s always fight like this?” Peri whispered to Carl, who frowned between Daryl and the echo of Rick’s presence .

“Get in th’ car!” Daryl mumbled forcefully, watching the two younger companions hurry into the vehicle like scared little kids.

Daryl exasperatedly ran a hand through the wet clumps of his hickory hair. He wanted to scream and punch and cry. ‘God! You’re the absolute fucking worst. You don’t deserve him.’ He fought off pressing tears with an aggressive snort, attempting to rid himself of the ever worsening gunk that filled his sinuses to the brim. He looked down at the jacket in his hand and begrudgingly threw it on, thankful for something even a skerrick drier than that already clinging to his fever riddled body. He put his hands into the pockets and paused when he grazed something. In the right, a clean red handkerchief, neatly folded. In the left, a small blister pack of cold and flu tablets.

He made a small silent sob as the ever dreaded guilt rose in his throat like hot bile. ‘You really really don’t deserve him.’

No time for that. No room for weakness.

He gathered all the strength he could find and hopped into the driver’s seat. Daryl wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, praying to some sort of god that he could get through the next few hours without sneezing or coughing or something else that would paint him fragile and humiliated. He was not a faithful man.

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hyuckshaze · 4 years ago

Text

zoom shenanigans - l.dh

✩‌ haechan ‌x‌ ‌fem!reader‌ ‌|‌ boyfriend!haechan | smut | ‌1.6k+ words ✩

SUMMARY‌ ‌⇾‌ you don’t quite know how hyuck convinced you to sit on him while in a class zoom call

WARNINGS‌ ‌⇾‌ exhibitionism, unprotected sex, dom!sub themes, asphyxiation, edging/overstimulation, spitting, slight humiliation, degradation (use of words such as whore, slut etc.), dumbification, slight dacryphylia, salirophilia, dirty talk - basically pure and absolute filth!

AUTHOR’S NOTES ⇾ i couldn’t stop thinking about this throughout the entirety of my online classes today, so i just had to write about it to get it off my chest. i am an absolute slut when it comes to dom!hyuck, so this is just self-indulgence really. enjoy! not proofread so please message if there’s any errors, or anything missing from the warning list! - lex

You don’t quite know how Hyuck convinced you to sit on him while in a class zoom call.

He’d driven you insane. You’d been sat on his cock since the start of your lesson, for which your teacher, thank God, had decided that cameras did not need to be on. The class only lasted an hour, with you sitting on his lap in his gaming chair because ‘your desk chair just isn’t comfy enough, Y/N’, according to him anyway. You thought your desk chair was perfectly comfy, but he insisted. 60 minutes doesn’t seem all that long in the grand scheme of things, but with a boyfriend as evil as Donghyuck, of course he knew just how to make that hour feel like an eternity, teasing you relentlessly throughout. His lips brushing against your ear as you tried your hardest to complete the set work, whispering unspeakable promises into your ear and sending dark shivers down your spine. Though you couldn’t see his face, you knew the exact expression that was plastered on his face as his wandering hands roamed your body, squeezing and pinching all the spots that he knew would have you squirming in his hold. By far, the most infuriating thing he would do, though, was to snake his hand around your body whenever you had to turn your microphone on, fingers rubbing your clit in circles that had you biting back loud and sensual moans, managing to suppress the noises down to sighs which, as a University student, were not all that uncommon to hear.

It’s when the time hits 11:50am, exactly 10 minutes before the end of the lesson (you know because you began checking it, what seemed like, every few seconds, sensing his growing impatience), that his self-control evaporates. With a raspy grunt, his hand wraps around your neck and he thrusts up into you, hard, fast and rough. You gasp, face contorting in pleasure at the sudden movements which have you crying out and grasping at the desk in front of you in order to stay upright. You whine as his grip on your neck tightens, pulling you back towards his chest in one, swift movement. A yelp escapes your lips, now blindly grabbing at the armrests on either side of the chair in order to stop your legs from giving out. Not that you’d go anywhere, Hyuck’s rigid grip on you made sure of that. His hot breath against the back of your neck caused goosebumps to form on your exposed skin, a shudder going through your body at the overwhelming amount of pleasure. His hand on your neck pushes your jaw backwards, the back of your head resting on his shoulder as he looks down at your flushed face, tears of pleasure collecting at the corners of your wide and innocent eyes, perfect pink lips parted so beautifully, not to mention the dream-worthy sounds escaping them. How could he have ended up with such a perfect little girl? His hand moves for only a split second from your neck, squeezing your cheeks together in order to open your mouth. He spits harshly into your now open mouth, pressing your cheeks shut again afterwards. You let out a sudden and uncontrollable moan at the sound of him doing such a filthy thing, feeling his spit hit your tongue forcefully. You know what he wants. You close your mouth and swallow, his hand creeping back down towards your neck as you show him your empty mouth.

“That’s my good girl.” He rasps, giving a tight squeeze to your neck once more.

With your eyes squeezed so tightly shut, you almost forget that you’re supposed to be listening to your Biomedical Sciences lecturer drone on about Haematology and Transfusion. Almost.

