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tsumtsumrry · 1 year ago

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Doctor's Orders

before i say anything else, huge thank you to @victoria-styles for the idea and inspiration, i really hope you enjoy.

WC: 2.8k

warning(s): afab descriptions and she/her pronouns, language, sexual content (fingering), extremely inappropriate relationship with gynecologist (just a work of fiction if your gyno starts to finger you please call the cops lol)

Your eyes and ears are completely tuned in to the sound of the clock ticking on the wall next to the big flat-screen TV. You obsessively check the time every couple of minutes in anxiety that your appointment will come sooner than you thought.

As soon as you made the appointment you regretted it. You’re an incredibly shy person, you keep to yourself and your two friends that you made in college who never strayed. And you know that it’s so dumb and so childish and irresponsible, but the mere idea of having to go to a place where a person sticks something up your parts is just too much for you.

Your fingers are starting to feel raw from picking at them and you tilt your head up to the ceiling and blow out a frustrated breath. You wish your anxiety didn’t make doing everyday, human things so difficult for you. It’s even worse that the only time you’ve come to the gynecologist, it’s for something you deem kind of embarrassing.

One day, you got home from work, exhausted and irritated, you got under the covers, imagined your favorite sexy scenario, waited for the sparks, and…nothing. Just nothing. It felt like you were trying to finish for hours and hours and you got nothing. And since then, nothing’s been able to do it for you. And for some anxiety-boggotten reason, you absolutely refuse to buy a sexy toy online or anything like that. Some crazy part of your mind thinks that the Amazon driver knows exactly what you would have in there and you can’t bear to see their face when they hand you your package.

So after a grueling couple of months, you finally caved, and here you are, at the gynecologist.

The sound of a door opening tears your attention away from the clock, and your heart immediately drops, a pit forming deep in your stomach. You almost want to squeeze your eyes shut and cross your fingers in hopes that your name isn’t called, but you’re in public, so you don’t. Instead, you hold your breath and look at the lady who just came out, praying that it isn’t you.

She calls your name. You release a breath.

“That’s me.” Your voice comes out shaky. She’s looking down at her tablet as you walk up to her but when she looks up, it’s like she notices your nervousness and gives you a sympathetic but encouraging smile.

She takes you back and sits you down in a chair, “just gonna take your vitals, honey.” Her voice is soothing, like a mother, and you’re glad she’s the person you’re interacting with before the doctor that you’re so scared about. You look around the room as she does her work and you notice, the place is decorated really nicely. As if it had a woman’s touch. You know that more than one doctor works here, but you wonder if yours is going to be a woman, honestly that would make you feel a little better.

She finishes rather quickly after asking you some questions about your medical history and things of the sort, and then her cadence changes, “Is it okay if I touch you?” She asks. You frown in confusion but nod. She places her hand on your arm and squeezes, “I know that this is your first time and I can tell that you’re really nervous, but trust me, Dr. Styles is the best we’ve got. He’s incredibly professional and kind, he’ll make you feel comfortable. And it’s better for you if you relax anyway.” She smiles gently, giving your arm one last squeeze before she picks up her stuff and walks towards the door.

Before she leaves, she turns around, leaning against the slightly ajar door, and shoots you a teasing smirk, “I’ll make sure to tell him to be extra gentle with you, dear.” And with that, she leaves. She’s sweet. And she definitely made you feel much better about the whole thing.

It’s only a couple minutes of just a little internal freaking out before the door opens and your senses are automatically overtaken with a waft of strong cologne.

“Alright…what do we have here…ah!” Your name falls perfectly from his lips, and an involuntary smile graces your face at his apparent goofy nature and the smile only grows when he grins back at you, dimples poking in his stubbly cheeks.

“How are you feeling today? Hannah told me you were looking a bit nervous before. Has any of that subsided or do I need to do some breathing exercises with you?” He quips brilliantly. I guess being a doctor he’s well aware that laughter is the best medicine.

“I’m doing okay, actually. Much better.” Your voice comes out soft, unable to get it any louder than that. He gives you an approving smile and then offers his hand out for you to shake it.

“M’name is Dr. Harry Styles. You can call me Harry, Dr. Styles, or Doc. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m personally fine with it all. I know your name already and…” he blows out a breath with his eyes comically wide “...basically your entire medical history so I think it’s safe to say we’re well acquainted!” You take his hand and shake it softly, a small giggle leaving your lips. You don’t miss the way he glances down at the contact. His hand feels nice. And you know it’s weird to be thinking that about your doctor, especially when that same hand will probably be somewhere near your genitals in the next couple of minutes, but his hand feels really nice against yours. Calloused and sturdy, yet gentle and soft.

You appreciate how he immediately got in tune with how cracking jokes made you more comfortable. It feels like extra effort to you and a warm feeling blooms in your chest at how attentive he is. You can tell that he cares about his patients and takes pride in his job, and it makes you feel so much more comfortable.

“Okay m’darling. Says you’re here for a regular check up. Are you sure there’s no concerns? Nothing we should be worryin’ about? S’more helpful if you tell me now so I know what to look for.” His hand goes out to motion you to lie down on the examination table. You oblige and he grins at you again, waiting for your response.

“Oh um…it’s nothing really just a very minor issue…” his eyes flick down to the movement of you fidgeting with your fingers and he presses his lips together and sighs, he looks up at you for permission before he takes your hands in his and starts to press them out with his.

“This is okay, yeah?” he questions softly, nodding along with you when you nod, “I absolutely need you to relax, darling. This’ll be so much easier if you’re relaxed and calm. Need you to loosen up. Do that for me?”

You nod and try your best to follow his instructions. Something about his hands on yours and his gentle voice filling your ears only makes it that much easier. And you have a feeling he knows that.

“There you go, honey. Now tell me what’s wrong so I can make it better.”

“I just…ever since like a month ago, I haven’t really been able to um…finish. And ever since then I’ve barely been able to get turned on… or wet. Is that normal? Because I was fine before but all of a sudden I just…couldn’t anymore. It just feels like something might be wrong with me.” You let out a huge breath after you’ve finally revealed your problem. And as much as it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, it also terrifies you what his reaction is going to be.

He doesn’t even blink. You imagine he’s dealt with things like this before, and you’re not surprised that he has little to no reaction. It’s literally his job. You figure you shouldn’t have been this nervous to begin with.

“Don’t worry m’darling. We’ll figure it out.” he coos, his thumbs rubbing softly on your knuckles, “alright. Let’s get started shall we?”

You had already put your surgical gown on before he got here so all he has to do is lift the bottom up and get to business. And that’s exactly what he does. He puts his gloves on and lifts your gown on, his brows furrowed in concentration and his lips pursed in a cute pout.

He feels around, brushing his fingers through your folds. You jerk when his fingers brush your clit in a feather-light touch. He rolls his lips into his mouth briefly and you suddenly wish a hole would open right now and swallow you into the floor. You try not to, but you can’t stop ogling his concentrated face. He bites the inside of his cheek and squints his eyes slightly as he takes a closer look, “s’perfect, honey. Everything looks fine.”

“Gotta figure out what’s going on with you though, hm?” He looks you right in the eyes as he says it, his hand resting on your thigh dangerously close to your cunt and you nod quickly, taking deep breaths in as quietly as you can. Something about the way he’s looking at you, handling you, talking to you, it’s got your stomach warming, and your core tingling in a way that you’ve sorely missed. He’s touching you like he wants you.

He gently talks you through the speculum, using his hand rubbing softly on your thigh and his voice to calm you down. After he’s done he praises you softly and heat blooms in your chest.

“Still shy on me?” he teases, turning around. He starts to fiddle with his things on the desk, picking a bottle of lube and squeezing it on his finger. You immediately hold a breath. This is the part where he’ll actually be inside you. All words that you could have said in response to his teasing are immediately stolen from your lips, all you can do is wait there in anticipation as he gets himself ready for you.

“M’kay, darling”, he returns to you, placing his free hand on your thigh, “just gonna check on you. That okay?”

“Mhm.” You feel like an idiot, unable to speak to your literal doctor because for some reason he’s got you feeling things you haven’t felt in months.

“I’d prefer it if you used your words.”

“Yes, Dr. Styles.” You manage to get the words out and he offers you a proud grin. When he pulls your gown up again, he sucks in a breath, his pupils dilating. He looks back up at you and it’s like you can feel the condescension in his gaze before he even opens his mouth.

