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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 11: Visitors

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. Your babes meet their family.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs for editing this monster! Thank you also to @evisnotok and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture.

You are startled awake by the sound of crying.

Jolting up before your mind truly registers the sound, it takes you a moment to remember why it is that you have roused. You rub your eyes and yawn, peering to the side as the wailing multiplies, two thready, discordant pitches begging for someone, anyone to notice.

Daemon groans beside you. “Fucking hells.” His voice is muffled by the pillow, timbre lacking the heat his words imply. “We were just up, weren’t we?”

You reach out to whack him for the profanity, arm striking across the span of his back. He grunts with the impact.

“I will take your daughter,” you mutter, already untangling yourself from the sheets, “but your son also begs for attention.”

Rolling from the bed behind you, he says, “Fussy thing.”

You smile. It is true that Aelys is the more demanding of the pair, and you are certain it is her sharp squalling that dragged you from unconsciousness in the first place. You ache with every step and your thickly lined smallclothes squelch uncomfortably from the remnants of afterbirth, denser and of greater volume than your moon’s blood ever had been. Your body still experiences the shock of it all, but it is difficult to feel aggrieved when your eyes alight on the pair of pale-haired miracles fussing in the cradle.

Your thought had been correct, indeed. While Rhaenar’s cries quieten at the brush of your fingers across his cheek, your daughter only sobs harder at the contact. In the weak light of early dawn, her flushed face and stubborn frown are easy to see, wrinkled features contorting in as furious an expression as an infant less than a sennight old can possibly muster. Her knees jerk against her wrappings, the only part of her that can gain any traction within the firm swaddle you have placed her in.

Lifting her up and carefully manoeuvring her into your arms, you coo sympathetically. “Rhovus riñus.” Loud girl, you call her, gently settling her fragile head in the crook of your elbow. Mind her neck, mind her neck, you think, a whisper repeating itself over and over again. It is overly cautious of you, perhaps, but you do not wish to inadvertently harm your babe. “Skorio syt ñāqiot hīghā?” Why are you screaming at sunrise?

Lashes fluttering and lip quivering, she cranes toward the sound of your speech. Though you know she cannot see properly yet, you swear her gaze is trained on you, muzzy and unfocused. She kicks again at the feel of your thumb brushing over her pout, angry soft breaths puffing from tiny lungs. That raw, wrenching feeling of violent love wells up as it does each time you behold these lives you have made, bringing with it the urge to bar the entrances and dash the eyes from the skulls of all those who dare to look upon your little ones.

“Kesrio syt zijo kepo syt ēdrunon iotāptios daor.” Because she has no respect for her kepa’s rest. Daemon grumbles, the warmth of his body spreading into yours as his hands fall to the cradle on either side of you, bracketing you in. He proffers a drowsed, aimless press of lips to your temple, sliding down to your cheekbone as he sets his chin to your shoulder and peers down at the troublemaker in your arms. “Vȳs kiragon lo ziry gaomas jaelza, hm?” She wants the world to wake when she does, hm?

You are sure this is a quality inherited from your uncle. From all accounts, you had been naught but a quiet, pleasant infant, scarcely to be heard unless in great need of the necessities for survival. It entertains you greatly to muse upon Daemon’s penchant for commotion being passed to his daughter, your daughter. Already she shows the signs of such a fate.

“She hungry?” His palm spans the circumference of her scalp and then some, a gentle ruffling of snow-fuzzed skin—your colouring, his colouring—that coaxes a vexed scrunch and whine from your girl.

“No,” you say, passing your thumb back over her mouth. She does not attempt to suckle at it. Good. Freda, the wetnurse, is absent from her pallet. You are not yet able to fill both their bellies alone, your milk thin as it is. “Just wanting her mama and papa, I think.”

There must be something soporific about the hum of mother and father conversing, for by now Aelys’s haranguing has petered off to a manageable grizzle. She is clearly unhappy with her present state, though you are glad she has chosen not to be quite so combative about it.

Rhaenar’s whimpers begin anew below you.

