#does blood stains come out of sand

[kasagia]

Right hand II

Pairing: Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!exBeneGesserit! reader Summary: After you miraculously escaped from his arms the other night, you tried to stay away from him as best as you could. You have to put a lot of effort into escaping from the na-baron, who is tirelessly and constantly chasing you, or into avoiding another invitation to his chambers late at night. However, on Arrakis, the situation between you changes drastically... And you're losing control over your life, and it's not because of Feyd. Warning: 18+; violence; blood; Feyd Rautha; death; fight; brutality; smut; Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist

You are standing in front of the window of the ship that is taking you to Arrakis. You nervously play with the edge of the shawl that covers your head. You don't have good memories of that planet. Before you escaped with Feyd, the Bene Gesserit sent several of their young apprentices to… train in the sands of Dune. Including you.

You still remember the screams of some of your companions who went crazy from a lack of water and decided to end their lives. And sometimes at night you dream that the sandworm swallows half of your group, leaving you practically on your own.

Arrakis didn't just kill your friends. It killed any belief in the Bene Gesserit in you, only confirming that you would rather die than be completely subject to them.

And now you're going back there with someone who had full control over your life again. It's funny how history likes to come full circle. And how, despite their repetition, people still fall for tricks and fall into fate's traps, acting in exactly the same way.

A cold hand on your bare shoulder snaps you out of your stupor. You act fully automatically,drawing the dagger attached to your belt and twisting the attacker's arm. You pin him to the wall, placing the blade against his pale neck. You freeze as your eyes meet Feyd's icy blue gaze.

"Good reflex. If you were anyone else, I'd kill you for this, but I'm in a particularly good mood today, so I won't punish you as I would like. What were you thinking about, my little witch, that you didn't hear me sneaking up on you? Or maybe I have finally surpassed the master?" He asks with a mocking smirk, showing off his black teeth. You snort, shaking your head at him.

"Keep dreaming." You say, taking advantage of his amusement. This time, you are not keeping your mouth shut for fear that he will deprive you of your tongue for your boldness towards him. You move away from him, which he takes with clear displeasure, and return to your place by the window.

"If I dream about you, I prefer to dream about something much more pleasant." He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest. He slides your shawl off your head with his teeth and nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling your scent.

You feel him sigh deeply, leaning against you a little as he relaxes into your scent and closeness. You frown, but let him hold you because you feel calmer having him close to you. Despite everything that had happened in the past two weeks, you still found his presence reassuring. It didn't make any sense to you, but apparently, over the years, you had begun to involuntarily associate him with something akin to a safe shelter. Herkonnen. A psychopathic, bloodthirsty future baron. How ironic…

However, being in his arms helped you come to the conclusion that the demons of the past should remain in the past. And you should focus on the newest one that is now wrapped around you.

You stare at your reflection in the glass, shuddering as his scent surrounds you, mixed with the blood that stains his uniform. You wonder which soldier you will have to find a replacement for this time.

"What were you thinking about?" He whispers that he doesn't loosen his grip on you even for a moment, knowing full well that the moment he does, you'll wriggle out of his arms and find another excuse to leave him.

You checked the condition of engines and fuel 8 times. He started counting after the ship's captain complained to him about your constant presence. He beheaded him without giving him the opportunity to complete his complaint against you. Feyd smiles, remembering the irritated frown on your forehead when you had to clean up his mess. Of course he followed you then. Of course, 'just to make sure that the next captain you appoint will be more competent'.

"It doesn't matter." You sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. He would enjoy your submission and willing closeness if he didn't see that, by doing so, you only wanted to distract him from the main topic. Clever little witch you were…

"It must be important if you stopped paying attention to your surroundings. You are always alert and aware of the things that happen around you. No matter what. I remember how, during one of our escapades, you were the only one who didn't fall into the trap."

"Well, that one was actually obvious." You say it with a mocking smile, remembering how you had to save him and his soldiers.

For the rest of your life, you will never forget how you had to dig Baron Feyd-Rauth Harkonnen out of the mud and save his ass from the Assassins who planned his execution. Of course, he killed any witnesses, leaving only you and him alive. After all, his uncle and brother couldn't find out about it.

He growls in your ear, tightening his grip on you as a warning, when you make him replay that day in his head.

"Don't brag now. I was… busy observing something much more interesting than muddy swamps." He grumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The warm air he exhales makes you shiver.

"Which was?" You ask shakily, placing your hands over his to stop him from roaming them over your body.

"You." His answer is short and simple, as if it were the most obvious thing you should know. He doesn't hide it anymore; he doesn't keep his desire to himself. He wants you. He craves you. He shows it to you so clearly and thoroughly that you laugh at how naive you were to believe that you had only a friendly, platonic relationship. But how could you not believe that he only saw you as a means to an end when he treated everyone else around him like that? Since he treats people like things to play with and break whenever he wants? How could you have predicted that you would become his obsession, a precious jewel in his collection that he would want to protect and have just for himself? "I'm asking for the last time. What were you thinking about, little witch?" He asks, wrapping his hand around your neck and forcing you to look into his eyes.

You have no escape from him now. And you certainly won't tell him that lately you've been thinking more and more often about how to run away from him, or what would happen if you stayed with the Bene Gesserit, or how your life would have looked if you escaped from them on your own. You wonder if it wouldn't have been better to bury yourself in the sands of Arrakis all those years ago with your friends and die there. You are sure that it would be a much more dignified death.

"I... I thought about Arrakis." You decide to respond safely and carefully, so as not to reveal too much to him. You didn't want him to become suspicious of you. Not when you had to handle him carefully, lest you fulfil any of the Bene Gesserit's sick plans and visions.

"So what about this? Are you scared?"

"No. I am not. I'm never afraid. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration." You repeat the mantra automatically without thinking much about it.

You flinch as you realise that you are answering quickly with the Bene Gesserit litany of fear, which they've made you learn by heart. A great deal of anger grows within you as you realise how much they have influenced your life, even so many years after you ran away from them.

"You're quite tense. More than when I usually hold you." He points this out, starting to gently stroke your back in an attempt to relax you. You give him an angry look instead, suddenly understanding why he was irritated with you for reading him and his emotions perfectly when he was the one who was flustered and furious.

It was always easier for you than for him to hit sensitive places or to read the other one like an open book. Apparently, you're not the only one who's learned this over the years. He knew you as well as the back of his hand. He just never showed any trace of concern for your well-being.

You had your… tender moments when you allowed yourselves to be vulnerable with each other once or twice, but you both treated them more as minor lapses in maintaining your impenetrable façade of indifference and neutrality. In the end, everyone is on their own. And looking for a friend in him was a completely stupid thing—an act of true naivety and a sign of self-destruction, maybe even masochism.

"Maybe you shouldn't hold me at all, then?" You growl at him furiously, unable to control yourself. He just frowns, more surprised by your behaviour than offended by this blatant act of disrespect. He had rarely seen you so nervous or furious.

Of the two of you, you were the one who was the most calm and composed. You were always able to hide all your emotions behind a mask of indifference. He's fascinated by how you really behave when you don't have a filter on. He often throws you off your balance only to see your cheeks flush with anger; you take out your anger in a fight (just like him); or you bite your lip to avoid saying something back to his taunts.

"Or maybe you should drop your attitude and just let me do it?" He asks, his lips brushing against your earlobe. He doesn't wait for your response; he simply catches the tip of your ear between his teeth. He bites in gently, sucking and caressing your skin with his lips, as if your ear's superior helix were the sweetest delicacy he could enjoy.

"I'm not fighting or trying to escape, am I?" You respond, enduring his treatment with dignity. At the ship's window, you can see a small smile appear on his lips at your words.

He decides to pull away from you, but he is not giving you even the smallest chance to run away from him. He presses you against the cold glass, entering your personal space even more than when he had you close against his chest. You lift your chin, looking at him defiantly as he puts his hands on your hips.

"You are not. But you also don't want to be here in my arms." He replies, cupping your chin with two fingers. He leans closer, making you feel the metallic scent of blood that still lingers on him, probably from his fight with some prisoners on the ship. "And I don't like it at all." He whispers hoarsely into your ear.

"Since when do you care what others want? I don't remember you spoiling your concubines like that." You snap, causing him to laugh mockingly and shaking his head in amusement.

He leans in, making you tense up slightly. You think he's doing it to kiss you, but instead of feeling his lips on yours, you feel his cheek brush against yours, and his lips blow hot air into your ear again as he whispers softly:

"Because they weren't you, Y/N." You shiver at the sound of his dark, hoarse whisper in your ear. You can't say you don't feel the effects of his... seduction. But you promised yourself long ago that you wouldn't be any man's whore, concubine, plaything, or broodmare. And certainly not HIS. No matter how... tempting he could be.

"And what is so special about me? Hm? My body? My appearance? That I can fight well? You would get bored of me. Like you did with all your concubines."

"Did they understand me like you do? Have you ever seen them look at me as anything other than a wild, bloodless beast in the heat?" He answers your angry questions with his, dismissing your attempt to start a verbal fight with him.

His thumb traces the line of your jaw, examining you closely. Looking into his light blue eyes makes you feel uncomfortable. He shouldn't have reacted to you like that. You weren't used to anything he had been doing these past few weeks. You preferred to fight him than... when he showed you so much tenderness, appreciation, and affection.

"Have I ever looked at you differently?" You ask defiantly. He smiles, licking his plump lips. You give in to this provocation, and, without controlling it at all, you move your gaze to his lips. His dark chuckle makes you look back into his eyes.

"Yes. Yes, you did that... you don't even know how often." He hums, his fingertips moving towards your mouth. He caresses your lips with incredible tenderness and delicacy. He presses on them gently, but you squeeze them as tight as you can, preventing him from doing anything he planned.

You react faster than him. You bite his wandering fingers, take advantage of the fact that he is still trying to process what has just happened, and quickly pull away from him. He laughs, shaking his head, looking at you intently as he deliberately crosses the distance between you two. He doesn't have to say anything for you to see how clearly he's mocking you and daring you to continue to defy him.

"We're not even on Arrakis yet, and you're already delusional, my na-Baron? Or maybe the black sun of Giedi Prime made you start seeing a mirage?"

"If you are a mirage or an illusion, then I never want to be sane again, my little witch." You gasp, as he wraps his arms around you tightly, clinging to you completely. He leans in, his nose tracing a line along your temple, inhaling your scent before burying his face in your hair.

He keeps a firm grip on your shoulders. You place your hands on his, trying to loosen his tight grasp somehow, but it only makes him hold you tighter. He tilts his head slightly and brushes his nose against yours.

You shiver, feeling how close he is and how his musky smell, mixed with a hint of metallic blood, surrounds you. He presses himself against you so tightly that there's practically no space left between your bodies. You close your eyes, letting out a small, shaky breath. And just as he's about to press his lips against yours, the metal door to the room slides open with a loud bang.

You jump away from him, grunting as a young recruit enters your field of vision.

“My lord na-Baron. Lady Y/N. We will land in fifteen minutes."

"We would rather notice it ourselves." Feyd growls at him. You see him reach for the hidden dagger. You walk over to him, resting your chest against his back, and grab his hand before he places it on his dagger and throws it at the poor man.

"Thank you, Oliver." You say with a smile. The man swallows in fear at Feyd's furious glare. He bows and leaves the two of you alone.

You step away from Feyd, letting go of his hand. You frown, seeing that he's even more furious than when one of the soldiers entered. You raise your eyebrow questioningly, not understanding why he's practically huffing in anger now.

"What?" You finally ask him, not understanding the reason behind his behaviour.

"Oliver... do you call all of them by their names?" He asks, spitting out the soldier's name in disgust. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you reach for the shawl he had thrown off you and put it back on your head.

"If I know them, then yes, why?"

"You've never called me anything other than my lord and na-baron." He speaks in an almost accusatory tone. It takes a lot of strength in you not to burst out laughing when you realize he's completely serious and not joking right now. You try to come up with some excuse, wondering how to safely answer his question.

"And you always call me your little witch." You answer. Using his name somehow never felt right to you. At first, out of respect for him, maybe even fear. After all, he saved you from the clutches of the Bene Gesserit. Calling him by his name was out of the question. With time, you did it out of habit. And now… now you didn't want to call him by anything else because you knew that it would be a small step on his way to make you his.

"So this is supposed to be our thing?" He asks with a challenging, teasing smile.

"We don't have a thing." You huff, walking towards the exit. He, of course, follows you faithfully. You can feel the excitement radiating from him. He was definitely planning something big to do on Arrakis. Something he didn't tell you. You just hoped that he would be too busy with his brother and securing the spice mine to take care of you at the same time.

"Don't we?"

"You should focus on what you tell your brother. You're finally taking the reins. Rabban won't give them to you that easily. And we need to establish a final plan of action on Arrakis." You say, returning to your matter-of-fact, cool tone. He smiles, nodding.

"Don't worry about that… I'll make him kiss our shoes." You snort, shaking your head in amusement at his words. It might be true, but it's still hard for you to imagine him actually putting this plan into action. As you'll see in a few minutes, he actually intended to do that. "And the plan was decided a long time ago. I told you I wouldn't let us split up. And not because I question your leadership skills or loyalty. You are the only competent and worthy person to lead half of my army. But we, little witch, work together. Always. You don't change something that works perfectly. Get ready. We're landing soon." He leaves you with a quick kiss on your temple.

He walks away from you with a sly smirk, as if he's managed to trick you. You sigh as you watch him walk out of sight, walking with a spring in his step towards his room, probably to grab his things and get his harpies ready to leave.

You look out the ship's window at Arrakis for the last time. You close your eyes, promising yourself that since the Bene Gesserit, Feyd Rautha, Giedi Prime, or the Harkonens hadn't killed you, this damn planet wouldn't do this either. You weren't the same Y/N from 10 years ago. You were more powerful. Your bones won't sink into the sands of this damn dune... you'd even rather become the mother of that Kwisatz Haderach.

You practically jump out of bed with your heart beating fast as you wake up from another nightmare. You sigh shakily, pressing your hand to your mouth, trying to calm your breathing as best as you can as your heart pounds frantically against your chest.

The screams of your companions echo in your ears, and the images of the Fremen pumping the water out of them replay in your head. And that damned sandworm...

“Y/N, look at me.” His cool hands on your bare shoulders and his raspy, commanding tone bring you back to reality.

As soon as you look into Feyd Rautha's blue irises, you stop trembling. You snap out of this strange trance, trying your best to forget about the returning memories that haunted you more often during this week of your stay on Caladan. You suspect that this may have resulted in a rather close relationship with Lady Jessica. You breathe slowly, focusing on his pale skin that looks like snow, illuminated by the moonlight that streams through the window of one of the Caladan's inns.

“Breathe in and out.” He gives you another order. You nod, imitating the pace of his slow breathing as you slowly begin to calm down. "I will kill that witch as soon as I get my hands on her." He growls, brushing your sweaty hair away from your forehead with his hand. You see immense anger in his eyes and the seeds of a plan forming in his head as he thinks of many ways to make that Bene Gesserit pay for your nightmares.

"You can't. She's the prince's mother. Besides, it's not her fault that she recognised me from somewhere. I could have been more careful."

"You covered your face with a mask for an entire week, all the time, even to sleep. What can you call that other than being careful? Besides, the baron knew that these negotiations were doomed to failure anyway. It's not like her suspicions ruined them. I would have decided to leave this damned palace even without it." He assures you, slowly lowering the two of you back onto the mattress. He wraps one arm around you, his tight embrace grounding you in the moment and helping your mind focus entirely on the present rather than the dark memories from your past.

"The Baron will be furious with you. It's all my fault. You should have killed me." You say, focusing your gaze on his daggers, which are strapped to his hip. Feyd follows your gaze and snorts. He grabs your neck, forcing you to lift your head and look into his eyes again.

"And get rid of the only competent right hand I've had in years? I'd rather suffer his punishment for this... small act of disrespect towards the Atreides. And who knows? Maybe he'll even like it? Harkonnen chooses inns over Atreides' palaces. I can always say that I saw rats running freely around my chamber and decided that such conditions are not worthy of a na-Baron and they are an insult to my person that I could not allow them to do." You roll your eyes at him, but you can't help but smirk at him.

Feyd finds himself smiling slightly at the sparkle of amusement in your eyes. He decided he preferred seeing them in your eyes rather than the emptiness and terror that didn't even let you breathe normally. He reveled in the fear of others. But yours brought him more pain than joy. Unpleasant pain.

It was starting to worry him. And maybe he would think about it more if you weren't lying so close to him now, practically in his arms. At his fingertips if he wanted to play with you. But, surprisingly, he didn't. And even if so, he wanted it only if you were as desperate for his touch as he was for yours.

"There are also rats on Giedi Prime. And you have to share a room with me because there's not enough space here for all of us. I'm sure your harpies are furious. You'd probably rather do something else with them, too, than hold me through my nightmares like some scared little child." You tease him, snapping him from his thoughts. He looks at you carefully, admiring the way the beads of sweat on your forehead glisten in the moonlight.

He feels a strange, new desire to make them be caused by him... or rather, by the activity he would subject you to. His gaze returns to your eyes and your lips, and he feels himself harden slightly as his thoughts turn to fantasies about you—something he's been doing a lot more of lately. One of his harpies mentioned something about him moaning your name...

"Maybe you actually deserve this punishment? Such sharp language…" He whispers huskily, tracing the line of your jaw with the pad of his thumb. He watches you carefully, and, as usual, he sees no fear in your eyes. Even when his fingers travel to your neck and then to the fabric of your nightgown, imagine how close he is to touching what you hide from him and everyone else behind your outfits designed to fit you into staying in the shadows and fighting. If he could, he would dress you in the most beautiful silks and jewellery so that he could feast his eyes on the only beautiful view of Giedi Prime. You see a crease form on his forehead as he becomes aware of this strange desire. He removes his hand before he goes too far to come back, and he clears his throat as he focuses his gaze on your eyes again. "What was that? That dream?"

"I... I don't want to talk about it." Feyd feels how you tense up just thinking about your nightmare. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't care. He wouldn't spare a thought or, if he was curious enough, force them to talk. But with you... he just nods and gives you space, turning to lay on his side of the bed.

"Feyd..." His heart beats faster after you use his name for the first time. He turns to your side of the bed so he can fully look at you. He hums, pretending that you're not giving him a heart attack and that he's not replaying the soft, gentle tone with which you said his name in his head. And he wants to hear it again. In many ways. A quiet whisper, a cry, a scream of pleasure as he makes you come... "I... can you..."'

He doesn't wait for you to ask him. And he could. He could make you beg for him to bring you the comfort you need or mock you for being so defenceless and scared, but how can he make you do that when you look at him with those doe eyes? How can he do anything other than pull you into his chest, place his hand on your head, and play with your hair, guiding your face into the crook of his neck as you look at him like no one has ever done before? 

He wasn't the type of man you turned to for comfort or solace, and yet here you were, lying next to him, just wanting to feel his safe embrace around you again. He smiles when he feels your breathing and pulse slow as you fall asleep against him, allowing him to be with you in your unconscious state. He could do many things to you. He could slit your throat, stab you in the heart, scalp you of all your beautiful hair, and touch and taste any part of you he wanted. Satisfy himself with you and give yourself to his concubines when he ends using you.

But all he can do, as you sleep so peacefully on his chest, is pull the covers tighter around you and place a gentle kiss on your head. He doesn't remember the last time he felt such peace or the last time he felt wanted—not because of his status or the benefits he could bring to someone, but simply because someone wanted to be close to HIM.

"After all… I guess Caladan isn't that bad, my little witch." He whispers, pressing a kiss on the top of your head.

Feyd liked to think that the moment you first said his name and clung to him after the nightmare for comfort and security (IN HIM) was the moment he fell for you. But the truth was that it was a day later, after his uncle had punished him, inflicting various wounds with a blade on him, that you returned to the Giedi Prime without the expected agreement with Atreides. And, of course, he didn't rat you out. He took the blame. After all, it was his fault. He put your well-being above anything else and ordered to leave Caladan when Lady Jessica became too attentive to you. And he would do it again. He couldn't lose his right hand.

You felt guilty and took care of him. And those few days when you played the role of his nurse were the best ones in his life.

Feyd learned to love pain. Numerous punishments made it impossible for him not to do that. But he loved your gentle touch even more, esepcially when you tried your best to heal him. And he could get a thousand cuts or even more if it was the price of feeling your tender, caring touch on his skin once again.

And lying there with a torn back, looking at your sleeping form next to his bed, ready to meet his every little wish; he promised himself that he would do it. He will feel your hands on his body again. In better, less bloody circumstances. And definitely not with worry staining your beautiful eyes. But desire. Passion. Affection. Maybe even love.

"Uncomfortable, my lord?" You mock him with a little smirk as you both lie on the sand, observing the surroundings.

"Shut up, or I'll put you over my knee." You huff, shaking your head at his words. You know it's the last thing he'll actually do at this point. You use your binoculars to zoom in on a specific sand dune, in the middle of which there should be a Fremen base.

"Someone woke up with his left foot. I thought you'd be more enthusiastic about the upcoming fight." You say, trying to spot any movement, silhouette, or anything that indicates that your informant was right, and this is the place where one of the more important sietches are.

"I am. But it's damn hot here. Besides, sand gets in where it shouldn't." You smile, barely holding back your laughter, as Feyd allows himself to grumble next to you. You squeal in shock as he spanks you. You look away from the dune and give him an offended, shocked look when he chuckles hoarsely at your reaction.

"You're lucky that it's just a desert and that you're not dressed all in black like our soldiers. If this shipment of new equipment, weapons, and uniforms does not arrive this week, I will return to Giedi Prime and slaughter these useless scientists and engineers. Besides, your harpies will probably be more than happy to help you get rid of every little grain of sand from your body."

"Jealous?" He asks as you go back to watching the dunes.

"I wouldn't willingly be around these cannibals even if you paid me." You say, ignoring the fact that he was clearly asking if you were jealous of HIM, not the fact that he has his concubines and you don't. You shiver, feeling his piercing, burning gaze on you.

You're a little annoyed that he's doing practically nothing. Apparently, he too must have felt the effects of spending many weeks in that damn desert, and he had enough. Just like all of you.

"Arrakis brings out your more feisty side… I like it." He takes the binoculars from you and looks in a completely different direction. You snort, trying to see what caught his eye. You frown as you see a sandworm scurrying in the distance. But it wasn't under the sand... "Tell squad six to kill it. Those rats must be moving around again."

"Will you waste the bomb on a sandworm?"

"Only the most important Fremen travel like this. Whoever's on the back of this is not just anyone." You nod. You turn on the communicator and share information with the group, giving them the orders. You feel Feyd's eyes focused on you all the time. You roll your eyes and shift your gaze to his as he continues to stare at you curiously.

"What?"

"You've been here before, right? You may not know the ways of the Fremen, but I can see in your eyes that this planet is no stranger to you."

"The Bene Gesserit prepared us for every circumstance." You answered him deceptively. However, this does not quench his curiosity. And you know that since you're doomed to wait here for a good hour before anything happens, you're doomed to keep him entertained.

"Did they send you to Giedi Prime too?"

"No. But I was often send to Caladan." You say, not realizing how bad a move it was. The wrinkle on his forehead and the gentle tightening of his hand on his blades prove to you what an idiot you are. But you can't keep an eye on the dunes and anticipate his mood swings at the same time. Which he's had quite a lot of since you came to Arrakis. He didn't show it to anyone else, but you could see that the heat was bothering him just as much as it was for all of you.

"Why? Breeding program? Don't tell me you were supposed to be Atreides' pet." He spit out from his mouth the names of the people who were his family's greatest nemeses, as if it were some kind of dead poison. Even though the Atreides were long dead, buried in the sands of Arrakis, he still talked about them with huge hostility.

No. I was supposed to be your pet.

"I don't know." You slide off the sand to get out of sight of your possible opponents. There's no point in observing the area now. You know that your best men and their troops are positioned around you, so you could have left them to make the first attack. For now, you had to defuse a bomb that was about to explode next to you.

"You don't talk about it often. About the Bene Gesserit." He pursues the topic further, following in your footsteps. You both are standing on a small ledge, with your backs pressed against a sandstone. You don't have much space, so you have to rest your arm on his so as not to fall down and crash into the rocks below you.

"I don't want to remember it. I have another life now. Better one." You say, fiddling with your communicator. You issue a surveillance order to the rest of your units and turn it off, waiting for them to notice something. You take the shawl off your head and wipe your sweaty forehead with it.

"I won't let them hurt you again. Or anyone else." You freeze for a moment at his words. All you can do is stare at him in shock as he reaches for your face and grabs your hair. He ties them awkwardly, making sure they don't get in your face. It's a sweet gesture... even too sweet for him. And you wonder how the hell he knows how to tie someone's hair back.

You are about to tie your shawl around your forehead again when Feyd suddenly takes it from you. He wipes the back of your neck and makes sure there isn't a single bead of sweat on your face before he ties your shawl around his wrist.

"Who said they hurt me?" You ask, swallowing. You try to hide the tremble in your voice, but you suddenly become very aware of how close you are to each other. And that you two are completely alone...

"Your eyes and actions tell me more than you can let through your mouth, little witch."

"Shut up, or I'll put you over my knee." You respond with what he told you earlier without thinking much about it.

You gasp in shock as he presses you against the sandstone behind you, guiding the two of you deeper. His dilated pupils, slightly clenched jaw, and rapid breathing confirm how fucked up you are. You've lost your damn guard. Again. And now he will use it to his advantage.

"Oh, my darling little witch… you don't know how much I want you to do this…" He growls in your ear. His nose traces a path from your hair to your neck, inhaling your scent. You shiver as his lips brush against your neck.

"What are you doing?" You moan as he sucks your neck and bites it lightly, leaving a hickey there. He moves his head away from you and looks at the trail he created. He hums lightly, planning where to leave the next one. And another one. And another. And another...

"Shhh... We have a few minutes before they stop bombarding them. Another few before the dust settles and before we enter those rats' canals... let me make sure that my right hand is properly relaxed in the meantime."

As usual, he doesn't give you time to respond. He leans down and captures your lips in a passionate kiss. His chapped lips brush against yours, gently urging you to open your mouth for him. You try to tighten them as best you can, but he somehow manages to bite your lip, which makes him immediately clear the way for his tongue.

You gasp as his hands cup your ass. His fingers dig into your flesh, and you know that if it weren't for the thick tactical suit, it would have left bruises in the shape of his fingers. He picks you up without breaking the kiss and presses you against the stone-sand wall of the small cave.

You moan as his bulge rubs against your clothed core. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, holding yourself up as he peppers your neck with hickeys, grinding against you.

On Giedi Prime, you would struggle with him, trying to break free from his grip. But here, while you've been busy planning, tracking, fighting, and increasing your spice production for the last few weeks, you haven't had any opportunity... to take care of yourself. He wasn't helping either, following you around and acting like a fucking guard dog. And from what you heard from your room next to his in the night, he wasn't denying himself anything. Damn bastard.

What you didn't know was that he was fucking his fist thinking about you all this time because, since the two of you shared a bath, none of his concubines have been able to please him. So he's just as desperate as you are.

You moan as he thrusts into you, especially hard. He also purrs against your neck at the sounds you make. You're well aware that if it didn't take you forever to put your clothes back on, he'd already have you naked beneath him, fucking you wildly and giving you orgasm after orgasm... and you almost want to let him. If only those fucking witches weren't planning on breeding you with him, you would have been riding him wild a long time ago.

At one point, he bites into your neck, making you scream uncontrollably. You blush furiously when he pulls away from your neck with your blood on his full lips and gives you a hungry, lustful look.

"Take off your pants." He orders you. He licks the blood from his lips and leans down to lick the rest from your neck, leaving a few more hickeys on it.

"We… can't… we... battle..." He suddenly stops making any movements, but instead of moving away from you, as you think he will, he grabs you tightly by the throat. He squeezes lightly and leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. He breathes deeply and heavily, nuzzling his nose against yours before opening his eyes to fix his wide pupils on yours.

"Are you defying me?" You shake your head, always being a good soldier. "Good girl. Pants down, or I'll rip them off, and you'll have to walk back to the base without them."

This is a very real threat. And even though you know he would rather kill any man who dares to look at you in this state than expose you to the… lust of the hundreds of men who were on the base, you have no desire to parade around Arrakis with your bare ass. You start to take off your pants, slowly unbuttoning them. He won't even let you take them off of you all the way. As soon as he sees your exposed pussy, he drops to his knees in front of you, holding your hips in a tight grip.

"She blocks me so much when she has a damn spring between her legs… a real desert oasis…" He mumbles, his fingers collecting your wetness. You gasp as he looks you straight in the eye, sucking your juices from his finger. You lick your lips unconsciously, your brain completely stunned by the suddenness of the situation, the lust overwhelming you, the sight of him on his knees for you, as well as the spice in the air.

You don't even protest when he licks the stripe of your pussy and tightens his grip on your hips, pressing his face against your crotch. As he begins to lick and suck on your more sensitive parts, you scratch his scalp with your nails in a vain attempt to grab something. His dark, raspy chuckle against your clit makes you even wetter, as the vibrations and fingers teasing your entrance only fuel your desire.

He eats you like he's really dying of thirst. He brings out in you sounds that you would be ashamed of if you were in a better, saner, more aware state. And you try to maintain the last of your dignity and stifle your moans by placing a hand over your mouth, but he growls in protest and removes your hands so quickly that you have no idea when it happened. He places it on his shoulder, encouraging you to dig your nails into him as he devours you like his life depends on it. Like he would die if he didn't make you cum, lick up every last bit of wetness from between your legs.

At one point, he puts your leg over his shoulder. He's even closer to you (if possible), but you're not really paying attention to what he's doing as long as his mouth and fingers are still working their magic on you. You pull him closer, chasing your sweet release, when suddenly, he pulls away.

You growl in anger, opening your eyes. He's still on his knees in front of you, his face covered in your juices, and he's staring at you hungrily as if his face wasn't buried in your pussy moments ago.

"Say my name." His demand throws you off balance for a moment. You open your mouth to argue with him, to taunt him, but instead you close it quickly, biting your lip as his finger lazily moves in and out of your needy pussy. "Scream my name and I'll let you cum."

You don't want to give in to him like that. You don't want to show any weakness. But his fingers stretch you so wonderfully, hitting your most sensitive spot. You tremble around his fingers, biting your lip until it draws blood, too proud to admit to yourself how weak you were.

You escaped from the Bene Gesserit and from your fate to the only safe place; it's darkest under the lamp. No one in their right mind would willingly hide in the house of the man to whom you were supposed to submit. But it turned out that you were following the path these witches laid out for you anyway. But damn, he made you feel like you'd never felt with any man or woman...

You growl furiously as he removes his fingers again—right when you're finally about to come. He laughs hoarsely, sucking his fingers clean of your wetness.

"You're extending my fun, little witch. You must like it as much as I do." You protest as he dips his fingers inside you again, taking you close the edge again. You grab his neck, trying to pull him towards you, but he just laughs, intensifying the work of his fingers and fending off your feeble attempts to pull his face back to your needy cunt. "You know what you have to do to cum." He reminds you with a cocky smirk, watching your trembling, panting form.

Feyd drinks in the sight of you, so needy and desperate to orgasm. And it's all because of him. Every little moan, the closing of your eyes and the tilt of your head in pleasure, the ragged breathing, the quickening of your heartbeat, the wetness between your legs, the sweet nectar of the gods dripping down your thighs—it was all because of him. His cock hardens as he imagines how you'll react as he pounds into you like an animal in heat, stretching your tight walls for him. How you'll clench around his length and dig your nails into his back to feel him as close to you as possible. Or when you swell beautifully with his heir...

He will have you there. Willingly. He will prepare you as he is now; he will fuck out of you any thought until nothing except the desire for him remains.

"Feyd..." You moan as he unconsciously speeds up the movements of his fingers, thrusting them into you at breakneck speed. He smiles, blowing air at your pussy, making you moan even louder.

"Again." He demands, licking the small trail of your juices that has formed on your thighs. He welcomes the way you wet his hand and your shawl that was wrapped around his wrist. He'll save it for later this night.

"Feyd!" You pull on his head and he obliges. He couldn't be cruel to you in this state.

You come suddenly, quickly, and intensely. Your vision is blurry and unclear, and your blood is rushing through you as you moan loudly, holding on to him with all your might.

The next thing you know, he's holding you tightly by your trembling legs as he lowers you to his lap. You straddle him, hugging him tightly as you breathe slowly, trying to get back to a state of relative using after he fucked the orgasm of your life out of you. You hide your face in his neck, too disappointed in yourself to see the proud smirk on his face. He lazily rubs your back, holding you as you regain your strenght.

"You owe me, little witch. And you know, I always collect my debt." He growls hoarsely in your ear and presses a kiss on your temple. You can smell your scent on him. You blush, embarrassed, as you can feel desire rising in you again. "No response? Not a single malicious comment? Did I make you come so hard that now you are speechless? Are you really just a little mouse in need of my attention under that strong witch façade?"

"I'm not a fucking mouse." You snap at him in anger, finally coming to your senses.

"So that's the first one. Even better for me." He stands up, slowly carrying you from his lap to the ground. He reaches for your pants and helps you put them on. He grabs your hands and pulls you closer to him. You can't stand alone. You can't fucking stand alone. He laughs as he realises it, which irritates you to the point where you can't control yourself anymore.