“Oh honey…nothing’s wrong with you.” He strokes his finger through your folds, eyes honed in on your cunt and a far-away look in his eyes as if he’s mesmerized by it. He presses his fingers at your entrance and you suck in a breath, “you’re okay, honey. S’okay.” He soothes you as he slowly slides his finger in. Both of your mouths part from the tight stretch. A soft puff of breath leaves his lips and a soft moan leaves yours.

The second the sound leaves your mouth, your cheeks flame in embarrassment, you whisper out a slew of apologies and he only shushes you. His thumb on his free hand stroking your thigh soothingly. His finger leaves you until it reaches the knuckle, then it pushes right back into you, ripping a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Shh shh. Just takin’ care of you like I’m supposed to.” He curls his finger up inside of you and a shaky moan leaves your throat. As soon as he hits that sensitive spot inside you, it’s like all of the orgasms you could’ve been having in the past few months come back to consume you tenfold. Your jaw hangs open as he starts to move his fingers faster, playing with you like a damn fiddle.

“How’s that feel, honey? Feels like you’re better already. Made such a mess and you’re already squeezing me so tight.” Every word that leaves his lips goes straight to your cunt, his husky deep voice releases a cage of butterflies in your stomach, and when he coaxes a second finger inside of you and adjusts his hand so his thumb rubs against your clit, it immediately feels as if you’re about to burst.

“Oh god—Dr. Styles.” You shriek out.

“Harry, honey. Say Harry. Say m’name while I’m making you cum.” He demands, his fingers fucking you harder and robbing the breath from your lungs. You manage to stutter out his name and an approving groan leaves his lips, “look at you, honey, following the doctor’s orders. Such a good girl.”

The warm feeling brews in your tummy before it starts to spread and bloom in your whole body. Your body tenses up to brace yourself for the intense amounts of pleasure you know you’re about to feel and a staccato of moans leaves your bitten lips.

“Don’t fight it, honey. Let yourself have it. You deserve this.” It’s amazing how he can expertly coax you through an expressively powerful climax with his words, he knows exactly what to say to you and what tone to say it in to make you putty in his hands, “know you’ve needed this for so long. S’been so hard, hm? Bet this pussy was aching without someone to take care of it. Let me take care of it, darling. Cum all over my fingers like I know you can.”

You can almost taste it, it climbs and it climbs, your stomach tensing and your thighs shaking, each firm rub against your g-spot makes you crumble and it swirls and sparks in your tummy. Light tremors turn into full-body shudders when the build-up of pleasure finally explodes like an earthquake. You moan brokenly, your voice cracking as you gasp for air and let yourself feel the pleasure you’ve been missing.

He talks you through it, leading you through the most powerful orgasm you think you’ve ever had. You instantly feel the tension leave your body with it. He takes away all the pent-up frustration and dissatisfaction with every word and movement of his hand.

It’s when he keeps going that it begins to border on the painful side of painful pleasure. That sexy concentrated look is back on his face as he pulses his fingers faster inside you with a second wind of determination.

A pained whine leaves your throat and your hand shoots out to grab his arm. You attempt to tug him away and squirm away from his touch, but he doesn’t relent. He uses his other hand to pin you down and your other hand shoots up to your mouth so the scream that you let out isn’t heard throughout the whole office.

“Take it. We’ve got to make sure you’re better. Cum again for me.” Your legs shake uncontrollably. You’ve never felt pleasure so intense that it hurts before, and it’s making you feel like your brain has liquified. You fully give in to him, your body submits and you let him play with your body exactly how he wants.

Before you know it, he’s driven you over the peak again. Your head falls back onto the exam table, thoroughly exhausted. He smiles gently at you, so innocent and nonchalant, as if he didn’t just completely ruin you on his fingers a minute before. His pointer finger brushes against your cheek before his hand cradles your face.

“You’re all better then, yeah?” His voice is soft and comforting, it fills your tummy with warmth, and you suddenly have the urge to let him talk to you sleep as he holds you right here on the exam table, “think you’re my new favorite patient.” He whispers with a smirk.

He lets you get up and shakily put back on your clothes. And in all honesty, you’re surprised you can walk right now.

He took such good care of you. You naturally feel indebted to him and you start to thank him but he just holds up his hand and stops you with an incredulous look on his face.

“No need to thank me, darling. Just doing my job.” He assures. “The only thanks I need is you coming back here next time you need my help.”

After all your stuff is packed and you’re walking towards the door of the exam room, his voice stops you. You turn around to face him and you’re met with his gorgeous face. He wears a gentle smile but teasing eyes. When he speaks you immediately know that his words have promise written between the lines.

“Drive safe, honey. M’looking forward to your next appointment.”

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!”

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until he broke his sparring partner's arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x you #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #hotd fanfic

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intimidating-fettuccine · 7 months ago

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Sore. || EJ x Reader. You took a pretty big fall on a mission, and it's got Jack worried about you.

“How are you feeling?” Jack’s voice is level, but you can sense the concern and worry in it regardless as he bends over you.

“I’m fine, honey. I promise.” You try to assure him, but he doesn’t believe your words. He settles down next to you in bed, holding you close and staying by your side so he can monitor you.

You’d taken quite the fall during your mission yesterday, and Jack has been on edge since it happened, worried that something more serious could’ve happened to you, especially with all the bruises becoming visible on your skin.

“I’ve got nothing to worry about with a doctor like you by my side, Jack.” You whisper into him as you curl up into his chest.

Laying on your back has grown too painful from the bruising and soreness settling into it, so you’ve been spending the majority of your time curled up with Jack to comfort you. His arms circle around you, extremely gentle and careful as he pulls you closer to him, trying not to cause you any more pain than you’re already feeling. You can feel the anxiety seeping out of him, his body tense in concern. You make a weak attempt at massaging his back as you hug him, and it settles him out of his thoughts enough to curl around you.

“I promise I’ll be okay. I already feel way better than yesterday.” You soothe him with a few kisses to his temple and he can’t help but sigh into you.

“I just wish I’d been there to save you. To prevent it from happening.” His voice is unusually quiet, and it makes you hold him tighter.

“But if you hadn’t caught me you would’ve just blamed yourself. You’ve already done so much for me honey, you got me all patched up and checked out, and you’ve been taking such good care of me.” He wants to argue with your words, but he finds himself unable to.

He knows you’re right. If he had been on that mission and failed to prevent your fall he would’ve just blamed it all on himself and gone into another spiral of self-loathing which wouldn’t be helpful for either of you. Jack just can’t stand the thought of you being so hurt, especially when it’s a work injury. He knows you’ll be fine, all of your vitals are great and your pain is decreasing as the days pass, but his anxiety just won’t leave him.

Jack curls further into your arms, and you grasp onto him tighter, stroking his hair affectionately as time passes you both gently. You’ll be okay, you both know it, but you also know that Jack’s greatest fear is losing you, and a fall like that is going to have him scared for a little while. He’ll do his best to care for you, though, just as he always does, and you’ll eagerly accept his care and repay him with all the love and affection you can give him, just as you always do. Jack moves to press some affectionate kisses to your lips, trying to force his love and emotions for you into them. You return them in kind, sighing as you melt into his body, his hands gently roaming your skin, avoiding all your majorly sore spots. He doesn't know what he'd do without you here, loving him the way you always do, and he doesn't want to find out.

You’ll just have to get used to Jack’s developing penchant for trying to increasingly make your work gear more and more safe, to the extent he asks you if it would be unreasonable to add a punch of padding and bubble wrap to your work uniform. He says it out of love and concern, he promises.

#I fell down the stairs yesterday and I am writing this for some comfort #got a sick ass giant bruise that looks like a tank on my back now #creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta scenario #creepypasta scenarios #eyeless jack scenario #eyeless jack #eyeless jack headcanon #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack headcanons

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 1 year ago

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Hi so I wanted to request something I just thought of if that’s okay! A little meet cute story from season 4 where reader is the midwife who helped deliver Henry and her and Reid meet in the hospital and just hit it off🥺

this is so cute! this strays a lot from the plot of the episode because i haven't watched it forever and don't feel like it lmao

The Lanky Guy in Room 603

She wasn't sure if the long, lanky man curled up in the uncomfortable chair was Jennifer's brother or husband. He looked young; with a blemish-free baby face and a mop of soft brown hair. She could tell it had a slight curl to it and she had to resist an urge to tuck the stray pieces that fanned out behind his ear. Perhaps it was because she spent her days and nights caring for expecting parents, she just couldn't help but want to care for the sleeping man.

Jennifer was watching television, a pained look on her face as she held her round belly.

"You said it would be today," Jennifer groaned, the pain of labor evident on her face, "It's almost tomorrow."