“Oh, kepus…”

Daemon readily slides around you and plucks the babe from the cradle with a deftness borne of familiarity. You do not know if it unnerves or reassures you that you yourself had helped shape this skill, once a newborn niece to the budding Rogue Prince.

He sighs, cupping the back of your son’s head to his shoulder with a hand propping him up under the rear. “Kesīr māzīs, ñuhus trēsys.” Come here, my son.

He sways slowly, and you can only watch spellbound as the motion silences the little boy entirely. Your husband’s lips curve in that gentle, aching countenance reserved for only the quietest, most unguarded moments, his nose brushing along the slope of Rhaenar’s skull.

“Jeva idaña pelrar issa,” he continues, glancing at you impishly. “Īlōn valī hēnkirī humbisi.” Your sister is a menace. Us men have to stick together.

“Lies. Lies and slander, my darling,” you say to your daughter, spinning on your heel to convey her imperiously to the bed.

Your jesting march reaches a quick and abrupt halt as the cramping of your belly reminds you why it is that you are confined to your chambers for the time being. You stop, waiting for the discomfort to pass, clutching the heft of your babe to you tightly enough that she squawks with the indignity of it.

“Give her to me,” Daemon says firmly, hand rubbing soothingly at your waist. “Get back under the covers.”

“But you have—”

“I can bloody well hold two babes, you know.” He levies an expression of utmost stubbornness your way. “You, however, shouldn’t even be up. You’ve scarcely begun to heal after shoving them both from your cu—”

“Language,” you hiss, passing Aelys into the care of your uncle so that you may hobble back to your safe haven. It is still warm beneath the blankets, and you gratefully press your chilled feet into the temperate spaces so as to regain some measure of sensation in your toes. “I wish you would not use foul words in front of them,” you say, rearranging the pillows on either side of you unhurriedly. If you move too fast, a fresh bout of soreness will plague you. “If the first thing they say is something horrid they have learned from you…”

“… then they’ll prove themselves adept pupils, won’t they?” Daemon smirks, sitting himself upon the edge of the mattress.

You stretch forth to take your daughter back, propping her on your lap and unbinding the cloth that keeps her so unhappily restrained. Her little arms lift as though in jubilation the very instant she is free, the knot of frustration between her translucent brows smoothing and her legs curling up in a manner much like the pose she had decided was most comfortable while still in your womb.

“Besides, we’ve a while until that becomes a problem,” your husband says. You are only partly listening, utterly engrossed in the clench and unclench of her small fists as you shift her, swaddling cloths and all, to one arm. “Not as though they’re performing dramatic orations any time soon.”

You do not get the chance to scold him yet again for the profanity, for your other arm is promptly occupied by your son. The movement startles him but briefly. Squeaking with the jolt of sudden movement, he promptly curls into the heat of your skin emanating through your shift, smacking sleepy lips and wiggling his feet against your belly before dropping into slumber.

Rhaenar is a different sort of creature to his sister. Whether it be that he allows her to make complaints vociferously enough for them both or that he simply does not have any, he is a solemn thing, content enough to while away the hours slumbering or blinking new eyes up at the world, aimless, as though deep in thought.

He looks a little like an old man, you think to yourself, charmed by the frowning pucker that forms on his dreaming face. The peace in his darling visage is such that you feel your own lids droop, the comforting weight of happy babes lulling you quicker than any draught or brew could.

Aelys is fire and blood and retribution, the very image of her father. But Rhaenar… he is you. Calm and introspective, the cool that acts as balm to the stinging burn of tempestuousness.

Nothing pleases you more than to have given new life in equal measure, to have given Daemon both a child he may love for those traits he admires in you and another in whom he may see his own reflection. In whom he may learn to love the parts of himself that he has so long despised.

Of course—being her father’s daughter—Aelys is not one to stay still and silent for too long. Rhaenar begins to stir when she whines, twisting uncoordinated limbs and kicking her heels into his.