"Shut up." You use your voice on him before you bite your tongue to stop yourself. Silence falls between you for a moment. You swallow, realising what you've done. You open your mouth to explain yourself, but, as usual, he beats you to it.

"Hmm… interesting. So you have that fire in you…" He tangles his hand in your hair and watches you closely, fascinated by the way you used your voice on him for the first time. "As sweet as I thought. Better than any water… Use that voice on me in a way I don't like, and I will really punish you, little witch. And this time, it will only be pleasant for me. Understood?" You nod your head with clenched teeth. "Good girl. Let's go. I believe they stopped dropping bombs right when you came on my face and fingers." He brags, letting you go when he sees you can stand on your own. You roll your eyes, realising how often he'll brag about it. You draw your blade and follow him, looking forward to hunting for Fremen.

You try to ignore the sand that… got where he was a few seconds ago and where he had it himself too. Damn bastard.

You walk through the corridors of your base. You're covered in blood, but it doesn't bother you much. Maybe a little when you remember that you will have to remove clotted blood from your hair. You sigh, adjusting the scarf around your neck that you took from some fremen to hide the hickeys as you walk to the war room to give new orders to the soldiers.

The Sietch has been completely destroyed by you. You murdered most of the fremen, and those left alive were taken prisoner... or to the camp brothel. You preferred not to go into details.

As you walk through the halls, you hear rustling behind you. You take a few slow steps and turn around, with your hand on your dagger, only to see na-Baron's harpies. You tense up as you watch the three women carefully and distrustfully.

"How can I help you?" You ask them, trying to avoid showing them genuine disgust and hostility. After all, they had somehow kept Feyd away from you… for now.

"The little witch is in trouble…"

"Our master will be very angry with her…"

"Maybe he'll even let us suck her bones when he's done with her…"

They say one by one, tilting their heads as they observe you. You shiver slightly, but you quickly adopt a hostile, intimidating stance, not caring much about what they say. They may have been cannibals, but you were a trained soldier and killer. You would kill them in a heartbeat if they weren't useful to you in some way.

"What do you want, vultures?" You growl at them, expecting them to get scared and return to their master's chamber, waiting for him like faithful dogs.

"The little witch's friend is here…"

"Our master is interrogating her…"

"And he learns very interesting things about the witch."

"When he's done with her, he'll be ours again."

"We will eat her meat and feast, celebrating our victory."

And what really should scare you more is the part about them saying they're going to eat you, but all you can think about is that friend he's interrogating. Another Bene Gesserit? Impossible. You made sure that everyone who came into contact with you either believed you were dead or forgot that you existed. Except for one… No. No, that wasn't possible.

"I have the blood of hundreds of rats on me. Get out of my sight unless you want yours to adorn my armor. And believe me… I will do it with great pleasure. I bet your master would fuck me on your corpse as a reward." You snap at them, still processing what may have been happening in the interrogation room. If your suspicions were true... you didn't even want to think about it. This couldn't be happening. You're paranoid. After so many years of keeping everything a secret... you couldn't lose control that easily.

You pay them no further attention and continue walking, ignoring their hisses and mocking laughter as you change your plans and head to the interrogation room.

You had to run away. As far away from here as possible. But if you do, he will chase after you. And when he finds you, and there is no doubt that he will, he will gut you and throw your remains to his harpies.

So you couldn't escape. You had to face him and try to tame him somehow. But how the hell are you going to explain to him that you ran away from the Bene Gesserit with him because you didn't want to be his concubine? Maybe a few years ago he would have understood it, but now that he has found this strange obsession with you, how could you get out of this situation? He'll cut you up before you even try to say anything.

You pass soldiers standing at the door of the interrogation room. They nod at you, letting you in as you hesitantly walk over to see for yourself if the situation is actually as dire as you think.

You feel the cold metal door on your back as it closes behind you with a bang. You freeze in place, swallowing nervously, as you see the Fremen Reverend Mother handcuffed to a chair. What scares you much more than the fact that it is really a Bene Gesserit is that it's Lady Jessica. Your former trainer in that sick sisterhood.

Feyd is standing right in front of her. His hands are gripped tightly around his daggers, and his gaze is focused on the woman in front of him. He strokes the blade of his dagger with his thumb as he is lost in his thoughts. He behaved as if he were completely oblivious to you, but you know him better than to even think for a while that he didn't notice your entrance. But he doesn't say anything as he continues to stare at her intently.

"She can tell you that herself. Right, Y/N?" Lady Jessica looks at you, raising an eyebrow defiantly. Even captured, she looks proud, as if she were the one who had power over what was happening in the room. "I should thank you. If it weren't for you, Paul would never have taken over the Kwisatz Haderach's way. No matter how hard I tried..."

"Feyd…" You ignore her and walk over to Harkonnen. You place a hand on his shoulder, but he just flinches at your touch, moving away from you. His eyes were fixed on the floor; he wasn't giving you even a single glance.

"I'm not surprised. If they sent me to breed with such a monster, I would also run away... not necessarily into his arms, but I really admire your skillful mind. To come up with such intrigue. No one would ever imagine that a little scared girl would run straight into the lion's mouth to take shelter there. I remember how you cried down my skirt when you found out what your mission was. I never would have imagined that my apprentice would go so far."

"Silence!" You shout at her, using the voice, and surprisingly, you succeed. You don't have time to try to understand what just happened—that you used your voice against a much stronger woman than you, the Reverend Mother. You walk up to Feyd and cup his cheek with your hand, forcing him to look at you.

His gaze is blank. He's wearing his mask, blocking out any emotions that might get through and reveal what he's thinking. He takes your hand and moves it away from his face, pushing you away from him like a bug.

"Would you like to see a monster, concubine of the Atreides? I'll be more than happy to show you one…" Before either of you can react, Feyd swings, creating a long gash across her chest. The woman gasps in shock, placing her hand on her wound, from which blood is now flowing down on the floor.

Before you can take a breath to talk some sense into him, he plunges the blade into her chest. You tremble as you hear the sound of cracked bones under the movement of his dagger and the witch's screams.

You don't do anything. You just stand there, watching as Feyd takes out his anger on her, disembowelling her. The metallic smell of blood hits your nostrils, but even that doesn't cause you to react. All you can do is stand and watch. And wait for your turn.

You feel sick as Lady Jassica's screams remind you of your friends who died on Arrakis. You deny what's happening in front of you as your thoughts return to that fateful day.

You weren't sent to Arrakis to try to survive. No, the plan created by Bene Gesserit was much worse. You were sent there to kill each other. This sick test was intended to eliminate weak individuals, leaving only one Bene Gesserit alive, the one who was the strongest among the young generation of women trained by these mad witches.

You were sent on one ship, thrown into the desert with weapons and one bottle of water, as an act of mercy. There were fifty of you. You killed half of them. Or at least that's what the Reverend Mothers told you after the Sisterhood took you back from there..

You were the only one left alive.

From that day on, you promised yourself that you would never let them control your life or make you go through these tests again. You didn't want to take part in their sick games ever again. You preferred to die rather than become their tool again, a monster that blindly follows their orders.

You never wanted to feel powerless or furiously frustrated again.

And now, standing there and staring blankly as Feyd killed the woman who was your mentor in front of you, you felt as if you were once again that helpless girl who is forced to do as she is told and who has no power over anything that is happening around her.

You flinch as blood reaches your shoes. You look up to see Na-Baron turning towards you. Blood was dripping down his armour as he cleaned his blades on her clothes, which were already soaked in blood.

For a moment, you delude yourself, thinking that it's not what you think. That he didn't actually discover the truth about your past in the Bene Gesserit by accident. That everything will be all right, just how it used to.

But by the look in his icy-blue eyes, you know he knows. He gives you the same angry, bloodthirsty glare that he gives his victims moments before they die. But there's something else there. Pain. Betrayal. Without knowing why, you feel a flood of guilt wash over you, outweighing your fear. But you didn't owe him anything. No loyalty or sincere devotion.

You gasp as he pushes you against the wall and presses the knife to your neck, breathing heavily. You feel it gently pierce your skin, causing blood to leak from the wound and run down your neck. He doesn't move away. He doesn't bend down to lick it off your skin. He presses further and harder, looking straight into your eyes. And you don't know if he's just testing you or if he really wants to kill you.

Suddenly, fucking him wasn't the worst solution to the situation you found yourself in...

Part III Taglist: (I hope that everyone is here...) @thegabbyh @himesuedi @wo-ming-bai @beebeechaos @mamawiggers1980 @moonsoulk @avidreader73 @heartarianagran @dreamlandcreations @ancientbeing10 @lovereadingfanfic @jeansjoie @workof-a-rr-t @aixicl @ladyredstar1991 @evangelineimagine @hobobobo-fett56 @happyant3 @marsflys @aaaaaamond @kamcrazy123 @k1swass @yum-yahgurt @tyns13 @oh-you-mean-me @menari @tyns13

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd oneshot #house harkonnen #dune part 2 #oneshot #feyd supremacy #feyd smut #feyd rautha x bene gesserit reader #feyd imagine #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha harkonnen x you #smut #dark romance #toxic behavior

[tightjeansjavi]

Hi!! Love your writing!! Can you write a cowboy fetish joel miller with boot riding 🥺🥺

Hi nonnie! Thank you for sending this in! It scratched my brain just ✨right✨ and I hope it does the same for you! I couldn’t just do some boot ridin’ without some plot ;) enjoy 🤠

Dinner & Diatribes

~word count: 3.7k~

Pairing | Cowboy/bounty hunter! Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: you’re the kind of love that Joel Miller has been dreaming of all his life

Warnings: smut,fluff, angst, cowboy in shining armor vibes, unprotected piv, boot ridin! dick slingin, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, implied age gap, dom/sub vibes, sir/mister kink, implied abuse (not by Joel) Joel is a bounty hunter during the Wild West, reader is a runaway bride wanted for murdering three men, filthy language, pining, protective! Joel, assumed unrequited love, swearing, AU that might not 100% be historically accurate but I tried! reader has no physical descriptions such a skin tone or body type, readers nickname is Chickadee, +18 minors dni! Let me know if I missed anything!

Joel Miller knows that keeping a bounty for himself ain’t the way to go about things..he knows that there’s consequences for his actions, an imminent problem would surely arise if he didn’t bring you back to the town you fled from. Wanted for the murders of three men. A wild untamable thing on the run is how the sheriff described you to Joel. And the most important detail of all; I don’t care if you bring her back alive, or in pieces.

And then Joel found you, tracked your trails for miles and miles through the barren rough terrain of the Wild West. You didn’t even put up a fight when you heard the distinct sound of thundering hooves drawing nearer and nearer. You were exhausted, dehydrated, and on the verge of collapsing to the dusty earth while vultures circled ahead.

This didn’t mean you gave up entirely when Joel Miller had you circled, cornered and lasso at the ready. That’s when he took notice of your state, your attire. A once glittering wedding dress now hanging on by threads of shredded fabric. The bottom tooled fabric was now a dirty sand color, blending in with the dirt. Remnants of your eye makeup cracked and stained beneath your eyes and cheekbones that were once painted in a pretty pigment.

He watched from the saddle of his horse as you sank down to your knees, awaiting your inevitable fate to be delivered. “Have you come to turn me in, Mister?”

His head cocked to the side, eyes studying your vulnerable form intently. You couldn’t see his face as it was obstructed from your view with a tied bandana, but even from where you sat on your knees, you could see that his eyes were a deep shade of brown, dark and mysterious.

He dismounted his horse swiftly, silently, boots tearing up dusty patches of earth with each heavy step he took. The spurs on the back of his boots chimed through the air as he stopped in front of you. His broad frame casted a shadow over your kneeling form. His hands were encased in worn leather, and he smelled of tobacco smoke, saddle soap, and musk.

He crouched down, hat tipping forward while one leather clad hand reached for your jaw, thumb brushing across your skin as he tilted it upwards, forcing you to look into his eyes. He saw your grime and dried blood stained face up close. Your eyes flickered nervously as he turned your head to the side.

“Ain’t you gonna get on with it and turn me in? What’re you draggin’ this out for, huh? You caught me, mister. Go and collect your fuckin’ reward.” You spat defiantly into the dirt, a glob of salvia landing on the toe of his boot.

His grip tightened around your chin, jaw ticking sharp like a knife, eyes narrowing in on your face and the subtle wobble of your severely cracked and dry lower lip.

“What happened to you?” He finally spoke. His voice reminded you of fire crackling, ominous thunder and heavy rain. Thick, gravelly, deeper than the Grand Canyon itself.

“What’s it matter if I tell ya, huh? You gonna take pity on me or somethin’ mister?”

He was silent again, appearing deep in thought as he continued to study your face, searching through the grime and dirt for any clues..then, he saw it; The eyes of someone that suffered abuse. His grip around your chin softened

“Stand up.” He commanded.

You struggled to your feet, confusion etched in your features, the obvious sway in your step before two strong hands grabbed your shoulders to steady you.

“We’ll have to move fast.”

“What’re you—” You were still confused, head spinning from his words and malnourishment.

“I don’t turn in folks that killed outta self defense, Chickadee. And certainly not a woman that killed her abusers.” He gave you a curt, tight nod. “Better you than I cause I woulda tied those sons a bitches up and dragged them through the fuckin’ desert.” He rasped.

“You’re..not turnin’ me in?”

“No. Ain’t morally right for me t’do so.” He said softly.

And that’s how you ended up riding through the countryside with Joel Miller to protect you. You’d patch up his shiners, his wounds, keep his belly full with hearty stews that kept him strong and alert. You’d clean his gun, shine his leather till you could see your reflection in the fabric. And in return, he protected you. He never asked for any sexual favors, or for your hand. He viewed you as his equal, his partner.

It hurt sometimes, to flirt with the man you owed your life to and for him to brush your attempts off everytime. As if you were a pesky horsefly, or insignificant gnat. Yet, you couldn’t help it. Joel was handsome, ruggedly so and you’d often find yourself fantasizing about kissing him, feeling his fingers touch you in places you craved to be touched in. To feel his caress on your skin, the bite of his leather, the scrape of his scruffy beard. The stretch of his cock inside of your wet cunt.

You were driving yourself mad with want for a man that didn’t want you back, or so you assumed that was to be the case.

That couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Joel Miller was on the edge to finally just give in when he caught you one night with your skirts hiked above your thighs with your boot clad feet firmly planted in the dirt. Under the pale glow of the moonlight above, and the glittery shining stars, he could see your hand between your thighs, touching yourself and moaning his name.

It felt wrong to watch you, to invade your privacy and your modesty. But he’d be damned if he’d go another night without feeling the hug of your pussy around his aching cock. Or to feel the taste of your kissable lips on his tongue. Damned. Damned. Damned. Fuck, he couldn’t survive another second without knowing what it was like to be loved by you.

For years he had pushed you away despite knowing the pain it caused both you and him. A man could only last so long pretending to not love a woman that he’d throw his life down for in a heartbeat. That’s the kinda love Joel Miller had been dreaming of all his life.

Your head snapped at the sound of a twig snapping behind you as your hand stilled between your thighs. Your heartbeat rattled wildly in your rib cage at the fear and excitement of being caught.

Oh, please. Please let tonight be the night.

“Don’t stop on my account, Chickadee.” He drawled deeply before stepping closer to where you sat.

The heat rushed to your cheeks like a wildfire spreading, your stomach clenched inwards as you began to touch yourself once more, eyes staying locked on his own.

When he was close enough, you used his shins for support as you rubbed your swollen clit in tight, fast circles.

“No.” He shook his head. “Slower. Take your time, darlin.’ There ain’t no rush. Let me see you.” He rasped, before slowly sinking into the dirt behind you. His strong thighs corralled your own almost possessively as his hands gently grasped the hem of your skirts, pulling them up higher. You felt the brush of his beard against your cheek when his chin came to rest along your shoulder. “Nice and slow for me.”

“I’m—sorry, Joel.” You whispered ashamedly through the cool darkness of the desert night. You slowed your fingers, dragging them through the building slick that pooled between the seam of your cunt.

“Sorry for what, Chickadee? Sorry for touchin’ yourself? For moanin’ my name? Why would you be sorry for that?..” His deep tone sent sparks flying through your body as you leaned back into his strong chest.

“Because—you don’t want me, and this is wrong for me to do. To touch myself and moan a man’s name that doesn’t desire me the way I desire him.” A whimper was clawing up your throat, begging to be released, but you wouldn’t allow it.

He dropped the fabric of your skirts briefly only to dip his hand between your thighs and place his massive palm over the top of your hand, guiding your fingers over your clit once more. “This man desires you plenty, Chickadee. I was only tryin’ to protect your modesty..and our hearts.” He whispered against your ear, lips ghosting across your exposed skin. “Been wantin’ to love you all these years we’ve spent together.” He admitted. “I’m a terrible, rotten man for keepin’ you starved this long..” he trailed off, pressing open mouthed kisses at the spot where your jaw met your neck. “M’sorry.”

Those were the last words you ever expected a fucking bounty hunter to whisper..let alone to you?

A shuddered breath slipped past your parted lips, just for him. Your head lolled to the side, granting him easier access as your lashes fluttered shut. “I’ve felt like..such a fool, Joel. A dirty little fool for a bounty hunter.” You took your lower lip between your teeth, biting down harshly and drawing blood to the surface. You let him take full control of your hand, letting him guide and manipulate your fingers to play with yourself just right.

“Shh..I know now, Chickadee. M’sorry, truly. But I’m here now, ain’t I? M’here. Here forever if you’ll have me. I understand if I've bruised and neglected your heart far too many times..I can accept your rejection if it is coming.”

You could detect the edge of sadness in his tone, the acceptance already settling into his bones and heart.

“Joel, please kiss me.” You nearly begged him, dying to finally know what his lips would feel like on your own.

“Why didn’t ya just say that sooner, Chickadee.” He chuckled. “I wish ya woulda just grabbed me by the breeches years ago and knocked some sense into my thick skull. Woulda taken your ache away a long time ago, darlin.’” He said in a hushed whisper. “But I know you were afraid..can’t blame ya for that. Not really. ‘Specially since I ain’t the nicest of men to come by.”

He was taking too long, and you were an impatient woman.

“Joel.” You huffed, fighting the urge to curse him out before you decided to take matters into your own hands, finally. Tomorrow was never promised, not when you and Joel were constantly on the run.

He kept rambling on until he felt the soft touch of your fingertips brushing against the patches in his scruffy beard and the magnetic pull drawing him in closer, closer till he could taste your mingled breath on his lips.

Here in the middle of the desert, with nothing but the moon and stars as a source of light, you finally knew what it was like to kiss Joel Miller. You learned his lips quickly, liking that they were both soft and a bit chapped. As you licked slowly into one another’s mouths you could taste the faint remnants of tobacco on his tongue. It was a bruising kiss, one that both ignited the fire deep within you, and sent a delicious tingle curving down your spine.

So, this is what the girls back home were all talking about. Being kissed by a real man.

And then you found yourself straddling him in the dirt, saying fuck all to your modesty because you had never wanted a man more than you did now. And you wished that your mother could see you now. To see what her perfect little daughter had turned into.

Fuck you, mother. Fuck you for forcing me to marry that monster.

Joel brought you back down to earth with both his lips and his words tattooed on your skin. He caged you with his body, acting as a shield from the chilly night ear that sent goosebumps rising.

He worked your blouse open, growing more frustrated by the minute when the clasps wouldn’t automatically give. He was desperate to feel more of you, all of you because he knew then that you were his, and he was yours. And if you’d end up being the death of him, so be it. At least he could go out being loved rather than unloved.

“You gonna fuck me now, mister? Gonna take what belongs to you, Joel?” You mumbled against his lips in a chasing kiss, growing more desperate as the seconds ticked by.

“Gonna do more than that, Chickadee.” He rasped. This was a promise, and a man such as Joel always kept his promises.

The howl of a Coyote far off in the distant sent uneasy nerves rolling through you, because the realization hit you then that you and Joel were out in the fucking wilderness, and you suddenly felt bare and exposed.

“Jus’ a coyote, doll. He’s singin’ to the moon. We’re safe here, I promise. Ain’t ever gonna let somethin’ happen to you again, Chickadee.” His strong calloused, yet gentle hands came to cup for your face. His deep brown eyes met yours through the pale glow of the moonlight casted over your faces. “I swear on my life, you will always be safe with me.”

and while the lone coyote sang his song to the moon, Joel Miller had you singing your own song, just for his ears too.

After that night spent together, you never had a night where you slept alone. Joel was always there. Holding you, kissing you, fucking you into a blissful state.

He still feared for your safety, and you feared for his. This would never change, but you refused to live in fear for the rest of your life.

It was a boiling hot day under the blazing desert sun. You and Joel were moving west towards California. Hearing about the gold rush there sounded like as good of an opportunity as any. Not even just for the gold, but the prospects of a new life. Joel had dreams of owning a ranch, sheep specifically and living out his days with you by his side.

“Come join me for a swim, cowboy.” You were sitting side by side under the one single tree along the river's edge. Your two horses were drinking their fill after traveling for days in these conditions.

Your cowboy had his arms crossed behind his head, biceps bulging under the thin fabric of his shirt. His hat was tipped down over his head. You only witnessed Joel being fully relaxed on a few occasions where he would let his guard down for just mere minutes.

“Mmm. That’s alright, doll. Y’go on and enjoy yourself.” He said with a lazy sigh.

“Just a quick one together? Please?” You reached over and gently lifted the brim of his hat just enough so you could see his closed eyes.”

“Chickadee..” he said in a low warning tone, peeking one eye open to look up at you before he shut it once more.

“You’re no fun.” You huffed while releasing your gentle grip on his hat.

“M’plenty fun, doll. I gotta keep watch, anyway. Can’t do that if I’m stark naked in the river with ya. What if someone tries to sneak up? Won’t have my gun at arms reach.” He sighed.

“I know, Joel.”

Maybe when we get to California..he won’t have to worry about all of that.

He sat up turning his body to face you before his palm came to rest upon your cheek in a gentle caress. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, tugging it down gently before he leaned in and kissed you sweetly. “Now go on and cool off, Chickadee.”

You kissed him back with the same amount of sweetness before you pulled away and gave his nose a light boop. His face scrunched inwards before he reached around and gave your ass a light and playful swat that sent you giggling as you rose to your feet.

You shot him a seductive wink before you raced down to the river's edge, kicking up a cloud of dirt with your boots.

Joel watched from afar with a hooded gaze as you stripped down from your skirts and blouse followed by your unlaced boots. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself when your one boot wouldn’t give right away and you nearly tripped before finally getting it off. He kept watch as you dove into the crystal clear waters and reameraged moments later.

He reached into his pack, pulling out an apple and pocket knife while you splashed around like a kid on Christmas. He cut off a small slice before biting it off on the edge of the knife, chewing thoughtfully as he leaned back against the sturdy tree.

When we get to California..I’m going to marry her.

He didn’t want to end your fun so soon..but it was time to get moving again. He brought his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, whistling to let you know that it was time to pack up.

You had been floating peacefully on your back with your eyes closed when you heard his whistle that immediately tore you from your daydream state.

He was just about to stand up from where he was resting against the tree when you emerged from the river. You reminded him of a goddess. Bare, beautiful, skin sprinkled in water droplets that were kissed by the sun. You looked unreal, and he was the luckiest man alive.

“C’mon, Chickadee. We gotta head out.” He called for you when you were within earshot.

“I’m coming!” You bent down to gather up your clothes before the idea struck you. “Can I dry off first, please?”

He let out a grumbled sigh before he ultimately nodded his head in agreement. A few more minutes couldn’t hurt..

“Jus’ till ya dry off, doll.”

With your clothes and boots gathered up in your bare arms, you approached him casually, setting everything down on your nearby saddle while he watched you with piqued curiosity.

“I was thinking about you out there..laying on my back and feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin..” you trailed off.

“Is that so? Hmm..what were you thinkin’ about, Chickadee?” His eyes slowly trailed down your bare body. From the swell of your breasts, down your tummy and thighs and what lay between them.

“Want to take a guess, cowboy?” You asked teasingly.

His brow raised as a grin tugged along the corner of his lips. A game is what you were playing, and he was the willing participant.

“Based on your tone, I’m gonna guess it’s got somethin’ to do with..my cock?” He wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner while his hand casually came to rest between his own thighs. Oh, he was playing alright.

“Mmm..perhaps I was thinkin’ of ridin’ your cock right under the shade of this tree..but that would be too obvious, Joel.” Your eyes drifted down to where his hand was before the traveled down the expanse of his strong thighs and ending at the toe of his leather boots.

He caught onto your drift almost immediately and you saw his pupils begin to darken. “Y’wanna ride my boot? Is’that it? Well, ain’t you a filthy thing, Chickadee. You wanna get ‘em all shined up for me? Drag that sweet cunt of yours over them?”

His eyes stayed locked on yours in a challenging stare while he palmed himself through his pants to relieve the growing tension.

“I do, sir. I really, really, really want to ride your boot.” You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks because never in your wildest dreams did you expect to take part in debauchery such as this.

“On your knees then, girl. Kiss ‘em for me.” He fell right into character with a flip of a switch.

You found yourself lowering onto your knees without a care in the world about the dirt while you bent down over his boots, pressing a kiss to the leather, dragging your tongue down the stitched seam.

“That’s it, doll. Get ‘em nice and shined up for me.” He said while popping the button on his pants open and pulling his cock free from the confines.

“You gonna touch yourself while I ride your boot, mister?” You were sitting upright again before you crawled closer, letting your hands rest along his thighs as you positioned yourself right above his left boot. The imprint of your kiss had already begun to dry from the scorching heat.

“Yeah, doll. I’m gonna fist my cock while you ride my boot like the dirty Chickadee that you are.” He spat into his palm before he wrapped his fist around the base of his cock just as you lowered yourself over the expanse of his boot, taking your lip between your teeth when you dragged your clit right across the smooth leather.

“Fuuck me. Ain’t that a sight. Look at you, fuckin’ filthy girl. S’feel good, Chickadee?”

You rolled your hips forward slowly at the rate that he was pumping his fist. A soft whimper slipped past your lips while your eyes stayed locked on his.

“Feels so good, mister. So—so good.” You moaned freely with each steady roll of your hips, chasing that high. Nothing would ever compare to Joel’s cock. You knew this, he knew this, and you also were aware that this little game would only last so long.

And then he watched you lose yourself completely on his boot with each roll and grind of your hips against the dampened leather. Crying out his name, nails digging into his covered thighs, head thrown back, tears nearly flooding your eyes.

He had the same sense of urgency and realization that nothing would ever compare to the warm hug of your pussy around his cock. That’s when the game ended as his strong arms came to lift you into his lap by your thighs. His lips met yours in a bruising kiss filled with intermingled moans and teeth clashing together when he finally slipped into your warmth.

California could wait a little longer, he wanted to savor this moment for as long as it lasted because now he had the love that he had been dreaming of all his life. Right here in his arms, cock buried to the hilt under the shade of this very tree. Right here with his Chickadee.

That’s the kinda love I’ve been dreaming of

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[tiredmamaissy]

Little Secret

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Characters: jake sully x na’vi reader x lo’ak sully

Warnings: nsfw, explicit smut, profanity, dub-con(?), heat cycle, dark/mr.stealyourgirl Jake, poor clueless Lo’ak, fingering, ab riding, oral sex (f receiving), infidelity, p in v

Word Count: 4.6k

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: I had to make it fair, you know, since Jake stole Neteyam’s mate. I’m just in my dark era, guys I’m sorry. Also, @jakexneytiri practically wrote this. This is for you, bestie. I love you and your big, juicy, sexy brain, I just wanna give it a big smooch.

Synopsis: Lo’ak is away on a two-day hunting trip, and you unexpectedly go into heat. Good thing the Olo’eyktan finds you before anyone else does.  

“Are you sure? I can stay back.” Lo’ak breaks the kiss, cupping your cheek.

“Yes, Lo’. My heat won’t come for a few more days.” you smile softly, hands resting on his chest.

Just a few more eclipses and your heat would be here. As much as you wanted your mate to stay with you, you knew it was important that he goes on this two-day hunting trip. Supplies were low and he was one of the few warriors in the clan equipped to travel far distances. You nudge him towards the door, but he stands firm, resisting your pushes.

“My love.” He rests his hands over yours, giving them a gentle squeeze.

“Ma’ Lo’ak.” you say, eyes of innocence peering up into his.

“I can smell you.” he growls, briefly holding his breath to savour your faint scent.

His four words send shivers down your spine, hot breath prickling your skin. You could already feel your body’s arousal as the blood rushes to your cheeks, staining them a tinge of pink. You nibble on your bottom lip, chest tightening from the lustful eyes that bore into yours.

“Then you better hurry up and come back, alright?” you kiss him quickly and nudge him with shaky hands once more.

“So eager to get rid of me, huh? What? Have another na’vi coming to see you once I’m gone?” he chuckles, slowly retreating to the makeshift door.

“You know I don’t like when you make those jokes, Lo’ak.” you chide, offended that he thinks you’d do such a thing.

“Yeah, yeah. And what if I didn’t have anything against it?” he mumbles as you shove his shoulder, spinning him around to face the door. “Just as long as I get to remind you who’s really owns you after.”

Your tongue clicks in frustration. “Go, before the hunting party leaves you. Again.” you huff, giving him a final shove out the door.

----

Rousing from your deep slumber, you find that the dryness in your eyes makes it difficult to open them. You groan, not feeling nearly as rested as you should after such a long nap. The grogginess is so overwhelming that your eyelids feel like two bags of sand, weighing heavily on your face. Lethargy so potent it slumps you into a torpor trance, ebbing away whatever consciousness you have remaining.  

Just like that, you fall into yet another cycle of sleep.

A few more hours pass, the eclipse now in full bloom. A familiar dopiness washes over you, lips cracked and dry from hours and hours of no hydration. You attempt to swallow, only for you to struggle to gather any spit to wad together. That’s when another familiar sensation quickly sets in. One where your body heats up from the inside out, starting at the core of your being, radiating to your extremities. Accompanied by intense dizziness, you could barely piece together a coherent thought. Screams echo in your head, demanding for ‘water, water, water’. You try to shuffle to your feet, only for them to give out, causing you to tumble back onto the mat beneath you.

Sitting in an utter state of bewilderment, you force open your unfocused eyes, trying your best to scan your tent with blurred vision. “Lo’ak?” you croak out a dry throat, only to remember that he’s not here. “Ah. Right...” you think aloud, using the back of your hand to feel your forehead. “’s so hot.” you mumble to yourself, giving your forehead a quick swipe, beads of sweat now dripping down your forearm.

Do I have a fever? I don’t feel good.

A heaviness takes over your body, limbs growing weightier by the second. Soon you’re lying on your back, trying your best to wriggle out of whatever flimsy cloth you have plastered onto your skin. The knot on your loincloth is so tight, your fingers fumble around trying to untie it. Frustration brews deep in your chest, overflowing with nowhere else to go but up and out your throat in a loud grunt.

With sweat dripping in your eyes, you practically go blind – double vision now setting in. “Fuck.” you cry out, giving up on trying to untie the knot and just going for the easier route – pulling it down your legs. You hook your fingers under the band of your garments, pulling and tugging it to the best of your abilities. But your attempts prove to be futile, thanks to the heaviness of your body, you’re only able to get it about halfway down.

At this rate you’re panting and squirming around trying to get these soaked things off your hot body. You huff loudly, frustration only growing stronger by the second. Quickly moving up to your top, you slip it down your chest, exposing your breasts. A cool, refreshing breeze wafts through the flap of your tent, hardening your nipples into peaks. Eywa, did that feel good.

Your entire body prickles in fervour, heating up to a dangerous degree. You could no longer deny the way you feel – your arousal. The slick seeping from your folds is evidence of it. It coats your thighs the more you rub them together, making a mess on not only yourself but the woven mat beneath you. With your loincloth around your knees, you find it difficult to spread your legs. All you can manage to do is shove your shaky hand between your thighs to try and bring some sort of relief to yourself.

It's like an itch. An itch so deep that you can’t scratch it, no matter how hard you try – no matter how many fingers you use. Your digits fondle with your sensitive clit, doing their upmost best to establish some sort of rhythm in their strokes. The frustration boiling in your chest doesn’t help, it only makes it more difficult to do it properly – to make yourself cum. Your breaths turn raggedy, volume increasing with each swipe of your clit.

The pressure in your chest is immense. It’s like you’re about to implode if you don’t release the tension. Drool dribbling down your cheek, you curl into a ball for better access to your slit. All three fingers eagerly part your folds, prodding at your hole. You bundle them together, shifting your pelvis forward to sink them inside you.

“Ohh!” you let loose a loud, sudden moan, finally feeling some of the pressure release. With no strength to work your fingers, you lazily hump your hand, sliding them in and out of your cunt. You can’t help but let your heavy-lidded eyes close, allowing you to focus on the sensation budding in your womb. It feels so empty – so hollow. You just need to be stuffed to the brim and filled up.

All you can think about is your mate. The two braids that hang freely in front of his face, his brawny stature, his big hands, and lengthy fingers. The things you’d do to have them inside you right now, furling right into your g-spot, satiating that annoying itch deep inside you. Just the mere thought of it quickly turns your ragged breaths into lengthy whines and whimpers as you try to imitate your mate’s touches.