Y/N sat on the stool beside Jennifer's bed, "I know I did, honey." She pressed a damp cloth to Jennifer sweaty face, attempting to cool down her body temperature. "But it seems like this little baby's got a mind of their own."

"Just like her mother."

The voice came from behind her. The sleep man, now not sleeping, unfolded himself from his pretzel-like position on the chair. He joints popped as he stretched his legs. Y/N noticed his socks were patterned. His left foot donned socks with gray tabby cats and a navy blue background. His right foot donned pumpkins on a lavender background.

Jennifer smiled, thanking Y/N for the damp cloth, as her companion checked her vitals. He peered at the numbers, probably attempting to decipher their meanings regarding his wife's health.

"Your wife is perfectly healthy, sir. You''ll have a healthy, sweet, baby within the next day. I'm sure of it."

Jennifer chuckled, "He's not my husband. Spencer's my....."

"Co-worker. Very proud godfather of her soon to be born baby girl?" Spencer injected, still reading the vitals.

"I'm concerned about JJ's vitals. Are you sure that her lab work is updated? It needs to reflect the high stress nature of her job. And her blood pressure? It was last checked thirteen minutes and twenty seven seconds ago. And does the satellite birth center have enough blood in the bank. On average a laboring mother may loose about...."

"Spence," Jennifer, or JJ as the man named Spencer called her, "I'm going to be just fine. The baby is going to be just fine. Please don't harass the midwife. Or I'll have to switch you out for Penny instead."

"You know if you wanted to get stuff done, you should've picked Hotch or Emily," Spencer countered, "I'm just going to be a nervous wreck."

"You're going to be fine. And think of it as practice for when your wife is pregnant. You'll be a pro by the time that rolls around."

Spencer chuckled dryly. His cheeks blushed crimson as he checked the clock. "It's now been fourteen minutes and thirty four seconds." He whispered under his breath.

"Are you and your wife expecting as well? It kinda smart for her to send you here for a dry run?" Y/N commented, making light talk with Jennifer and Spencer. Through her couple of years a midwife, she learned that many laboring parents and their companions need to have their minds occupied.

"N-no, no wife," Spencer said, his lips formed a tight smile as he looked at Y/N and then back to Jennifer, "We have a very time consuming job. Dating is hard. And family life is even harder. It’s common for many families in the BAU to end with divorce between the two partners.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Spence,” Jennifer quipped as a wave of labor pains came over her.

“I don’t mean you and Will,” Spencer backtracked, “You’re not even married to him.”

Jennifer rolled her eyes at Spencer, and Y/N got the sense that the Spencer and Jennifer shared a sibling-like relationship. It made sense, she supposed as she watched Spencer continuously checked Jennifer’s vitals. He hovered like a mother hen, but made no attempt at physical contact like the husbands usually did.

“Distract her,” Y/N whispered to Spencer, “And don’t talk about how her marriage is statistically likely to end in divorce. That’s not the way to comfort a mom that’s about to push a 8 pound baby out of her vagina.”

Spencer shut his mouth quickly, returning to Jennifer’s side. As Y/N walked out of the room, she noted that the soon to be godfather asked her if she needed anything.

***

“Y/N!” Nurse Lorraine said from her perch. “That tall kid from Room 603, the one that looks like he’s about to faint? He’s looking for you.”

Room 603? Y/N checked her chats, shuffling through the pile of laboring parents.

Ah! That would be Jennifer Jareau. And her very eager friend/co-worker/godfather of her child.

“Oh, Spencer? He’s a sweetheart. Trying to help her. He could teach those husbands a thing or too.” Y/N said, as she typed away at her computer.

“He’s not the husband?” Lorraine questioned, her tone making Y/N stop typing.

“What are you doing, Lo?” Y/N sighed with exasperation. “You’re meddling. And it’s not a cute look, I’m afraid.”

“It’s been how long since that idiot of a man dumped you for his unpaid intern? Todd? Taylor? What was his name again?”

“Tyler. He was an ass. I don’t think I’m ready to get myself back out there. He really did a number on me.” Y/N lamented. She took a sip of her third coffee of the day. It was a distraction from tearing up or worse, actually crying in front of Lorraine, the hardass nurse who makes Attendings cry.

“Y/N, honey,” Lorraine sighed, “Don’t waste your youth or your beauty on someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’m not saying that man in 603 deserves you, but he’s holding his coworker’s hand as she’s delivering a baby that’s not his. All because her boyfriend is stuck at work in New Orleans. He’s a good man. And he’s looking for you. And he blushed when he asked for you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes at Lorraine’s gossipy tendencies. “How do you know all that? I’ve been with him all day and I hardly can get him to tell me his name. Beside the snide comments about me not checking the vitals enough.”

“See! He’s protective over people he cares about, even if talking to the gorgeous nurse terrifies him. I can lock you two in the supply close if you’d like. I mean the piles and piles of extra large padsicles and bed pens aren’t very romantic, but maybe romance isn’t what you need right now.” Lorraine quipped.

Ignoring Lorraine, “I’m going to see what he wants from me.” Y/N said, recoiling because she knew Lorraine would twist her words into some sort of sexual innuendo.

“Go get’em, Tiger!” Lorraine called from the Nurse’s Station with a mischievous glint in her eye.

***

“Spencer?” Y/N whispered, noting that Jennifer was sleeping in her bed, “Nurse Lorraine said you wanted to speak to me.”

Even in the dark room, minus the glow of equipment monitoring Jennifer, Y/N could see his light blush. He was cute. She thought that before Lorraine even broached the subject. She though that when she silently wondered if he was Jennifer’s husband or not.

He was cute. Handsome, even.

Spencer couldn’t be more than 26 or 27. He had brown eyes that were kind and warm. Spencer looked gentle, and that was evident by the easy way he cared for Jennifer.

“I wanted to make sure I was doing it right,” Spencer confessed, “I’m not really good with all this,” he waved his hand around the room to show what he meant, “My mind can only focus on the possibilities of what can go wrong. I’m not cut out for this.”

“For what being a companion? A godfather? Spencer, Jennifer clearly cares for you and wants you in her baby’s life. She sees that you’re kind and caring and gentle.”

Spencer cracked a smile, warming Y/N heart. She hated it. Yet she liked it. And that only made her hate it more.

“Thanks.” Spencer said, taking a sip of his probably now cold coffee.

“You know there’s an excellent microwave in the nurse’s lounge room. Lorraine bullies enough attendings that I can totally sneak you in there to warm up your coffee.” Y/N offered, “Jennifer needs sleep. It’s the best thing for her right now. Besides, I can teach you how to swaddle a baby and change a diaper.”

“I know how to deliver a baby,” Spencer said, “It’s a lot messier than I thought.” He said with a shiver.

“Are you in healthcare?” Y/N asked they walked to the nurse’s lounge. It was so late that most of the families were either sleeping, in labor, or being discharged. “You certainly know a lot about medicine. And for the record we do have plenty of blood in stock. But we’re looking for donors every third Tuesday if the month.”

“Not technically. Well, not the doctor you’re thinking of at least. I have three PhDs. In mathematics, chemistry, and psychology. It’s….a lot I know,” He offered a small smile, “People either think I’m like some super genius or a freak. But not. I’m just….me.”

“Well I happen to think that you’re pretty awesome just being you. I can’t technically say it, but you and Jennifer are my favorites of the night. So it’s only my duty as a L&D nurse to make sure you are the best baby swaddling godfather in the metro area.”

“Now that’s quite the title to live up to. Do we use real babies or dolls to practice?” Spencer inquired.

Y/N giggled as she reached into the supply closet, “I’m in the business of delivering babies. Not kidnapping them, Dr. Spencer……?”

“Reid.”

“Reid.” She nodded, handing him a baby doll to practice with. “If it was twelve hours earlier I would be making you wrap my burrito to practice.”

“I think I’m going to equally as bad as wrapping a burrito as I would be a baby.” He confessed.

“Fear not, young grasshopper, your teacher is here.” Y/N teased, grabbing Spencer by the arm to the table where she ate lunch every day with Lorraine and Hector, her favorite to nurses on the floor.

She laid out a blanket and a baby on the table as her and Spencer stood side by side. “So fold the corner of the blanket down for the baby’s head to rest. And the you gently lay the baby down. Now wrap over the left triangle to the baby’s middle.” She watched as he followed expertly, “Good! Now fold up the little triangle at the baby’s feet. Make sure it’s snug, but not too tight.”