“Go back to sleep with our boy, hm?” Daemon leans down first to brush a kiss on Rhaenar’s velvety crown, then up to your lips, his smokeleatherspice scent filling your nostrils and his calloused palm etching tender along your jaw. “I’ll take this one for a time,” he says against your mouth, drawing back to lift Aelys from you with feigned resignation. He tuts down at her with a gnawing sort of softness as she complains further, striking out at his proffered finger. “Perhaps her fit will abate with some fresh air.”

“Do not go far,” you say, eyes already closing as you turn to your side to face your son, your firstborn. The babe does not even notice you making yourself comfortable, drawing him ever closer so that you can feel the line of him against you, small head to tiny toes.

Daemon grunts an affirmative. He would not risk Rhaenar toppling from the bed or being smothered. The last thing you register before sleep claims you entirely is the sound of his low hum, fading with each step he takes toward the balcony.

“Brand new to the world, young madam, and already tormenting your brother? A little dragon, that’s what you are…”

Three days. Three days in total are all that is granted to you before the visitors become truly persistent.

To be fair, you had assumed they would barge in on the very first morn, heedless of the alarm and the strife your wearied form had been put through over what had ultimately been a relatively swift labour. And yet, you had been blessed with four entire days in which none but those necessary—Ūlla and Gerardys and Rhaenyra and your ladies, among others—entered your chamber, giving you hours to learn these strange beings who had housed themselves in your womb for the better part of a year.

Alas, you muse, joggling the arm full of a squirming Aelys to soothe her. I cannot keep them to myself forever.

Your hair is combed and braided, your skin scrubbed to tingling and your simple gown pristine as you sit with your babes in your grasp, awaiting the arrival of your guests. They have been fed, in part by you and the rest from Freda. The wetnurse sits on the chaise with Jeyne and Bethany, darning shirts for the soldiers of the Keep with good cheer. You can tell she unnerves them both. She is remarkably like Ūlla in vulgarity, no doubt astonishing their virtuous sensibilities.

“That Aron.” She snickers, winking cheekily at Jeyne. “I’d let ‘im do whatever he wanted to me. Fine, fine arms. Nice ears. Big feet. You know that they say, don’t ya? Bigger the feet, bigger the co—”

“That is—very lovely!” Bethany says, dropping her own embroidery. Jeyne is so violently flushed that you are concerned she may faint away. You snicker quietly to yourself on the bed.

Though you feel well enough by now to walk about with manageable discomfort, you remain all but chained to the mattress, reclined in stately pomp below the covers as though you are an invalid. To Daemon, you may as well be.

“Need anything?” he asks, smoothing a stray lock from your cheek. Clearly, he is ignoring all conversation taking place by the balcony.

“No.” You beam. You have everything you could want.

He stands as the door opens, revealing Laenor and Harwin with the children in tow. Your sister takes the rear with Ūlla, herding them through the entryway and into the room while hushing their excited chatter to a low buzz. Jeyne, Bethany and Freda abruptly rise, ushering themselves through the door of your adjoining solar after dropping a brief curtsey.

“Is that them?” Daeron steps forth from Ūlla’s side, shy at first, then emboldened when Daemon waves him over, hand ruffling his hair as he passes. “Is that…”

“Come here,” you say, watching with fondness as your young brother clambers up with utmost care. His eyes remain fixed on the babes with curiosity and a distinct nervousness. “Come see your niece and nephew.”

He settles himself by your knee, peering down at each infant in turn, studying the faces of these new interlopers. You know not what he thinks.

“Which one is the boy? And the girl?” His small pudgy finger tracing the shell of Rhaenar’s ear. He has chosen well. Your son whinges slightly at the contact but does not make a commotion of it as his sister likely would. Daeron grins, riveted. “They look like you and Nuncle, and me and ‘Nyra.”

“They do.” Daemon laughs, wedging himself beside you. Holding out his own finger to Rhaenar, you feel your husband’s soft exhale as the babe grips automatically at his father’s flesh, little digits just barely wrapping around his own, much larger one. “This fine lad is Rhaenar,” he tells your brother, “while this bold thing”—he taps your daughter on the nose, chuckling when she grouches and flushes red at the imposition—“is Aelys.”