----

Jake dismounts his beast, stroking its tough exterior in efforts to calm him. He had just come back from a stressful meeting about the sky people and their upcoming agenda. With their return, things have become arduous; hunting parties have been targeted on a regular basis, making it difficult to hunt in familiar, well-known areas. Therefore, the stronger, more equipped warriors have been venturing farther out to hunt, typically for a few days at a time, leaving the clan under the protection of Olo’eyktan.

Making quick strides towards the tents, he overhears high-pitched noises. Ears perking up, his head turns to the source of the whimpering and whining. If anyone is in any sort of trouble, it is his duty as Olo’eyktan to help. He follows the noises, only to be led to his son’s tent. Three na’vi men surround the hut, all facing one another, seeing who will back down first. “Men.” the Olo’eyktan speaks, breaking the tension. Their heads snap towards Jake, acknowledging his presence by signing ‘I see you’. “What’s going on here?” Jake asks, hands resting on his hips.

“Someone has left their mate in heat, sir.” one of the men responds.

Jake’s heart skips a beat. If this is his son’s tent, then surely the na’vi in heat is...you.

Seeing these three men linger around you triggers his possessive instincts, or perhaps it was your pheromones wafting past his nose. Either way, he didn’t like the crowd around your tent. “Erm.” he clears his throat, “I will take it from here.” he mutters. The men hesitate to leave, all looking at one another like a new challenger has arrived. “Dismissed!” Jake shouts, startling the men.

“Yes, sir.” they say in unison, bowing their heads and retreating.

----

“Y/n?” Jake’s faint voice is muffled by your lengthy mewls and squelching noises you’re working out of your cunt. “Ah, shit.” he curses, hand flying up to cover his nose. “Y/n.” he calls out once more, approaching your trembling body with caution. “You in heat, sweetheart?”

“L-lo’ak? Is that y-you?” you pant, seeing a blurry tall figure approach you – eyelids too heavy to open fully. “I-I can’t take this anymore. I can’t – I can’t do it. ‘ts too much. too much. too much.” your teeth chatter as the words dislodge from your dry throat. “P-please. I-I... hah... ah - need help. Please. Please. Please.”, you desperately hump your slick coated hand. “Ngh - need... ugh – need w-water, lo’, please.”

Jake clicks his tongue at the sight of you squirming around with your loincloth halfway down your legs, trying to bring relief to yourself. “How long have you been like this, baby girl? Where is that boy? Hm?” he coos, fetching a cup of water.

He kneels beside you, feeling your sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re burnin’ up, look at ya. That boy leaving you in heat alone.” he mutters, shaking his head in disappointment. “C’mere, drink for me.” he hoists you into his lap, your fingers still hooked inside you as you nuzzle into him.

He perches your head in the dip of his arm and brings the cup to your chapped lips, watching you eagerly lap up the water. It feels so good, so refreshing – like putting ice on a burn. “M-more Lo’ak.” you mumble, clawing at the wrist holding the cup to your mouth, trying to tip more out of it.

“It’s not Lo’ak, baby girl. It’s Jake.” Jake speaks gently, pulling his hand from your grasp to get more water for you.

Jake? The – the Olo’eyktan? Oh Eywa.

“Here.” he tilts the cup to your lips once more, watching you quench your undying thirst. “Atta girl, y’must be hungry too.” he puts down the cup, “What do you need, hm?” he coos, swiping away the stands of hair stuck to your face.

“N-need. Need.” you blubber, hips spasming uncontrollably against your hand. “I-I need, m-my mate. Need. Ne – ngh! S-sir, ‘m so – oh! s-sorry.”

“It’s alright. You’re okay. ‘m gonna call for him now.” He presses the microphone on his throat comm, paging for his son.

“Boy. You really left your mate in heat? Get your ass here. Now.” He whispers harshly, lips curling over his teeth.

“She’s – what? Shit. Yes sir. Coming now.” Lo’ak responds.

Jake huffs out a sigh, eyes drawn to your sticky hand working at your pussy. He watches you struggle a little, fingers barely halfway inside you, covered in a glossy layer of slick. He could tell that the cloth binding your legs together is only making it more difficult for you to fuck yourself. Call it pity, or just plain corruption, but he wanted to help you so, so badly.

“Just gonna help you take this off, alright?” he hums, fiddling with the taut knot on your loincloth. Once the knot becomes undone, your legs snap open, aphrodisiac scent filling the tent. He couldn’t help himself, he had to look – to look at the soft flesh between your legs. It’s obvious his body is succumbing to the influence of your heat, warming up alongside you as you plunge your fingers deeper into yourself.

Meanwhile, you can’t help but whine and whimper, squirming around in his lap as you try to find a better position to hump at your hand. The frustration in your chest has budded into something else completely, something that’s making you feel feverish in your head. All you could think about was your desire, no– your need to be stuffed. You just needed to scratch that maddening itch, to put out that menacing flame.

Your fingers feel so raw and rubbed out, yet so numb at the same time. But you simply couldn’t bring yourself to take them out of you, to allow for the empty sensation to creep back in. Blood now simmering under your skin, you needed him to help you. Your free hand reaches out for his wrist, using it as leverage to place his hand onto your clammy chest. It snaps his gaze up to yours, searching your delirious, watery eyes.

“Hey, hey. No need to cry, alright? Try use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what ya need and I’ll get it for you.” he coos, face screwed with concern.

“Need – need help. Need help.” you repeat franticly, tugging his stiff hand down to your stomach. “’s not enough!” you blurt out, frustrated that he’s resisting your tugs.

“y’not yourself, y/n.” he even struggles to say the words, brows gathering to wrinkle his forehead. “’m not your mate, sweetheart.”

“Please.” you let out a pained whine, ignoring his warning as you tug even harder at his hand. “It – it hurts, sir.”  

He grimaces at your vulnerable, carnal state. Blood rushes to his face, flushing his cheeks the more your pheromones smother him. He tries to hold his breath – his poor attempt to maintain his composure, but your scent is too potent now that you’re in the thick of your heat. Unable to deny his own arousal, evident in the tautness of his loincloth, he finds himself giving in, taking long, deep breathes to savour your sweet, sweet scent.

“God. You smell so fuckin’ good.” Succumbing to the influence of your heat, he yields to your little tugs, allowing his hand to slowly slide down to your stomach.

“Sir. Sir, please. I-I can’t take it... anymore” you hiccup, fingernails digging into his skin. “I-I need... ngh... haah.” you struggle with your words, allowing for your tugs to speak on your behalf.

“Say it.” he growls, slipping his hand down your sticky pelvis, grasping your slender wrist. “Say it so I can help you, baby girl.” the eager words slip out just as his eyes meet yours, insisting you give your spoken consent first.

“I-I need them inside, sir... right here, please” you pant, spreading your trembling legs for him.

“Right here?” he utters innocently, gently pulling your fingers out of your cunt, exposing your slit.  

“Yes! Yes sir! H-hurry, please. ‘m so, so empty. It – it hurts.” you whine loudly, hips bucking on their own.

“Shh. Shh. ‘m gonna help you now.” he hushes you, sliding his palm over your pussy. “But we keep this our little secret, yeah?”

“Y-yes sir!” you sob, rolling your hips against his hand, coating it with a thick layer of your slick.

“Call me Jake.” he breathes, sliding two fingers inside of you. “Shit. So tight. So wet. Jesus, you’re soaked. You’re really in heat, aren’t you?” he fingers you roughly, furling and unfurling his digits into your sweet spot, expertly working out sloppy, squelching noises from your cunt.

“Oh fuck – Jake!” a loud, needy moan splits your lips. Fuck, did it feel so good. You’ve been unintentionally edging yourself this entire time, unable to reach this part of yourself with your own fingers. Not to mention the fact that Jake’s fingers are much, much thicker, and lengthier than yours. You couldn’t hold back the lewd noises evading your mouth.

“Yeah, right there? Look at you, making a mess on my fingers.” he chuckles, forearm becoming veiny from how roughly he’s fingering you. Your hips rolled against his hand, rubbing your clit against his callused palm as you chased your fast approaching climax. You yearned for it so badly that you allowed your body to take over for you, fucking his fingers as if it were his Lo’ak’s cock.

Oh, Lo’ak.

“i-is Lo’ak coming?” you barely get out, feeling your walls flutter around his fingers.

“Yeah, he’s coming, but I think you are too.” Jake smirks, feeling your heat spasm around his digits. “Go on, cum f’me.” Just like that, your sweet nectar coats his fingers, body convulsing uncontrollably in his lap as you release silent screams into the air. “Juust like that, good girl.” he hums, quickly pulling his fingers out of you to have his taste of you. “Jesus, you taste just how you smell.”

All you can feel is the ache of your womb, craving to be filled to the brim – the throb of your clit, begging to be stroked. Thick of your heat clouding your head, the emptiness creeps back in tenfold. Still having no control over your own body, you find yourself mounting Jake. Everything feels like a blur, hazy vision and dizziness take over, and before you know it you’ve knocked him onto his back.

“’m s-sorry” you hiccup, hips situating themselves on his stomach.

“Don’t be sorry. Do whatever you need, baby girl.” he reassures you, watching as your hands settle on his chest, supporting your heavy body as you grind into him.

At every rock, you coat his abs with your slick, and soon you were gliding back and forth on his stomach with ease. Each bump from his abs was hitting your clit just right, making you press yourself further onto him, pulsing clit desperate for the friction. “Want some help, sweetheart?” he asks, voice feigned with innocence.

You nod in a frantic manner, brows pinched as you hold your breath. He slides his hand up to grip your thigh, thumb lightly drawing tight circles into your clit. The little shocks shooting through your clit wind you, leaving you breathless. Your eyes slam shut, as you focus on the feeling budding in your womb once more and fuck, you just couldn’t stop the buck of your hips. Tiny, sweet mewls evade your lips as you grind into him once more. “Breathe f’me, y/n.”

Hearing the Olo’eyktan say your name in that way brings you back momentarily, eyes snapping open as a breath of air fills your lungs. “There you go. Don’t want you passin’ out on me.” he chuckles breathily, pressing his thumb into your clit a little harder. Jake’s eyes widen as he watches you leak all over him, slick dripping down the sides of his stomach. “Fuck. Gonna have to rehydrate you if you keep making a mess on me like that, sweet girl.”

“’m sorry, s-sir, mmn Jake.” you moan breathlessly, so, so close to cumming all over his stomach.

Jake hears a buzz of static in his right ear. “Dad? How is she? I’ll be there when the sun comes out.” Lo’ak chimes in through Jake’s earpiece.

“Need you to be quiet f’me, alright sweetheart?” he coos, edging you by slowing the pace of his strokes, only making you rock into him harder.

“She’s doing so well.” he praises you, voice bouncing with every thrust of your hips.

“Okay, dad. T-tell her I love her and that I’m sorry.” Lo’ak’s voice cracks.

“Alright, son. I will.” Jake utters under the trance of your heat, removing his hand from the microphone to place it on your other hip.

“Look at you, squirming around tryna make yourself cum. Want my help?” he asks, already manhandling your hips to yank you up to sit on his face. You look down through blurry vision as he situates his face between your thighs. His warm tongue feels so good that you can’t help but wiggle your hips down onto him, grinding into him. He takes every hump with fervour, lapping up whatever sweet nectar leaks into his mouth.

“S-top.” your breath hitches, word slipping out broken and hoarse. “m’gonna cum in your mm-mouth.” Jake squeezes your hips tighter and shoves your cunt further into his face, silently encouraging you to just do it already.

So, you do.

“Jake.” a little whimper parts your lips, “J-jake. ‘s c-coming.” your breath hitches, “Jake!” you cry out, feeling your walls clench around nothingness as the coil in your abdomen suddenly snaps in two. A pleased hum vibrates low in his chest as he follows each thrust of your hips, letting you ride out your orgasm on his face. Slumping over, you hold on to his hair, thighs closing around his face.

He couldn’t take it anymore. His cock throbbed so painfully in his loincloth he really felt like he was about to cum just from hearing you cry his name. The taut material was slick from his own arousal as precum oozed from his tip. He begins to thrust into the air, each squeeze of his hips rubbed his cock just right against his loincloth. He grunts into your cunt, hands sliding their way up your hips to your waist, using it as leverage to pull you off his face with a -pwah-. He gasps for air as he lies you flat on your back, positioning his covered crotch right at the swell of your ass.

All this rubbing just wasn’t enough, you needed something inside you – something to stuff you until you feel queasily full. But all you can think about is your Lo’ak. How you want his cock. How you wish the hardened bulge pressing firmly against your pussy lips was his, and not his fathers. But, oh fuck did his fathers cock feel so good, nestling itself between your plump folds. You just wanted him to fuck into you, right now. Your body wanted it more – it was evident in the way that your hips spasmed against him, trying their best to burrow this clothed bulge inside you.

“Whatcha doing, sweetheart? Tryna fuck me through my loincloth?” he chuckles, pushing back your legs until your knees brush against your flushed cheeks – exposing your glistening, soft pussy. “God. So fuckin’ pretty.” he swipes all four fingertips from your hole up to your clit, rubbing the bundle of nerves just right. “Hah. ‘m kinda jealous.” he admits, your heat heightening his territorial instincts.

Oddly, your body only seems to be growing hotter. It feels as if your skin is sizzling under his cool, sensual touches, making the tears stream down your face at a faster rate, “’s not enough... not enough... really – ugh! pleasee” you beg through a whine, not even knowing what for.

Jake knows. He knows exactly what you want – what you need. But he needs you to say the words first – to give him your permission to sink his cock inside you. And until you said those words, he’d continue to restrain himself from doing anything you didn’t outwardly beg for. He wraps your legs around his hips before wiping away your tears with his thumbs.

“Oh, sweetheart. No need for those. Tell daddy what you need. C’mon, use your words.” he huffs, his own hips moving on their own accord – grinding into the softness of your pussy.

“Need you.” you pant, tugging at the band of his loincloth.

“Need me where, baby girl?”

“Inside! Need y-you inside me!” you blurt out, frustration so thick in your chest.

He didn’t even have the willpower to respond to you, as he finds himself franticly slipping down his loincloth just enough for his painfully hard cock to spring out, his tip swiping between your pussy lips before slapping against his belly. Holding the base of his length, he lines himself up with your entrance.

“Our little secret, right?”

“Yes” you pant, pelvis shifting to desperately sink down onto his length.

“Oh, fuck. So fuckin’ tight.” he groans lowly, head slumping forward the second his tip kisses your cervix. The more your walls clench around him, the more his restraint dissipates. His hips begin to move on their own, sticky pelvises languidly smacking into one another. Eyes glancing up to yours, he notices the sheer desperation in your eyes and quickly picks up the pace – fucking into you like an animal.

Your filthy moans catch in your throat, mouth agape as your brows gather. He’s so big, bigger than Lo’ak, touching parts of you that have never been touched before. It’s what you’ve been wanting, no – needing, to be stuffed like this, filled to the brim that you could feel it in your stomach. He angles his hips, jamming his swollen tip right into your swelling g-spot. It heavenly – so blissful that you could already feel that coil in your abdomen twist so tightly it’ll snap in two once more.

He can feel it too, the tightening of his core – the swift approach of his own climax. He ruts into you faster, focus shifting from your pleasure to his. He’s so overcome by the influence of your heat that the only thing echoing in his mind is to breed you. He just wants to flood your insides with his hot seed so badly, to mark you as his. It’s silly really, he had Neytiri in his tent waiting for his arrival, yet here he was thinking about knocking up his son’s mate.

“Want me to cum inside you? Get you pregnant, my little secret?”  he pants heavily, thrusts becoming shorter yet deeper, and soon he’s grinding into your cunt, rubbing his pelvic bone against your clit.

“N-no, no. Don’t.” you mumble, yet your hips push back into his thrusts, trying to drill his cock into your womb so he could empty himself inside you.

“But your body is tellin’ me otherwise, baby girl.” he chuckles breathily, feeling your walls heat up around his cock. “You better cum before I do.” he huffs, giving your clit a single swipe – sending you over the edge. You gush all over his stomach, walls pulsating feverishly around his cock, doing their best to milk his seed into your womb as your body shudders underneath him.

You shake your head from side to side, haziness of your heat finally lifting from feeling so full. “Don’t c-cum in me, sir. Please” you hiccup, consciousness slipping away as he grinds into you.

“Jesus, fuck. You’re squeezin’ me just right. Gonna breed this little fucking pussy of yours. Make you mine.” he gives you a deep thrust, before barely pulling out of you in time to spill his warm seed all over your stomach. He rides out the last lap of his high in his hand as guttural, lengthy groans evade his lips. His head snaps up to see the sun’s rays shine through the cracks of the tent – Lo’ak would be here any minute.

He quickly fixes his loincloth before tying yours back around you. Going for a bucket of clean water and a cloth, he starts cleaning off your stomach. He tries to keep a straight face, pretending to cool you off with the cloth as he hears rustling behind him – the flap of the tent opening. He tries not the budge when he hears his son’s voice pierce the air.

“Thank you... for taking care of her, dad.” Lo’ak’s hushes his voice, realizing that you’re sleeping.  

“It was no problem at all, she was a good girl. Handled it very well.” Jake mutters, plopping the cloth back into the water as he stands up. “I’ll leave ya to it, son.” he pats Lo’ak’s shoulder as he walks past him.  

--

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[astroboots]

EYEM #13

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You meet another version of the man you love and finally find out why the Universe is trying to kill you.

Word count: 5,800

Warning: violence, pain hurt and angst. Be prepared.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

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Everything hurts. You don’t know where you are, you’re disorientated and queasy.

The first sight that greets you is the glow of scarlet eyes so piercing they cut through the blurriness of your vision.

They're familiar, but also different. Even though they’re identical to his, you know this is not your Miguel.

It takes you a while to make sense of your surroundings. Long moments for the nausea to dissipate enough that you can take in the dark moody blues of the space and recognize that you’re in the same sparse room as before.

Takes a few longer moments still before you register that your wrists and arms are restrained by strange threads made of an unknown material that glow up in an alarming neon red and you’re strung up and suspended in an intricate web from the ceiling.

You try to pull against your restraints, but it’s useless, your body won’t listen to you. You can’t even get your little finger to budge. You can’t fucking move.

“You’re alright,” The man who looks exactly like your Miguel says. “Try not to move. It’ll be better that way.”

You don’t listen to him, because why the hell would you. This is not your Miguel. You try again and pain sears through your muscles.

Shit! He bit you and now you’re paralyzed.

Panic races through your spine. You need to get out of this situation, now. Need to get out. Need to get to Miguel. Even if you can’t move, there has to be a solution somehow.

Lyla is meant to protect you right? She was built for that purpose. If you summon her then surely, “Ly–”

You can't get the second syllable out. Sharp pain stings inside your throat as you try to speak.

“Lyla’s not going to attack me," he says as if he can read your mind and knows what you were planning to do. "It’s a safety feature built in to make sure she doesn’t go rogue. The only time that gets overridden is if I’m a threat to your life."

Irritation crawls under your skin.

Fuck’s sake Lyla. Does this not count as a threat? Do fangs poised against your throat and taking a chomp out of you not qualify? The man bit and paralyzed you!

Despite two failed attempts, you try to move again, straining against the impossible heaviness of your numb limbs. Another jolt of pain shoots through your limbs as you do.

Miguel flinches at the sight of you as if there was an invisible thread connecting your body to his and he was able to feel every ounce of your pain.

His hand reaches up to cup your cheek to stop you.

“Don’t move,” he tells you again. “My toxins have paralyzed you and it will hurt you if you try to move. Stay still, nena. Please. You’re safe.”

If this was your Miguel, he would have been curt and snappy with you for being so stupid to move when it hurts. But this Miguel says it like a plea. Soft and gentle all at once.

His other hand comes to your collarbone, thumb gently wiping away the dried blood that’s pooled there. There’s an unreadable expression on his face as he stares at the dark stain of red on his fingers.

“This is the last time you’ll be hurt. You’re not going to die this time. I know how to fix this so you won’t die ever again."

Fix...it? What does he mean? Like make the universe stop trying to kill you for good?

You blink up at the man, unsure of what to make of his words. You don't trust this version of Miguel any further than you can throw him. The man knocked you out and tied you up...

But if he can fix it, even if the chance is small and far-fetched, what would be the harm in listening?

Your tongue is heavy and dry in your mouth and it feels like you’ve swallowed fistfuls of sand when you try to speak again. “Ho-how?”

“I just have to eliminate the root cause of why the Universe keeps trying to kill you.”

You prepare yourself for the pain that’s going to come again to ask him what he means. But luckily you don’t have to, this Miguel spares you of that.

“You’ve encountered another me in your dimension, right?” he asks.

You don’t answer him. But it doesn't seem to matter, because he already seems to have decided on the answer as he continues.

“It’s his fault,” he says with anger, his red eyes burn with an unnatural glow that sets your teeth on edge. “It’s his fault that this keeps happening to you. He’s the reason the universe keeps trying to kill you.”

No. No that’s not– You don’t know what he’s getting at. Don’t know what has happened to this version of Miguel that makes him believe this.

But you do know one thing. You don't need to listen to the rest of it to know. He is wrong.

Your Miguel has saved you. Protected you again and again. Put himself in harm’s way and nearly died to keep you safe. He would never hurt you.

“No,” you ignore the spasm of pain across your diaphragm as you speak. “He s-saved me.”

His mouth furls into a feral snarl, flashing the corner of his fangs. “You wouldn’t need to be saved if it wasn’t for him.”

“That’s not–”

“He’s an anomaly! Every Miguel O’Hara is!”

You blink up at him at loss for words. You don’t understand what he’s trying to tell you.

In front of you, this Miguel visibly grits his teeth, grinding down on his jaw, as he continues to speak in that low tone that simmers with fury.

“Humans are not meant to travel between dimensions. When I invented inter-dimensional travel, I violated that natural order without knowing it. Everyone I come across, everyone I saved, I’ve doomed, because that event was never supposed to take place.”

“You– you don’t know–”

He cuts you off before you can finish, “I’ve seen it!” he shouts. His hands curl into agitated fists at his sides. “After I lost you, I–I...”

He looks back at you and the words seem to die on his tongue.

As you hold his gaze you begin to see what you missed before. You were too focused on this Miguel’s anger to notice the grief pouring out of every inch of him.

“I lost myself,” he says, quieter now. “Lyla showed me a version of us in another dimension and it was the only thing that kept me going. We had a life together there. A daughter. You were happy there... Then that version of me died.”

He pauses again, lost in some memory that you are not a part of. Shame sinks into the hollowness of his sunken eyes and he looks away from you again.

“... And I replaced him. I thought it was harmless, that I was just replacing a version of me and the universe wouldn’t know any better. But I was wrong. He was never supposed to be in that dimension either. That whole universe collapsed because of me and our daughter and you died with it.”

Making a broad gesture through the empty air, amber light brightens up the space.

From behind him, a myriad of holographic screens flicker into existence, and you see images of yourself repeated and illuminated in all of them. You with pink hair. Another you with piercings. A you with tattoos and shaved cuts. Hundreds of variants of you wearing pieces of clothing that you’ve never owned. All of them, a different you, living their everyday life.

“Since then I’ve observed hundreds and thousands of versions of you in every dimension,” this Miguel tells you, as he gazes longingly at the screens that float above.

“All of them get to live full and healthy long lives. Do you know what every one of those versions of you have in common?”

He turns back towards you, closing the distance between you. “We never met. The reason you keep dying is because you meet me.”

His face is so close that a lock of his curl falls on your temple. Had this been your Miguel, you’d been tingling with warmth and excitement, now all you feel is a cold shiver.

“Every time we meet is because something I did inadvertently puts you in danger, and then I save you from it, starting the chain of events.”

Your mind flashes to that first moment you fell out of the Chrysler building. The blur of blue and red that came crashing into your life in pursuit of a villain and knocked you out of a skyscraper window.

“The universe is trying to erase your existence because of me. To try to correct the balance.”

Your face feels numb. Your mind is reeling from the revelation.

The question that you’ve had since this all began has finally been answered. Why this universe seemingly has it out for you. Why it has repeatedly tried to kill you. Why your world literally was about to end after you kissed him… It all makes a tragic sense now.

It’s because of Miguel.

You don’t know how long you remain frozen, crushed under the weight of the realization, before the sound of footfall joins the room, echoing in this empty space.

You hear him before you see him. Your Miguel. He calls your name and the familiar tone of it sends warm shivers through your spine.

Searching the space, your eyes land on his familiar silhouette in the dim light.

Miguel is struggling to walk, hunched over and limping forward despite his injuries. He looks so much smaller than what you are used to. There's blood dripping down his face and ugly red gashes ripping into his protective suit where one arm is clutching to the gaping raw wound.

Parting your mouth, you desperately try to warn him and scream that he needs to run. But the noise is garbled and choked. Nothing remotely close to a word comes out of your mouth. Even if it did, it wouldn’t have helped.

Miguel is too distracted by the sight of you. Too focused on reaching you that he barely registers the sight of his other self standing beside you, and then it’s too late.

It happens so fast, your eyes aren’t able to register it. One second his cosmic Doppelgänger is beside you. The next he is gone.

He leaps into the air with a ferocity that chills your bones. His claws slashes through the air and he pounces on Miguel with the entirety of his body weight.

Miguel doesn’t stand a chance. He’s already wounded and weakened. There’s been no time to heal. He’s still heavily bleeding from his abdomen and the bone-deep wounds where the damage meant for you had torn through him instead.

His body lands on the floor with a painful heavy thud. Even from this distance, you can hear the air rush out of his lungs with a pained and choked wheeze.

“Do you know what you have done?” His voice drips with venom as he fists his hand into Miguel’s hair, yanking his head upwards, level with his. “Why couldn’t you just have left her alone?”

Miguel snarls with an ugly grimace as he tries to wrangle himself free to no avail, pinned as he is on the ground. He meets the man’s stare without cowering even as he is unable to stand upright, wounded and bleeding out.

“The fuck are you on about?” Miguel spits out. He surges forward, ramming his forehead into the other man.

The blow of it sends the Doppelgänger reeling back. But it doesn’t last. He snarls in anger before he lunges forward, grabbing for Miguel’s head to slam it back down into the ground.

All you can do is helplessly watch the scene unfold before you.

“You still don’t get it do you?” he growls, raising his arm in the air to deliver another forceful blow.

There’s a nauseating bone-crushing sound that makes you sick to your stomach when his fist connects to Miguel’s jaw.

“You should never have gone to her world. You didn’t belong!”

He clasps around Miguel’s throat in a painfully hard hold, pinning him there against the ground.

Miguel’s tanned skin bleeds white around the dented imprints of that talon grip, cutting off blood circulation until you’re sure he can no longer breathe.

“She died because of you!”

The words make Miguel freeze. The whole of his back stiffening.

A fisted hand hammers down on Miguel’s face and you squeeze your eyes shut before you see it connect. All you hear behind your closed eyelids is a sickening crack that you know means something is broken.

Silence follows, and you barely dare to squint your eyes open, terrified of what you will see. Even though you’re bracing yourself, you’re still not prepared at the sight that greets you.

Miguel's body is slumped and motionless on the ground. The other him towers over his defeated form. There’s an eerie calm to his movements as he gets up and steps back.

On the ground, Miguel looks so much smaller than when he's lying in bed next to you under the covers and your heart beats painfully fast in your chest, unable to intervene.

The other man raises one leg above Miguel’s still form, poised like a sledge-hammer and holds there.

His foot comes down, delivering a shattering stomp that reverberates through the space. You swear you can feel the suspended webs holding you, shake and tremble against your skin from the after shock.

The air thins in your lungs. Hot, wet tears spill down your cheeks. For a long and dreadful second, you’re not sure if Miguel is still alive.

Then you hear a tiny, pained whimper, from the ground.

You don’t know what you feel anymore. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Relief. Everything inside you is drawn in a tight knot and aches at the pitiful sound of how much pain Miguel must be in. But there’s also the tiniest of hope, because as doomed as this all may seem, at the very least he’s still alive.

That's all you care about right now.

In front of you, his other self cocks his head to the side. He narrows his eyes as he looks down at the defenseless body on the ground with a disdain that you've never seen on those features before.

“You disrupted the canon when you jumped into her dimension. Do you understand?” he says with a quiet barely contained anger. “The universe keeps trying to kill her, because you, an anomaly, entered into the picture and altered the course of her life."

Something sharp protrudes from the back of his arms, as he speaks.

"But I can make it right," he says and you see the sharp long appendages extend from both sides of his upper arms.

You stare at them with a growing fear, as they grow sharp and menacing, into blades that glow ominously red.

No. Nononono.

This can't be happening. This can't be real.

You wrench against the restraints around your limbs and pain sears through every single cell of your body. But right now it doesn't matter. You have to move. Because you know what’s going to happen if you don’t.

"I can save her. If you die, she gets to live. All you need to do is stay down,” he says.

To your horror Miguel does. Miguel doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Doesn’t fight back. The tight tension in his muscles go slack, and his arms drop at his sides.

The most stubborn man in the universe has stopped fighting. He’s given up.

That man is going to kill Miguel. You can’t stay still and let it happen. You have to move. God, please please, you need to–

“I have to do this to keep her safe,” the Doppelgänger says, “You want that too. It’s all we ever wanted.”

Pain tears at the seams of your skin, sharp and fractured like broken shards and glass splitting through your skull until you’re sure you are going to vomit. You ignore it.

In front of you, he raises his arm above Miguel’s head until it looms over him like a reaper's scythe.

Ripping through the last of the hindrance holding you down, adrenaline and pain mix into a sickening concoction until you lose sense of your surroundings.

It's only a few feet away.

You can’t stop, even if it hurts. Can’t stop even though your vision flickers white with bright dotted spots. Can’t stop, because if you do– you’ll lose him.

You leap, throwing yourself in front of Miguel's slumped form on the floor.

Everything hurts. Pain sears through your insides, scraping every inch of our flesh. It burns and crackles in the marrow of your bones.

You spread your arms out in an attempt to make yourself bigger, trying to shield as much of your Miguel as you are physically capable of.

“Nena…” the man above stares down at you, wide-eyed and frozen.

He's stopped, the sharp blade protruding from his arm suspended inches from your face.

“Cielo! Move,” Miguel barks from under you.

“No!”

There’s no fear in this moment as you say the word. Even with the honed blade looming over your head. Even though all it’d take is one swift downward movement to end it all, you’ve never felt surer of your safety.

Because this close, you can see it now.

This other Miguel, different as he may be, is still Miguel. If there’s one thing you learnt in these last few months it's that more than anything, no matter how hard-headed and wrong he might go about it in his methods. This man will always choose your safety over everything else. Your survival. Your life.

That’s why Lyla still hasn’t overridden her safety protocol. Because your life is not in danger, not by his hands.

If he has to go through you to get to Miguel… He wouldn’t. You can tell that much.

And if your life is the only shield you have to offer the man you love, then you’d gladly lay it down under the guillotine.

“I won’t let you lay another finger on him,” you say as you stare up at the other Miguel defiantly. “Not as long as I’m alive.”

The man narrows his eyes, seething with an anger that radiates from every inch of his body as he spits out the syllables.

“He is killing you.”

His lips quiver, hands trembling as he looks down at you. You recognize that expression. It's the same one Miguel held when he was looming over you, vowing to eliminate the Avengers in order to protect you.

The same pain in his eyes, whenever he fears for your survival... because he's already lost you once.

That's what this is...

You see this for what it is now.

Despite the fact that he’s a stranger, in spite of all the differences, you see him for who he is. The anger, the blame on his own other self, on your Miguel. The haunting guilt he has towards himself.

When he says, ‘he,’ he's not just referring to the man behind you. He's talking about himself.

Kneeling upwards, you move towards this man, ignoring the burning pain that shudders through your trembling arms as you reach up to cup those all too familiar sharp cheeks. He flinches at the touch, as if he didn’t expect it.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know. You didn’t kill me,” you tell him.

His eyes widen and he turns his face the tiniest fraction into the palm of your hand, chasing after your touch.

“Maybe you and him are the reason the universe tries to kill me. But I’m still glad I was able to meet you."

At your words, you can see the determination in his eyes waver. The way something in him cracks open and falls apart at your words.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the words bleed with guilt. "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

“It's not your fault," you tell him again. "It’s okay, Miguel, I don't blame you. Even with all the near deaths and the end of the world, meeting you is the best thing that happened to me."

He’s not your Miguel. You know that. But despite everything that preceded this moment, your heart still hurts for this man.

All you know is that you want to make him feel better. You just want to make his hurt a little bit less painful.

“If it was my choice. If it were for me to decide. I would still want us to meet. I’m going to choose that every time. And I think that’s what she would’ve done too."

A glossy wetness shines over his scarlet eyes that threatens to spill and you ache for him.

Even if the man in front of you is not your Miguel. He’s still Miguel.

You will always recognize him, not in the identical physical features of his face. Not the stubborn angle of his ridiculously sharp jaw. Nor his obscenely large build.

No. It’s in the sadness of his eyes. The longing that he holds for you whenever he looks at you. The love you can plainly see there, no matter how hard he tries to hide it from you.

You are the woman he loves above all else. In every universe.

You can see that now.

“I think that’s what I’d always choose, Miguel. There are many versions of me but I know that every me will love every you in every universe if given the chance.”

His shoulders slump, the burning anger in him dims as his chest visibly deflates in front of you. Then he stands there, staring down at you with that aching defeat etched into the corners of his weary eyes.

“If I let you go,” he starts, voice so quiet it almost sounds like a whisper. “Where would you go from here?”

You stop to consider his question.