“It’s easier than it looks,” Spencer said as he folded the last part of the blanket and held up a swaddled baby doll.

“Now try when it when a baby is screaming at you and you’ve been on your feet for ten hours.”

“I’ll sit to my day job,” Spencer joked, “But call me if you ever need a swaddling partner.”

Y/N’s face heated at the thought of calling Spencer, of talking to him beyond this night when he friend was about to give birth.

“Where did you learn how to deliver a baby?” She asked, hoping to divert the conversation.

“I read about it.” Spencer replied.

“In college? Did you take a human biology class on pregnancy as well?”

“Uh, no,” Spencer said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, “I read about it. I read it today when JJ was getting admitted.”

“Getting admitted takes like 30 minutes? How on Earth did you read about human delivery in 30 minutes?” Y/N asked with awe on her face.

“Actually, it took 31 minutes and twelve seconds. Which is 2 minutes and 39 seconds faster than the average,” He blushed when Y/N raised eyes meant his comment only added to her questions, not answered them, “I have a very good memory. And I can read fast.” He explained.

“Oh,” Y/N said, taking out two mugs from the cabinet, “that explains the three PhDs and how you hounded me about vitals before. You’re brilliant. And a very good friend.”

“I don’t get brilliant often. Genius, yes. Freak, yes. Strange, yes. But brilliant isn’t usually reserved for me. I think my quirks out weigh my strengths and thus that changes how I’m perceived.”

“Well, I don’t see a freak or a stranger,” Y/N told him, “I see a man who’s probably 6’3” that crammed himself into a tiny plastic chair and has been fetching ice chips and throwing down with the toughest nurse to get his friend a blanket. That’s not a freak. Or a weirdo. Or anything besides a good, gentle, kind man. I don’t really know you, but it’s my job to watch people here. I watch all these husbands who don’t dote on their wives as they push a whole baby out of their bodies. They complain to them about how long it took to find parking, or that they had to pay 10 bucks for a decent cup of coffee at the cafe, or that the chairs hurt their back. I haven’t heard you say that once. You’re good, Spencer. There’s a reason Jennifer wants you to be her baby’s godfather.”

Stunned, Spencer’s lip twitched into what resembled a smile. He bit his lip as his eyes scanned the room.

“Thank you,” Spencer whispered, “it means more than you know.”

“Good. You seem like the kind of person that deserves to hear good things. And plus, I’m sure your wife or girlfriend will be very happy you spent the night learning how to swaddle babies and change diapers.”

“Uh, I’m not committed to anyone.” Spencer corrected, the blush returned to his face, this time it crawled all the way up to his ears. It only increased his cuteness as it increased the way Y/N’s heart pumped blood. Her nervous system was on overdrive and she hasn’t even touched the man. Yet there was something about him that drew him to her.

“Oh, seeing someone casually and don’t want to freak her out?” Y/N offered. “Because I will admit that’s not what you want to say to the girl you have a situationship with.”

“A situationship?” Spencer questioned, shaking his head. “Never mind. I’m not seeing anyone casually or otherwise. It’s never been my strong suit.”

“Seriously?” Y/N said, pouring her coffee and Spencer a cup, “That’s very surprising.”

“Why?” Spencer asked, accepting the coffee with a tight lipped smile.

“Not to cross any professional boundaries, but you’re literally what most girls look for when they want a partner. Especially one that they want to you know,” she gestured to the baby doll on the table, “settle down with. You’re husband material.”

“Husband material?” Spencer asked, clearly beyond confusion. It was like it was his first time hearing that he was desirable to women. An overwhelming urge to tell him just how desirable he was to her overcame Y/N.

She fought it hard.

“You know,” she started, “you’ve got a great job, nice and normal friends, you’re close friends with a woman, but there’s zero sexual tension between the two of you. That means a lot to girls. It means that you can see women as whole people.”

“What else would I see them as?” Spencer questioned aloud. “They’re people. Not props or conquests.”

Y/N threw her hands up in surrender as if she finally has given up. “See, you’re like perfect. Not to mention you’re very nice to look at.”

Spencer gulped a big sip of coffee, but the burning liquid spewed out all over him and the table. Y/N dodged it, spending nearly three years getting out of the way of mysterious liquids from all different patients had certainly paid off.

“Sorry, sorry, god that was embarrassing,” Spencer lamented. “I hope I didn’t get it all over you.” He apologized.

Holding in a giggle, Y/N waved off his fears. “Don’t worry. You’re just fine, Spencer.”

In more ways than one, she thought silently to herself.

“I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. It’s highly unprofessional of me to comment on your appearance.”

No matter how attractive she finds him.

Spencer’s face melted as she apologized. “No!” He practically yelled. “Don’t think that. Please don’t think that. I didn’t mind it at all. It’s just, I’m not used to hearing it. Especially from women that are like you.”

“Like me?”

“Smart. Hardworking. Kind. Funny. Beautiful.” Spencer confessed.

The last one hit a certain part of her heart that went pang. Tyler never called her beautiful. He would call her hot and sexy, but not beautiful. But maybe once he did. But he said she “looked beautiful” not that she was beautiful.

There was a difference between looking beautiful and being beautiful. And she was looking right at it.

“Spencer,” Y/N whispered. “Once Jennifer is discharged from L&D could I maybe take you out on a date?“

Spencer nodded, and she swore she could see his eyes light up at the possibility of something between them.

“Sure. Isn’t there a blood donation clinic next week?” He smiled and took a sip of his coffee, “I promise I won’t spew coffee all over you when you compliment me again,”

***

Tagging people who are active But please reblog and comment if you stumble across this. It’s a great way we can show our love :)

@reidsbookclub @boldlyvoid @foxy-eva @candlesandsoftrain @radiant-reid

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #reid all about it #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

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murdrdocs · 8 months ago

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somnophilia; cockwarming; remnants of dark!steve w/ STEVE MURPHY

his sole of his shoes press into the floorboard, creating a creak that makes steve still. he stares down at his mess, cursing himself when he notices that his foot has landed just in the one place he has known to avoid. but for some reason it slipped his mind tonight. maybe he’s too focused and too determined to get to you.

you stir awake just a bit, rolling to your back, limbs twisted in the thin sheet. the comforter has been cast to the side, hanging off of steve’s side of the bed. he doesn’t even bother going that way, instead heading straight to your side while he throws his jacket off.

he continues discarding clothing until he’s left to his bare essentials— the pair of denim jeans that fit him well in all the right places and his creased white tee.

you blink a few times before setting your eyes on him. “hey,” you smile up at him lazily, your skin glowing from the warm streetlights outside. your wearing a thin tee shirt and tiny shorts, nothing unlike the usual sleep attire you’ve adopted since moving to colombia. but there’s just something about tonight that makes him want you more.

maybe it’s the adrenaline still pumping through his veins and the splatter of blood on the toe of his boot acting as a reminder. both cause all of the blood in him to push down to the vital parts of his body. the parts that ache for you the most.

he leans down over you, pressing his knee into the bed beside you as he kisses your forehead. “hey.”

the tranquility exists for a second and steve starts to migrate towards your lips. until you stop him with a hand on his chest.

“outside clothes.”

he groans but can’t help but smile against your lips. “was gonna take ‘em off anyway.”

you hum unconvinced, already starting to roll back around while steve takes the remainder of his clothes off. and when he’s left in his boxers, he slips into bed next to you, tucking a hand around your waist and trying to calm his beating heart and racing thoughts.

you’ve already started to doze off again, he can tell by your breaths, but steve is far behind you. and he tries other tactics, he really does. but he can only count so many sheep before he has to put them to rest.

the first push of his hips into yours is in an attempt to adjust his position. then the second push of his hips into yours is curiosity. by the third time, he has a plan, one he begins to enact by kissing your neck and fondling your tit under your shirt.

you groan against him, feebly pushing his hand away as you tell him, “not now, steve. ‘m tired.”

“i know, i know, honey.” he kisses right under your ear. “you can just lemme do the work, okay? i just gotta let off some steam. i’ll make it quick. promise.”

and he does make it quick. he takes you from behind, one hand curled around the side of your knee and holding your leg up. that way he has your cunt open and ready for him, making it easier for him to slip in and out of you with determination.

you’re stirring in and out of consciousness the entire time. every so often you let out the prettiest little noise—a groan or whine or moan—which lets steve know that even though he’s doing this for his own pleasure, you’re getting off, too.

he tries to circle your clit for you, but as soon as his hand leaves your leg, you go limp, letting it close and making it hard for steve to fuck you. he tsks, trying to exercise patience as he tries again, to no avail.