“They’re pretty.” Daeron reaches for his little niece’s hand. She blinks up at him, her wafer-thin nails scraping across his palm, though she seems to find his touch unobjectionable for the time being.

“The prettiest,” you murmur, eyes blurring at the sight. My family.

Bearing and birthing these babes has transformed you into an ocean, perpetually leaking water at the slightest of provocations. You cannot help it. Your brother and your uncle—your husband, your lover—and your son and your daughter are all nestled together with you here, safe, unshakeable in spite of your great trials.

“I wanna see.”

“Luke—”

“No!” You shake your head, glancing up at Laenor. “No. Let him meet his cousins. In fact, there is plenty of room on this bed for you all.”

You lift your elbows just slightly as the mattress jostles about, Rhaena tucking herself against you while the boys and Baela scramble to seek a good vantage point.

Luke leans over Jace’s back to examine them. “Aw,” he says, “they’re not even awake. I want to play with them!”

“They just came out,” Baela hisses, nudging him with her shoulder. “They can’t play yet, stupid.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Get off me,” Jace grumbles.

“Boys,” Rhaenyra says, tugging Harwin along to the side of the bed. “If you’re going to fight, then I’ll have Ser Lorent collect you for your training this very moment.”

“Sorry,” they each say in turn, untangling from each other to sit next to each other, squeezed tight between Daeron and Baela.

“I’m glad you aren’t hurt,” Rhaena says quietly, her chin digging into your arm as she cranes her neck. “Like Mama was.”

Your gut twists low at the reminder of Laena.

Lying abed in a pool of blood—

“I thought I was going to die—”

Face ashen and bloodless, frozen forevermore—

You swallow back the hurt, trammelling it within the iron-wrought cage deep, deep in your soul. All you can do is turn your cheek to press your lips to Rhaena’s crown, silently sharing in her melancholy.

Harwin clears his throat. “… Congratulations, Princess.” He tries to smile, but it falls flat. You wonder when life will afford him respite from the cycle of anguish and betrayal. Baela extricates herself from the gathering before you, shuffling across the mattress toward her father. “And you, Prince Daemon. They are… they are bonny babes, the both of them.”

“Yes,” Ūlla says sagely, patting the man on the elbow. Harwin squints at her, the subtle shift in the arch of his brow a tell-tale sign of his befuddlement. “Very nice, both of them. Look like you, Princess.”

Your uncle offers some response of haughty appreciation, the buzz of it traversing from his chest and through your skin. You do not hear the precise words for your gaze is fixed upon Baela, who has decided to change course and wander past Harwin entirely. Evidently, she has elected herself to the role of cradle inspector.

She stares down at the bedding with a frown. “Where are the eggs?” she asks loudly, looking back at you. The others jump; only you had been watching your little cousin’s adventure. “The dragon eggs aren’t in here.”

“They’re by the hearth,” Daemon says, an indulgent quirk to his mouth. “We must be sure the babes are hale and hearty enough for fresh dragonlings to crawl about in their bed with them, don’t we? Their bones have to harden after spending so long sleeping in their mother’s belly.”

“They have soft bones?” Daeron whispers to himself, alarmed, snatching his hand away as though further pressure might shatter little Rhaenar’s skull entirely. Your son snuffles against your chest, inciting a slow-rising warmth in your breasts.

Oh, dear. Not now.

“Speaking of dragons”—Laenor’s voice is raised, eyes rolling at his former comrade-at-arms—“when are you going to visit that godsawful brute of yours, cousin?”

Never have you been gladder for your goodbrother’s timing. “Hm?”

“Your bloody—” He winces sheepishly at the warning scowl Rhaenyra offers him. “Your… labours sent your dragon into quite the state.”

Your sister motions to the children, encouraging them to join Baela. Jace and Luke engage in a silent shoving tournament as they amble forth, necessitating Ūlla’s intervention. She grabs each boy by the shoulder and cleanly splits them apart, guiding them onward with nary an admonishment to be heard. Meanwhile, Rhaena and Daeron drift toward the open chest by the cradle, inspecting the collected sundries for the babes laid therein.