If you leave here with Miguel, your life as you know it is never going to be the same.

The comforts of your everyday life in New York will be lost. No more Netflix, or fancy lemony cupcakes, or the barista that knows your order before you open your mouth.

You will never know what your life will look like from one day to the next. What the world itself is going to be, jumping from one foreign universe to another. That should be terrifying to you.

But somehow it isn't.

What's scary is the thought of going back to the life you had without Miguel there. The life that was so painfully mundane and ordinary that you had no moments of importance worth remembering seconds before falling to your death. The life you spent that was trapped in the machinery of habit, without a speck of color and excitement in your life.

As confusing and downright scary every day has been since you met him, you’ve never felt more alive. Never felt safer than when Miguel is by your side. You wouldn't give it up for anything.

In your mind, there’s only one choice you want to make.

“I am going to leave my dimension with him,” you say. “The world won't have to end and we’d be together.”

He shakes his head, disbelieving. Those sad eyes, still pinned on yours.

“No matter where you run to, it would start up all over again," he says, biting down on his bottom lip with worry. "The universe will eventually try to erase you because it thinks you're an anomaly. That would be the rest of your life, running from dimension to dimension.”

He throws a look behind you where Miguel is lying on the ground, the disdain and anger coming to life again, before he continues. “If he dies, if I kill him, then that connection is severed, you could go back to your normal life.”

You turn behind to look at your Miguel. He has an expression on his face that mirrors his other self. One of defeat and sadness and disbelief.

“I don’t want that. I don’t want a life he’s not a part of.” You turn back to the other him, squarely meeting his eyes. “Please.”

Other Miguel looks like his world is ending as he looks at you. For the longest moment he doesn't say anything, and you aren't sure what his answer is going to be or what he is going to do. If he's going to hold you here against your will and kill Miguel despite your pleas.

Then he drops his gaze to the floor and you can see that he’s holding back tears.

“Go,” he whispers.

He steps back from you, retreating step by step to widen the physical distance between yourself and him, and turns away with his back towards you.

You immediately scramble towards your Miguel, arms reaching for him. It’s not graceful, your limbs still hurt and your movements are clumsy. But you try to ignore it so you can loop Miguel’s arm over your shoulder and try to haul him up on his feet.

Predictably, Miguel is already starting to protest and scold you, “Cielo, you can’t–”

“Not now, Miguel,” you cut him off, and for once he listens.

His mouth presses into a firm line as he strains to stand upright, trying not to lean on you for support to get up, but failing to do so, leg buckling under his own weight.

Your hand shoots out around his waist to hold him steady, the slick blood from his wounds painting your fingers a bright red. You swallow down the worry, prioritizing getting away above all else for now.

“Let’s go,” you tell him, and he gives you a curt, almost compliant nod as the two of you move together with clumsy steps and rely on each other for support.

Behind you, the other Miguel is still standing turned away from you. You stare at his wide back as you walk away.

With each step that broadness looks smaller and smaller in the distance. The lonely and grief-struck silhouette of another version of the man that you love, that so clearly loves you, disappears out of sight as you leave him behind.

Miguel is quiet. He won’t look you in the eye as both of you try to hobble your way to the corridor you had landed in when you first came to this dimension.

It takes you both an eternity. It's nothing short of a miracle Miguel is still alive and even though the toxin is wearing off in your system, you still feel sore. Every muscle in your body is cramping, worse than any time of the month you’ve had to endure so far in your life.

You gain an entirely new appreciation of what Wong must’ve gone through and if there is a way to send interdimensional gift baskets, you remind yourself you should get one for him as an apology.

“This should be safe enough,” Miguel tells you as you reach the secluded space.

You both slump down to the ground, catching your breath with your backs leaning against the wall behind to hold you upright.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, which is a silly question for a man that probably has at least half a dozen broken ribs, internal bleeding, and a fractured jaw from the looks of it.

Despite all those bodily injuries though, Miguel is acting unbothered.

“Yeah, give me a minute and I’ll get us out of here.”

He wastes no time as he reaches over for your wrist and fiddles with the dials on your watch,

A hologram appears above, but there’s no sighting of Lyla. He hasn’t summoned her and as far as you can see it’s all just gibberish coding that he’s inputting. You have no idea what he’s doing but if you had to take a guess, it looks like he’s manually inserting the programming of the next jump to ensure it’s the right location this time.

He’s quiet and concentrated like always, eyebrows furrowed, as he works. Then out of nowhere, without looking up from what he’s doing, he speaks.

“What do you want to do once you get out of here?”

"Sleep,” is your immediate answer and Miguel laughs quietly at that as you continue. “Recover, just... rest, for a while, I guess"

"Sounds nice.” He shuts down the illuminated screen, presumably already done.

Then he’s quiet for a long moment, just sitting there next to you.

“...and after that?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“I guess since I’m going to be traveling different dimensions now for the rest of my life, I’d want to go to all the cool places? Like one where there’s talking raccoons. Or a dimension where we all have sausages for fingers, or one where all life forms are rock based.”

He pays close attention to you, face resting in the palm of his hand, as you tell him of these made up otherworldly dimensions.

“If we happen to jump into another dimension that’s similar to my old one I wouldn’t turn down Beyoncé tickets, provided Lyla could get them or we could just have her hack into restaurant booking systems and get us into all the exclusive places.”

There’s a small smile on his face as you speak, and your chest feels warm at the sight of it. Somehow after the day you have had, barely escaping the end of the world, going through an assassination attempt by the Avengers, being ambushed by another version of Miguel, you both made it through.

That tiny smile of his feels like a prize at the finishing line.

You slide your fingers across the space between you, until you find his knuckles, interlacing his fingers with yours.

"Anything would be okay, really. As long as I get to be with you," you tell him.

His smile turns wistful, as he nods back at you, squeezing your fingers back between his. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

There’s a lingering moment that you share in the comfortable silence. It’s unlike him. The Miguel you know would have wanted to make the jump five minutes ago, but you figure he must be tired.

He’s been shot at, thrown off buildings and beaten half to death by his own Doppelgänger today. He’s more than earned a minute or two of rest.

His head tips up staring into the moody blue ceiling above. “I love you,” he says.

It’s sudden and a bit out of nowhere but your face tingles. Warmth fills your chest until there's so much of it you're not sure you can contain it inside you. Then he continues.

“If there was any doubt. I love you, this you. Even if I find you to be absolutely batshit insane sometimes.”

You can’t help the silly grin tugging at your lips. The dopey feeling that buzzes bright in your veins. You feel slightly lightheaded and you aren’t sure if it’s a side effect of the toxins or just his words.

“Miguel, I lov–” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I know,” he says, turning his gaze to you, as he squeezes your hand gently in his. “You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just stay here for a while. Just like this.”

He doesn’t say anything after that.

The two of you stay like that in the moody darkness, his thumb smoothing over the front of your hand in soothing motions, as he looks down at you like he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of you. It’s a while longer still, before finally Miguel seems ready. He takes your hand that he’s holding and brings it close.

“Lyla,” he summons. “Take us to the next location.”

At the command, there's a bright burst of strobed colored lights surrounding you. It’s blinding your vision as it throws you into motion even as you’re sitting still.

Then before you know it they fade into a bright sterile whiteness. You wait for your surroundings to reform. To see a skyline and buildings and city lights.

But there’s nothing.

“Wait, where are we?” you ask.

Everything is blank and white and endless here. Empty space as far as the eye can see. Dread seizes you. You’re in the void again.

Why are you here?

How… Is the watch broken? Did the two of you fail? But it worked before. You shouldn’t be here, how–fuck, your vision starts to flatten. The ground underneath you is unsteady. Everything blurs. You can’t breathe.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Miguel says, taking your hand in his as he squeezes down. “I sent us here.”

He says it so casually, your brain doesn't quite register the meaning. What does he mean he sent you here? On purpose, why would he–

“What do you mean? I don’t understand, Miguel, why would you–”

He hushes you soothingly. One hand comes to cup the back of your head, stopping you mid-sentence. “You’re not going to stay here. We’re just doing a drop off.”

“Miguel, what–”

He leans down, forehead pressing intimately against yours, there’s a sad smile on his face as he meets your eyes. They’re soft and gentle, and your chest squeezes painfully tight just looking at him.

“I already told you, didn't I?” he tells you, both hands coming to cup your cheeks. “I’m not going to let you die.”

Without missing a beat, he’s already moving on before you even have a chance to retort.

“Lyla,” he calls, and you hear the ping from your wrist. Can feel the slight vibration as the hologram takes form. “Run the updated protocol."

There’s a bright glow that forms all around you. Bright light crackles at the edges of your vision and there’s a delayed reaction in your brain as you try to process everything that’s happening around you.

He lets you go, taking a step back. “I love you, Cielito. I will always love you.”

Shit! He wouldn’t. Why?

“Take her home for me,” he orders.

You step forward trying to grab hold of him but it’s already too late. Your fingers grasp for him, but it sinks into nothingness, Miguel is already gone and so are you.

You find yourself inside a small studio apartment.

There’s no one besides you.

There’s a sole window sill where the view of New York City is entirely obscured by the neighboring building and its ugly brick wall. Not an inch of the skyline is visible.

You’re surrounded by clutter and second hand furniture that is all too familiar. A cheap IKEA Ingatorp dining table. Laundry still piled up on the bed. Dirty dishes stacked up in a tower over the sink.

You know this place.

You’re home.

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To my favorite moose @thirstworldproblemss. Thank you as always for listen to my insane ramblings and machinations, even though you literally do not even go here.

To @guruan who I have been dying to share this chapter with for so long! Thank you for all the amazing art, thank you for your help looking through dialogues to make sure the Spanish used reads right. Thank you for crying about this man with me.

And last but not least big hug loves and smooches to @djarinsbeskar who gave this a second pair of eyes in the eleventh minute when I was freaking out about the copious use of Doppelganger, her advice was invaluable to me and without her I probably would've put this on ice over the weekend. Please send her all the loves! cause she is amazing and beautiful and gorgeous. Also do you know that she has her DEBUT NOVEL SENSUAL SUMMONING coming out soon? please check it out and sign up to her newsletter.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse #marvel mcu #marvel #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #spiderverse fanfiction

[chaosfae-writes]

𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

premise: a crowded marriage of three, a suffocating marital bed, and one must go — and it’s the meddling husband.

pairings: Alicent Hightower x Targaryen!woc!reader, Targaryen!woc!reader x Vaemond Velaryon (arranged)

ao3 // 15k words

warnings: birth/labor, wlw romance, infidelity, jealously, arranged marriage, misogynistic Westerosi views.

a/n: for my Alicent, my little meow meow. Alicent really said, “look at me, look at me, I’m the husband now.” prepare yourselves, it’s long, please take your time.

do not repost my works.

The birthing bed is a woman’s battlefield.

Choppy breaths of agony, quivering and irate as a wounded animal. Squelching wet noises mildly echo, the scent of copper is nauseating —- the terrain of your neck is damp with sweat. Nostrils flaring, baring teeth as a snarling dragoness.

White hot fire licks along your uterine walls, sore pelvis aches as if it’s cracking, bloodied thighs shaking, chest heaving, throat parched and dry as unforgiving Dornish sand, and the Queen’s tender fingers interwoven with yours.

Alicent’s knuckles baring white, milky fingers clutching tamarind tart fingers as in one fist. She’s perched on her knees behind you, as your spine laid against her bodice hanging off a chair; not caring that blood has now stained her dress — embroidered emerald fabric now adorned with murky brown stains.

It’s been a few hours into the long night, guttural groans rip through your throat, stings as if shards of glass live there —- by now the entire realm of King’s Landing has heard your wails. Trembling teeth, mouth wet with tears and sweat.

Your dizzied skull falls defeatedly upon the crock of Alicent’s neck; sweetly she lays her cheek on your temple. Alicent is a mess, heaving and panting from the stress.

She’s on her knees ungracefully, her thick midnight auburn hair in messy tresses, no longer does she don the regal guise of a queen, but as a soldier in war.

Murmuring under her breath, pleading to the Gods for you and the child to survive the labor -— the ichor that slowly trickles and seeps from the cave of your womb terrifies her as it pools and stains down your thighs.

Prayers recited as hymns, as chants, pleas to the Gods for your life. You have been a life-line to Alicent, been her anchor at each of her births —- throughout her entire life. And she too, will be by your side.

As your hands shook in pain, entering into the new world of motherhood, Alicent witnesses it as not your step-mother, but as your entrusted companion—- as lovers, with ease, she assimilate to the role of husband, as if it’s her babe too who is struggling to breathe life into the new world.

“Push, princess! Its crown is near!”

Throat nearly torn, you muster the strength to push, a high-pitched scream pierces through; a wounded animal using all her strength to bring her unborn cub to the world. A babe’s cry comes as a crackle of thunder, an unforgiving war cry — the fight is won! What a shrill, fiery dragon unfurling its wings.

Relieved gasps, your abdomen a tad bit lighter, but still a little swollen flesh. The umbilical cord still connected, the connection still strong.

“A daughter, princess!”

Exhausted cheers as the baby is swathed in a blanket, sore fingers out-stretch for her. You sob in relief, face wrinkling with a wavering smile, as Alicent kisses your cheek, inches away to your lips. The maidens say nothing over the gesture, too overjoyed — it’s all too familiar. It has been for years.

Clumps of blood clots rest upon Valyrian pale tufts of hair, you cradle the delicate neck of your snuffling babe, your baby’s little chubby fingers curl mindlessly in the air. The babe’s spine lay on the flesh of your thighs, sinking into yourself on the bed.

Doe violet eyes blink, and stare at you, curious and innocent. Alicent is truly over-joyed, her sore shaky fingers reaching for the newborn’s cheek. “Hello there, we’ve been expecting you.” Gently your thumb caress your daughter’s cheek. Alicent’s stroke the ends of your daughter’s hair —- pale as fresh snow.

“What name shall you bestow her, Princess?”

A beat of silence, you smile as a name rings in your mind. “Alysanne, beautiful Alysanne. Named after our late good queen.” A joyous moment, all basking at new life— maidens, the mother, the mother queen all awe at little Alysanne, her arms wiggling in mid-air.

All glee at new life.

All but a missing husband.

-

The journey from Driftmark to King’s Landing was a blur. It took two days by ship for the return. His trip back home was cut short by the caw of a raven.

‘Ser Vaemond, come with haste to King’s Landing, as the princess is in labor.’

Vaemond tiressly demands for the chariot rider to speed up his horses on the kingsroad, all under the blanket of the night sky —- with the letter still in his grasp, wrinkled.

Anxiously clicking his heels against the wood, scoffing furiously at himself for ever leaving. Bouncing in his seat, his back hunched.

His fingernails digging into the velvet stitching of his cushion, his teeth seeping out, as if he hisses in anxiety.

The Red Keep towering into the night-sky, stars twinkle and shine; the driver couldn’t utter a word, clumsily Vaemond shifts to the door.

His feet bolts out the luxurious carriage, dashing up the castle’s stairways, knees bowing inward, nearly slipping onto his face. The palace slumbers with only few sworn shields roaming on duty, and the many more counting roaming in the streets down below in Flea Bottom.

All move in the presence of Vaemond, clearing the path for him. His feet twisting, and twirling upward the grand stairway, his sweaty palms gripping the railing.

His wife’s chambers are not too far, inching closer and closer by footfall. His heart beats as a wild war drum against his chest, so many thoughts swim in his mind—— what does his child look like? Is it a daughter or a son?

Hurried steps softly echo, closer and closer now to the chambers. The hallway seems as a stretched maze, mocking him as if he could never reach his end.

With a flick of his wrist, the golden knobs are tugged, and yet it’s silent.

The shared quarters glow in dark ambience. The scent of incense is faint. Vaemond straightens his wrinkled cloth, and takes a step closer.

The silence breaks.

A bitter scoff, more as a bite, “By the Gods, he has arrived. What husband doesn’t even accompany the birth of his first born?” Alicent sits across from the bed, posture now rigid.

Her fingers curl near her chin, as in deep thought. The low crackles of flames illuminate her face, wickedly cold as stone. The marigold hue casts upon Alicent’s face —- ever so strikingly benevolent.

Vaemond’s nose flares, cheeks puffing up, walking on edge, inches more closer to Alicent now, his tongue ready to lash out.

“I’m quite baffled, your Grace — from how high you reign on that horse of yours, it’s a miracle from the Gods that you haven’t fallen yet.”

“She was nearly at the Stranger’s door.” Alicent nearly shouts in a hush — bolting from her chair with a dull screech, and the clicks of her heels -— maintaining her volume to make sure she doesn’t awaken you; peeking over her shoulder.

Not even a stir from Alysanne and yourself, a soft smile adorns Alicent’s face. But as quickly as it came, it quickly went, muffled footsteps grating Alicent’s senses, coming closer behind her.

“I arrived as soon as I —-” His hurried footsteps halted clumsily, the crackle of the flames echoing piercing the silence.

There he sees it.

The splotches of blood that splatters across the green flourish, Alicent’s mouth is pursed, her eyes calculating and cold. Staring him down with such distaste, her lips twist as if to spit poison, with a hint of a curled smirk.

And he sees it all, he sees her spite.

Alicent never changed into clean nightwear, but remained in the soiled dress, wearing the stains of your blood that slipped from your warm womb —- proudly so. Just moments after your birth, you nearly slipped away to the Stranger, too much ichor spilled.

Despite edging on death, you drowsily clung Alysanne against your damp breast —- if you were to draw your last breath, at least, your little girl was the last touch you felt before departing from this realm.

The sight of your body succumbing to unconsciousness nearly sent Alicent’s soul to the heavens, she felt as if she could crawl out of her skin; your bodice crumbling back into her chest.

The handmaidens quickly grabbed your crying little girl, one of them dashing to fetch the maesters —— all the while amidst the chaos, Alicent’s cradles you, her hand stroking your jaw, pleading for you to awaken. Nearly shrilling on the top of her lungs.

For the last two days, Alicent had been by your bedside, hawking over the maesters —- no woman can trust the maesters, the very ones who cut through the belly of the late queen.

Maesters only follow the word of their king—- but for you, Alicent ensured all the hand-maidens and maesters listened to her strict commands as knights on a battlefield.

She snarked, and nipped, scaring all of them away and even your devoted maidens who were reluctant to leave you —- to the point of herself solely attending to you as your care-giver, as Ser Criston Cole guards the chamber doors outside dutifully.

For sparse moments Criston would leave his post, and see Alysanne. The moment his rich brown eyes fell upon the sight of Alysanne in your arms, he swore to the Gods that he will protect her till his last breath.

Alicent served you the milk of the poppy by hand. Cradling Alysanne when you were in deep slumber, and when you would awaken, in and out of consciousness, Alicent would softly help bare your breast for Alysanne to feed.

Alicent would gently cuddle your baby in your exhausted arms, guiding little Alysanne’s plump cheek against yours, both heads on the pillow.

Alicent wants him to bear witness -— for him to see that even as your husband, that mere title means nothing, it never held true value, nor never will.

How boldly she is—- impudent even. Raised to be modest, to uphold duty, it’s never been in Alicent’s nature to be cruel, but something has changed in her over the years.

Perhaps it’s the manipulative lessons from her father, the loneliness that iced her heart to become this unhinged cornered animal.

That’s who Alicent is now — cold and hardened as an uncut emerald gem.

Another knot formed these past fortnights, tighter in the tether of your two souls, it’s her who gets to see the scars, to bear your blood.

A badge of honor.

No marital vow can diminish this bond.

“Your Grace, it’s quite late. I must retire for the night, to tend to my wife.” The formalities bundle in Vaemond’s mouth as pit seeds, biting his tongue from lashing out.

He sees it, the condescension that vibrates off of Alicent, pursuing her lips in deep thought. Alicent hums with a tone, sneering at him with just her eyes, but as a drop of a coin, her mood shifts in such trained manners.

“Of course, Ser Vaemond.” She turns her back to him, walking to your sleeping body, bending over to gently kiss your forehead, and little Alysanne’s forehead.

“Oh— please do make sure to provide her with the milk of poppy in the morrow.” Alicent doesn’t look him in the eye, as if doing so is tedious, that he is beneath her.

“She still aches. Here,” Alicent points strictly at a bowl that rests nearby on a table, “rag soaking in warm water, she runs a little chill. As well, do make sure not to ale her as she feeds Alysanne by her breast.”

‘Alysanne? By the Gods, he has been blessed with a girl! The babe has been named?’

Vaemond swallows his confusion and surprise, awaiting for Alicent to leave his chambers—- although, if he could, he would throw her out the door himself. She tells him what to do, as if instructing a child, that he couldn’t merely comprehend basic tasks to take care of his wife.

From the corner of her eye, Alicent senses Vaemond’s shame. Shame for missing the birth of his child, his first daughter —- more so, rage, and she feeds off of it like a starved animal.

“Goodnight.” Alicent’s hand gestures to Vaemond dimessively over the shoulder, quietly shutting the door shut. Vaemond stands rooted in the middle of his chambers, his fists coiling by his sides—- he mutters under his breath, cunt.

Alone now, Vaemond steps close to the bed. Both Alysanne and yourself undisturbed, deep in slumber. The babe tucked in your arms, cozy under the thick blanket.

Vaemond’s hand shakes over your cheek, stroking a damp strand of your hair. Breathing frustration through his nose, his knuckles graze the cheek of his newborn child.

His anger simmers, he missed it—- the birth of his first daughter.

-

“Prince Lucerys has been officially declared the heir to Driftmark— how absurd.”

House Velaryon has been blessed by the Realm’s Delight fertility once more, a new babe, a new heir. The silver beauty birthed yet another boy with rich brown hair, and dark brown eyes. A gleeful time for House Targaryen … and a grievance upon the queen. A son, healthy — and strong.

It has been three days now since the birth of Alysanne Velaryon, not yet presented to the realm; your inistience of wanting Rhaenyra and Daemon’s presence in the royal court.

Despite your uncle living in far Pentos, and your sister residing on the island of Dragonstone with Laenor, and her children —- just for a bit, due to tensions arising once again between the queen and the heir.

Before Rhaenyra’s departure, she had just been in labor, delivering her second child. You were hoping that sending ravens detailing the new birth of your firstborn would help bring your favored loved ones back home, and bask in unison over new life.

Cooked platters sliced pheasant, steamed vegetables, bread, and gallots of wine. But even the sweet tang of wine cannot tame the sour disgust that weighs on Alicent’s tongue. A hovering presence looms across the table, ever so snide, ever so thinking. A selfish void that will devour any in its path.

Across from Alicent is her father.

At times, Alicent would have her private dinners with Otto, when even his affections are twisted, and against Alicent’s well-being, she still seeks his love, and advice. Despite the filth he has taught her, what child doesn’t crave their father’s love?

“The disrespect that Rhaenyra harbors for her own kin, parades her bastard son as a true born.” Alicent scoffs, leans back in her chair, her cuppee resting in her palm, her nose scrunches in distaste.

“Corlys has his daughter wedded to Daemon, and his son —” Alicent titters a bitter chuckle, “A pillow-biter claiming bastards as his own. Corlys’ claim no longer upholds.”

Alicent doesn’t stop her bitter poison, and her father relishes in it, seated across his daughter with a small proud smirk. Her fueling rage will guide her to uspur Rhaenyra, for her son to ascend the throne. How proud he is, as his daughter falls deeper into her spite.

“Alysanne is true blood, she deserves her inheritance in Driftmark.” Alicent impatiently takes a gulp from her wine, the sweet tang trickles down her throat, but it doesn’t quell the brewing venom.

“Rhaenyra claims to care for her younger sister, the gall of it all.” Alicent doesn’t stop, she can’t, she has to release this anger, even in her quiet solitude with a man whose tenderness only reaches so far.

Blinding affection has Alicent turning her perspectives away from her obvious hypocrisies, but no taught honor or ideals in her mind can truly touch you.

Otto Hightower sees women in power as a preposterous notion, a sin against the order — women cannot provide value to the natural law; only if aided by a man.

Otto prides himself on the molding he persisted upon his daughter over the years, a Hightower as Queen of all seven kingdoms —- the last Hightower to rule, fell to her demise to Maegor the Cruel. And he vows to never let that fate fall upon his only daughter.

Indeed, Otto has his strict opinions but —- even he has his exception; under his benefit. He has admire your tenacity since you were a little child, bright-eyed and naive once.

Yet intelligent, claiming that you wanted to do good for the people as princess, despite your inheritance being knocked down behind your siblings.

He can see you are a woman grown, determined and ambitious, making plans as the new lady of Driftmark to contribute for the land to prosper; just perfect for his molding.

Otto can perhaps reach his hand into the political dynamics of Driftmark through you, carefully craft your black and red dragon scales to a lovely shade of emerald.

“Vaemond is a proud man, too proud —- but, a better fitted heir for Driftmark. Corlys is weak, he cares more about names than honoring heritance.” Otto cuts into his meal, the warm pork melting in the cave of his mouth.

“If Vaemond were to become the new Lord of the Tides,” Otto clicks his tongue, “Alysanne will be named his heir.” His tone lingers, a hint is thrown in the air; calculating his thoughts.

Alicent hums in agreement, her mind twisting in her murky thoughts. Nodding along, hell-bent, her motives aren't as ambitious as her father. Her belief is solely molded by you, but that this is what’s best for you, for Alysanne.

‘Alysanne must become the new heir of Driftmark. Tis only fair.’

The silent tension breaks.

“She will soon expect her sister to return.” Alicent mutters in her wine, her fingers unlock, as she gazes down at her porcelain plate, her finger tapping against the silver engraving.

“And her uncle.” Otto speaks in a hush.

It’s no hidden secret, the rogue second son harbors deep affection for his younger niece. Most of your childhood was spent on dragon back with your uncle, and older sister—- your uncle is a rather protective creature.

When Daemon departed on dragon’s back to the far Pentos with Lady Laena, he hugged you tightly the day he left. You sobbed for long days, alone in your chambers, aware that you won’t see your favored uncle and cousin for a time.

But exile is no more than a word to Daemon.

Often leaving Pentos with his wife, and children, gallancing around the court with Rhaenyra and her children, as Viserys allows it.

And that worries Otto.

To have your alliance, he must first go through the turmoil with Daemon, and Rhaenyra. To convince you to forfeit your loyalty, in favor of your youngest siblings.

The seven hells can freeze over in frost-bite, and you still won't turn your back against the menace of a prince. Prince Daemon will rip through the realm with the flames of Caraxes before he lets his niece support the Hightowers.

“Marriage.” Otto perks up, his finger tapping against the table. His tone is ominous, and yet it leaves a heavy weight in the air. “You have given birth to Aemond moons ago,” Otto’s eyebrow raises, goading his daughter’s reaction, with a knowing nod, “—- and one day, he will be in need of a bride.”

Alicent’s eyes are moon-wide, but with a silver of agreement, she’s tittering on the idea. “Aemond will learn under our wing, be wed to Alysanne —- perhaps, the fresh air of the sea is healthy for a boy.” Alicent’s lips curl into a devious smirk.

Hightower blood on the Iron Throne, on the seat of Driftmark——how marvelous.

“Indeed.” Otto’s pride gleams into a wolfish grin.

-

Devotion.

All Alicent has ever been in her life is devoted. A devoted daughter, a devoted wife, a devoted mother, and a devoted queen. But alas, in all of King’s Landing, no one truly took Alicent’s side, despite her efforts to maintain peace. To engrave her voice within the council.

At first, before she grew as a child bride, and a babe herself who bore children; she thought perhaps her father was her aide, since Rhaenyra shunned her the moment King Viserys announced the engagement — but he is not, he never was.

But despite the sorrow her father gifted her in this life, she still harbors love for him.

But no, never her father.

Is there still peace from Rhaenyra? No — Rhaenyra doesn’t see Alicent, and Alicent doesn’t see her, it’s as if they speak different languages.

Perhaps the king?

No, never her husband, who never showed affection for his younger children — in his heart, he has only one child.

No, never the king.

The court shall see to her efforts?

No, the lords would rather entertain themselves with the king’s sickly rambles and her father’s greediness than to solely hear a woman’s thoughts and ideas.

Only through her father as her mouth-piece, would the court take her efforts into consideration. At birth, Alicent was a woman marked for sorrow. A loneliness so deep, simple kindness would send a jolt.

A young Alicent would pray and pray to the Gods for a love she can hold onto every night — just herself. Selfishly would cling to her heart, stuff and sew it herself.

For a while, Rhaenyra band-aided the wound, but it wasn’t enough. Rhaenyra was once a true friend, and Alicent would sometimes catch herself missing those lost years in the quiet of her solitude.

Especially when she holds the ripped piece of paper from the historical text of the late Queen Nymeria.

But it wasn’t Rhaenyra, it was never her.

It was you.

Tamarind tart skin that shines under the sun, silver pale hair that curls at the shoulders, violet eyes and plump cheeks. Velaryon and Targaryen descent, inheriting your late mother’s complexion, and the aquiline nose you share with your older sister.

So pretty, with your braids interwoven with your waves of silver. Wispy lavender, and red dresses, and gem rings that adorn your fingers. Such a peculiar creature, so dainty, yet fierce—- digging your heels as a young girl in the training grounds.

Alicent used to watch your private lessons in the training grounds with your uncle, and or with Ser Harwin from time to time. Or rest under the trees’ shade, as you practiced your archery in the gardens, much to your septa’s dismay.

A deep friendship blossomed, years spent reading under the hovering weirwood, late conversations as young girls, attending tourneys, and even inviting Alicent to your chambers, to sleep in one’s embrace.

A beautiful bond—- soon challenged by a beast.

Your mother had passed, taken by the Stranger, just as the late Queen Aemma had many moons ago; died in labor, trying to birth a son into the realm.

A piece of yourself died with her, a void that could never be filled. Late fortnights, wailing at the sept, head bowed, pleading to the Mother for mercy, whispered prayers for her to carry your mother safely to the heavens.

Consoled by Rhaenyra, and Alicent, as you all kneeled at the fire pit. Your forehead connected to your arms, wailing, as Alicent’s and Rhaenyra’s heads rested on your shoulders. Your sobs echoing against the sept’s walls.

The faint memory of copper still lingered in your nostrils, to see your mother’s lifeless body coated in her own ichor—- dry-heaved and wailed over her.

It took all the maidens and maesters to pry you off of her.

It was the king’s duty to wed, and bring heirs, you knew he had to marry again. Word spread among the court, advising with much encouragement for Viserys to remarry—- not all were enthralled at the prospect of a girl crowned heir for all the realm.

And the beast conquered as he pleased, just as his ancestors.

The day came, months after your mother departed from this realm. And you can recall the day vividly, the pang to your heart still fresh.

The day Viserys announced that he will take Alicent as his new bride, she can still remember your solemn face, quickly blinking away tears, smiling through the restraining pain —- how you dashed as fast as light after Rhaenyra who couldn’t bear to stomach the anger within herself.

Alicent can still feel the empty ache, witnessing you flee away in what she mistook as disgust, rage, and heartbreak. Pacing through the keep, trying to follow your trail, as a puppy galloping after a scent. Trembling fingers cling to the engraved walls, balancing herself.

Faded voices loomed from the heart of the gardens. Under the Weirwood tree, two pale silver heads now barking at one another, crying. Pacing after one another, hands flying in the air—- trying to understand this grievance.

Rhaenyra sobbing, angry tears stained her flushed pale cheeks, as you tried to soothe her down. Alicent hid behind a pillar, picking at her cuticles.

It felt the garden soil unearthed itself, caving inside —- ready to swallow you. Collapsed onto your knees, your mind buzzing. Sniffling, as your fingernails fully scratched at your skin.

Timid footfalls echoed nearby, slowly your eyes peeked through your wet lashes. Before you, Alicent walked to you, her auburn hair haloed by the sunlight.

Kneeling before you, her lip quivered, her hands fearfully hovered over yours. Afraid that you might reject her, but you took hers into your hands wholeheartedly.

“I don’t desire him. My intentions were not for pleasure.” Alicent spoke in whispers, heavy with sorrow. “My father sent me to his chambers, I —” Alicent’s breathed quickened, as if her cavity was tightening.

“I simply gave comfort for his loss.”

You believed her immediately, for months, Alicent had been aiding you through your grief over your late mother. All Alicent ever does is tends to anyone in need.

You embraced her in your arms, shushing her, apologies slipping from her. Shaded by the Weirwood tree, consoling each other.

Duty had to be upheld, autonomy isn’t a woman’s right. Resentment coiled itself as eels—- loathing the very man who is your father.

Father Time felt rushed yet the atmosphere felt slowed—- the preparations to integrate House Hightower into the royal reign was tedious and buzzing, causing you to spiral.

Days and nights spent weeping in your bed, hugging Alicent tight. Time blurred. Ceasing down to the atoms, time was not your companion. You didn’t have the space to breathe —- one blink, and the day of the wedding ceremony came bursting violently.

Dressed Alicent in her ivory wedding gown, accompanied by Rhaenyra—- but you possessively took over, fixating on her hair pieces, and tying the spinal laces.

An ivory dress, with gold threading of dragons against her chest, her brown hair pinned in curls, with a creamy red jeweled crown. Cleaned her bloodied fingers with a warm rag.

As you leaned against Alicent’s spine, brown fingers clinging to her shoulders, your cheek resting against the crock of her neck. Her face glowing with a dew from fresh dried tears.