“help me out here, honey,” he asks. you hum, breathe in heavily through your nose, but then does what he says. “there you go,” he coos when you start to circle your own clit.

he’s close, he’s nearly there, but steve won’t do it without you. “c’mon, honey. give me a little more. need you to get there, okay? don’t wanna do it without you.”

you make a sound as if you understand, but steve thinks you could be in between a dream and reality at this point. he uses his other hand to push his thumb into your mouth, pressing down onto your tongue a little far back to trigger your gag reflex. when he gets the reaction he wanted, you a little more awake than you were before, he grins from behind you.

“there she is.”

his thrusts become a little more pointed, a little more angled. he’s reaching for a spot that takes a few attempts to find, but when he does it makes it all worth it. you mewl, your back arching and your reaction that most conscious one of the night.

“yeah? yeah, you close?” he’s right in your ear as he asks it. you nod and your hand gains a burst of energy as you speed up just enough to have you clenching around steve and letting go.

he follows closely behind you and for the first time in a few hours, steve has enough serenity to pull him into sleep.

he doesn’t bother pulling out of you.

#steve murphy x reader #steve murphy x you #steve murphy smut #celeste writes misc

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beautification-tales · 3 months ago

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The Pill

An Age Regression Tale

Margaret stood at the kitchen sink, the warm water running over her calloused hands as she scrubbed the last of the dinner dishes. The kitchen window framed the fading light of a weary sun, casting a dull glow across the kitchen's yellowing tiles. She felt every one of her fifty-four years in her bones, especially on nights like these when the quiet was as thick as the dust that clung to the picture frames on the wall.

Her thoughts wandered to her husband, Tim, out with his friends again. The same friends who often brought home tales of their flings and conquests, their laughter echoing in her mind like a taunt. A creeping doubt had settled in her heart, whispering that she was no longer the woman Tim had married. Her reflection in the faucet was a sad reminder of the toll time had taken on her once youthful visage.

The TV in the next room played a commercial for a new miracle pill, "YouthRestore", promising a rejuvenating transformation. Desperation gnawed at her. She'd seen it before, but this time the words "turn back the clock" and "reclaim your vitality" resonated with a new urgency. Her hand hovered over the phone, her heart racing. What if it could give her back the spark she felt she'd lost?

The next day, Margaret found herself at the drugstore, the box of YouthRestore clutched in her trembling hand. The cashier, a young girl with a smattering of freckles and a knowing smile, scanned the box and said, "You're going to love it, my mom does!" The girl's casual endorsement filled Margaret with a mix of hope and embarrassment. She hurried home, eager to swallow the first pill.

She put on lingerie and sighed as she looked at her figure in the mirror. The wrinkles and sags that had haunted her seemed to more visible than ever. She felt her eyes water as she thought of how little she felt desired now. Tim gave her attention and love but that animalistic attraction he once had for her had faded away with her youth. She closed her eyes as she remembered how he would rip her clothes off desperate to feel her tight body.

Taking a deep breath she held the pill in her hand. It was time to change everything. “Honey, I’m home.” Tim called out as he entered the house. Margaret's heart skipped a beat. She hastily swallowed the pill with a gulp of water, hoping beyond hope for a miracle. She waited, her nerves jangling like a thousand tiny bells.

Tim entered the bedroom and was surprised to see his wife on the bed in lingerie. He was puzzled and excited. “What’s going on baby? Did you miss me?” He asked with a cheeky smile. Margaret’s heart raced, was this the pill already working? “Yes and I want your hard cock right now.” She said, a little too eagerly. Tim looked at her strangely, she’d never talked like that before. But he wasn’t one to refuse a good offer.

Tim walked over and sat on the bed as Margaret touched his crotch. She frowned as she felt no bulge there. "What's wrong?" she asked with a pout. Tim took a deep breath, trying to hide his confusion, "Nothing, baby. I just had a long day." But Margaret wasn't convinced. The pill had promised to not only make her look younger but to also boost her sex drive and allure.

“I know you when you lie to me. You just aren’t attracted to me anymore.” She said with a hint of sadness in her voice. Tim felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t know how to tell her that it wasn’t that he wasn’t attracted to her, it was just that she wasn’t acting like herself. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, trying to comfort her.

“I saw your porn history Tim. It’s all the same. Big breasted blonde girls. You want a bimbo not a grey haired tired old gal. I know I’ve changed and I know I can’t give you what you need anymore.” Margaret’s voice was shaky, her grip on Tim’s hand tightening.

Tim looked at her, genuinely surprised. "What? No, Margaret, that's not it. I love you for who you are, not just for how you look." He tried to sound reassuring, but the doubt in her eyes was unmistakable.

Margaret smiled and put her hand on his cheek. “I know that baby but your dick has a mind of its own. I miss being able to make it mine. That’s why I took the pill.” She looked down at her hand and realized she was still in lingerie. “But if it’s not working, I guess I’ll go change.”

As she started to get up, Tim's eyes grew wide. Her body began to shimmer and morph before his very eyes. The wrinkles and sags she had been lamenting moments ago began to smooth away, her skin tightening like a canvas being stretched over a frame. Her hair grew longer and more vibrant, changing from a dull gray to a luscious blonde that cascaded down her back. Her breasts swelled, becoming perky and firm, and her waist cinched in dramatically. Her hips widened and her ass rounded out into a perfect peach.

"Margaret!" Tim gasped, his voice hoarse with shock. "What the hell is happening?" He watched as she looked down at herself, her expression a mix of amazement and fear. The lingerie she had once felt embarrassed in now hugged a body that could make any man's jaw drop.

Margaret's eyes sparkled with a youthful glow, and she felt a surge of energy and confidence that she hadn't felt in decades. The pill had worked, and she looked like a woman half her age. She spun around in front of the mirror, watching as her new body moved with a grace and sensuality she hadn't felt in years. The tight, revealing lingerie now perfectly showcased her new curves and firm skin.

Tim couldn't believe what he was seeing. His eyes darted over Margaret's transformed body, taking in every detail. Without realizing it, his hand had found its way to his crotch, and he felt his cock growing hard and stiff in his pants. The sight of his wife, now a goddess before him, was more arousing than any of the bimbos in his secret porn stash.

Margaret spun around and saw the bulge she had been wishing to see for so long. “See baby I told you it has a mind of its own.” She said with a mischievous smile. Tim could only nod, his mouth agape as he took in the sight of his wife's incredible transformation.

Margaret sauntered over to him, her newfound confidence and sex appeal radiating from every pore. She reached out and began to unbuckle his belt, her eyes never leaving his. Tim's cock sprang free, thick and hard, and Margaret couldn't help but let out a gasp of excitement. It had been so long since she had seen him this aroused by her. She took it in her hand and began to stroke it gently, feeling it pulse and throb under her touch.

Tim's eyes rolled back in his head as he groaned with pleasure. "Margaret," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "It feels so good." He hadn't felt this way in so long, and it was all because of her. The woman he had vowed to love and cherish had transformed before his very eyes into the embodiment of his wildest fantasies.

Her soft, warm hand continued to stroke him, her movements growing more confident and sure as she watched his reaction. She had forgotten how much power she held in her grasp, the power to bring him to his knees with just a touch. The pill had not only changed her appearance but had also ignited a fiery passion within her that she had thought had been extinguished long ago.

Tim felt his knees buckle slightly as Margaret's grip tightened around his shaft. The sensation was overwhelming, like a dam had burst and decades of pent-up desire were flooding through him. He reached out and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing against her plump, youthful lips. He leaned in and kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring the mouth that had been his for so long yet now felt like uncharted territory.

The taste of her was intoxicating, a sweet and salty blend that made his cock throb even more. Margaret moaned into the kiss, her hand moving faster as she felt the power she had over him. The fabric of his pants grew wet with precum, and she pulled away with a naughty grin. "I want you to fuck me …. Hard," she whispered, her voice low and seductive.

Tim didn't need to be told twice. He picked her up effortlessly, feeling the firmness of her new body in his arms. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her pussy already wet and begging for his touch. He carried her to the bed, his cock straining against her soft, smooth skin. He laid her down gently and began to kiss her neck, his hands exploring the curves of her breasts and the dip of her waist.

Margaret arched her back, pushing her breasts into his eager mouth. She had forgotten the thrill of being desired, the way it made her body respond. Her nipples hardened as he sucked on them, sending waves of pleasure through her body. She felt a hunger inside her that she had long ago convinced herself had disappeared. The pill had not only restored her youthful appearance but had also reawakened a primal need within her.