“I thought the whole Keep would go up in flames,” Laenor says. “Next time, warn us when you go to the birthing bed. I’d like to be far, far away from the threat of immolation.”

Rhaenyra thumps him in the chest hard enough that he chokes on his attempt to draw breath. Daemon snorts.

You remember little of the birth, to be truthful. The hours seemed to pass oddly, in dribbles of awareness amidst a wash of agony, distorted, meaningless. You recall the bare facts, of course. Waking to the cramping in your back and in your belly; wondering if Rhaenar would split you apart from womb to chest; the awful foreboding sense that Aelys may well kill you if you could not amass some strength left to finish the task; your first glance at the bloodied, screaming forms of your babes. But the rest…

“I thought I imagined it,” you say, ruminating over those moments in which your cries had wavered in your own ears, had coalesced and reformed into draconic shrieks, thready, duplicated. In those moments, you were a dragon, your blood was fire in your veins and between your legs and bursting in your lungs and heart, and you felt and heard yourself as girl and beast at once, together, whole, power and magic fuelling you to the racking end. “Athfiezar… he was calling for me?”

Laenor nods with a nervous chuckle. “You could say that. It was terrifying. Almost like he… felt it himself.”

Rhaenyra’s voice is soft, reflective. “Some say Targaryens are closer to gods than men. We owe that to the dragons, yes. But perhaps there is truth enough in it. A bond exists between our spirits and theirs unlike any other.”

He was with me. Of course he was with me.

How many weeks had passed since you were last able to see Athfiezar? To feel the ground shake beneath your feet with his every movement? To scramble atop his mighty frame and take off, to feel the wind whip through your hair and your organs shift inside your body as his wings beat a drum-like tempo across the sky? To stare into viridescent eyes and sense the pulse of life thrumming to the same rhythm as yours? Your heart squeezes with longing, fierce and tormenting.

“We’ll visit them both soon,” Daemon finally says, hand warm on your knee.

Unlike you, he had not been restricted from the arduous walk to Caraxes’s latest island haunt—but in those final days when the thought of him leaving your rooms seemed utterly intolerable, he had foregone his visits, remaining sequestered with you with remarkable forbearance. Sometimes you hear Caraxes’s piping song in the distance, plaintive and searching.

Your lips twist gratefully as you look at your uncle. He understands.

“My mother took me flying on Meleys less than two sennights after I was born,” he says, glancing down at the babes. Rhaenar is awake, staring intently at his father. It is as though he is absorbed by every word that falls from his mouth. “My children ought to have the same.”

You cannot help but to balk. “They are too young and too little to fly on dragonback—”

He laughs, patting your covered thigh. “They’re Targaryens, sweetling. Dragon-riding is in their blood.”

“I know, I know.” Still, you loathe the idea of taking them high above the earth where they may catch cold or freefall from loose hands. Another part of you thrills at the idea of introducing your son and daughter to their birthright.

What is a Targaryen without their dragon? Your father comes to mind. It is not a pleasant association, though admittedly he serves to support Daemon’s argument rather aptly. If our spirits are driven by fire, you think, then his has long since been snuffed.

Predictably, Aelys begins to cry, effectively ending the visit. You pass the babe to your husband so that he may mollify her displeasure by rocking her around the room, humming deep below his breath. Rhaenyra and Laenor and Harwin offer parting well-wishes to you and Rhaenar. You giggle when each of the children offer sweet kisses to the cheeks of each infant. Luke plugs his ears with his fingers before he leans in to press his lips to Aelys’s red face.

That evening, you decide to place the dragon eggs in the cradle. You watch, interested to see if even the slightest contact might bring forth the destined mounts of your twins. It is probably naïve of you to feel so disappointed when there is no change. The babes sleep on, undisturbed by the settling weight of the new additions.

“They’ll hatch when they’re ready,” Daemon whispers into your hair, arms solid as they slide round your form.

Your uncle is firm, hot, the hard line of his shaft finding purchase in the divot of your lower back through layers of fabric, but he makes no attempt to seek relief from you. You are glad. There is no room in you for desire. He seems content to touch and touch alone.