You whispered in the shell of her ear, “In another life, blessed by the Gods, I shall take you, Lady Hightower as thy wife. Under the Weirwood tree, wed you in Valyrian tradition.” A tear escaped your eye, staining her skin.

Alicent sniffled, droplets falling down her milky cheeks, onto her lips.

“We shall wear marital crowns as our ancestral women before us.” You sniffled through a weak smile, under your puffy eyes. “I shall wear green, to honor your house.” You whispered.

“And I shall wear shades of red and black.” Alicent whispered back, nearly sputtering through her tears. Her chin wobbled.

A marital ceremony, a splendor to the realm, but a horror. A malevolent man, tightly his hand gripped your love, Otto Hightower walked his child to her death, with a proud smile.

Rhaenyra wore lavish black with intricate threads of crimson red, hair pinned into a jeweled headpiece—- truly a delight. A reminder of her inheritance, no matter of your father’s new marriage. In her own terms, it was her way of grieving.

But not a grief that rivals yours.

The High Sept blessed the union, with a shaky gesture of his ailing hand, reciting the scriptures of the Faith, as Alicent stood in a pure innocence—- sold for the price of power.

Recoiled underneath your skin, at the sight of Viserys’ hands engulfed over Alicent’s. Leaned inwards for a kiss, his chapped lips nearing those familiar pink lips you have tasted—- sweet, and tender.

Alicent’s brown eyes filtered slightly, twitching with disgust.

Screaming internally, as the claws of the Seven hell’s demons scratching raw at your throat, fists tightened shielded by your fabrics.

That’s not how she likes to be kissed! Don’t hold her, not as that! Be gentle with her! STOP DEFILING HER!

A kiss to seal this matrimony hailed from the seven hells.

Rhaenyra and yourself bowed dutifully, stiffly and rigid; before your father— the king, and his new wife, the new Queen of Westeros—- your new step-mother, your love.

Slurred and drowned in wine, engorged in feast to only vomit over a balcony —- throughout the night, Alicent’s eyes broke at the sight of your head bobbing tipsily, eyes closing one slowly after the other.

Dizzyingly watched the acidic chewed food stained in burgundy spirits fall along the palace wall.

A dainty hand stroked your back, pulled you into a warm embrace. Rhaenyra tended to you, caressing the slope of your spine, as you wailed over the balcony.

You couldn’t bear to prolong your presence during the wedding feast, Rhaenyra guided you to your chambers that night. Helped clean you, and shed you of your gown into your sleeping wear.

The cushioning of your bed sunk you into a hard sleep, as your sister tucked you under massive blankets.

Awoken that fortnight, by a slight shake of the shoulder, a heavy grogginess pulling you down as rocks in one’s pockets.

Blurry vision cleared, strained a bit in the dark, to see a sniffling figure by your bed’s edge. Those big brown eyes—— gleaming wet. A gasp left you, without a second, you enveloped her into your arms, as Alicent bursted into wails. Her cries pierced your heart.

Your hands stroked her back, guiding her into your blankets, as your fingers caressed her, you felt sticky wetness, causing Alicent to whine.

Your hand shook, in the gleam of the moonlight, crimson stained your fingertips. Tears showered your face, mouth shivering, as Alicent cried, muffled words into the crook of your shoulder, “It hurts.”

Your mouth agaped in silent agony, both arms encased Alicent, cooed her. Rocked Alicent to sleep that night till her weeping quite down to silence —- you vowed in the dead of night, that you will do your duty, you will honor Alicent; do right by her.

Stood by her, and kept her company —- and plotted. Your father will not have the oath of being Alicent’s husband, it felt wrong.

Built the courage to go against taught beliefs, over moons—- until one day, you lured Alicent to the gardens, with a soft note left in her chambers.

‘Meet me by the noon hour, in the gardens.’

Waddled down to the gardens, carrying her first born, Alicent found you pacing, burning a hole in the grass. A soft mutter, my dearest. Alicent’s fingers stroked the jut of your elbow, she didn’t enjoy seeing you overwhelmed with stress.

With a deep inhale, and wild wide eyes, only a few words could be muttered.

“Let us be wedded.”

A disbelieving chuckle escaped Alicent, but by the glimmer of your eyes, it was nothing short of a joke. Alicent’s face drained, with a teary wavering smile.

Slow nodded, and a hasty smile, Alicent accepted the proposal.

A warm day it was, the sun beamed upon King’s Landing—- a little white lie to escape the palace, to seek refuge.

Accompanied by a sole witness, your beloved Grey Ghost—- as he flew majestically upon the sky; as Alicent and yourself rode on one of those long boat to Dragonstone.

Silver steel, ichor staining bottom lips, and the slope of your foreheads connecting. A caress of Alicent’s swollen bump.

United in blood, as one.

Devoted —- all your life, you have only been to Alicent. Loyally by her side, despite the growing pains between Alicent and your sister; trying to be the voice of reason.

Alicent’s grief suffocated her, a girl enduring a woman’s sorrow. Being Alicent’s shadow in each of her births, defending her against all odds.

Cherish and care for her children —- your siblings —- as your own. Cared for your brothers and sister more than your father ever did.

A child bride who everyone said should be grateful to be queen of all seven realms—- not given grace to be seen as a girl, not even a woman, but a mere object.

Only one did. You are her companion, the only one who desires her body wholesomely, who yearns for her mind. You plague her thoughts all through the hours, at night, and in her sleep.

Itching possessiveness tingles at Alicent’s fingers, flooding her veins. How she yearns to box you in a jar, and gaze upon you, a beautiful treasure that no one can have.

Unimaginable acts she will do—- just to keep you.

-

Dearest sister,

New life has been welcomed to the realm, a babe with ripe cheeks, and a soul kicking as a goat. Beautiful bronze skin, and pale Valyrian hair.

A girl, by the Gods, she is magnificent!

I yearn for you and uncle to be home — I dearly miss all the children, how they would love the babe. Her name is Alysanne, named by our great-grandmother, the good mother.

Please return home. I pray to the Gods that the animosity will soon be seen to end. We are family, by blood and marriage.

Love you dearly, sweet sister.

May the Gods be with you, and the children.

A letter freshly written, ready to be sent to Dragonstone by raven. Given to Alicent by you, praying deep down that one day the broken bond between Alicent and your sister would be mended.

Tirelessly over the years, attempts to cease Alicent’s emotional humiliation upon your sister, weaponizing the crude word ‘bastard’ against your nephews.

Continuously in-between Alicent and your sister, being forced to choose who’s side to be in. Nearly straining your relationship with Alicent at one point of time.

Alicent’s lips purse into a scowl, crudely folding the letter once more, instead of packaging the letter for the awaiting raven, Alicent simply stashes it within her library.

Rhaenyra doesn’t get to savor the joy of your motherly glow, she doesn’t deserve to see Alysanne. To pretend to be the doting aunt. Not after snatching away Alysanne and your future, the blatant disregard of loyalty, usurping Driftmark.

Alicent will not see to such treason.

-

Sunlight twinkles, and illuminates the king’s chambers. A warm day, the sun swelling with joy.

Sweet hands pat Viserys’ chest, arising him from his slumber. He awakes with a small cough. His eyes blink open, to see his wife kneeling before him.

Viserys sighs with a small smile, with a whisper of Alicent’s name.

“Viserys,” Alicent’s kindly whispers your name to gain his attention. Tenderly her hands reach for the joints of his elbows, guiding him to sit up right from his rest. “She and the baby have recovered.”

A soft cough followed by a relieved chuckle emits from Viserys, now with the will to move on his accord despite his ailing pain.

For a while now, the sickness has bestowed more ache on the king. The milk of the poppy and the maesters hovering over his well-being has become more of the normal routine.

Alicent points to the wooden chamber doors, there you stand with little Alysanne clutched in your arms. Viserys’ lips stretch into a wide smile.

You are a vision of your late mother. With your hair brushed back into a braided crown, as waves cascade down your spine, with various woven braids decorated with little gold ringlets, with a gold chain across your forehead.

A pant of guilt and endearment blooms in his chest.

“My sweet girl.” He outstretches his arm, beckoning for you to come sit beside him.

An odd jolt of happiness is in your step, taking a spot next to your father, Alicent assists you to make sure Alysanne doesn’t fall from Viserys’ weak grip.

For once, in such a long time, you felt seen by Viserys. For once, you are not the spare.

“Father, her name is Alysanne.” You softly cradle the sleepy babe in your father’s arm, a toothy smile stretches his face, his cheeks plump with joy.

“By the Gods, she is beautiful.” He strokes her little cheek with his thumb, her little chubby fingers grab his index finger. Viserys glees with a laugh, “We must fetch a dragon’s egg for her cradle.”

A joyous occasion, as Alysanne is held by her grand sire. Viserys coos at her little sleepy mumbles. A lovely family unit, a mother, a grandfather, a step-mother and a step-grandmother —-- a lover.

All but a husband.

-

Awoke the morrow with a sleeping wife, and child—- went on his morning walk for his own time.

Returned to an empty chamber.

Vaemond walks with a stride, such speed to his step along the pathway to the king’s chambers. As he nears the doubled wooden doors, a hand halts him at his chest that is followed by the clink of armor.

With a heavy breath of annoyance, Vaemond doesn’t have to turn his face to see who has the nerve to stop a father from his child’s presence. The sworn shield, the queen’s loyal dog.

“Ser Criston, my wife is in the chambers with my child. You dare stop me?”

“The queen has instructed that no one enters.” Smugly Criston stands digiantly with a snide smirk, the implication is snarky, and bold — ‘and that means you’.

‘Pitiful and pathetic.’ Vaemond mulls, his lip twitching.

“I do wonder…” Vaemond tilts his head mockingly, back-peddling his steps, calculating his next move. Criston arches his brow.

“I’ve always forethought the queen leashed your head as her pet, but now I truly see, I mistook the wrong one.” Vaemond’s eyes trail for a second —- Criston’s face scrunches in offense.

A chorus of spewed shouting and pushing ensues. Shoving each other, declaring for the other to throw the first blow.

Even before the marriage, when it was simply courting—- the decision of marriage being made by Viserys upon your behalf, Alicent was always near in the shadows.

Putting her thoughts on how the ceremony should commence, only letting you decide what you want—- even going so far as to suggest to Viserys to end the bethroyal that ‘there are more suited men for her hand. Ser Vaemond is only a second son, what is there that he can offer her?’

The courting phase was always interrupted with Alicent stringing along. Vaemond would try to isolate you, converse with you, sweet-talk you —- but never once asked you of your interests, only boosted himself, and what he can provide.

And to Vaemond’s displeasure, Alicent would whisk you away at any given moment, hushed whispers among each other, and girlish laughter; with a sly eye over her shoulder at him.

Vaemond admits he didn’t fall in love for the sake of romance as those fairytales that young maidens read. He was the peruser, convincing Viserys for your hand, that ‘pure valyrian blood must be in union.’ You are his cousin. A cousin he barely saw over the years, but enough encounters to be familiar with one another.

It offended Vaemond greatly when Alicent rebuffed him, stating it was unfair to you to not have the choice to choose your betrothed, like Rhaenyra once had. Alicent was furious, her face scrunched in fury.

“It seems that our grace has forgotten that Princess Rhaenyra was bestowed the choice —- do you recall how she squandered it?”

Alicent’s lips pinched shut, turning to Viserys, hoping he would consider her decision. But Viserys’ allowed this, claiming that it is best that his second born be close by, not married off to another foreign house —- in a far away land.

Alicent has been a thorn in Vaemond’s rib, she made it her life’s purpose to torment him. Never could he be alone with you during the time that bridged between the proposal and wedding ceremony.

Vaemond was surprised Alicent didn’t sneak in their marital bed the fortnight of the ceremony. But she took full control anyways —- and Viserys let it happen every time.

Now, he sees another ploy of Alicent’s. To isolate him as a husband, and now as a father. He cannot even present his own child to the king as a man, the pride and honor of such an act stolen. Alicent has pilfered this opportunity right from under his feet.

To add salt to the wound, her sworn hound is restricting him from entrance.

“Vaemond?” Your muffled voice beckons for him through the door, he tries to inch closer but Criston doesn’t relent his intrusive hold, earning a growl from Vaemond.

“Vaemond, that you?” Footsteps closer behind the chamber doors, the latch clicks, with just a sliver of a crack the door opens.

“Vaemond, why all the shouting?”

“Ser Criston refuses to let a father enter.” Vaemond interrupts, pacing from heel to heel, agitated to the brim. Chest puffing, trying to intimate Criston.

You breathe a sigh of frustration, furrowing brows in disheartened dismay —- your gentle arm curls around the edge of the doorway, delicate fingers with the gentlest touch on Criston’s armored shoulder.

“Ser Criston, please let him enter.” The knight’s hardened features soften at your request, no longer bristling with entitlement, bowing his head, and finally steps aside, with a sweet-honeyed, ‘As you wish, princess’.

You sweetly thank him, and extend your hand to grab Vaemond, pulling him inside to partake in the joyous celebration. As Vaemond walked through the chamber doors, an exchange of distaste was thrown through dagger glares.

Alicent’s eyes sharply pierced his heart, if looks can kill, Vaemond would drop dead on the spot —- preferably with his heart cut out.

Alicent sits perched with Alysanne in her arms, swathed in an emerald blanket, as you provide your father his milk of the poppy; his joints were aching, and needed to rest back on his chair.

Alicent’s fingers caress his child’s little toes, purposefully her knuckles graze the stitched fabric—- peeking up at Vaemond subtly through her lashes.

Green cloth?

On his child?

On pure Valyrian blood?

Vaemond nearly wretches in his mouth. He notices your dress is a light shade of evergreen. A dragon brooch on each shoulder that ensembles a gold chain across your chest.

Green? Have you gone mad, woman?

Orchestrated performance, the movement, the positions —- you tending to your father, as the dutiful daughter, the wife and now newly mother. Viserys, the illustrious king, the father, the grandfather, weak but strong, overlooking the new life of his bloodline—- and her.

Alicent held little Alysanne, observing it all with a proud smile.

As if Alicent is the husband.

And Vaemond is merely a stranger trespassing.

Alicent’s eyes, methodical and smug. Vaemond sees it, he sees it all. He’s dying inside to snatch his child away from Alicent, but who knows—- Alicent would probably fall prey to the act of victim, cry to her husband that she has been wrongfully accused —- of what exactly?

Vaemond doesn’t have any evidence to his brewing resentment.

What can he say? The Queen has been trying to meddle in his marriage for the last two years? That she won’t let him near his own babe? That she has to be everywhere with his own wife?

Every soul in court will say how crude he’s being, that it’s all nonsense, merely preposterous.

‘The Queen is a good woman.’ The court will proclaim, ‘That she’s only performing her duty as the princess’ mother.’

‘She is no mother to you.’ Vaemond thinks. ‘Not even you can see through Alicent’s games.’

“Ser Vaemond, bless be. Sired me a beautiful granddaughter.” Visery sits as a jolly aging man, hair thinning to the point of some of his dome visible, and even a little pot belly protruding through his embroidered fabric.

Vaemond smiles, “Thank you, Viserys.”

“Truly, she’s beautiful.” A voice stabs Vaemond, swallowing down his loathing with a strained tight-lip smile.

Alicent is gazing down at Alysanne, rocking her against her breast, “She has her mother’s beauty.” Her tone is innocent, a demure smile to Viserys, and he falls for it, nodding along.

‘Fool. She plays you for a fool, Viserys.’

Vaemond walks to you, with the same forced thinned smile. His fingers reach for your long thick hair, caressing the curls, kissing your cheek.

No doubt in his mind, he can sense Alicent’s irate, and for a moment, it delights him.

-

‘Alas, the charade has ceased.’

Vaemond feels lighter, finally getting solace between himself and you. Time to part from Viserys and Alicent, Vaemond desires to eat a morning meal with you. To break fast together with Alysanne in her cradle, gurgling happily.

Recovery from birth has left you famished, craving for a hearty meal.

Departing from Alicent gave a shiver up your skin, it felt wrong to be away, she has been so attentive during the labor, and the after birth. Always holding Alysanne, as if she was Alicent’s blood.

Alicent hesitantly restrained herself, as Vaemond took control like the reins of a horse. Alicent wanted him to leave, to befall in the pits of the seven hells, so she can have Alysanne and you to her own.

But, an outburst couldn’t be made.

Ser Criston swiftly dashed to your aid, his arm jutted out for you to hold on to—- conveniently occupying the space that was meant for your husband. But at least, Vaemond was able to hold his child in his arms back in Viserys' chambers.

Trailing behind Vaemond and yourself is your handmaiden, Elinda Massey—- who is also your sister’s handmaiden. You summoned her to help you, still a bit achy at your step.

A mousey, loyal, and gentle woman. In her arms is Alysanne, letting your daughter’s small chubby hand grab at her slender creamy fingers.

Vaemond walks behind you as if a lonesome man, a mere man trailing behind a princess, and her sworn shield, watching you and Criston laugh and converse—- excluding him is your second nature.

The dining chambers are filled with platters of food—- the extended polished wood covered with meats, eggs and fruits.

See Criston bows, taking his post at the door, his darkened gaze shadowed by a brow.

“At last, we are alone.” Vaemond’s hand holds yours, his thumb stroking your fingers. Crawling with disgust within yourself, forcing a genuine smile to appease him.

“I have missed you.” Vaemond leans in, speaking against your cheek, his warm breath nearly making your skin recoil in a shrivel.

“And I, you.” You spoke in a formal, practiced infliction.

Vaemond’s lips connect to the skin of your cheek, daringly near the corner of your mouth. In times to display marital affection, to keep from shriveling away, you close your eyes, and a vision of Alicent soothes your mind.

Whenever you were to ‘perform’ your bedding duty as his wife, you lay limply on your back as a spread eagle, and imagine Alicent ravaging your body—- as she has done many times. Years now of this affair, suppressed away in the dead of night, hidden behind closed chambers with only whispers.

Edina cradles Alysanne close to her chest, prepping your little dragon for her slumber.

Vaemond pulls a chair for you, “This food looks divine.” He says, his hands caressing down your shoulders. An innocent smile forms on Edina’s face. “Queen Alicent has ordered the feast.” Her tone was gentle.

Vaemond chews the soft wall of his cheek, but wrinkles his mouth to a feigned smile. Nodding with a sardonic scrunch of his nose.

Edina breathes a smile, her eyes in your direction, “The Queen has also extended an invitation, the children desire to see little Alysanne.” She speaks, with adoration in her eyes on Alysanne.

Before you can speak, Vaemond interrupts. “Ah, yes, the king’s children shall see their niece,” He boasts. “We’ll present Alysanne after our fast.” Vaemond turns swiftly in his seat, almost lifting his fork, but your hand-maiden stammers.

“The Queen has not requested your presence, Ser Vaemond.” Edina’s voice lowers to an anxious stammer.

Vaemond’s mouth wrinkles, limbs frozen stiff. He slowly turns with a sharp shark eye. “I am their brother by law.” He says matter-of-factly. His eyes narrow a little, small and spiteful.

“Yes, of course, Ser Vaemond—-” she’s flushed with embarrassment, you nod your head that it’s okay, she hasn’t spoken out of turn. “But, Queen Alicent has only requested our Princess, and Lady Alysanne.”

Vaemond brews in silence, his eyes pierce and burn into the void. His breathing became heavier. Anxiously with a brave face, you instruct Edina to take Alysanne to your quarters, and give her your thanks for the delivery of the news.

Edina whisk away with Alysanne, patting her little bottom, exiting the shared room, leaving behind Vaemond, yourself and the cooked food that now grows cold.

A pregnant pause earns a tired eye roll from you, you can feel the vibrating stewing.

“When will this madness end?” Vaemond speaks, staring into his porcelain plate. You turn your eyes to him, your mouth hitches up for a moment in confusion, “What do you mean, Vaemond?”

His eyes look upon you desperately, “Alicent…” He says, shaking his head in disbelief, “She always meddles. She is a thorn upon me.”

Vaemond’s fingers grip the cloth of his stitched clothing, his fist poking at his chest. You roll your eyes in annoyance, a placid sigh, just hoping he can drop this.

“Do not speak of her in such a manner.” You spread through gritted teeth. “Alicent does not bear any ill will.” Your resonance is firm, no budging can waver it.

Your fingers curl in a gesture for him to stop. Jaw clenching, opening your napkin, just wanting to eat, and move away from this useless conversation.

“She prides herself as if she carries the cock!”

“Vaemond!”

“It is true!” He points at you with such fury, his eyes blood-shot red, “I cannot even hold my own blood without Alicent hovering!” Vaemond nips, his hands shaking, thrashing in the air.

You shush him again, his rising voice grating your ears. “Alicent is good, and kind. I do wish you could be respectful—-” Vaemond’s scoff interrupts you. Your face contorts with offense.

Vaemond’s face softens, furrowing in desperation.

“If you carry any love for me, you will distance us from Alicent.” Vaemond pleads, his hands clasping over yours, his voice irks you, it’s so pathetic.

“Tell her to go, flee from our presence.” Closing your eyes, your face resolving to an exhausted state, you shook your head in defiance, not even daring to look into his gaze, restraining to wretch your hands away.

“I will not.” Your voice is low, and firm, with your dead shark eyes. It’s been like this for the last two years, Vaemond complaining about Alicent, and as usual, your response defies his wishes.

“I understand Alicent was your childhood companion, but—-” Vaemond tries to ease the burdensome tension.

“Is. She is, Vaemond.”

He hums with annoyance, head nearly falling in exasperation, “Do you love me?” Vaemond asks in disbelief, questioning your faithfulness.

He leans back, offended and forlorn that he must ask such a question. You shake your head, with a sympathetic strained smile, “I care for you.” Patting his hand, a gesture often used to calm whining children.

“My wife does not harbor love for her husband?” He speaks through his teeth, wrenching his hand away from your touch.

A scoff escapes your lips, inhaling deeply, with a harsh swallow. Why must he make matters so difficult?

“This is an arranged marriage, marital vows spoken for the sake of allyship between our two houses. I care for you, Ser Vaemond, but I do not love you.”

“You love another?”

”No.” You spoke too quickly.

A pregnant pause.

Vaemond’s anger dissolves, fading to a blank stare, his breathing becomes shallow. His burning stare earns an uncomfortable shiver, uneasy in your own seat.

Jagged puzzle pieces twisting, slowly forming together —- all the times of Alicent’s shadow lingering. Whenever he dares utter a mention of Alicent, all you do is brush him off, as if he was the mere nuisance.

“You do.” He speaks in a hush, bolting to his feet, he huffs under his breath, such a petulant child. Stepping back a few steps, sneering.

As if the pieces finally shape and move, the thought pushes through the crevices of his mind. A deadpan chuckle scuffs from his mouth, his eyes just staring into you.

“The Gods made man and woman….” Vaemond trails off, unflinching, boring into you. No, no, no… your throat clenches in a swallow. Your brows compress into what seems as hurt and confusion, but truly it is fear.

“A man and woman shall share thou bed, and—” Vaemond’s eyes widens, motioning you to finish the well-practiced verse.

“And?” He prodes, he tilts his head, clicks his tongue. Your face morphs to silent anger, staring up at him with lavender daggers, breathing harder now.

“You are well taught of this verse. Have you forgotten your teachings?” Vaemond mocks you. Your glare at him through your lashes, your nose flaring into a snarl, muttering a spiteful whisper.

“One shall not lie with the same sex.”

Vaemond nods mockingly, his eyes never leaving yours. Muttering under his breath, “ Yes, yes. ”

Violet optics stare with fury.

A screech of a chair follows.

Vaemond begins chanting, spewing zealot verses, as a delirious septon. Pacing back and forth, hands twirling into the air.

“A sin against the Gods!”

A crack of a slap echos, so hard his face is swacked to his side, his mouth pouted. The sting of your rings vibrates against his cheek. Vaemond stares at you in disbelief, but your spine straightens, what once was gentility in your eyes, is now just disgust.

“I am your wife.” Your throat tightens, unable to swallow down the tears. No tears wasted on your husband —- no, never. Tears for that the truth could bleed out, such a scandal it could be!

The Princess and the Queen in a twisted love affair—- the shame it would bring to the names Targaryen, and Hightower.

“And you will respect me as such.” You spoke with an edge, with a firm finality. You whisk away from him, Vaemond believing that this was the end to the conversation.

The rough edge of the wooden table digs into the heels of your hands roughly. Tinkering your body back and forth by the grip, yearning to scream. Throat burning raw, splintering.

But the longing inside of you is violent, changeling. To vomit the ache that has been brewing —- Vaemond’s foot has been tinkling the pot, and now it has spilled.

You just want him to understand —- that a young girl to be married to her cousin, a cousin she has no grown affection for, to be ripped from her autonomy, to have hidden her true love secretly—- that this isn’t what a girl should be subjected to.

Your fists bang against the dining table, stinging the wound tight flesh. Twirling so fast, it startles Vaemond in a flinch.

“I have only been dutiful, sacrificed my body… for you. ” Your voice in a hoarse whisper. Peering at him over your shoulder, nearing a sob. Dutiful not in the traditional sense, but you have defended him, even when you couldn’t stand the man.

“I am a second born, but I am a princess, no less. My title is your prize.” Heavily restraining your breathing, the sorrow transforming into anger.

“I am merely a token for your status. A pawn for the purity of your bloodline.” Speaking through tears, frustration from your wounded core spewing. “Yet, I have not begrudged you, nor humiliated you.”

Vaemond flinches back, his pride stomped on under your pretty foot. Grinding the heel into the splatter.

“I have done what was expected of me!” You shrill, your breathing becoming haggard, “And here you stand, demanding me to throw away the only companion I have!”

“You have me, darling.” Vaemond’s faux sweet tone does nothing but disgust you.

“You’re more like my father than I thought.” Your nose recoils in shame. That left a sour twang on your tongue. “I had no say in this— this —” you’re stammering, dry-heaving as tears collide down your cheeks, but the fury is boiling over.

Murmuring under your breath, ‘I didn’t want this. I didn’t desire you.’ Vaemond huffs a breath, stepping closer, his presence suffocating.

Vaemond goads you, ‘say it, say it!’ Nearly hovering over you, his nose inches away from yours, but the blood of the dragon that soars through you snips back against the weak feeble sea snake.

“—- THIS MISERABLE CHARADE OF A MARRIAGE!”

Both of your voices shrill higher, mangling over each other in volume, alarmingly. Vaemond screams that he is your husband, to obey his word as law, but you follow no man. Vaemond corners you into the wooden table, trying to scare you, but you bark right back at him.

The roaring echos so badly, it may have reached all through King’s Landing.

Criston barges inside the chambers, the carved doors nearly thrashing against the wall pavement. Bolting towards Vaemond, thrashing him by the jut of his arm, standing in-front of you as a shield.

Vaemond shrills, “How dare you lay your hands on me?!” Criston seethes his sword, the sharp steel’s reflection blinking at Vaemond, catching his eyes within the reflection.

“I will not permit insults upon her grace.” Criston’s teeth are grinding, he hissed through his clenching ivories.

“No offense has been made, Criston.”

Criston’s face peeks over his steel shoulder, you assure him with a smile. “I am quite alright, thank you.” The warmth in your eyes melt to cold ire regarding Vaemond.

“My husband lost himself briefly, I assure he will refrain himself from a spectacle.” Cold, dead violet eyes blink at him, Vaemond hums with disbelief.

Criston lowers his sword, swiftly into its leather sheath. His rich brown eyes never leave Vaemond, as he walks back to his post.

The doors shut.

The silence hangs tightly.

“Vaemond, I don’t desire an argum—” You sigh, turning around on your heels, but your words die in a gasp, his hand grabs your jugular, a weak attempt of intimidation by a small man.

Vaemond’s fingers clutches the terrain of your throat, pulling you into him by his grip. A startle overwhelms you. Your fingers hovering over his wrist, gripping onto him. Offense melts into mockery.

A small laugh leaves you, tittering at Vaemond. Snide eyes blankly stare at him, daring for him to continue. Embarrassment floods him, releasing your throat.

“Such affections will not be tolerated.” Vaemond hisses, his face morphing between stoic and hostile. His ego is bruised and bitten off at the edges.

“Will it? ” A soft insulting chuckle emits from your lips, your face cold yet devilish. “Who will believe such tales?” You breathe another chuckle, more harsher now, your lavender eyes leering at him.

“My father will never believe such fabrications . His dear wife, and his daughter—”

“Soiling each other. ” Vaemond’s voice grats, and gruff, his voice looms low. You shake your head in disbelief, your pale curls bouncing against your cheekbones.

A sick, derisive smile, “You will become ill with your unfounded paranoia.” Coyly your hand plays with his cloth that rests at his shoulders.

“Why do you insist on such vile lies?” You ask him, your hand rests upon his shoulder. Caressing his shoulder through his luxurious vest.

“By the Gods, Vaemond—- why can’t you see that Alicent means no harm?”

The shells of Vaemond’s ears burn, his voice cracks into a groan, he refuses to submit to your ‘seduction of sweetness’ . Twirling his body in a circular pacing —- as if he was possessed by unholy madness. Your feet peddle backwards, rather smug at his insolence.

Vaemond turns his body, composing himself.

“We will leave for Driftmark.” Vaemond’s index finger menacingly pointed at you. “By the morrow.”

His hand strikes the air with every word he utters, “That is my word. ” And another, “ That is my law. ” Vaemond spins in haste, his heels clicking against the marbling with vigor.

You watch him depart and disappear, your head held high indignantly, but as he disappears through the chamber doors, you nearly collapse to your knees.

Your fingers fidgety and twirling the gold bands of your jeweled rings, clutching your belly —- your torso nearly hunching over from the rush of anger, and fright. Your belly is trembling.

The familiar emerald gem resting on your marital finger, fiddling your fingers against each other. You kiss it to ground yourself.

Criston waltz back inside your chambers with an irate gait.

“Princess, are you alright?”

You nod hastily, clearing your throat, already hoarse from the screaming. “Yes, I am quite fine.” You hesitantly move back and forth, feet bobbing from toe to heel, not sure if you want to sit for a moment or run to get Alysanne.

Criston steadies you, before you fumble to pieces from the overwhelming stress. He guides you by the joints of your elbows, seating you down on the velvet dining chair.

Criston’s admiration bleeds profusely. A rarity these days to acquire a male companion, who doesn’t yearn for your womanhood, but seeks out your mind—- and approval.

Criston mounts Alicent and yourself on a pedestal akin to those carved idols in the sept. A peculiar affection, Criston seeks to mold himself to be worthy in your eyes. As a pleading mortal prays to the Mother.

Beyond his rich brown eyes, he sees a being holy. A girl, who accompanied Alicent, saved him from the edge of his own sword, from the filth of his sins.

Your sworn shield since you were a young girl. A bond built on the fragments of trust, and pain.

“Does he often yell at you?” Criston asks. His eyes shadowed under his dark brow. Big brown oculus glistening with newfound frustration.

Your mouth gaps open, trying to find the words, but Criston is bristling as the hairs of a cat’s spine. “He dares abuse you?”

An airy inhale catches your throat, as tears sheen your eyes. “Abuse, that word weighs too heavy—- he’s an entitled man, who believes a woman should kneel in obedience.” Shaking your head, with a forlorn smile.

“In all the Targaryen bloodline, has there ever been a mousy woman?” You giggle, shoulders shaking. “He prides himself as a conqueror.” A boisterous laugh escapes Criston.

“A conqueror? Barely a knight.” Criston speaks cruelly, a mean smirk curling at his lip. “In the battle field, his armor is polished.”

A moment as this, a wife should display shame to discuss her husband with disdain, but Vaemond is not a man. Your hand was forced to wed a spoiled brat—- your father has no qualms on arranged marriages.

-

The Red Keep has many secrets. A plethora of hidden away chambers —- fit for two people. Alicent’s chambers were your favored choice of solace.

Alicent entrusted you with her secrets, and her fears, as you have done as well.

Her fingertips graze against your skin, tracing softly against the curve of your wrist, to the underside of your palm. Stroking the healed scar, the very one Alicent gave you many moons ago.

Just two bodies lying together, in bliss. The warmth of the fire pit and body heat encases you both. Flesh dew and scented from a shared bath of oils and soaps.

It wasn’t always so pleasant through the early years of shared girlhood. The guilt, the shame of harboring such affection for a woman. There isn’t a word in the western tongue for this affection.

There were days as young girls, Alicent would lock herself away, reading over verses, deep in prayer. As you spent hours with septas reciting prayers in unison, under the cloth of your dress, pinching and scratching the flesh of your thighs till splotches of deep purple formed.

Alicent mutilating her fingernails, gnawing or pinching away the redden cuticles.

Many suns and moons passed in the early days, but the love kept growing. The perpetual denial, the discreet glances, the graze of fingers tantalizingly touching—-ever so close, ever so far. How lost you become in Alicent’s moon-brown eyes.

The guilt was far too great, keeping distance between each other, but the ties thread only stretched painfully. A desperate longing, a raw human feeling.

Harbored tenderness finally exploded, blinding tears, and dashing feet carried you through the corridors of the sept, one day. There, as a holy vision, Alicent knelt in prayer, crying silently.

Clicks of hast feet alerted her, turning her watery gaze over her shoulder, as her fingers rested interlocked. A lost little babe under the towering marbling of The Mother.

This separation was a death sentence, vile and cruel. No longer, could you stay away, you needed her touch. And she did too for yours.

Without a word, you collapse to your feet before her, as you would in worship. Kneeling against her green silks, sniffling as your head falls against her thighs, her gnawed fingers wove themselves within your pale tresses.