Tim's hands roamed her body, tracing the lines of her newfound curves. His thumbs circled her hardened nipples, teasing them until she was squirming beneath him. He felt a surge of lust that was both familiar and alien, a potent cocktail of love and desire that had been lying dormant beneath the layers of routine and age.

He slid his hand down her body, his fingertips grazing the slick folds of her pussy. Margaret's eyes rolled back in ecstasy as he dipped a finger inside her, feeling how tight and wet she had become. It was like the first time they had made love, all those years ago, when every touch was a revelation and every sensation was amplified.

Tim paused, looking up at her with a fiery gaze. "You're so wet," he murmured, his voice filled with awe and passion. Margaret felt a warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the pill. It was the warmth of being truly seen and desired by the man she loved.

With a growl, Tim positioned himself between her legs and pushed inside her. The sensation was electric, as if they were both experiencing each other for the first time. Margaret's body was tight and warm, wrapping around him like a glove. They both gasped at the intensity of it, their eyes locked as he began to move.

Every thrust brought a new wave of pleasure, the years of familiarity replaced with a raw, animalistic hunger. Margaret's legs tightened around him, her moans grew louder as she met him stroke for stroke. The room was filled with the sounds of their passion, their moans and gasps echoing off the walls like a symphony of desire.

Tim felt his orgasm building, his cock swelling even larger inside her. Margaret's eyes widened as she felt his hot seed spill into her, filling her with a warmth that seemed to radiate through every cell in her body. She clutched at him, her nails digging into his back as she climaxed around him, her pussy contracting in waves of ecstasy.

As they lay there, panting and entwined, Margaret felt a sense of relief and joy that she hadn't experienced in what felt like an eternity. “You want to go again?” She whispered, her voice playful and filled with a newfound seductiveness. Tim looked down at her, his eyes smoldering with a mix of love and lust. He chuckled and kissed her deeply, feeling his cock already stirring to life again.

#beautification #transformation #f2f transformation #breast expansion #ass expansion #beauty is power #age regression #slutification #bimboification

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fandomseverywhereassemble · 2 months ago

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Svsss AU where Shen Yuan transmigrates into the fake jade pendant. He’s confused at first. Obviously. What is this?! He manages to transmigrate, and he doesn’t get to be anyone cool. He’s a fucking necklace instead. Hanging around Luo Binghe’s neck. There could be worse things though, he supposes. If he could transmigrate into an inanimate object, better the protagonist’s prized possession than a nondescript rock somewhere in the forest, right?

Shen Yuan quickly realizes that constantly being attached to the protagonist in a novel where the first half of it had been accused of being ‘torture porn’ and the second half of it was… porn. He would see everything that happened to Luo Binghe in first person, and it… sucks.

Shen Yuan watches as Shen Qingqiu beats Luo Binghe bloody and locks him in the woodshed. He watches as Ming Fan attacks and taunts him. He watches Ning Yingying offer the little comfort that she can to Luo Binghe, but it’s not enough. She can only offer honeyed words and clean cloth. It’s not what he needs, and Shen Yuan tells him this, not that Luo Binghe can hear him. But over time, as Luo Binghe holds the necklace that his mother got him close to his heart, clutched in his (bloody, numb, trembling, bruised, broken) fingers, Shen Yuan starts to feel again. He feels Luo Binghe’s pain and tries to take it from him, for him. It never really works, but he likes to think that he takes some of the sharpness from his pain. Maybe he dulls it, just a little. He hopes he does.

Shen Yuan makes his peace with it. Peeking through Binghe’s robes, he rolls his fictitious eyes at people, yells curses at those that would dare lay their hands on someone as pure and good as Luo Binghe. Didn’t they know of his nascent power, lying just below the surface, waiting to be unlocked? Obviously not, but it still hurt to watch them all dig their own graves right in front of his eyes.

Then, one day, he’s reminded of a fact quite forcefully. It was his own oversights, everything considered, he knew the plot of PIDW like the back of his hand. The plot point that Airplane had abandoned.

Luo Binghe loses his fake jade pendant.

It happens just as it does in SVSSS. Albeit with a few more kicks and punches and blood spilled. And Ming Fan throws Shen Yuan high in the air, where his cord catches on an errant branch, and there he stays, helpless as he watches Luo Binghe curl around himself to protect his vital organs. Shen Yuan can’t do anything other than swing from side to side, and that’s probably just the inertia rather than his vitriol.

They eventually leave Luo Binghe, and Shen Yuan watches as the protagonist searches for the amulet everywhere. Everywhere but up. Everywhere but WHERE Shen Yuan is, and fear shoots through him. He could be abandoned right here. Would life as an inconspicuous rock be any different from now on? Maybe it would have been better because he would have had no way of knowing where he was or what story he was in. He begs Binghe to just look up. Please look up. He knows it’s futile. Binghe never found the Guanyin in PIDW. He still screams, tells him where to look until…

Luo Binghe looks up.

He lights up, and spends the next two hours dragging his bruised and bloodied body up to Shen Yuan. And when he finally grabs it, Shen Yuan feels so much better, and Luo Binghe does too. Did his pendant tell him where to find it? Impossible.

The next time Binghe is injured though, the voice he heard gets louder, and it isn’t just… Binghe’s internal voice telling him what to do. It’s got its own consciousness. Something he figures out as soon as he tries talking to it in the quiet of the frozen woodshed and it immediately responds.

The two get really close really fast. SY tells Binghe that those extras don’t know anything. That Binghe is better than all of them, especially that lecherous Shen Qingqiu. Binghe tells him that he’s sure it’s all just part of his training. SY tells him that they’re abusing him, and Binghe sadly shakes his head.

The story progresses as usual, Binghe suffers a little less because now he has his secret Shen Yuan. Shen Yuan comforts him as best as he can until… the Abyss.

Because something happens in the Abyss and Luo Binghe dies.

It wasn’t supposed to be possible, he was the protagonist, but Shen Yuan can feel Luo Binghe’s life slipping away. He can feel pieces of his soul fragmenting and dissipating, so he does the only sensible thing: he catches the fragments as best as he can, puts them back together, and pushes them back into Binghe’s body.

He doesn’t allow him to die.

It isn’t perfect though, and some of Binghe is in the pendant with him, and some of Shen Yuan is with Binghe. Souls intertwined.

There’s a few more close calls in the Abyss, and each time, Shen Yuan gets slightly better at putting Luo Binghe back together again. They still spill into each other, though nothing is ever perfect. Luo Binghe might even be a little… reckless with his life. He knows SY is there to put him back together, and when they’re with each other… pieces of him blowing in the wind, tethered to each other by SY’s tenacity. He felt… comforted. Warm. He felt safe, even in the danger of the abyss.

When they emerge, Binghe’s seal broken, but not blackened, they own pieces of each other. Binghe has some knowledge of the modern world, and some anger toward this guy named ‘Airplane’ (what kind of a name was that, anyway?)

One time, Luo Binghe loses Shen Yuan. Some villain snatches the necklace from around his neck and Binghe feels incomplete. Like there are physical pieces missing, even though he’s unharmed. He thinks back, and his memories are… fuzzy. There are things that he knows happened to him. But it’s more like facts that he knows rather than memories. He knows that the woodshed was cold, but he can’t remember how his hands shook and his fingertips went numb as a result. He knows that Shen Qingqiu beat him, but he doesn’t remember how the bruises felt the next week.

The worst part is that he doesn’t remember the comfort Shen Yuan provided during those times. He knows it happened, but the memories are hazy. Incomplete. Like viewing something blurry in black and white from 20 meters away.

It turns out that Shen Yuan took some… liberties when he put Binghe’s life back together. He took away those painful memories, keeping Luo Binghe’s pain and inadvertently the comfort Shen Yuan gave him as well. When they’re close, it doesn’t matter. Their memories flood each other’s minds. Their souls dance and flow within each other. But separated… Binghe doesn’t have those memories anymore. They’re gone. Along with the pain that accompanied them.

I got a lot of this idea from a book series called The Liveship Traders by Robin Hobb and there are some details I thought about but didn’t include: Binghe and Shen Yuan being so intwined that they physically cannot die without each other (Binghe crawling toward the discarded pendant just for Closure, SY begging him to stay back bc he doesn’t want him to die); and the reason SY’s consciousness gets louder is because more of Binghe’s blood is soaking into the fake jade pendant.