“Right, now that’s done, everyone turn your cameras on for this last task. We’re going to be going through the homework assignment that I set for you all last week, don’t think you can get away without speaking either! I’m gonna be asking you all questions about the task.” His words barely register in your mind, your head fuzzy and body shaking at the feeling of your boyfriend rearranging your insides so delectably. After a few moments, his words seem to sink in and your eyes shoot open, urgently whispering Hyuck’s name. There was no way you could turn on your camera, you’d have to lie. I dropped my laptop; my WiFi is lagging; my room is a mess. A thousand ways to excuse yourself ran through your mind, albeit at a much slower pace than usual. You could only focus so much through the feeling of Haechan fucking into you so hard and fast. Your desperate whines of his name are interrupted as he hums into your ear, not slowing his hips or showing any sign of stopping. If anything, it becomes even harder to think at his words.

“We both know that’s not what you call me when I’m fucking you, baby.” He growls into your ear, pounding into you with even more force, rendering you barely capable of thinking, let alone talking. Your walls clench tightly around his hard cock, a string of curses escaping your boyfriend’s pink lips as he grunts loudly at the feeling.

“M-my professor s-said-” You start, barely able to string a sentence together.

“I heard what your professor said, baby. Turn on your camera. Show your entire class how much of a filthy little slut you are for me. Show them how this perfect A* student cums all over my dick, huh? You’d like that wouldn’t you? Everyone seeing the perfect little teachers pet coming all over her boyfriends cock during her class? Everyone seeing how fucking dumb you get for my dick?” You bite your lip, holding back a scream. You can’t, however, stop a broken whimper from escaping you.

“Fuck! Yes, yes, yes, yes! Please, oh my God!” The hand that isn’t clutching your neck so tightly moves downwards, fingers brushing your clit so delicately.

“Please... Please what, slut?” He spits, tears now leaking down your face, chest shaking as you hold in overwhelmed sobs.

“Please Daddy!” You cry out, mascara beginning to smudge as you clench your eyes shut so tightly. You no longer care about your waiting professor, you no longer care about the entire class, it’s only Haechan. He is all you can feel and think.

“Y/N, we’re waiting on you to turn your camera on...” Your professor presses, but you don’t even hear him. It’s only when your boyfriend stops all of his movement, hand slipping away from your throat, reaching down and reclining his gaming chair into a laying position, that you realise what he wants.

“No, no, no. Please, Hyuckie!” You whine, head spinning at the loss of movement. He’s laying practically flat now, out of view of the camera. You try to move, rolling your hips atop his dick but his fingers dig into your hips hard, almost painfully, as he holds you in place, smirking up at your shaking figure with mirth.

“Go on, baby. Turn on your camera.” He warns, fingers digging even harder into your hips. You send him an exasperated look, to which he gives you the look. You know what that means. ‘Do as I fucking say, or you’ll regret it’.

Your shaky hands reach over to the laptop, clicking the camera button as you let out an uneven breath. After a few seconds, your face appears on the screen. Your eyes widen. What your boyfriend had failed to inform you, was that your face was flushed and sweaty, mascara smudging your cheeks in obvious tear streaks, a drop of his spit glittering as it sat upon your chin. You wiped your face on your sleeve as soon as you catch sight of yourself, moving forward to pretend to be sorting a non-existing wire behind your screen as you try to make yourself look more presentable. As you do so, you hear his voice whisper.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you called me just then and don’t think you’re getting away with it. ‘Hyuckie’ doesn’t fuck you the way Daddy does.” His low tone causes you to clench around him, taking a deep breath at his teasing words. He scoffs at your silence, squeezing your ass, hard, so that you let out a small whimper. He hums in satisfaction as you plaster an obviously fake smile onto your face before leaning back, clicking on the unmute button for only a moment before abruptly turning it off again, barely having finished your sentence, as Haechan’s rock hard dick twitches inside your sensitive pussy.

“Sorry, Professor. I had tech issues.”

✩ ✩ ✩

Those last 8 minutes of class felt like an eternity, and your boyfriend made sure of that. You thought you’d done a pretty good job at hiding it, though. Not one person gave you a funny or disgusted look as you answered the Professor’s questions and kept a small, albeit forced, smile on your face. You couldn’t help but feel a twisted form of pride at your ability to pretend as though nothing was happening as you sat atop of Hyuck’s dick, enduring his endless verbal and physical teasing throughout.

It wasn’t until after the two of you were finished, long after the class had done so, that your boyfriend checked his phone

“Y/N...” You heard him call from the bathroom. You couldn’t find the energy to move, simply humming in acknowledgement at his hesitant-sounding call. He enters the bedroom in all his naked glory, carrying a small, wet cloth in order to clean you up in one hand, his phone in the other. Your eyes trace his naked body, focusing on the smooth, tanned skin. He really was a sight for sore eyes, somebody that you could never get tired of looking at. You’re disrupted from staring at his body when he holds his phone out in front of your face. You reluctantly tear your eyes from his torso, focusing in on the brightly lit screen, squinting slightly to read the text upon it.

“

MESSAGES

Jaemin

fucking your gf during her zoom class, nice one bro. though, you might wanna make sure that you actually hang up next time. the whole class was still there, apart from the prof. not that they’re complaining, i saw their faces. they’re gonna be getting off to that for the entirety of lockdown, i swear!

“

Needless to say, nobody in class called you the Teacher’s Pet anymore.

✩ ✩ ✩

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