‘Why did the Gods sew my heart to you?’

Alicent’s lips peppered kisses on your scalp, sniffling as her hands clung onto your back, cradling you. Rocking you back and forth, a rhythmic cradling, as a mother would.

If you were born a son, perhaps life wouldn’t be so cruel, so unfair.

Haunted by then the guilt of loving one another when your father took Alicent as his new bride. By the eyes of law, Alicent is your step-mother, but she never was, nor ever will.

The rings you both bear, is a reminder that your union isn’t recognized by the law of man, but the law of the Gods. Biting down on your bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth as a child, you couldn’t bear to stomach today’s charade.

“He suspects.”

Alicent’s head rises from your shoulder, confusion and fear creeping into her brown eyes. Her brows pinch, her fingers stroking the silk of your nightgown.

“Your father?” She asks in a whisper, so hushed as if scared anyone could hear beyond the walls.

“Vaemond.”

“How?” Alicent shakes her head, her beautiful face morphed with concern.

“As we were breaking our fast, he threw a fit, that your invitation didn’t extend to him.” You wearily laugh, “He went mad, raving on about how you seek to keep me from him.” Alicent sits up, her hand sinking into the mattress, darkness enveloping her eyes.

“Did he strike you?”

“No, thank the Gods. Criston came to my aid,” You wipe the tears that spill over your eyes by the back of your hand, “If he were to strike me, I would’ve gutted Vaemond as a fish.”

Alicent became quiet. “It worries me, so.” She says. Her thumb flicks against a cuticle. Quickly, you cease the harm, engulfing her hand in yours.

“My love, please.” You whisper, tapping her fingers gently. A sweet whisper stops Alicent’s assault.

“He will not have us seperated.” Alicent swallows, her face shrivels, the mere images of you being whisked away —- as she would be left behind to drown in this loneliness.

Shaking her head, speaking through wet inhales, “The Gods answered my prayers as a child,” Alicent’s head fell in a bow, her forehead connected to your knuckles, “I will see to it that you shall stay.” Alicent spoke through her tears, muttering now as a prayer, you must stay.

Rocking back and forth, hunched over as she would be in deep prayer—- stripped raw for you to see.

Alicent holds your inner wrist, kissing it against her lips. Her eyes were dilated, stammering under her breath. Your arms encase Alicent in a tight, warm hug. Cradling her as a babe.

“Oh, my love,” You croak, voice hoarse, laying your head on her spine. “The Gods have blessed us to still have one another, I have no doubt that I shall stay.”

“You have blessed me with a daughter.” Alicent says in a hush. “In another life, she is ours.” Her eyes gaze upon you.

Cupping Alicent’s cheeks into your palms, leaning for a kiss. Kissing her eyes, the bridge of her nose, between her eyes getting a titter from her.

Alicent strokes her nose against yours, her lips capturing yours. Lips melting, wet tongues fondle —- Alicent suckles your tongue, her milky fingers untying the cotton, slithering fingers underneath the flaps, cupping your swollen breasts.

One of Alicent’s hand trickles mischievously down your belly, caressing your sore mound, through the white night wear. A gasp slips from your lips. Her teeth nip at your cheek, open wet kisses trail across your skin down the slope of your throat.

Flesh singing alive, and Alicent whispers to be gentle, a little fondling, but no penetration. Unlike Vaemond, who sought for your body just merely days from birth.

Intertwining bodies cast shadows by the dim candle light, and girlish giggles echo against the chamber walls.

-

The hour is late.

Alicent and yourself departed for the night, begrudgingly to upkeep the reputation of dutiful wives.

In comfortable silence, Edina helps your achy bodice, in your night routine. Brushing your hair, and assisting you with Alysanne. You bathed her, and clothed her. As you held her against her chest, Edina brushed your hair.

It’s restful, and Vaemond isn’t near to ruin such bliss. You weren’t sure where he had run off to, but you didn’t muster the strength to care.

A quiet knock on your chambers alerted you, and for a moment, a growl nearly slipped. “Edina, can you please see who that is?” You ask sweetly. She mutters, Yes, princess.

Edina opens the door gently, with only a silver opening. As you rock your daughter against your breast, Edina breathes in a relief, turning back to you. You stare at her through the reflection of your mirror.

“It is Ser Criston, Princess.”

You sigh with a smile, grateful it isn’t your husband. You shuffle carefully in your stool, “Please, let him in.” Patting Alysanne’s little bum.

Edina moves the door wider, and Criston bows his head respectfully. “Hello Criston.” You greet him with a hum, “Is everything well?”

“A meeting has been called, Princess.” He says, almost with a tone of urgency. Your brows pinch in confusion, “The hour is late, why has the council been summoned?” Titling your head, eyes tired.

“I saw Alicent, and Otto accompany your father in the council chambers—-” Criston exhales with frustration, “— along with Vaemond.” His jaw clenches.

Stoned fury cements itself on your face, swallowing down, breathing becoming more heavier.

“Edina, please take Alysanne. I must tend to my imbecile of an husband.” The courtesy of graciousness, and taught manners are long gone, seeping out of you with the urge to bark.

Edina shuffles with quickness at her step, her hands out-stretched for Alysanne. Carefully Edina took your little bundle in her arms, you kissing her little furry head, as Criston helped you get to your feet.

“Criston, please take me to see Vaemond.” Your hand cupping Criston’s extended forearm, guiding you, his other hand on-top of your fingers.

A malicious smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, as you mutter obscenities under your breath along the path of the keep.

-

A meeting has been summoned.

An invitation only for Viserys to join Vaemond in the council room, but Alicent and Otto have come forth as Viserys’ shadows.

“I see your grace, and the Hand has come.” Vaemond says, rather annoyed. Alicent’s gaze subtly searches the room, but you are nowhere in sight.

“Whichever you must say,” Viserys says with a smile, “can be spoken among my wife, and my hand.” Viserys limply walks to the council table.

“Of course.” Vaemond strains with a formal smile. He clears his throat, his hands behind his back. “It’s time for my wife to reside in Driftmark.”

Silence commences. Alicent’s eyes widen.

“My daughter has just been born, and I would like my blood to enjoy her home.” Vaemond continues. A sullen look drags on Viserys. “So soon, my granddaughter has just been born.”

“Of course, not yet. Out of respect, we will stay for a little longer, but once we are ready—” Vaemond’s words are snuffed out, by Alicent’s scoff.

“No— - she cannot leave. King’s Landing is her home.” Alicent speaks anxiously, turning to Viserys. Vaemond scoffs under his breath. Alicent’s head twists in his direction with such haste, any faster her head would have spun and fallen off her shoulders.

“Two years we have stayed, not once has my wife visited Driftmark.” Vaemond puffs his chest, “She has not seen the seas of my home!”

Alicent chortles, a wet growl. “Viserys, please see to this.” She turns back to Viserys, “The children will miss her, you won’t see Alysanne for a time.” Alicent’s slender fingers grasp Viserys’ clothes forearm with a tightness. An exhausted sigh escapes him.

“Or you will miss her.” Vaemond spits.

“She is my friend, of course I would.” Alicent hisses through her teeth. Vaemond’s feet walk one by one, with sardonic thumps; leaning into Alicent’s space.

Alicent’s eyes squinted, “And where is she? It would be preferred to have her presence.” It didn’t feel right to not have you in this meeting, yet Vaemond is here overseeing a decision on your behalf.

“It is her right to choose where her home is! This should be her decision!” A vein slightly protrudes at Alicent’s neck, her throat straining.

“Your peculiar need for my wife is —- disturbing.” He says spitefully.

“Enough of this!” Viserys shouts, shutting both Alicent, and Vaemond to silence. “Two moons of this insufferable fighting—” He wheezes, “from the both of you!” He clicks his cane against the marbling, declaring his authority.

Vaemond towers over Alicent, nearly cornering her, but she doesn’t back down. Holding her head up high, staring back at him with such hate. A vision of silver, and a shuffle of metal enter the room.

Criston wedges himself between the two, his feet in stance for a brawl, but Vaemond only chuckles at the notion.

“Alas, the sworn mutt has come to protect his consort.”

“Must we have another go?” Criston asks, his dark brows shadowing his eyes. Venomous snake eyes, as his hands itch to slice Vaemond into an carasses.

”Would you liken I tell the king how you disrespected the princess?” Criston’s throat is hoarse, vein bulging. The seething rage within him is reaching a high.

Vaemond sucks his teeth at the notion. “My wife and I merely had a disagreement.” Alicent leans into Criston’s side, her lowered eyes twitching in a hooded glare.

Viserys shouts your name, his voice echoes within the room, beckoning you to him by his shaky hand. He caught you peeking from the chamber doors, watching the speckable.

Alicent’s eyes flooded with relief at the sight of you. You waltz inside with a determined gait, but as Vaemond opens his arms for an embrace, you swiftly pardon him with a worried smile, for Alicent and your father.

Vaemond’s feet bobbles, rooted into the marbling, still staring at the direction you walked through. Criston laughs to himself, at the pitiful sight.

Alicent holds you by the shoulders, shielding you away from your pestering husband.

“My sweet girl,” Viserys says, “Vaemond is declaring for you to leave.” He’s wounded. Viserys truthfully doesn’t want to see you depart, but you are a wedded woman now.

By law, a wife must accompany her husband, and it is two years late for your leave for Driftmark, such as Rhaenys had when she became lady of the sea.

“Yes, my love!” Vaemond says with a sardonic boast. “Our daughter has been born. It is our time to depart for home.” He steps closer, preparing to pry you away.

“The decision shall be done, only by my daughter’s permission.” Viserys casts a gaze at you, with such a kind smile, entrusting you to choose the ‘best decision’, to tame this spectating chaos.

Vaemond is repulsed at the notion of Viserys allowing you to make a decision on such matters.

You nearly stutter as a jester before everyone, terrified. Out of nature, your fingertips fidget with your ring. Not the ring bestowed to you by Vaemond, but the very ring shared between Alicent and yourself.

Blinking tears back, all eyes fall upon you. Alicent’s distressed wet eyes stare into yours, silently pleading with you.

You do not wish to prevent your daughter the opportunity to enjoy Driftmark, it is her home just as King’s Landing, but your heart is torn —- to be separated from Alicent is a murder.

Your soul won’t bear it, it would be felt as death. Worse than the pain during the wedding between Alicent and your father, the grief caused you to nearly fall ill. To separate the children—- hopes of being a family again shattering before you.

Hesitantly, your mouth quiver, but your mind was set. Driftmark is simply just a dragon’s ride away.

“I wish to stay here,” you proclaimed, standing with a firm posture. Vaemond’s eyes wide and enraged, gawking at you.

“Alysanne has just been born. There is no need for hast, I shall stay here in King’s Landing.”

A weak smile stretches just a little on Alicent’s face. All the fury seeps away from her face. Vaemond sputters in disgust, and rage. Nearly foaming at the mouth as a rabid dog.

“Then so be it.” Viserys proclaims, walking towards you with his cane, the ache of his body weighs on him, causing a limp, and a cough.

With no hesitation, you dash to his side, as does Alicent. You whisper to your father with a kiss to his cheek, a firm yet gentle ‘thank you, father’.

The pin drops. The hinges snap.

The Sea Snake breaks through the bubbling sea foam. A man cannot take anymore of this.

“ Viserys,” Vaemond pleas, shoulders shaking, fingers curling, “she plays you for a fool. Don’t you see that Alicent has bewitched your daughter—”

“Enough!” Viserys stomps the end of his cane, the clank startling you, as a frightened little girl, you cling onto your father’s forearm. His aging face distorts, his eyes leering into Vaemond.

“I respect you, Ser Vaemond, but you shall hold your tongue.” Viserys waddles closer, “Alicent is your queen, and respect is in order.”

Otto leans by the pillars, arms crossed against his chest. A spectator enjoying a theater play.

“Alicent is my daughter’s childhood companion, and I will not see them separated.” Viserys declares, stomping his cane onto the ground, echoing against the keep, its thud emphasizing his decision.

His word is law.

“I love your daughter, Viserys—”

“Then act as such!”

Vaemond sighs loudly, nearly stomping his feet in defeat.

“Vaemond, for the nearly twelve moons, you have made me mad with your judgment.” Viserys huffs. Shaking his head at Vaemond’s childish attitude. “Ridiculous bickering with my wife.”

Viserys softly tilts his head, “No more of this.” He whispers to Alicent. She swallows down, holding onto Viserys’ arm, mouth wrinkling into a frown, as if reprimanded as a child.

“Alicent ploys against me—-” Vaemond’s words die into a groan as a fist punch at his chest. A series of grunts and thrashing. You bellow for them to stop this thrashing.

Vaemond and Ser Criston tussle on top of each other, Viserys declaring for both of them to cease. Your pleas fall onto deaf ears. Your feet carry you near them, trying to tug Vaemond off of Criston, fruitlessly.

A clash of limbs, a tug of war. With one miscalculation of his elbow, a crunch and airy gasp of pain breaks. A collision against the floor, you softly whine in pain.

Shouts of your name, and feet running.

Nose welting as a smashed berry, seeping into the cave of your mouth, copper embedding on your palate. Your vision is blurry, colors of fabric and candle flames are translucent murky strings before your eyes.

Sensations of hands picking up your limp body in marital fashion, your mind too deep in a daze to connect with reality. Not sure who has you, muffled shouting becomes clearer.

Your lavender eyes are blank, and unblinking, as your vision begins to unclog the fog—— auburn hair stands before you, and trembling fingers caress your swollen lip.

Out of habit, your tongue glides over the top cage of your teeth, stinging the swelling flesh of gums, but you don’t stop the brushing of ivories.

“Fetch the maesters!”

You inhale a small gust of breath, a deep one that fills your lungs to an odd relief; as if you haven’t breathed in ages. Such vacancy etched in your pupils, gazing through your lashes to witness a faded vision of Vaemond staring in surprise.

He tries to come near you, but your father barks in his face. You don’t seek his affections, he has committed enough damage for a fortnight.

Sweet palms encase your cheeks, dabbing the spilling blood that coats the bridge of your nose, its sticky. Scared breaths escape Alicent, hyperventilating, as your eyes become loopy, one closes slowly after the other. The maesters all encircle you, muttering that your nose may be broken.

A wounded dragon rests upon the shores of Oldtown, crying for help. A roaming sea snake is lurking, snipping. The tower shines green. Alicent’s eyes catch Criston’s spare dagger —- the banners have been called.

Alicent charges at him, hatred and spite feeding off of each fiber of her being, taking the dagger that was seethed in Criston’s satchel, woven in her grip.

Dashing feet clamor against the flooring —- an ungodly manic shout roars from Alicent, frightening all men. Viserys haggers a few steps back, calling out to Alicent.

“Have you gone mad?!” Alicent’s voice is hoarse, snarling at him as a devilish beast. Her arm raises up, ready to strike through his flesh.

Quickly, Vaemond’s arms fling high, freeing himself, catching Alicent’s wrist in his. Alicent can’t even hear pleas from her husband, nor her father —- the stain of red has engulfed her vision. All shouts for her died in the distance, as blood rushed to her ears.

Murderous thoughts plague her mind as grave rot, to gash Vaemond’s skull open, feed his torn limbs to your dragon, imprison him as a suffering lame —- his delayed death will only sedate her fury.

Harming the only soul she can confide in, the only being who understands her fears, who shares her guilt for possessing love for another woman, but oh —- such a sin is delightful.

You’re the only one who can hear her voice in this wretched hell procreated by the Gods —- you can still hear her heart-beat in a crowded room.

You see her, as she sees you.

Not as your step-mother, more than a childhood companion, but as your lover, another-half of your soul. Stolen moments when the realm is asleep, both crying, laughing as if the world outside doesn’t exist—- ushering fantasies of traveling on dragon’s back to East, exploring the colorful lives of the Free Cities, as young girls again.

Praying on your knees, caressing each other.

Love, this is her love, to be seen in a room of shattered shards of glass that reflect the children you both once were. You won’t leave her alone, to slip away from each other. To be inside each other’s skin, to be inside each other.

Two women tangled in the realms’ webs. Forced to marry men who make their skin crawl. A matrimony in misery together.

“Alicent, put away the dagger!”

“What have you done for her?” Alicent’s whispers, with malice. Her eyes wet with an unshed sheen. Her voice is so low, just enough for Vaemond to hear, as a chorus of shouts fade in the distance.

“Besides take her body as ownership?” Alicent’s voice cracks into a broken wail, “Wedded her to claim her nobility as yours.” Her nose scrunches as a hound, “She is not a pawn in your games.” She hisses through her canines.

“Own her? I, a man, cannot even enjoy his marriage without interference. Meddling in affairs you have no qualms with.” Vaemond’s thrashing causes a slip of fingers.

His veiny hand tussles with Alicent’s arm, a futile attempt tugging by the jut of her elbow, to try to take her to safety, but she doesn’t relent. She thrashes her arm away, with a grunt.

The dagger’s sharp curved tip inches hairs away from Vaemond’s exposed glossy ocular.

“It is my right to be concerned.” Alicent’s teeth bore into a scowl. She’s unrecognizable, edging on her last thread of sanity. “Who will care for her?” Her voice carries the weight of concern, affection, a crack of desperation.

Disoriented voices fade in and out from the distance, a stand-off brewed from loathing, and jealousy. As many try to break apart Alicent and Vaemond—- others flock to your limp body, and the sprinting maesters.

Vaemond leers through his lashes, turning his attention away. Your ichor staining Alicent’s fingernails, and wrists in splatters. Vaemond’s venomous spite inflates akin to spikes, his eyes daringly bore into Alicent’s, sneers low under his breath, ‘suffocating’.

A disgruntled growl slips from Alicent’s lips. “ I am her companion. Her only friend. ” Alicent inches closer, nearly barking in his face. Such a declaration in her bellowing voice, her brows pinching in sorrow.

A moment stills.

He smirks, nose flaring.

“The very friend who bedded her grieving father.”

An ungodly screech rips from Alicent, raw and animalistic. Strength and sheer adrenaline. A scream that echoes the thousand unheard cries of her depraved girlhood. A release of her festering sorrow all in one strike.

By the Gods, what a fleeting delight.

With a swift glide of her wrist, the dagger just inches from the bridge of his nose, but the sharp tip rips a slice on his cheek.

Clamor of voices die in the silence.

Alicent slowly backed away, with such wild rage glistening in her eyes, her fingers trembling loose from her grip. The dagger clanks at her feet, her breaths are haggard.

Vaemond’s fingertips dab against the bleeding slash. Stricken with astonishment at the drips of ichor —- and great offense, Alicent has gathered the nerve to commit such a heinous act.

A suffocating figure comes near as a shadow.

Otto comes to his daughter’s side, his shoulder patting her shoulder to quell the tension that tightens her muscles. His vacant palm grips her wrist, softly squeezing, comfort? A warning.

Towering behind her, with such an ominous categorical glare, Otto breathes through his nose, a frustrated sigh. If no one will take the reins of this masquerade, he will. He always prided himself to be the solver of any problems.

Calculating his next move, to not only pacify Vaemond down, but to not frazzle the feathers of his child.

“Let us handle this bickering with grace.” Otto’s head tilts down, gaze downcasted at his daughter's dome, caressing her thick waves—- whose face was still twitching with lingering tears, exhaustion draining from her.

“We will all discuss our —-” Otto pauses for a second, turning his sight to Vaemond, feigning an inch of sympathy, “troubles in the morrow.” As a master manipulating the strings of its puppet, dancing to his rhythm.

-

Dull pain weighs on the bridge of your nasal, the milk of the poppy soothing most of the inflamed ache. The maesters claim it’s the luck of the Gods that your nose wasn’t shattered, with being the brunt of brute strength.

Resting in your chambers, deep in the massive blankets, boneless bodice sinking into the mattress, but your hooded eyes never leave Alysanne’s cradle.

Even in a moment of enduring the strain of this wound, the motherly instinct within you is overtaken. Awaiting any gurgle, or cry, any excuse to hold her in your embrace.

An uncomfortable whine vibrates low in your throat, nearing a snort, by the joints of your elbows into the mattress, you lift your heavy body up. Groggy muscles tighten and burn as you dig within yourself any inch of remaining strength.

Slow steps inch closer —- one and two, one and two—- your fingers grip the cradle. Carefully, your open palms dive into the blankets, grasping Alysanne’s little neck, and back; by the bent of your knees, you hoist her up.

Small gurgles emit from her heart-shaped mouth, you coo her, connecting her small body against your chest. Rocking her back to slumber, you shuffle back to your bed, hawking your balance, so that your feet don’t catch the loose end of your silk night-gown.

You gaze at her, what a beauty she is.

Despite loathing her father, the miserable masquerade he performed not only before your father, but to the sworn shield, the king’s hand to bear witness —- and above all else, in-front of your dear Alicent.

Vaemond’s outburst of demands, proclaiming you to be taken by his force, to reside the end of your days in Driftmark.

Aware of how tedious Otto is upon his reputation that extends upon his daughter, he will chastise any witnesses to keep tight lips. No whispers of this dreadful night. For once, you hope Otto weaves his fingers —- there is no need for anyone to speak such haughty gossip about Alicent.

‘My love has suffered for too long.’ You mull quietly. Softly grazing Alysanne’s button nose. Alicent doesn’t deserve to be the subject of the talebearers—- to be humiliated as such.

Alysanne mewls in her sleep, but your essence lulls her, caressing her cheek with your nose. Tracing the bridge of her nose with the grace of your finger, admiring her innocence.

“I will not let him have you,” You whisper in a hush, “And I will not have him take me away.”

-

“A mere scratch.”

The head maester dabbed Vaemond’s cheek, as the white cloth soaks in splotches of his blood.

“If it was closer, it would have been a gash, and the loss of an eye.”

Vaemond sits with his fingers digging into his clothed knees, as an insolent child. Vaemond is marinating in his seat, brooding in his pathetic defeat.

His fingers clenching onto the arm-rests, the intricate gold dragon engraving digging into the flesh of his fingers.

A handful of maesters flocked to Vaemond’s aid with haste, as Alicent was whisked away without a word from her father.

Humiliated, that his own wife would not defend his honor, that he was cut down by a woman’s hand, that the king himself would not see the impending shambles of his house.

A shush falls upon the maesters, quietly bowing.

Vaemond’s eyes gaze up to see Alicent at the doors. Mute, and regal, despite losing herself in her anger. The maesters all bow, one after another, taking their leave — all scurry out of the door, as rats.

Alicent walks inside, stoned silent, her palms clasped on top of each other against her belly, her lips pursed — restraining herself, her eyes still red at the rim from dried tears.

No less, her father sent her to mend the peace. Alicent stares Vaemond down, even through her display of vulnerability, she sees him as nothing. As if he is the dirt beneath her feet.

Vaemond stiffened his spine, his chest puffed out to ready brace himself against her wrath. But Alicent doesn’t move… her feet stay rooted. Her eyes are distant, as if reflecting quietly.

She hums.

“His grief doesn't bear a flame to mine.”

#chaosfae writes #alicent hightower x reader #queen alicent #Alicent Hightower fanfic

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Kiss It Better

Dirtyhands is no stranger to brawling, he returns to the slat with his face bruised and knuckles bleeding, hoping for a little refuge from the intensity of the barrel.

No warnings just hurt and comfort as well as a briefly shirtless Kaz

Enjoy this garbage!

...

Kaz Brekker sucks in a sharp breath, pain shooting up his side and across his chest as his lungs expand. He leans heavily on his cane, hand clasped so tight over the crow’s head he worried the metal would be crushed in his grasp. He smacks his lips and endures. He still has the trip up the stairs to suffer through. 

The sweet aroma of the Slat welcomes him as he stumbles inside. But it does little to sooth the ache in his ribs and calm his burning skin. Hands all over him. Water rising up over his shoulders to suck him under. They’d touched him with their disgusting bare hands. He felt sick. He clearly relives the sweaty hand squeezing his throat and closing off his windpipe. 

Warm drops of sweat bead along his forehead, some find their way down his spine. He clutches the banister and lifts one foot at a time. The climb is painfully slow and he has to stop several times to quell the epicenters of agony blooming all over his exhausted body. 

He’s about halfway up when another fair of footsteps begin to accompany his. You ascend the worn steps much faster and are by his side in seconds. You don’t touch just listen. 

Kaz refuses to look into your eyes. He knows how upset you get when he’s hurt. You may never say anything because you understand how the Barrel functions but he can see it in your eyes and if he looks now his guilt for worrying you will overwhelm him before he gets to his office. 

You tread in the silence with him, your presence helping him find some sound mindedness. The waters begin to recede finally. Breathing becomes a little easier. 

He climbs and climbs until, at last, he leans upon his office door. “May I come in?” You ask quietly. Kaz only nods. He’s grateful for your companionship and he needs it now more than anything. 

He all but falls inside, grimacing and gasping when his muscles seize up. This when you step in. You reach out, with just the tips of your fingers, and prod his waist ever so gently. The touch is meant to guide him towards his wing backed chair that he likes to lounge in after rough days. He tenses but responds. He takes the final few steps that cover the distance from the door way to the chair, and slouches into the cushy leather. 

Not being able to miss his pain, you search he medicine cabinet in his bathroom for some paint medicine and fill him a glass of water. Kaz mutters a “thanks” and swallows down two of the pills. 

Next is cleaning up the cuts and tears in his skin. There’s a small laceration beneath his left eye, the blood already coagulating. You soak a clean cloth in rubbing alcohol and wrap it around your index finger. “Is alright if I clean you up, Kaz?”

Kaz nods again and tilts his back into the leather. You press the cloth first to the cut. His lips twist and eyes scrunch closed. You rub gently, it’s small so there’s no need to dig and soak or really even bandage.

You examine the rest of him: a busted lip, bruised throat, and bloody knuckles which are now revealed from the removal of his gloves. He tosses them onto his  desk and sighs. You set to work on his lip. A flicker of motion draws your eyes away from the stained cloth and angry skin. His eyes are open, watching you. Trying to figure out why you still care so much.

Once his lip is cleaned, you crouch down and begin to scrub at his knuckles. You don’t hold his hand, simply pin it between his knee and the cloth. Blood and ripped skin come away from the peaks of his hand. Internally you cringe. You can practically hear his teeth sanding away at each other as he fights down the pain. 

You take a break from his hands, Kaz lifts the hem of his shirt so you can check his torso for cuts. There aren’t any meaning his heavy coat cushioned his ribcage enough to keep the skin from splitting. But still, the dark purple splotches stretching over the delicate skin of his ribs breaks your heart.

“No need to look so blue.” Kaz grunts. There’s a slight smirk gracing his lips, the swollen fat, busted lip twitching.

You raise a brow, “Can’t help it. You know I hate this.”

“Can’t stop it.”

“Can’t I!” Your snap makes him chuckle.

“What? You gonna strap me to this chair, shackle me to bedposts?”

“Don’t tempt me.” You grumble and this makes him smile. 

“You know how easily I can pick locks.” He straightens up a little, proud.

You toss ideas around in your head, “I could kiss you. That’d make you stay put for a while.”

This wipes the grin off his face. Now it’s your turn to laugh. Dirtyhands is practically pouting. He drops his shirt and rests his chin in his palm. “Whatever.”

Kaz’s weakness is always a tender subject. You’ve never actually used it against him and he trusts you not to. But still, it’s not fair how badly he wants to kiss you but can’t. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if your lips were a weapon that left him defenseless for a little while. 

If only to have that one kiss. 

You set in on the knuckles of his other hand. A long snake-like scar trailing across the skin. You’ve never found out where it came from but it’s always caught your attention. 

As Kaz watches you work, he recalls something. A very distant memory of his mother kissing his scraped palm. He’d tripped and scraped it on the gravel roads while out helping Jordie. His mother and dabbed at the torn up skin like you were doing now, and then when she had it all bandaged she placed a loving kiss on the meat of his palm. He remembered how comforting the gesture was.

He thinks of your lips.

He watches you wind clean white bandages over his reddened knuckles. You won’t actually be touching his skin. 

The kiss-

“Darling,” He begins. You’re certainly not his mother. But you are perhaps the only refuge he has left. “Will- willyoukissitbetter?”

The words spill out so fast you almost don’t know what he’s asking. But then you see the blush spreading on his cheeks. His gaze drops from yours. He’s bashful.

You smile and scoop his palm carefully into yours. You bring his knuckles to your lips and lay a kiss onto the bandages. Kaz blushes impossibly deeper and turns into his other palm, hiding from you. 

“Give me the other.” You demand and hold out your hand expectantly. Kaz glances sideways at you and drops his other palm into yours. You kiss the knuckles of this hand, this time laying a quick peck to each curved bone. 

The waters are at his feet but Kaz will win this time. Victory will be his and maybe, just maybe, he’ll have a kiss as his trophy. 

You kneel before him, replacing his hands over his knees, “Anything else?”

Your eyes glitter, not like the stars, but like the flickering candles in the windows of the Barrel. There’s an enveloping solace to them. He’s drawn in and fallen prey to you. 

Dirtyhands has been properly succored. 

He taps his blackened eye. Wringing his fingers nervously. What will your lips feel like on his skin? What if he can’t handle it? 

Then you are there. Your warm breath fans over his throbbing cheek. So lively. Your lips brush tentatively across his cheekbone before finally coming to rest just beneath the cut. Kaz closes his eyes and revels in the proliferating amenity in his chest like creamer in coffee. 

Then you’re pulling away and the water fills your absence.

Come back! 

He wants to call to you.

Don’t leave me!

You survey his expression, monitoring his emotions the best the you can. His walls are falling apart and he cannot scrape together fast enough to keep you out.

His hand cups your jaw, his head tilts, he pleads silently for your sympathy. Just the compassion he has never found in the Barrel. All in a kiss. 

Your beholden eyes never leave his as your chin tips forward. Your lips slot against his. Through the blood of his pulsing lip and the bile in his throat, he tastes glory.

The splendor and conquest spread from your tongue, onto your lips, and flood his insides. He melts like chocolate, heart thundering against his chest. He can’t breathe, whether it’s from the panic or the joy, he can’t decipher. 

The length could not dampen the kiss. Kaz has gained ground. His shaking hand leaves your jaw and you part. He wants to kiss you again but he knows he’ll over do it. So you thanks you. He leans back in his chair and smiles at you, finally relaxed. 

You’ve given to him freely and in time he’ll return it. But most importantly he’s found that you cannot defeat him through touch. “See.” His grin grows mischievous. “You could not keep me here if you tried.”

...

Dear Reader,

          Thank you for reading this post. If you liked it your are welcome to checkout my masterlist as well as request. Feedback is always welcome. If you have any questions you are free to ask and once again, thank you for reading. Have a nice day.

                                                      -the author, Lady

#kaz x reader #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #shadow and bone #crooked kingdom #kaz #kaz brekker #hurt and comfort #blood #injury #touch aversion

[xoxoavenger]

hi! I wanted to make an ask for charles xavier x reader but if you don't want or you can't write it, feel free to ignore. :)

basically, the reader is a friend of charles and also a mutant but never really used their powers, and the first time they used was to save him (in the cuba incident). idk more what to write, i just want to know his reaction to being saved and seeing the reveal of readers powers.

oh, and your writing is absolutely amazing!! 💕💕

thank you so much!! this is sorta short but definitely sweet also I don't have the streaming services that First Class is on so it's not completely accurate but its close

Come Through

pairing: Young!Charles Xavier x Fem!Reader

word count: 775

warnings: cannon typical violence and injuries also completely changing canon like the true fanfic writer I am

masterlist

"I told you to stay away!"

"And I told you that you don't make my decisions for me!"

"Oh, you're right, I'm so sorry for caring about your safety!"

"You treat me like-like I'm some glass ball!" 

"Oh my God." Alex groans, looking up at the sky. "Not this again." 

"Do they normally do this?" Moira asks, eyes flitting between the two. They continued their argument as though it was the most normal thing to do at this moment.

"Yes," Hank starts, crawling out of the wreckage. "Though never after our jet has fallen from the sky."  Suddenly, the two have stopped fighting, which causes everyone to turn to them. Y/N and Charles are staring across the ocean, eyes wide in fear. 

"Oh shit," Charles mutters as he stares at the missiles heading in their direction. Y/N grabs Charles' hand, and he squeezes it back tightly. Was this it? Was this the end? Suddenly, they all stop in their tracks. Everyone stares as Erik put his hand up, venom pulsing in his eyes. 

"Erik," Y/N whispers as she sees them all turn in sync. She knows what he's planning, knows that if he does this there's no coming back from it. Mutants will be murdered on sight; there would be a war.

"You don't have to do this, Erik," Charles' hand slips out of Y/N's as she turns to watch him walk toward Erik. Her heart is racing with anxiety and adrenaline.

"Yes. I. Do." As he says it Moira starts firing, every bullet taking more of Erik's focus to deflect, causing a few missiles to fall into the water. Y/N's heart starts to race as time seems to slow for her, head spinning as she realizes something very, very bad is about to happen. 

It flashes before her eyes, the image of Charles being shot, him falling to the ground unmoving. She's barely out of it before she's tackling Charles to the ground, feeling the bullet skim her side but miss Charles completely as they hit the sand. She can't even begin to comprehend what she just did.

The missiles fall as she screams, Erik's attention completely diverting to her. She lets out a wince of pain as Charles immediately flipped over, holding Y/N in his lap and moving his hand to find her wound. It doesn't take long, her letting out a scream as he brushes over it. 