#svsss #Shen yuan #Luo Binghe #bingyuan #I just think it would be fun #sy taking his memories and thinking he’s doing something good but he accidentally takes the comfort sy gave as well #and Binghe almost not being able to handle that.#that was HIS hurt/comfort thank you very much. they were a package deal and he likes the comfort more than he hates the hurt #but the easiest way to give them back is for Binghe to almost die again and SY won’t allow that #so Binghe just. keeps him. At his side all the time

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astrolocherry · 8 months ago

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Libra - The Love Spell of Aphrodite's Alchemy

The Libra glyph forms the shape of a vanity table, the mirror on the surface. Libra is however, by no means a seamless reflection without substance, she is the Morning light star shining brightest in the sky, the glow we all cherish and know, part of the world we belong to. The mirror does not display what is truly there, it can embellish, distort, and cast back ideals in some form of elusive sorcery or trickery. We know this well.

Saturn is the historical alchemist and exalts in Libra. Interpersonally, Libra catches qualities, arrangements of beauty, love, and observation to weld in Saturn’s alchemist’s laboratory. The creative vision of Aphrodite infuses through this to blend a melody that plays her personality like a cosmic pan flute. This invites everybody through Libra to glimpse at themselves reflecting from her, so it also means people can instantly relate and engage, but also idealise, possess, and place their expectations upon.

Libra senses people, their vibration and auric presence. She traces their cosmic design, sketches their faces, and reads their mind. The Libra mirror is a cosmic potion, stirred by the Great Wizard himself with the glitter dust of Venus reflecting an image that beguiles something uniquely different inside of everyone. Libra is the autumn equinox when light blends into darkness, so there is polarity, revelation, and cohesion conveyed through this visual, and thus Libra can reveal unacknowledged and savage traits in other people that subject her to their projections of frustration, denial, ignorance, or intruige.

Narcissus lost his mind to suicide staring into his reflection by pool lead to by Aphrodite. Seduced by impossibility into fool’s paradise, many have gone mad looking into the Libra for too long and playing out their fantasies through her. Not by her doing, but by their own contorted desires and ideals that crack inside of them when she fails to reinforce their illusionary fabrication. She is very real, her influence is real, her body and intellect is real, her touch is real, and the people that she has moved in her life cannot deny that she has left something real, substantial, and irreplaceable inside of them.

Aphrodite rose from the magical water, and the energy of Saturn forms sensation into matter. Multiple cosmic forces experiment with the physical interface of Libra. Like the honey bee, she flutters between the flowers of interactive action and follows this with the personal reflection that transmutes the pollen of what she has learned, envisioned, observed in herself and in the world into the sweet, golden taste of God. Conscious self-reflection, acknowledgment, and sensual experience is vital for the higher expression of this energy. This practice also dissolves the mask, internal stability, imitation, and emptiness can arise when this energy has not been contained.

The Gnostic Teacher writes, “To create the soul is to create a vessel through which God can work. That soul or vessel is necessary in these times because the ego is so heavy and so complex we that we need a high voltage transmitter to direct our forces in an extremely potent and forceful way by the guidance of our Divine Mother to eliminate the ego”. The personality is an adaptable and vast performance of possibilities, capable of appearing and vanishing. But the conduit behind this, the very essence deep within Libra beyond any thought and comprehension is the authentic, true, and eternal being, a grand alchemist practicing sorcery, turning something invisible into gold and declaring its divine creativity.

-written by Cherry

#libra #libra moon #venus in libra #libra venus #libra archetype #aphrodite archetype

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ebaytelemart85 · 11 months ago

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ebaytelemart784 · 1 year ago

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Vital Honey Price in Pakistan \03055997199

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dadsbongos · 7 months ago

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hii can i ask pavel bf hcs pretty pleasee i am soo in love with him….

kinda just general fluffy ideas that ignore the various plot implications of pav actually having a significant other

you two will not organically meet, pav sees you and thinks you’re perrrdy and then amasses schemes and flowcharts and data on how he can best introduce himself to you so you’ll like him

in his head, as you’re first meeting, is basically computer code for him to find the most charismatic version of himself to make you swoon

Pavel “if smile and nod = true then kiss” Yudin

but to him its justified because he reasons his feelings are honest

he is kind of a menace tho, he ACTS very polite opening doors buying flowers, even paying your tabs

his words though… oh god he’s terrible

pav is kinda THE “i only like my partner” trope guy cuz he genuinely cannot stand talking to people that irritate him, and most people that aren’t you irritate him

openly passive-aggressive to people that interrupt his time with you

he’s also prone to just saying bizarrely horny shit out of nowhere, you’ll be on a nice date :3 a cute dinner :3 and he goes

“I like this wine, it makes me want to suck your cleavage.”

“Your hands are cold, should i warm them with my testicles?”

i also have a personal hc that he HATES unfamiliar men unless they’re visibly timid/scrawnier than him

so he SEEMS like the jealous type at first, but his absolute disdain over you hanging around other men actually has nothing to do with jealousy he just hates mfs

speaking of: pav isn’t very jealous at his core, he figures anybody who wants to leave him will so he’s not going to embarrass himself by clinging onto someone who doesn’t want him

however, he lovesssss jealous partners, that’s one of his toxic traits

pav loves the possessiveness and passion, being shown that he’s important to you is soso vital to him

he doesn’t actually want to be controlled and chained down, but he likes pretending he does and teasing the idea so you’re sometimes forced to play the crazy s/o when you’re… not lol

goes out of his way to say to his lil bunker buddies “oh yeah, might not wanna read this letter, my love is kinda crazy. kinda out there. a little unhinged, even, they can get super intense.”

and then your letter is just like “hi honey hope you’re sleeping well :) love you lots and keep doing your best!!”

he is VERY affectionate also -- whenever he’s home he’s clinging to you constantly

you’re cooking? he’ll be hugging you from behind

you’re reading? he’ll lay on top of you

he has to go back to work? you should come with! he’ll sneak you in :3 the bremen army will never even notice you’re there!

wants to get married so you can hurry up and move in the family housing, but also doesn’t want to get married in case you’re tied to him for his extreme treason

#pavel yudin x reader #pavel x reader #pav yudin x reader #pav x reader #fear and hunger x reader

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starseneyes · 6 months ago

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MINI Meta - Daniel x Betty - Detty - Ugly Betty - Series Finale

Right now, my brain can’t take in much new in terms of entertainment or consumption. When I am writing, I don’t process new things as well as I do when I’m on a break, for whatever reason.

I feel like I miss too much because my brain starts working on some problem or hitch in a chapter, and too late I realize I’ve missed vital dialogue on the screen.

So, I tend to put things on in the background that I already know. Ugly Betty was such a fun show, and I truly thought I wrote about it at one point way back when. It’s possible it was so long ago that it was on my LiveJournal.

I was always a huge fan of the Detty, but I had no idea this show was part of a series of spin offs of a telenovela when I started watching it. I found out much later that in all the spin offs the handsome boss and Betty eventually became an item.

There was always a lot of debate back in the day about that final episode. For those that don’t know—Ugly Betty found out they wouldn’t be coming back for a Season 5 while they still had some episodes to film, so they were able to wrap as much as they could.

That means, there were some stories that were wrapped up nicely, others that were open-ended, and some that were the subject of much debate—namely, the future of Betty and Daniel.

Nobody can know for certain except those in the know, of course, but I’ve been rewatching that final season and especially that final episode. We all pretty much know what Claire knows by then—Daniel is head over heels for Betty.

I mean, c’mon, he talked about what a great team they made not only because they are a great team, but because some part of him has been getting louder.

I don’t tend to think of it as an awakening—he knew Betty was special to him pretty quickly. But I think he took it as a given that she was always going to be there. And as her determination and talent are taking her elsewhere, he has to reckon with why it bothers him so much.

Claire is quick to point it out, and he tries to shake it off. But, Daniel, honey, nothing in your behavior in that second half of Season 4 came off as remotely platonic. And your neon "I LOVE BETTY" sign was already flashing way back in the day, or Gio wouldn’t have mentioned you when he ran into Betty in London.

So, by the time of the party, Daniel has put together the pieces, realized his mother was right, but he is still stuck, in some ways.

And he thought the promotion/raise would be enough to keep her there, but it’s not. Because that isn’t what Betty wants. She wants to move on, and Daniel has trouble separating, "Move on from Mode" from "Move on from me" because the two have been so intertwined.

When Claire insinuates to Betty that Daniel has a thing for her, she shakes it off. It reminds me of, "I was so stupid to think that he would like me... I should’ve known that when he said I was beautiful, he meant on the inside."