"What have you done?" He yells at Erik, who stared wide eyed at the blood beginning to stain her blue suit. He feels sick at the sight.

"I'm fine," She muttered, a small smile on her face despite the searing ache running across her left side. 

"This is your fault!" Erik yells as he begins to stalk toward Moira, who had dropped the gun and was covering her mouth. 

"No! I didn't mean to," Moira is reeling, guilt clawing at her even though she hadn't been aiming at Y/N.

"Don't even think about it," Hank stops him, raising his eyebrows in threat. 

"How did you know?" Charles asks, and before Y/N can even think about lying his eyes are widening. "Your powers." He mutters, smile on his face only because Y/N was beginning to get up, meaning she wasn't as hurt as he feared. The two were completely oblivious of the others around them.

"I don't know how to control it." She groans as he helps her up, the pair not quite sure how they're going to get off this island. It seems Erik and his friends - including Raven, Charles notes with a lurch of his heart - have teleported off the island. 

"I can help." He tells her, letting her thread her fingers with his. Her arm was around his neck, his around her waist. "I could have helped." 

"It came through when I needed it to." She looks up at him, and he pauses as his eyes flicked to her lips. He was about to lean in as he watched her close her eyes, head tilted up, but then she was flinching away. Charles felt the hurt of rejection run through his body before she let out a hiss of pain and he looked down.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." Hank was kneeling at her side, putting a piece of fabric over her wound. "To stop the bleeding." He looked up at the two, took in Charles' face, and he opened his mouth in shock. 

"Thank you, Hank." Y/N muttered, feeling her face heat up.

"I'm so sorry." He got up and moved away quickly, and Charles chuckled slightly, only feeling a bit awkward. 

"Where were we?" Y/N said, her forwardness surprising Charles. He stared at her, only hesitating one second before putting his lips on hers. 

#young charles xavier x reader #charles xavier x reader #young charles xavier #x men #professor x #professor x x reader #x men x reader #x-men x reader #x-men

[peskycorvid]

Building off of a post I saw on here (I don't remember which one) about how everyone is human except the life series winners, who retain hybrid traits from their win/series. Except I make it only about desert duo because I'm insane about them

Grian spending 3rd life with lightweight bones that are more fragile than he's used to. Time is short, and he doesn't get to learn how to fly. He doesn't learn how to properly care for his wings either. He spends his time with itchy wings, trapped on the ground, and when he wins by force, he falls. He falls, at his one chance to learn, and it's by choice. Birds get pushed out of the nest to learn to fly, but he refuses. Yet when he wakes up back on Hermitcraft, he still has those wings, and he can never forget what he did. The blood that stains his feathers, the creaking in his knuckles.

Scar doesn't ever know how to truly help Grian. Grian's forever changed, down to his very code, and it's bigger than their shared experience. So he does what he can to try to help. He learns with Grian, accomodates him, is extra patient when sand gets in his wings and he spirals all over again.

More games happen. More people change. It's different for them, Scar isn't as close with them. They don't live on Hermitcraft, so he can't see the difference. Except Pearl, who handles it so differently and yet so similar to Grian.

Scar tries to comfort her too. She isn't around much, and he learns why on the first full moon back when he stumbles on a wolf cloaked in red, hiding away in his home. How she got in, he'll never know. But that doesn't matter.

They get closer after this. They already were, but even moreso when he's able to listen. When she maybe doesn't talk, doesn't say it all out loud. But he listens all the same.

Then secret life happens. And Scar comes back different.

Nobody really understood what he was, not at first. But when everyone comes back, he stays behind. He's gone for days, weeks, months. And Pearl and Grian wait. All of Hermitcraft waits.

And Scar returns, and they can finally see what he was changed to as well.

A man of stone, literally. A gargoyle, wings cracked and shattered and left behind when he finally, finally made it back home. He's colder, and more quiet. The solitude has changed him.

Slowly, the three learn how to help Scar together. They learn, however odd it may be at first, how to care for his stone skin. They take care to not startle him, lest he freeze up completely until he can calm down once again. And slowly they heal together. The cracks are still there, but they mend them as best as they can.

Grian still can't handle the sand in his feathers, but he learns to fly. He and Pearl race together, and on full moons they chase each other under the moonlight. Scar can't quite keep up with them anymore, but they never stray far, and they always include him. He becomes their finish line, and Grian's perch. Pearl uses him for shade, and they decorate him with flowers whenever he dozes in the sun. They all still have their moments, their fears, and they fear what might happen in the next game. Who's next? When will they be swept away again? But they have each other now, when the others might not understand. They have each other. And if one of their friends is next, they'll be there to listen and learn.

#desert duo #3rd life #grian #goodtimeswithscar #secret life smp #pearlescentmoon #idk if they have a trio name but they mean everything to me #boatem #boatem is one big qpr i will die on this hill

[foli-vora]

Congratulations on your follower milestone! That is amazing! 💖

May I please request a Rick Flag fic with “The first time you smiled it felt like the universe aligned.” and I would love for you to rip my heart out (since that is an option 😊)

Thanks and I am so excited to read all of these upcoming fics!

My sweet angel, thank you for your never ending support and love, and thank you for the request! I'm sorry for the major delay getting this done, but I hope you enjoy me ripping your heart out and squishing it under my slipper 💖

hear me

rick flag x suicidesquadf!reader

word count: 1k warnings: ANGST SUPREME. sad ending. swearing, blood, bullet wounds, death, sad sad sad. rick is cheesy & sad. SAD. ANGST. genuinely teared up writing this bye.

They lied. Everyone who had toed that line between life and death, they fucking lied. There was no bittersweet flash of memories before your eyes. You didn’t have a lot, but shit—there’s gotta be something worth showing you, worth reliving, before you close your eyes forever.

The minutes pass, you feel the growing chill along your limbs from the steady flow of blood from the various bullet holes in your torso, and still—nothing. Not a goddamn thing. 

Just Rick.

Rick bolting across the sand with your name falling from his lips. You can’t hear it, there’s a distinct shrill ringing in your ears that seems to be drowning out the chaos around you, but you see the movement of his mouth, the strain of his throat as he yells.

He comes to land on his knees next to you, a shower of cool sandy grains flicking up and dusting your black tac shirt. It glistens under the light of explosions and gunfire, and you briefly wonder in morbid curiosity how much of your blood stains the beach beneath you.

“Jesus. Oh, oh darlin’—”

You hear him then, his broken and strained mutter cutting through the surrounding ambush.

“Hey Colonel,” you rasp with a barely there smile, a sticky hot trail of liquid leaking from the edge of your lips, “how’s it lookin’?”

Those pretty doe eyes dart over the destruction of your body, his hands ghosting over your wounds in what feels like hesitation, anxiety. Which ones can be smothered with a cheap and easy dressing? What one needs the most pressure applied?

Going by the rate your body seems to be numbing, cooling in the breezy night air, they’re all pretty shit. At least there's no pain. Shock, adrenaline - whatever the fuck it is, you're thankful for it.

“Fine,” he mutters, rough gloved hands instead coming to rest on your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the coarse sand and half dried blood splatters covering your skin, “you’re gonna be just fine.”

“Damn,” you breathe heavily, brows briefly coming together, “I never thought I’d hear you lie to me. None of that shit. No, no.... you gotta make it something good, Colonel.”

Confusion pinches his pretty face through the pain, and you give another strained smile.

“The last words I’ll ever hear—make ‘em… they gotta be good.”

“Don’t talk like that, you hear me? You’ll be fine. Backup’s comin’. They’re comin’, and we’ll get you patched up, and you’ll be right to back to bein’ a pain in my ass, okay?”

Oh, sweet soldier.

No.

It doesn't work like that.

They don’t send help for people like you. Suicide Squad, remember? It’s in the name. You knew what you were signing up for. He knew what you were signing up for. This is it. You’re just another classified file thrown through the shredder at the end of the day.

You blink tiredly up at him, “No one’s coming, Flag.”

He shakes his head in firm denial, strong jaw rolling in an effort to remain cool and collected.

“No, they... they have to.” 

“Somethin’ good, Flag,” you remind him quietly, a heaviness now seemingly coming to rest along your limbs.

Is this it? Can’t you just have one more minute? One more minute of him crowding your vision? You don’t need a last minute life montage, not when he’s here, not when he’s carefully dragging you further into his warm embrace.

Please, just a little longer in his arms.

“Okay… okay. The—the first time you smiled, it felt like the universe aligned.”

“Oh, fuck me,” you splutter with a sudden roll of remaining energy, chest heaving and lungs screaming as you choke on a weak chuckle, “that’s a… a new low, even for… f’your s-soft self.”

“Thought you’d like that,” he drawls quietly with a grin.

It’s brief, tainted with agony stricken tears, and falls from his face the second it stretches his lips. No, sweet soldier. Smile. It’s okay.

Maybe… maybe this is why your life isn’t flashing before your eyes. It’s because it’s here—he’s here. You didn’t really have anything before this, before the Squad, before Rick. You were merely a shell of a person in your cell, angry with the unfair world and the hand you’d been dealt from childhood, but when he came along?

He gave you a chance, saw something in you no one had before. He provided you with the Squad, with friends. He got you out of your cell and into the fresh air with a new outlook. He trained you, laughed with you, ate with you in the crappy mess hall despite the frowns from his co-workers.

He saw you.

He saw you for everything you were, not for what people thought you to be.

“Think you’re the… the closest thing I’ve e-ever felt to love, Colonel. Thank you.”

It’s a decent goodbye, you decide with the final beat of your heart, slackening in relief and embracing the call of the abyss with a leftover curl still tugging at your lips. Better than you’d been led to believe you deserved, better than what Waller threatened you with.

You got a good ending.

He feels the weight of you in his arms, sees how unnaturally still your chest has fallen and how your eyes seem to stare just past his shoulder. It shakes him to the core. His heart beats at the base of his throat and he can’t help but call out to you one more time, despite knowing you’d never answer.

“Darlin’?”

You can’t be gone—not yet.

You can’t be gone, because you didn’t get to hear him say it back. He needs to say it, he needs you to hear it. He murmurs those three little words over and over, breathing them into your skin wherever he can reach, willing you to stay just long enough to hear them, long enough to know you were loved.

You need to know you’re loved.

Bile builds in his throat at the thought, but he has to leave you behind; alone, broken and bled out on the sandy beach for a sweep team to deal with later. He wonders as he runs through the dense jungle, but he’ll never know if you did manage to hear his broken, tear filled I love you’s.

He hopes with everything in him that you did.

#foli's 3k #rick flag x reader #rick flag x f!reader #rick flag x you #rick flag imagine #suicide squad fic #dc fanfic

[ghost-proofbaby]

Across the bottom of the page, in bold lettering, with excessive underlining for emphasis it seemed, is a simple reminder.  P.S. DO NOT FORGET – SAVE ASTARION. NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, ABOVE ALL ELSE, SAVE ASTARION.

summary: when aruna awakes on a beach, she has no memory of herself. only a small pouch full of seemingly useless items, a pair of daggers with interesting engravings, and a ruined letter.

wc: 1.6k+

warnings: memory loss, descriptions of canon violence/gore.

a/n: this is it. the infamous astarion fic i've been whispering about for way too long. please enjoy. probably full of mistakes due to lazy editing. also, no, this oc/tav is not dark urge.

masterlist | next chapter

The beach is unbearably warm. Scorching, even, as her body digs deeper into the sand and her eyes squint against the bright sun glaring down on her. She feels as though every inch of her skin is on fire as the pebbles scratch at her arms and she puts off any movement for as long as possible – she’s terrified that if she moves, she’ll come to find that she’s dead. She’ll stand, and she’ll look down, and all that will remain is her mangled body. Her brains will be splattered across the tawny landscape, her limbs will be crooked, her blood will pant the taupe sand red. And she’ll be nothing but a ghost; a ghost who can’t remember anything. Not even her own name. 

She can’t remember a damn thing. 

Even flashes of events that just happened, the fight on the Nautiloid ship and the crash that has followed, are blurry images to her that get swept away just as quickly as they appear to her. 

Eventually, she’s brave. She stands up. She looks down. She’s alive. No stomach-churning crime scene, at least. Not a drop of blood stains the shallow crater she’s left behind in the sand. 

But her head screams out in pain as if she might as well be dead. Darkness flashes the edges of her vision, a sharp stabbing in her temples nearly drops her to her knees. It’s nauseating, it’s startling, it’s terrifying. No memories, no name, but the myriad of colors that flash like memories that paint her vision certainly make up for it with each throb of her head. She waits for them to dull – waits for the headache to taper off long enough for her to put one foot in front of the other. 

It doesn’t. 

The storm never passes, and so she suffers. Mouth hanging wide open to take deep breaths that do nothing, palms pressing against the sides of her head as if she can squeeze the ache away. At some point, it’s not that the pain has subsided, but that she simply… gets used to it. Adjusts. Swallows hard and decides to fool herself that it doesn’t hurt that bad (but it does. It does hurt that bad).

She has to take in her surroundings, first and foremost. She doesn’t know much, but she knows that. Her eyes wander over the shards of metal, the bursts of flames, the mangled bodies- Oh, Gods. The bodies. She can spot three instantly, looking exactly as she had expected herself to appear. Unrecognizable. Gone beyond repair. Broken as a result of falling thousands of feet through the sky. 

Something churns in her stomach.

She tears away her gaze from the bodies with reluctance, nostrils flaring and lips pressed tightly together in effort to not dry heave. 

She needs to remember. Remember what fully happened on the ship. Remember her name. Remember her memories – remember who exactly she is. 

The satchel on her hip doesn’t help much. She absentmindedly opens it, hoping for clues, but the only thing inside is a small pouch made of a brilliant, deep purple fabric. Soft to the touch, embroidered with care. When she tugs on the gold-threaded rope tying it shut, all she can see inside is a smooth and nearly translucent stone, and a tarnished gold ring. Both could easily fit in her palm, side by side, if she were to dump them out of the beautiful pouch. 

And neither spark any memories. Neither reignite recognition, or bring a name to mind. Neither tell her who she is. 

They stay in the pouch, and the pouch returns to the satchel. 

She glances around the beach again for any further clues. Maybe she dropped something during her fall, maybe she had been wearing a goddamn name tag that had simply fallen off during her plummet from a giant spaceship wrecking through the sky-

There’s a glint in the sand. 

It could just be another shard of metal from the crash. Another broken piece of a nautiloid ship that is one of the only things that she can recognize right now. Any other person in their right mind would ignore it and continue on their search for clues somewhere more useful – but she isn’t in her right mind, and something about that glimmer of silver buried beneath sand has her feet moving to their own accord. 

Daggers. Plural.

As she drops to her knees, she’s careful to dig into the surrounding sand, exposing the pair of knives. They’re obviously a matching set – although, whether they’re a matching set belonging to her is a bit less obvious. There’s no major identifiable attributes; they’re simply plain daggers, sharpened metal blades with black leather wrapped methodically around the handles. Her eyes trail over them, trying to ignore how familiar and how right they feel in her hands, when she comes to the butt of the handle, and-

There. Something unique. Something identifiable. 

Carved messily into the metal of the ball at the end of the dagger in her left hand, is the shape of a moon. It wasn’t done professionally, but whoever had done it certainly had the gift of precision. She almost reaches out a finger to trace over the crescent shape lightly, when she remembers the dagger in her right hand. She wastes no time checking the exact same spot in that second dagger, holding her breath until she sees it. 

A star. Far messier than the moon, done by a far less skillful hand, but a star nonetheless. 

A star and a moon. She doesn’t know if these daggers belong to her, but it sure does feel like they do. 

And they fit perfectly in her belt, sliding into her conveniently empty sheaths with ease. As if they were finally at home as they hang loosely, bumping her hip as she takes a few steps forward.

Yes. That feels right. 

She breathes out a sigh of relief and goes to take another step forward when she spots another detail that would probably go ignored by any other poor soul that had landed here on this beach. Mere feet away from where she had found the daggers, there’s a small puddle of water. Which in itself isn’t very interesting. It’s a beach. If her eyes continued to trail a few feet more, she’d find even more water. But it isn’t the water itself that catches her eye – it’s what is sinking into it that does. 

A piece of paper. 

It calls to her with the same importance the daggers had, and she’s quick to snatch it off of the ground. The center of the letter is absolutely ruined, soaked thoroughly as each word that had previously been carefully written out bleeds out past the point of return. She can’t make a single word out in the body of the message. Only swirls of black that feather out blue, a mess of words that she’s somehow convinced was for her. 

Only the top of the letter, and the very bottom, remain untouched by the water.

On the top, there is a single phrase: My dearest Aruna. And- no, not just a phrase, but a greeting. A gentle, caressing, brimming-with-adoration greeting. But even more than that, it includes a godsdamned name. 

Aruna. Aruna, Aruna, Aruna.

She rolls the name around in her mind over and over, nearly screams it at the top of her lungs, because it feels right. Something clicks in her mind as she reads those five letters off the page, and she knows that her name is Aruna. The daggers belong to her, she has some lavish pouch containing a pretty stone and a ring that has seen better days, and her name is Aruna. 

It takes her a while to move past the excitement of that. A while for the smile to leave her face, only faltering as her cheeks begin to ache and her eyes finally start to scan the rest of the letter. A letter written to her. 

Except she still can’t decipher a single word in the body of it. She scans each line carefully, desperate to be able to make out just one syllable, even, but it’s all still a blended mess. She can see the leftover curves of whoever’s handwriting it is, and it’s pretty, but it is unreadable. 

Until the bottom of the page, where the water hadn’t quite reached the letter. 

Two lines are readable to her. One written carefully on the very bottom of the page, where absolutely no water has reached the penmanship, and one at the tail end of the main letter, where water had in fact seeped into the parchment, and the ink is quickly bleeding out. The words are being erased right before her eyes, and so she reads the damp words first: I’m sorry for what I’ve become.

The words make no sense. She can’t twist a single drop of understanding from them, only an ache that rings out in her chest. As if something inside of her might know what they mean, but that piece of her has been locked away deep down, unable to spell it out plainly for her.

So she decides to read the words untouched by moisture.

But the words that are dry as bone on the very bottom of the page, perfectly written out save for a small smudge of ink across the first letter as though someone’s hand had dragged across it before it had properly dried, confuse her addled brain even further. These words make even less sense. 

They weigh heavily on Aruna, whether she understands them or not. They’re important – Gods, she knows they’re important. Possibly the most important words she’ll read in all her days.

Across the bottom of the page, in bold lettering, with excessive underlining for emphasis it seemed, is a simple reminder. 

P.S. DO NOT FORGET – SAVE ASTARION. NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, ABOVE ALL ELSE, SAVE ASTARION. 

#my writing #ghost’s stories #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #the moon will sing #here it is folks #wah lah #dropping it when everyone should be sleeping 😌 #if you see a mistake no you don’t <3

[pet-pet-peet]

Can I’m have the dorm leaders x male reader who have a rare sickness that let him only eat desserts nothing else vegetables meat fruits nothing if he eat will appear strange stain on his skin and start to spill blood over his mouth headcanons

Omg I wish I could eat desserts all the time..

Also, I casually involve Sam because honestly he’s a cutie and no one gives him attention

I am trying to go through my drafts and post the ones I had done, this will not be inspired by canon!

Tw: Description of prior mentioned food sickness/allergic reaction like symptoms

Pairing(s): Riddle, Leona, Azul, Kalim, Vil, Idia, Malleus x male reader who can only eat desserts (separate)

𝕽𝖎𝖉𝖉𝖑𝖊

He thinks it’s a bit odd that you eat so many sweets all the time, surely it isn’t good for you!

He holds an intervention over dinner, where he serves you a healthy dinner for any other human

You look at it, then deny it while you listen to his concerns, which makes him sigh and keep explaining his concern

You tell him about the illness you have, that there’s no way for you to eat anything else, and he seems to understand..kind of?

He definitely asks a lot of questions, since he’s never heard of the such before; but when he’s satisfied, he’ll make sure you have a healthy amount of sweets at your disposal

𝕷𝖊𝖔𝖓𝖆

He’s very confused, but he doesn’t mention it at all; not until he notices that you deny any other food

He’ll ask Ruggie to bring some for you every now and then, and you end up just giving it away to someone else all the time

He’ll ask you why you deny literally everything that doesn’t have a sugar content, and you tell him pretty plainly that you can’t eat anything other than sweets

He doesn’t really do anything about it after, figuring that if you were lying about it you would cause it to backfire on you eventually

Accepts it more once he notices you don’t have any long-term effects, and you seem to be very healthy so he doesn’t care

𝕬𝖟𝖚𝖑

He’s been through a lot in regards to his weight, so he’s a bit cautious about calories and the kind of food he eats

He’ll probably think you weren’t being very honest with him..so he blended a bunch of stuff together that had nutrients and proteins he thought you needed

The poor thing was so scared when you started coughing blood, and when your skin started swelling and turning red-

Desperate, he takes you to Sam in hopes that he has some sort of cure or remedy in stock; luckily, he did

He apologizes profusely and promises he won’t do anything like that again, getting you all of the sweets you can eat to make it up to you

𝕶𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖒

He never questions you and accepts it at face value, he trusts you completely!

He makes sure the kitchen has all the ingredients necessary to make you whatever dessert or sweet you want to try or that you like

Makes you new desserts to try that he grew up with in the land of Scalding Sands, he likes being able to see how you react to them

Always has a dessert table just for you during his parties

Fine tunes his ability to sniff out poison for anything you can’t eat, too, as an extra precaution

𝖁𝖎𝖑

He’s very sus, but he’ll roll with it if it makes you happy and as long as you don’t seem to be crumbling in front of him

He does at one point do an oopsie, as he’s under the assumption that anything with sugar is okay for you to eat

So he decides to make an extra amount of his morning smoothie, just so he can share it with you!

He also panics, drops his smoothie all over everything when you cough out blood and swell up

Sam coming in clutch again to help a dying boyfriend due to his poor, distraught boyfriend’s mistake

𝕴𝖉𝖎𝖆

He doesn’t question you, either, just shrugs and says he’s fine with it since it’s how it is

He’ll try to do research on it when he can, though; it’s hard to find a lot because of how rare the disease is

He makes sure to keep snacks for you stored in his room when you pull all-nighters together

Might do some research into different desserts you’ve been wanting to try, then asks Trey if he can make them for you

Very supportive, especially since it gives him an excuse to stock up on candy

𝕸𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖚𝖘

He’s actually surprised; it’s very rare for him to meet someone with a condition he’s never heard of!

Might ask Lilia if he knows anything about it, but that’s an accidental curse as it influences the old fae to start cooking for you-

He likes to eat ice cream with you! It’s his favorite food, and it’s something you can indulge in together

Likes trying your favorite foods, some of them he’s new to since they’re not in the Valley of Thorns

His highlight is always when he’s able to sit under the stars with you, some sort of dessert in both of your hands; it lets him feel like a kid again

#twisted wonderland #twst #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #kalim al asim #kalim al asim x reader #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader

[itsgrimeytime]

The Life We Could've Had || Rick Grimes (TWD)

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Based On: 'I Love You So' by The Walters

Summary: Rick knows you're gone, he does. He just keeps seeing you in everything -the distant smell of coffee in the morning, or the sand beneath his toes (when he finds himself on a beach.) And as he tried to scrub what pain he felt out of his head, he wondered just when he could see you again.

TWS: violence, guns, blood, gore, ANGST, death, disassociation, hallucinations, grief themes, main character death, crying, and very vague implications of suicide (just Rick can't do it without you, etc.)

[[A/N: This is very different than all my other works, but I honestly just wanted to write some heavy angst. Like being totally fr, this is Rick grieving you. Not for the faint of heart. I needed to get these emotions out. Thanks for reading!!!]]

Rick hadn't expected it. Maybe that's why he'd become so paranoid now.

It was supposed to be a simple run, in and out, he can't even remember what the trip had been about; what had you gone out to get?

You were just smiling, laughing, teasing him the way that you always did -you two were on the precipice of something new. It was something that you'd been dancing around for as long as you could; no matter what, everything had always been in the way.

They didn't even ask any questions-

He remembers it vividly, watching you skip ahead of a few steps -grinning wide and bright. You were about to say something. You opened your mouth, words right there on your lips. He wasn't worried then about hearing them because he thought you had time. That both of you had time-

The next thing he remembers is the stain of red on your shirt, and your face faltering in its place -your pretty smile gone.

Rick felt like he couldn't breathe, as you crumpled to your knees -gasping and god, there was so much blood. He had a spare thought of how much could be left in you if there was so much here.

His head was spinning, so the sun so bright and distantly, he heard a scream -the same way as the shot, he realized now. But he couldn't think like then, his mind solely focused on falling to his knees beside you. Blinking what felt like shock out of his mind, he was by your side -desperately pushing on your chest, it was bleeding through his hands.

"Y/N, Y/N," he was breathless, trying to turn your face to his -to meet your eyes, "-can you hear me?"

When you looked at him, your face was paler than it once was and there was blood smeared across your mouth -bright red against the skin. You were crying, inhaling like each breath was your last, and fuck, maybe it was-

Rick pushed that thought to the back of his head, ripping off the sleeve of his flannel with practiced ease. Maybe he could wrap it? Just to buy time until-

"Rick," you muttered, and your voice was broken -desperate, hopeless, "-please, don't let me become one of t-them. I'm begging-"

"Stop, don't-" he couldn't help it, his voice cracked -as he wrapped the fabric around the wound, tight, "-don't talk like that."

"Rick, look at me," you soothed, still trying to comfort him even now, "-look at me... please."

He swallowed, tipping his eyes to meet yours after lingering on the torn flannel (the blood was already seeping through), and something in him broke -looking at you. This wasn't supposed to happen, it was just-

"Hey, hey-" you spoke, struggling with every breath -your hands shakily coming to wrap gently around his face, thumbs wiping at the salty trail of tears down his cheeks, "I-I need you to know something, okay?"

"I can't-"

"You can," you encouraged, despite the tears washing at the blood on your face -there you were, hopeful, "-you're R-Rick fucking Gri-imes. You can do anything."

"Not without you," he added, desperate to cherish every last second he could, he placed his hands over yours -blood still staining the palms.

You weren't there really anymore, the color in your face fading and maybe that's why you decided to say it because you felt he needed to know, "-I love you. Always have."

He blinked, and the fog in his head cleared -Daryl was standing in front of him, leaning on the wall with a look in his eye. He knew it, everybody had been looking at him the same way since-

"Get up," he spoke, curt and somehow caring, "-ya gotta eat."

Rick sighed, pinching the top of his nose and smoothing along under his eyes. Trying to wish he'd slept better, maybe. He made a noise in response, Daryl, assuming what it meant, guided him along to some food.

He knew it was bad. He knew he needed to take better care of himself, you wouldn't like it. But still, it felt like he could hardly function. It felt like every bone in his body ached in a way that he could never fix.

Carol was next, smiling in that sad way she always had, and pulling him into a hug. Her tears spilled onto his sleeve, Rick distantly wished he could cry like that -his brain seemed slow to process everything, and sometimes he felt like he was back there. You in his arms, his hands desperate to fix it, blood everywhere, your hand shaking in his-

"Just know we're all here for you," she whispered, sniffling and her voice thick like she was holding back tears, "-okay?"

"Okay," he whispered back, tone barely above silence -he couldn't trust his voice, not now. All he wanted to do was sit and think, even just for a moment, he wanted to see you again.

They wanted him to take a break from farming, Glenn even offered up that he'd fill in until he felt more up to it. Rick refused, distantly hearing the echo of your voice 'it suits you'; he used to catch you staring at him as he worked. Palms covered in dirt and shirt even worse with sweat dripping down his skin, he truly didn't get what you liked about it. Didn't mean he was gonna stop.

That was how he got out here in the basting sun, sifting through some dirt to make more spots for planting. It was always nice, doing something he felt was so normal when he felt like everything around him wasn't.

And you helped with that too. Got him involved in simple things, like cooking, or enjoying the flowers as they bloomed. It brought him to an easier world, one he wished he could've had longer.

He leaned on his shovel, then, pushed back the tears -he didn't have time to cry. He never would, this world wasn't made for time.

"I shoulda said something earlier," he cursed to himself, swinging on the shovel as his hair drifted down. He wasn't sure he could ever really forgive himself for not.

'Always have,' it echoed around in his head, bouncing along. Rick needed to know. How long?

How long would the two of you have had? If he had just-

And then he saw it, the pattern of your favorite shirt. It was out of the corner of his eye, but he swore he... he saw it.

It wasn't surprising that it started happening, Rick had known that he started... seeing things, or hearing things. When he went through something this big, it just... it shut his senses down in a way he didn't know how to fix.

So, days went by where he'd swear to hear your laugh echoing through the halls -loud and boisterous. It was the kind when he'd barely heard -freeing, carefree, nothing to be afraid of, he'd heard it maybe once. But then, he swore...

And then it was your eyes, a gleam against the dark of the night, he froze.

Every hair on his body stood up, the chill of the cold night rushing across his skin -he knew those eyes. He couldn't ever mistake those eyes -not after, not after seeing the life fade from them.

He swore he knew those eyes.

Something in him willed to whisper out into the night, urged him to speak, to ask if he had just seen what he saw. If you were... if you were there. And right when he was on the cusp, your name sifting across his tongue for the first time in awhile-

"Dad," Carl asked, suddenly by his side (had he always been there?), "-everythin' okay?"

And Rick Grimes was a lot of things, but he was never a liar. At least not to Carl. There was no room for it in this world, you needed whole and complete trust. It probably wasn't healthy, and if this had been the world before, there was probably a guy in an armchair that would tell him so. But there isn't.

"No," he exhaled, looking out into the night -trying to find a trace of you in the stars, "-but I'm workin' on it."

Carl sighed, scooching in closer to his side -comforting, familiar, "I know, I... I miss them too."

That night was when it happened, he'd retired to sleep after the stars started to blur and his head started to slow. Brain reaching for a kind of warmth that could only be dreamed of, he hoped to get the closest to it. Usually, his nights consisted of flashes of memories, they varied on the night; sometimes he remembered the first time he held Carl. Felt so far away now, as the world twisted in this fucked up way.

He never wished this for Carl. For, for Judith...

On other nights, it was less pleasant. Blurred memories of things he could beg to forget but never would. Killing Shane, losing Lori... It all came back in full force in his sleep. Your death was no exception, he felt the blood on his hands for weeks after, and could often feel the slow beats of your heartbeats thrumming through his head. No matter how hard he tried, he could never warn you -there was always something cutting him back, holding his tongue.

And the more it repeated the more his days bled together, and the more he wished he had kept you longer.

That night, though, was different. It was sunny in his dream, in a meadow he'd never been in -well, one he at least didn't remember.

The birds were chirping and the sun was warm against his skin, not in the way he found now, but in the way of pool parties and meat on the grill -it was nostalgic. The grass was scratching against his palms in a way that felt real, but also, distant. Not a dream.

His eyes began to squint at the orange sun rise, it was bright and beautiful, but a touch too much then. The air was calm, despite his instinct to survey the area -it seemed calm, peaceful even.

A butterfly landed by his hand, perched gently on a flower; Rick could only watch it in astonishment. It had been so long since he'd seen such simply beauty -the missing adrenaline felt starchly out of place, and somehow it made him uneasy.

Then, the sun was blocked out by a shadow -his eyes were struggling to adjust to the change.

"Morning, sleepyhead," a voice spoke, bright and teasing -happy.

But he knew that voice, he knew it so well. There was no way-

Rick gasped out, finding his voice was in fact sleep-slurred -yet, he couldn't catch up with the fierce beating of his heart, "Y/N?"

You furrowed your eyebrows in a way he'd always found cute, "You expecting someone else, Grimes?"

"Well," he spoke, his smile so natural -he didn't want to break this moment, "-no."

The air here was so light, filled with the freshness of the river that ran nearby. He was quiet then, understanding that somehow the dead didn't exist here -you didn't have that worry creased deep into your skin, and feeling his pocket -his pistol remained unaccounted for.

"Good answer," you laughed, extending your hand to pull him up. Your skin was soft, he realized then -no need for callouses and dirt under your fingernails. And looking at you, you were clean -hair messy from the day, yet each strand seemed perfect in a way he couldn't describe.

You paused, noticing his silence, "Everything okay? You don't seem like you're here with me."

You could never be more wrong, he thought gently to himself. His eyes were fluttering across your face, absorbing each blemish on your skin -every wrinkle, every scab, every freckle. He needed to keep it, to know it himself. There was something about you being right in front of him, so tangible, that made him realize that he'd missed so much about you. That there were things he would never know, things he'd always wonder about.

"I'm okay," he relented, the small smile growing on his face -he couldn't miss a moment, "-just disoriented. How... How long have I been out 'ere?"

You looked at him for a second, trying to believe him (you could always see right through him), "Just a few hours, looked like you needed the sleep."

Then, you laughed -without hesitation, extending your hand forward to turn through his hair. It wasn't something he'd experienced with you, the casual affection, but it wasn't exactly unwelcome. Pulling your hand back, you swung a leaf between your fingers.

Oh.

"You like living in the dirt, mountain man?"

He laughed, shrugging at the question, "Was some good sleep."

"Mmm, I can tell," you hummed, the sort of teasing smile settling on your lips he was the most familiar with. Your hand moved up again, shaking through his hair with ease that he hadn't known but didn't feel out of place.

"Where's Carl and Judith?" he asked, curious if they were in this... dream? Universe?

"Inside," you answered, motioning passively to the house behind you, "-it's very early for them. Crossing my fingers, they're still asleep."

He stuttered in place, realizing that the country home with beautiful windows and a cliche picket fence was his. It was exactly what he pictured in his paradise, the daydreams he'd known in a more dangerous world. The real one, something in his head quipped and he pushed it far away. What was the harm of a dream?

Rick pursed his lips, hand reaching out to trace the woodwork -the frames, the porch, the rocking chairs-

"Why?" you continued, voice light and joking, "You already get sick of me?"

"No," he smiled, yes, but there was a seriousness there, "-I could never get sick of ya."

You laughed, a bit taken aback by the genuine tone, as you flashed up your left hand -there sat a ring, glimmering in the low sunrise, "I would hope not."

He blinked, a rough sinking in his stomach -you were married?

Something shifted in him then, rather untouched since... since your death, god he had loved you. It wasn't a quick process, it was slow -especially after losing Lori so suddenly. His feelings were all so mixed up then, between Carl and Shane-

But everything was so clear now, as he stared at the ring on your hand. Would that have happened if you were still...?

There wasn't anything to be official, not in the world he was in, but if he found a ring... would he have proposed?

"Rick?" you asked, hands gentle on your biceps -grounding him there, "-are you sure you're okay?"

He blinked, and something in him snapped then. This wasn't real, you weren't there not really. How was this fair? How was any of this fair? He held his hands against yours, tighter than he probably should have, but he couldn't... he couldn't lose you again.

"You're not..." he stuttered out, slow and steady -his hands shaking against your skin, "-you're not really here, are ya?"

It was suddenly then, the sunrise flickering and almost the nostalgia faded -it was suddenly very real. He could feel the warmth under his fingertips, the texture of your skin, the rise and falls of your breaths. You were right here in front of him -it was so real.

"No, not really," you sighed, moving your hands up to his cheeks -pressing your fingertips into his cheeks, "-but I think you know that. Don't you?"

Rick laughed, watery but still he felt lighter than he had in weeks, "I know, I just... I wish ya were."

You frowned, tucking a few stray curls behind his ears -holding him gently in a way he'd been lacking for so long, "I know you do, Rick, I know you do."

"I love you," he whispered, desperate to get it to you, to tell you, "-I never... I never got to tell you."

"Rick, Rick-" you soothed, dragging your hands down his arms -guiding him through his tears, "-I know. I always knew."

He exhaled, the tears bubbling in his throat -it was so heavy on his shoulders. Once he started, he wasn't sure it could stop. Not with you here, arms open and warm -he always felt so accepted with you. Nothing could scare you away, he knew that. He always knew that.

"Of course you did."

You smiled, tilting his face to match yours -gently and open to him, wholly and completely, "Rick, you know what I'm here for."

"I don't," he was ignoring it, the obvious purpose of you here -closure, "-you have to... I can't-"

"Listen to me," you tried to catch his eyes, "-you don't have to forget me-"

"I would never."

"-but you have to keep going," you were tearing up now, a heavyweight behind your words, "I can't... Shit, I can't leave without knowing you're okay."

He paused, eyes racking across your face -you were familiar now, the scars detailed on your face, and the blood on your shirt. You were exactly as you looked that day, he could almost see the blood on his hands-

"I can't," Rick cried, and it shook to your bones -an ache of something you couldn't give him, "-you know I can't."

"Yes," your thumbs were frantic wiping at his eyes, despite your own tears littering your eyes, "-you can."

He was shaking in your hands, the breaths of his lungs desperate for air -he couldn't breathe. You were still holding him there, delicate as a flower; he was precious to you, in a way you were certain many wouldn't understand.

"How am I supposed-"

"Rick," you were gentle, your tone low and despite your own fears, you comforted, "-I love you, but you need to keep going. I don't know what it's going to take. I just- I just know it's going to be hard. But you, you are one of the strongest people I've ever met."

"Don't do this," he pleaded, and he saw you hesitate then, "-please, don't."

"We didn't get a proper goodbye last time, did we?"

"Y/N," he was getting desperate, fingers tight on your clothes -holding you there as the landscape around the two of you seemed to begin to fade into a bright light, "-don't leave me."

"I love you, okay?" you spoke through tears, holding his face with the gentlest of touches -wiping away his tears, "Never forget that."

"Y/N-"

"Rick," you answered with just as much authority, determined to make him pay attention, "-I have to go, just promise me-"

"But I love you."

You absorbed those words, your face settling into a complex of emotions -something of affection and frustration and sadness all screwed up together on your face. He felt a pang of guilt then at the tears; if he could just-

"Please let me go," it was barely there like the words were hard to get out, and as Rick looked at you he could tell they truly were, "-please let me go."

He was frozen then, the warmth under his fingertips was fading so quickly -he grasped desperately at you. He couldn't lose you again, he couldn't bare it. Not again, not again-

Yet, you weren't there, the fabric underneath his fingers was now that of thin air. The scratchy pillow under his head wasn't the cushion of the meadow, and your hands weren't cradling his face. Despite the distant warmth he felt there, they never had been. The cell seemed like the loneliest place in the world then.

Quiet darkness was unsettled like nothing had ever happened.

"Rick?" a voice tumbled into the hallway, and for a second he hoped. But it was squashed at the familiar face, Maggie, "I heard you, you were... cryin', is there anything-"

And there in that cell, Rick let out a sob -desperate to just feel anything other than the heaviness that sat there, and yet... he didn't want to lose it. Because it was you, somewhere in the twisted train of thought, you were here.

He couldn't leave you behind.

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #its griming time #stuff n' thangs #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n #ricky dicky doo dah grimes #twd #twd rick #rick grimes x y/n fanfiction #rick grimes oneshot #angst #main character death #the life we could've had

[scarasimping]

But have we talked about Pirate! Scara angst?

He knows he’s a pirate and he steals and gets in trouble but it doesn’t you from loving him, he’ll distance himself not wanting you to get hurt, if he got caught stealing something of value you would run after him and the guards, you know when they lost him were he would be and when you find him…

Insert fluff

note before you start!: I haven't mentioned it in anything yet, but in my mind the princess is under strict watch, so it's almost impossible for her to leave the castle and see scara....almost. I'm also trying to stick closer to the plot I have in mind for pirate scara and the princess’s story, so it's a little different than the request. hopefully it all makes sense.

also i was listening to work song by hozier while writing this i think its fitting for how scara feels about the princess.

word count: 1.85k

Pirate! Scara believes wholeheartedly that he does not deserve you. He's a liar and a thief; he can't wash away the blood on his hands from all of the battles he fought, where someone had to die and he couldn't let it be him.

Yet, these same hands are the ones you hold so gently, the ones that you bring to cup your own face and kiss the palm of. He feels as though being with him is going to stain your perfect and gentle soul, that he's smearing the blood he's taken onto you while you just smile so beautifully and tell him how much you love him.

He doesn't even notice he's begun to distance himself from you; it happened instinctively. His nightly visits soon turned to every other night, to once a week, until he stopped showing up all together. 

It wasn't like you could ask someone to check up on him, or else that would give away all the rendezvous you were having, so you really had no idea why he stopped coming to see you. All you know is that in his more recent visits before he disappeared, he seemed so much more...sad. He clung to you tighter, his voice cracked like he was going to cry, but the tears never fell, and his responses were much more vague, whereas before he would tell you all sorts of stories in great detail about his adventures on the open sea.

For a while, you thought he left your kingdom all together, without even saying goodbye. That soon proved to be false, however, when you overheard some guards talk about how they heard someone sneak into the people’s bank on the far side of your kingdom, and how they almost caught him, but were a few seconds too late. 

So, not only was he ignoring you, he was getting sloppy with his work, meaning something had  to be wrong with him, and you were determined to find out what. 

When the moon rises the following night, and the kingdom is asleep, you put your plan into action. Waiting until just after a set of footsteps passes your door, since there’s usually a large gap of time between each person passing, you step out onto the terrace and start climbing down the same way you had watched your lover do many times before. It definitely took a lot longer than he would take, too scared of falling and getting gravely injured to go any faster, but eventually you made it to the cold, grassy ground underneath. Pulling the hood of your cloak over your head, you made a break for the treeline that separated the castle from the ocean. After a short run through the miniature forest, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks and sand reaches your ears, soon followed by the ocean coming into view. Though there were many ships at the pier, it was easy to tell which one was Scaramouche’s, his being the only pirate ship in a swarm of those meant for business only. 

The crew members on night watch easily picked up your presence as you approached, as any cloaked figure nearing the ship would be suspicious and hard to miss. Though you hadn’t met most of them before, you could tell the man staring down at you from the edge of the ship was Xiao. Scaramouche had described him before, and said he was the only crew member with tattoos.

He was observant and knew who you were as well, staring down at you with an unblinking and piercing glare.

“I know why you’re here, but if I let you on, you won’t like what you’ll see,” he warned, and a loud thud coming from the ship drew your attention away from his face. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that it was Scaramouche making that noise.

You look back at Xiao with a determination on your face, your own glare matching his own. He sighs, turning his back to you and lowering the gangway for you to climb on. Walking on the ship without Scaramouche right next to you is definitely a  different experience, and one you are not happy about. 

Xiao watches as you approach the captain’s cabin, before walking away, not wanting to invade at a moment that should be private.

The thudding you heard earlier only gets louder as you approach the door to Scaramouche’s quarters. You knock softly, barely audible, and there’s no answer, so you assume he didn’t hear you.

You’re cautious as you open the door, peeking your head inside. Scaramouche is there, standing over his desk with his hands gripping the wood so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Crumbled pieces of paper were scattered across the floor, his bottle of ink thrown across the room as well as his hat. Everything was shoved off of his desk as well, as if knocked off in one fell swoop, and many other things were thrown around in anger, making a mess of his usually neat room.

“Did I say you could come in?” Scaramouche seethes, looking up with such fury in his eyes, it had you scared. He didn’t seem to realize it was you until after he said those words with such a bitter tone. When his eyes lay on you, they soften just a bit and a look of regret washes over him. He never wanted you to see this side of him - the angry and harsh side he only showed to his enemies or his crew when he was really upset.

“You..” he starts, sighing and dropping his head to avoid looking at your fear-stricken face. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you really think you could disappear and I wouldn’t notice?” You responded, shifting awkwardly where you stood, still behind the door. 

“Can I…come in?” 

Scaramouche runs a hand down his face, shaking his head at his own foolishness. It was clear you were trying your best not to upset him more, and that only made him feel worse.

“Yes, yes, of course, get in here.”

At his words, you cautiously step inside his room, closing the door behind you softly. Still, you were barely inside, hanging by the door and attempting not to overstep. Scaramouche sighs once more,  moving away from his desk and sitting down on his bed, head in his hands. “Sit.”

Though it’s true he was a man of few words, how little he was saying made you anxious. You sat down on the bed, keeping a few feet of space between your bodies.

“So what happened, dearest?” You asked him, breaking the silence that had grown between you.

“Nothing, I was just writing, that’s all.”

“Just writing?” You looked at him incredulously, glancing at all of the papers and the ink bottle spilling on the floor. “What were you writing that could have possibly made you so angry?”

“It’s not necessarily what I was writing, more so that I couldn’t explain everything the way I wanted to,” he responded, and true to his deceptive nature, you could tell he was only telling half-truths. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole story.

“I’m sure it’s not so bad, let me see,” you say, leaning down and picking up a crumpled paper from the floorboards, unraveling it in your hands.

“No! Don’t read that!”

Scaramouche snatches the paper from your fingertips, but it was too late. You had already seen the most important part.

“You were going to leave? And you were going to tell me through some letter instead of coming to see me?”

Scaramouche sits in silence, tonguing his cheek as he looks away from you, crushing the paper once more in his hands. It took him a while to form words, and for a second you thought he simply wasn’t going to answer. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before, finally, he speaks.

“It’s for the best…that way you can finally marry someone like your father wants who would treat you way better than I.” Again, he doesn’t say the whole truth, but growing up with a dismissive father and a mother who never spoke up, you have learned to read between the lines.

“You don’t think you’re enough for me, do you? Is that what this is?” 

His silence answers your question for you, and the fact that he couldn’t face you only enforced that fact. You scoot closer to him, closing the distance that separated you two. One of your hands rests on his shoulder while the other cups his cheek, turning his head to look at you. His face was tinted red and tears welled in his eyes. You decide not to point that out though, as to not ruin how far you had gotten to being able to comfort him. When it came to emotions, Scaramouche was difficult, to say the least, so the fact that he was almost crying around you was a big step.

“I don’t want some pompous prince or a rich man’s son; I want you.”

He simply clicks his tongue at this, rolling his eyes. He takes hold of the hand that holds his face and removes it, simply planning to let go afterwards, but you intertwine your fingers instead. When comforting a man that’s as emotionally constipated as Scaramouche is, persistence is key after all.

“Dearest, if you weren’t enough for me, I wouldn’t be with you despite the universe being against us or sneaking out of the castle to come see you. I only want you, so stop being an idiot and avoiding me!” You tried to reason with him.

He simply drops his head once more, and you lean your forehead against his. He bites his lip, holding back a smile as you insult him in this situation.“Alright, I get it, now drop it please.” 

A small chuckle escapes you, and once again you hold his cheek in your hand. His eyes look up, meeting your own, and you can see the relief flooding through him.

“Are you still going to leave?” You whisper, and Scaramouche shakes his head.

“Not yet, though you know I will have to eventually? A man like me can’t stay in one place for long.”

“We’ll figure that out when the time comes, but for now, can I stay with you?”

Scaramouche doesn’t answer; he simply leans forward and presses his lips against your own. The hand that holds onto yours tightens as he pulls you even closer, turning his body to face you even more. His other hand holds onto your waist, thumb caressing you over your shirt. He’s smiling as he kisses you, each movement filled with more and more longing than the last. Even without words being spoken, you can feel how much he’s missed you these past couple of weeks. He’ll allow himself to taint you with his hands that have committed countless sins just this once, and be selfish with you, because who knows how long it will be until his hands can’t hold you anymore. 

#pirate!scara #genshin impact #genshin #genshin fluff #wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer genshin #genshin x reader #genshin drabble #scaramouche fluff #scaramouche x reader #scara x reader #scaramouche #genshin wanderer #scaramouche angst #wanderer angst #genshin angst

[eclairfair98]

The swing doesn’t creak under his weight. It’s different from the little tyre Dad had strung up for him in the backyard when he was a kid. But in the ways that matter, it’s exactly the same.

Securing his grip on the chains, Pete takes a few steps back. And then, he lets go. Swings ahead, kicking the air. The white of his shoelaces almost glowing in the dark.

The height of the swing increases with every pump of his legs, a glorious breeze blowing against his damp brow. The rise in his body’s centre of mass making itself know in bubbly feeling floating in his belly.

It’s almost like one little swing is enough to turn-off something as big as gravity.

And maybe, gravity only exists as a manifestation of the loneliness of all the molecules and atoms and protons and neutrons and electrons that make up the Earth.

Of the loneliness experienced by all the living breathing people with burdens and disappointments and broken dreams that inhabit the planet.

“Pete… slow down. Please.”

The voice reaches out to him, but he can’t really hear it. Smooth syllables rounded out by the faint buzzing in his ears. ‘Cause somewhere in Pete’s head, all the sound has gone out.

And what is life? What does it even mean to be alive?

He closes his eyes against the cool wind buffeting his face, raises his legs as he reaches the topmost part of the arc of his swing. Takes in a breath that makes a gasping sound at the back of his throat.

Is it this?

The act of breathing in and breathing out.

Is inspiring oxygen and expiring carbon dioxide, pumping enough blood from his heart to his arteries and eventually, all of his visceral organs, enough to classify Pete as alive?

Maybe, it is.

If so, maybe he’s only as alive as an insentient tree, or a patch of symbiotic lichen growing on the bark of a tree. Or a non-flagellated bacteria that cannot move freely through its own immediate environment and lives out its brief, insignificant existence stuck in the same ultra-microscopic space that Nature deemed it appropriate to cage him in.

After all, what is he?

A universe of atoms. An atom in the universe.

There’s fresh wetness burning behind his eyelids, clumping his lashes, and Pete makes a valiant attempt to fight the stupid, overwhelming, all-encompassing need to cry, till he ends up crying a little, anyway. Staring up at a flock of stars scattered across the night sky. At the light that’s been traveling for hundreds and thousands of years to reach his tired eyes.

“Push me higher, Daddy, I want to fly!” he would implore. And his father’d always obliged. Instructing him to hold on tight, as the sky rushed up to welcome him with open arms.

The metal chains of the swing dig into his palms, but Pete doesn’t notice the discomfort, tightly closing his hands around the only thing tethering him to the ground.

Pumping his legs for the last time, Pete wonders whether he and his father are looking up at the same night sky, whether Dad sees the frozen lights twinkling against a backdrop of crushed, black velvet, and thinks about just how small he is in the grand scheme of things.

And in that sublime moment that seems to stretch on infinitely, Pete is flying.

After a while, he does slow down, spots Tom who’s now standing next to his swing, off to the side. His shoes skid against the sand as he comes to an abrupt stop. Little spots dancing in front of his eyes. Growing bigger and bigger. Taking on shapes and colors: starry-blues, fuchsia-pinks, firetruck-reds. Till his vision starts crumpling ‘round the edges.

Till strong hands grip his waist and his arm, deftly lower him into the swing, hold him securely till the colors fade away. Bleed into the night.

“I’ve got you,” Tom murmurs, warm hand moving up to cradle Pete’s tear-stained cheek. To caress his quivering chin with a calloused thumb.

This way they’re at eye level, and Pete can see his face clearly. Can smell his scent. Like a rain shower in the summertime after the grass has been cut.

“I really don’t know what this is, but I feel so scared, Tom… I feel so alone...”

Moonlight glances off Tom’s wedding ring, and Pete brushes his pinky against the cool metal. A minuscule movement that stills Tom’s hand. Turns it boneless in Pete’s grip.

“But you’re not alone, Pete. You don’t have to be scared, ‘cause I’m going to take care of you. You have me. You’ll always have me,” Tom whispers. And it feels as though he’s reciting a prayer, breathed into existence against the unsteady beat of Pete’s heart.

He runs his thumb along Tom’s knuckles, over the warmth seeping through his sun-kissed skin. Over the faint scars sloping over the smooth ridge.

Remembers how Tom got those scars. The bubblegum pink balloons that littered the varnished gym floor at prom. The fraying ends of the ribbon tying the corsage to his wrist. It’s rose petals picked away by his anxious fingers. The short-lived relief of getting away from the heat and the people and the noise. From all of the eyes on him, and all of the whispers. Of Annapolis admissions and impending engagements and the possibility of getting bonded before marriage. Of the fact that the Academy forbade Midshipmen from getting married. But didn’t stop them from bonding their omegas.

He remembers the sharp smell of unfamiliar alpha stinging his nose. The cold burn of calloused fingers on his neck. The yelp of distress punching it’s way out of his chest. The white-hot shock that flooded his insides when a senior he hardly recognized leaned in to deliberately scent him and remark: Kazansky’s got himself a sweet one, all right. But you don’t seem to like him very much, do you? Say, if you’re looking for someone better—

Remembers only being able to string together three weak words, nascent tears choking his voice: Let me go.

Remembers the blur of motion at the edges of his vision. Strangled sounds of a brief scuffle. Raw knuckles clenched into tight fists. A spot of blood staining the pressed-clean collar of Tom’s dress shirt. Quicksilver glinting in his steady blue eyes.

Unapologetic even in the face of detention and the threat of suspension.

The same eyes that are looking at him now: open and vulnerable and all the more steadier for it.

“Please, let me be there for you. Let me be good to you. Let me take care of you. Let me…”

Tom shuffles closer, touches the hem of his tee-shirt with shaky fingers. Smooths it down where it had ridden up, exposing a sliver of his pale abdomen.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Because Tom isn’t a liar. He would never lie. Not to Pete. Not to anyone.

Because Tom would never not be good to him.

Because Tom’s hands never shake, but they’re shaking now. As Pete cradles them in his own, brings them down to his still flat belly. Feels the press of them against his covered skin. The space between his breaths shortening, till he lets a little breath go.

Till he closes the distance between them, his mouth hot on Tom’s, the whole of him held between Tom’s shaky palms.

Because Tom feels like home.

Tom’s eyes widen, his next inhale coming in a little shorter, a little sharper. And Tom tugs him a little closer, curls his calloused fingers round the slope of his jaw, kisses Pete deeper. Something desperate in the hard press of his lips on Pete’s. Something heartbreakingly tender about it.

And Pete doesn’t know what to do with it. With the way his chest’s heaving like it’s being crushed under the weight of his ribs. With the way his lungs are bursting, ballooning up and taking his breath away.

And it feels so simple. So easy. Even though it really isn’t. The honesty of it. Of wanting to hold. Of wanting to be held. Of wanting to love and be loved.

But he leans into it. Fingers weaving softly in Tom’s thick hair, thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones.

Because, Tom is home.

#the unbearable lightness of being #omegaverse #icemav #tw: unplanned pregnancy / misogyny (in the context of omega verse) / mentions of assault (in the past)

[sleeplessdreamer123]

Fanfic Idea! (ABO Lucemond, A Dragon's Hunt or Where Aemond Finally Found Lucerys after 12 years)

Baelon is beyond worried. Winter came early in Essos, and it was the worst one he had ever experienced. They haven't collected enough supplies, they were already running out of food, and though they tried so hard to ration everything, it still wasn't enough.

And now his mother was sick. His mother tried to act like it was nothing to worry about, but his coughs just kept getting worse. Aemon even told him of the blood stained handkerchief he tried to hide away.

He felt a pang of guilt once more, and looking at his brother's face, he knew he wasn't alone. He heard from the healers that their births weakened their mother, that it took all his energy, and his body never regained strength after that. He was almost always tired, so easily sick, though he always tried to hide how sick he was. Now he couldn't, not with how it changed his appearance.

His mother always had fair skin, but now it was a sickly pallor. His body was so thin, so light, Baelon was sure he would be able to carry him with ease at the age of ten and two name days. His breathing was labored, each breath was painful to listen to, almost like the dying man he saw when he sold herbs to the healers (he didn't like that comparison at all).

Not for the first time, Baelon wished he had someone to share the burden with, for someone to take it away entirely. Aemon was smart and resourceful, succeeding in making the healers train him in exchange for herbs he and Baelon collected, so he would know what to do when their mother got sick. He was the only partner Baelon ever had to share his duties with, but he could never truly let Aemon know just how hopeless he felt about the situation. He was the eldest, even if he was only a few minutes older, and he didn't want his younger brother to despair like he was.

No, Baelon wanted someone older, older than them, someone who would know what to do, who could guide them in confidence, and assure them that they would be safe and well-cared for. Not for the first time, Baelon wished he had his father.

His mother never spoke of him, when he told stories of his life before the war in Westeros, before fleeing to Essos, before the boat he was on sank, before the old fisherman found him floating in the waves, before he died a few years later, forcing their mother to leave the warm sands and salty waves with two small children. He always changed the subject, even objecting the mere mention of their father. They were worried, at first, that their father died in the ship, that it was the reason their mother couldn't speak of him. But he told them, in one of his feverish delusions, that he was alive and well, but that he wished he would never find them. They never got any answers as to why.

Still, in such dire situations like this, Baelon dreamed that their father would come for them. He dreamed that he would take them away, so his mother would be cured, so he wouldn't feel such a heavy burden of duties and responsibilities as the oldest, healthiest one on the family. So he wouldn't have to constantly worry for the safety of his family, for the life of his mother, for what could happen if his mother does get a visit from the Stranger. So he could go back to being a child again, even for just a moment.

He wished for someone to take the heavy burden off his chest, off his shoulders.

But there wasn't any. And their supplies need refilling.

So he wrapped himself up in as much clothing as he could. Aemon needed to stay, to watch over their mother, and he had to go collect fallen branches for wood. Maybe he could collect enough to sell some and buy an axe, maybe try to trade with some hunters, or the butcher.

He hoped the traps he set up had ensnared something today, at least.

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

Aemon is terrified. He heard the loud roar first, followed by the shaking of the ground. He saw through the cracks of the window, a huge beast, a dragon has landed close to their home.

He didn't know what to do. His mind is blank. Baelon wasn't there. He needed Baelon. He always knows what to do.

But he wasn't there. And the dragon's rider was approaching.

He heard of the war in Westeros. He heard of how the greens and blacks massacred each other. He heard of how the greens won by burning the Black Queen in front of her son. That there was only one dragon rider left, the Prince Regent. The one they called Kinslayer. The one who ordered the death of his half-sister's family.

And he was approaching their home.

If they go through the back door, the dragon would spot them, it might eat them alive, or worse, burn them to crisp. If he didn't do anything, who knows what the dragon rider would do?

He made a split decision. He ran to his mother's room, and grabbed his mother's knife. He then hid beside the door, and waited. When the door was kicked open, he pounced.

It was stupid. He knew that. He wasn't usually that reckless. Baelon would have smacked him in the head. It was such a feeble attempt he would have laughed at himself for thinking it could work. A ten and two name day old child was nothing compared to a war hardened dragon rider. He was smacked away, his head hitting the wall. He knew he was concussed, but he stood up, his vision blurring, his hand pointing at the man with his knife.

He couldn't see the man's expression. He did hear his mother screaming, saw his figure in front of him blocking him from the man, before he was taken by the darkness.

I'm sorry Baelon. I'm sorry mother. I failed you.

------

When Aemon fell, Lucerys felt a wave of terror. News of his brothers' deaths, his step-father's, and his mother's execution made him scream at the thought of losing another loved one. He turned to check, only for Aemond to grab him by the waist and pulled him close.

"I found you, Lucerys." He whispered, his voice stirring memories in Lucerys he wished to forget. He struggled, coughing, trying to get away.

"Lykiri, Lucerys, lykiri. Is this how you would treat your husband after so long?" He sounded amused, tightening his grip, so hard that Lucerys gasped, which set off another round of coughs. Aemond loosens his hold, and Lucerys slaps pushes away, rushing straight to his son.

He was breathing. A little shallow, but it was enough. Lucerys quickly placed Aemon's head on his lap, checking for injuries. He couldn't stop his coughs, and shivered when he felt himself being wrapped in a warm cloak.

Lucerys turned to him now.

Aemond looked older. Of course he did, it had been so long since they last saw each other. Still, he continues to look unfairly handsome. His hair was cut, and on his head he saw it. Aegon's crown. He felt sick for ever thinking of how handsome he was when his family fell because of him.

He turned to Aemon, watching his chest rise and fall, assuring himself that he was just unconscious. Not dead. Just unconscious.

"How..." He croaked. His throat was dry from coughing, he cleared it painfully, before trying again. "How did you find me?"

"Hmmm?" Aemond hummed, pulling Lucerys close to his chest. Lucerys allowed it. He was tired, he could feel his strength living him once again.

"Simple, really. I never stopped looking." He played with Lucerys' hair, a familiar thing he did before. "At first, when I received word that your mother stole you from the Red Keep, from my very bed, and shipped you on a boat, I looked for a boat heading to Pentos, then I heard it sank, so I searched the ocean, looking for the wreck."

His hands travelled downwards to his waist once more, his chin rested on Lucerys' shoulders. "Then I searched each body that floated up. When I couldn't find yours, I listened to every rumor of bodies washed up on shores. I left King's Landing each time to see if it was you. Grandfather was disappointed in me, made me fight in the front lines for a while, cut off all my contacts pertaining you. When I finally ended the damned war, I heard the old rumor of a fisherman from Essos finding a pregnant omega, but he died, and the omega left. The trail was cold by the time I arrived." His thumb was drawing circles, almost tickling Lucerys. "My grandfather died that day."

"I could do nothing else, so I waited. I listened. Every rumor I followed, led to nothing. Soon I heard of a widowed omega with two sons, one with long dark hair and purple eyes, and the other with a curly silvery mess with soft brown eyes, living at the edge of the forest in Essos. At that time, I almost gave up. I decided I would try one last time. I was sure to be disappointed."

He sniffed at his neck, inhaling the sweet, sweet smell, savoring it. Lucerys focused his gaze on Aemon, determined to not look beside him.

"But then a brat ran up to me with the same knife that mutilated me years ago. And the omega of my nightmares showed himself to me, clad in such thin clothes in such a cold weather."

"Why come at all? Why couldn't you let me go?" He coughed out, and this time, blood came out of his lips. He tried wiping it off.

"Oh Lucerys." He sighed, as if disappointed he would ask that. He grabbed his chin, forcing Lucerys to face him. He wiped the remaining blood off his lips, staring at it with such hunger.

"You're mine. I have searched the world for you, I've gone so far as fly to the edge of Old Valyria just to look for you. I flew through the seas and the lands at the very chance of you being there. Now that I have you again, I won't be letting you go. You will be with me until the end of your days, until your last breath. That is your punishment."

Lucerys felt his heart flutter, and he hated himself. He hated himself for still loving the man who killed his family, he hated himself for falling for his words. That worst part of all was the fact that he could feel it. The sincerity, the love so close to obsession. As he saw Aemond lean in, he closed his eyes.

He gave himself completely. And the dragon finally caught his prize.

--------

Westeros never thought they would ever welcome the return of their omega Prince, the once-thought dead husband of the Prince Regent, and their two sons. Servants whispered of how Prince Aegon III cried in arms, with Prince Viserys II still in shock. Lord Corlys hugged his grandson, and Lucerys accepted his embrace.

The new Princes Baelon and Aemon were heavily scrutinized by the green council, but it only took one word from Aemond to get put them in line. He reinstated Lucerys as Prince-Consort, to the dismay of the council, but they could do nothing. Aemond was not Aegon, not a puppet, but a powerful individual.

Soon, the Targaryen family began to rebuild themselves back to their former glory, with Vhagar birthing to five dragon eggs, and Lucerys being pregnant once again.

When Aegon III and Jaehaera were old enough, Aemond passed the crown to them, and took his family to Driftmark to live the rest of their days.

-----------

I wrote too many sad one shots about those two. I think they deserve a break, so here's a happy ending. Enjoy!

*sidenote, this is a different au from "The Past Repeats Itself".

(tell me what you think....👀👀)

#aemond targaryen #aemond x lucerys #lucemond #lucerys velaryon #lucerys x aemond #aemond one eye #alpha aemond #omega lucerys #aemond found lucerys #with his sons #i made it happy this time #I SWEAR

[yearningaces]

just read the angsty Nyx dead partner one.

now lets go for Ofius next, something something humans killing his lil lover cause they think that the giant´s partner is a traitor or something

love angst, gimme some please

H A MY BOY IS GOING T H R O U G H IT

Ofius has a moral compass only due to his lil love. You are the only solace in the hellish world he's known. His God given light in darkness.

You think he'd be rational?

Nyx is self destructive upon his partners demise.

Ofius is just destructive.

If he has your beloved tiny body he'll mourn, wailing, crying out with the strength in his lungs to shake the mountains near him. He'll carry your corpse into your shared home. Bring you to the giant bed he made to share, and lay you down, tucking you in amidst his choking sobs, so gentle and tender in each loving caress.

Once you're tucked in for the final time, he'll press the softest kiss he can manage to the top of your head. He does his best to keep his tears from falling on your peacefully still form.

Then, as quietly as possible, he leaves and locks the door behind him. From there, he hunts.

For example sake, if it was a human that did this, the entire village will run red with blood. His lil love is gone, no one can tell him to stop now and he never will.

Ofius will tear homes from the ground, occupants be damned and he'll throw the entire house into the next one, into a fleeing crowd, stomp on others, tear them all away, return them to rubble.

He'll tear his hands into the earth, uproot the wells the foundations, the structures those humans constructed. They took his home away so theirs will be laid to ruin.

His rampage isn't over though.

It never will be until he physically can't anymore

See, now that he has his lil love, his light, his life, he can't go back to the desolate existence without them. He just can't, let him die, let him die please, by nature's will take him, tear his heart out, end his torment and suffering and misery, let him die.

He'll keep going. Attacking anything that reminds him of your end. Anything that you loved is spared with sorrowful glances but anything else is going to die.

He won't stop. He won't sleep, he won't eat, he won't drink. He just keeps going. Keeps destroying.

When he feels his body ready to give out, ready to keel over into an unrestful final slumber does he return home.

He's bloody and damaged with his reckless refusal to not care how he hurts in his own rampage.

He's silent as he kneels at the bedside, staring at your now rotting corpse. He doesn't care though. But he can't touch you with his blood stained form. Refusing to disgrace you even now. Instead, he just watches as if waiting for a breath that will never come.

When he feels his heart slow, he rest his head on the very edge of the bed, refusing to look away from you as he finally speaks. A broken tone as if he'd swallowed gravel and sand for years. His voice weak with sorrow and a sense of loss he's never known before. "... Pr'cious... Y' gave this horrible wr'tch love... Y' lov'd, So did I... Lil love."

Ofius knows he's on his last words, he's struggling with each beat of his heart, trying to keep his eyes open to keep gazing at you just a moment more, but ultimately he closes them. Trying to remember you as you were, bright and loving and everything. "... thank ya, lil love..."

...

"...thank..."

...

The home once filled with light and love and warmth is cold and silent.

#letters of yearning #x reader #gender neutral reader #monster boyfriend #ofius the giant #giant x reader #giant x tiny #tw death #tw blood mention #tw death mentioned