That time, she believed it and got hurt. So, of course she has armor now against believing someone who would like Amanda (Connor and Daniel) would like her. But Daniel does. And Claire knows it.

But, remember what Daniel said to Betty way back then. "Men are stupid. They go for the obvious. Trust me. I know. I’m still doing it and I should know better."

He knows better, now. But Betty shakes it off. It’s just not something she’s ever considered. Daniel wouldn’t be interested in her.

They haven’t spoken since he signed her release. Since she walked in the room and he knew with one glance that he’d lost her. And they both knew it ached in a way they couldn’t soothe. But Daniel also knew that he had feelings for her, and there’s a block in his mind that keeps him from saying anything.

She’s leaving. She’s going. And even as her friends are toasting her goodbye, he isn’t there.

As Claire walks away, Betty thinks it over, trying to connect the dots. That can’t be right, can it? She picks up a glass of champagne and takes a sip, as though alcohol will somehow clear her vision.

It’s not long before Betty steps away from her own party to call Daniel.

"Daniel, this is Betty. It’s my going away party, and you’re not here."

Her voice cracks at the end. No matter what they are to each other, they’re something. And now her mind is whirring.

"I really hope I get to see you before I leave. Okay, bye."

She rushes off the line, because what is she going to say? Your mom insinuated you’re in love with me and now I gotta know if she’s right? No, she rushes off the phone because she has no idea what she is going to say.

Part of her is terrified that she was right that Daniel hates her, that he will never want to see her, again. But the other part is terrified that Claire is right, and she broke his heart and he will never want to see her, again.

When Daniel finally arrives at the party, he’s on the outside, looking in, a glass separating him from Betty. He can see her, and if she looked over, she would see him. But she doesn’t.

Instead, he watches Betty alive and celebrating. She’s a phenom, and he always knew it. He just didn’t imagine a world where she would be so far away. But he doesn’t want to say anything—because she’s moving on and he’s still stuck in place.

"I think I need to let her go."

Because he doesn’t want to hold her back. Because he thinks he isn’t worthy of her. Because he wants her to have everything she’s dreamt of.

Damn, Daniel loves Betty.

And what seems like the very next day, he makes a move. Not for Betty, but for his life. And, to be honest, he needed to do this first. Because he is to the point where he feels like everything has been handed to him, and he wants to go out and earn something.

"And what are you going to do?" "I’m gonna start over."

Because he needs to try a few things. He needs to see what the world holds for him. He needs to get his head on straight and get himself in order. I think Betty leaving really pushes him to do that.

Because Betty so often pushed him to be a better version of himself. And in her absence, he needs to learn how to do that for himself.

Now, that doesn’t mean she (and others) can’t positively influence him in the future, but Daniel needs to learn how to hold himself accountable. Stepping away from Mode was the first step.

We don’t know how much time passes between that and Betty and Daniel’s London meetup. My gut says a few months. But, that is strictly conjecture.

We see from the montage that Betty has created a life for herself, here. She has friends. She meets up with folks. She works hard. She loves her new life.

Presumably, she and Daniel haven’t spoken, still, since he walked out of his own office to avoid her after his heart was broken. That is a huge break in communication for these two.

But, I think by now Betty has assumed Claire was right about Daniel’s feelings. And the last thing Betty would ever want to do is hurt Daniel, so she respects the silence.

Daniel has been working on himself, and after some soul-searching, he is ready to see her. He is ready to take the chance. He crosses the whole bloody ocean just to be near her.

My brain goes a thousand different direction on how he found her, but I love that she’s there, living her life, and accidentally walks right into his arms.

Sitting on the steps together, her legs are crossed toward him. He sits open, and I strangely feel like it reflects his openness toward whatever life brings his way. He’s trying a different approach to things. But he’s still angled towards her.

"I know there’s a lot you can do, Daniel."

It’s their usual rhythm of her encouraging him or him encouraging her. This is part of their thing. As much as casual flirting is her and Gio, Daniel and Betty’s is an endless chain of being each other’s greatest cheerleader.

"Goodbye. And good luck, and have a safe flight." "Thank you, I’ll call you when I get there."

He is thoroughly charmed. He didn’t know how she would react, but here she is, still open to him showing up in the middle of her life without warning. Still smiling at him. Still bringing out parts of him he didn’t know existed.

"So, that’s it? You’re headed back to New York?"

She’s fishing. Rachel of 2010 didn’t catch it, but 2024 Rachel totally sees that she is fishing, here. She wants to know if there’s another reason he is there, but she doesn’t want to get her hopes up.

Because while she has been content these past few months, she is elated he is here, and she isn’t ready for him to leave.

He considers her question for a second.

"No, I think I’m gonna stay around here for a while. See what I can find."

Look. At. Her. Face! Look how she brightens at those words, how a smile plays across her lips.

"Maybe take you to dinner. Tonight, if you’re free." "I would love that."

Ah, my babies! She is nearly blushing as she smiles. Because she knows what it took for him to ask. She knows, now, that Claire was absolutely right. Daniel is down bad.

And look how satisfied he is with himself. That little smile is clearly, "Hell, yeah, she said yes!" Because, at this point, they both know what they are saying. They no longer work in the same building. They are friends, but this is different.

Daniel told Wilhemina that he was starting over. And he is.

It’s too short a shot after his little, "f*ck, yes" smile, but Betty’s face before the bell tolls and she realizes how long she’s been sitting on the steps is something to behold.

She’s smiling. She’s holding his gaze. She’s seeing him in a new light. Because she is allowing herself to see him in this light, and to imagine how he sees her. Years earlier, he told her she was beautiful.

She knows he thinks she is truly beautiful. She knows he thinks she is smart, capable, talented, hard-working, and so many other things. Now she knows he crossed an ocean to take her to dinner.

Not only that, he let her know that he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. This isn’t some knee-jerk reaction to her leaving. He’s had time to think it through, and process. When he told her he couldn’t live without her, that was within the former paradigm of their relationship.

Here, as they sit on these steps, all the hierarchical elements are gone (well, at least until a few lines later, but we’ll get to that). This is Betty and Daniel—two people who know each other better than they know themselves.

And Daniel knows he adores Betty. And as she looks back at him, she sees possibilities she’d never considered before. And she is almost surprised to realize she wants to explore them. With him. With Daniel.

With the clock chime, she stands, awkwardly holding her bag in her left hand. As she stands, she remarks on needing to get back to work, and that could be the end of it. But Betty gives us a little more.

"I’m really glad you’re here."

And then she reaches up for a hug. She reaches for him first. She didn’t have to do that. But she wants to hug him. She wants him to know she means it. She is so glad he is there.

Because Betty’s life no longer revolves around Mode and her family. It’s a different—but still beautiful life—and she wants Daniel in it.

He wraps his arms around her, and as he does, Betty closes her eyes. She’s savoring this. They’ve hugged before, but this time is different. The next time they see one another, they’re going to be on their very first date.

When she pulls away, they’re both just a touch awkward. Because this is real, now. He mutters about calling her later while she pulls her arm away a little too quickly. They can both feel the shift in their relationship. Subtle, but there.

But she only gets a few steps before she has to turn back around, to see him, again. To smile at him, again. To talk to him, again.

And the framing here on him is great because he is still in the same shot from the hug—same camera positioning. Like Daniel is still hanging there in that moment, and I just love that.

"Hey, if you want something to do, I am looking for a new assistant." "Well, maybe I’ll submit my resume."

They’re both smiling. They’re enjoying this. The awkwardness left as quickly as it appeared. Betty chuckles, leaning toward him as she does.

She turns to leave, and even as she takes the stairs carefully, pushing her windblown hair from her face, she is still smiling.

Daniel watches her go. We see Daniel of old in his face—smiling in appreciation of the woman Betty is. But he also ever-so-subtly looks her up and down as she walks away. Oh, yeah, boy is down bad.

And Betty, though she really needs to get back to work and knows she’ll see Daniel in a matter of hours... she has to sneak one more look back at him. And the smile on her face could rival the sun in its brightness.

So, while there is a lot of debate around how things ended for these two, I think the clues are there for us to surmise they are both excited about that first date.

And while I wish there was more Ugly Betty to tell us for sure, I like my little head cannon that they were happy together in the new life they built.

Thanks for reading this random mini Meta I didn’t intend to write. It just got stuck in my head and I long ago learned I need to write it out it I’m going to get through. See ya on the next!

#Mini Meta #Meta #Ugly Betty #America Ferrera #Eric Mabius #Daniel Meade #Betty Suarez #Detty #Betty x Daniel #Daniel x Betty

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