“I know. I just… how long does it take?” you murmur.

“As long as needs be. Give it time.”

You huff, taking one final look—at the babes, at the eggs, still and silent and peaceful—before turning in his arms, resting your own upon his so that you may slide your hands up past his shoulders and neck, trailing fingers across the stubble on his jaw. His palms are brands on your waist, your spine, your rear.

“Thank you,” you say. Such simple words—but the import of them is immeasurable.

‘Thank you for reassuring me. For being here. For loving me, and loving them, too.’ The words are stuck in your throat. You cannot say them aloud, but your body can impress their meaning upon him.

His eyes are crinkled in that way you adore when you crane yourself upward, searching out his lips with your own. There is something pure about the meeting of mouths that follows, the dip and glide of tongue that ought to feel lewd, charged, and indeed it carries a spark that could very easily be stoked but not now, not in this moment. He tastes of wine and home, his breath humid, the rumble in his ribcage buzzing into your bones. You sigh as he lays claim to what is his, tilting your head to accept him.

When it is over, it does not feel like an ending. He strokes along the curves and hollows of your figure, caressing child-widened hips and swelled belly and milk-heavy breasts at a languid pace. It is observation rather than invitation that plays upon his face as he studies the changes he has wrought, hooded eyes scanning you, a twist of pride or smugness or arrogance as if to say ‘yes, I did this, I remade you into the mother of my children inside out, you are mine mine mine’. But there is also great affection there, the earnest softness of desperate, abiding devotion.

You do not need words. Nor does he. Yawning, you follow Daemon to the bed, slipping below the sheets at his gentle coaxing prods. He smooths the covers over you, stroking the stray curls back behind your ears before blowing the candle out.

Each passing moment feels too short, too quickly over and done with. You find yourself hyper-aware of your son and daughter’s development, noting their budding responsiveness as they test their limbs and strengthen the projection of their cries. Mere instances are as full of occasion as entire days. You can almost swear that you are watching them grow before your very eyes.

Aelys’s silver-white hair sprouts thicker, a moonbeam lustre that triggers half-formed memories of a smiling woman that looks as you do now, but older, a deep-seated weariness forming lines upon a face not yet aged enough to have weathered. When your daughter smiles—‘tis instinct, no more, though you like to believe she is happy in your arms—you see something impish, mischievous. You see Daemon.

Rhaenar’s stare is sharper, more alert, seeming intent and focused as you nurse him or lay kisses on his round tummy or sing songs from your childhood. His fingers tangle in your tresses, tugging hard enough to hurt, little lips peeling back to show off pink gums as he grouses while awaiting his turn for your attention. He is patient, your precious boy, but he craves the softness far more than his sister does. It is unbearably sweet.

Though they have thus far been but a fleeting part of your life, you cannot remember a time before your babes were born. Surely it had been a hollow, meaningless existence. Now, you would be utterly content to pass the hours doing nothing but cosying your children amongst the blankets and pillows fluffed and gathered on your mattress, shrouding them in warmth and safety. You would listen to their every breath, track each flailing movement, cherish the scent of newness that clings to them like syrup. Your uncle would join you all after his daily responsibilities were done, sweeping in like a mighty conqueror returned from the horrors of battle and curling around his family. He would kiss you and croon soft words in your mother tongue to Rhaenar and settle Aelys to sleep, and everything would be completely, utterly perfect.

A wonderful dream. Alas, the peace of it is not to be.

“What?”

The contentment of the previous days has been replaced by shock and a steadily banking anger. Daemon levies Ser Lorent with a look of such sternness that you wonder how the man does not quail in his boots.

“The King, your Highness,” the knight repeats, eyes flicking to you. You grip the chair before you tightly. “He is here. The Silver Firedrake has just docked.”

Papa’s flagship. “He has brought the court to Dragonstone?” you ask, stomach sinking. You are not ready to see him. You do not wish to see Alicent. You cannot abide the thought of those vipers in such close quarters with your children.

“No.” Ser Lorent shakes his head. “He… he has arrived alone.”

You look to Daemon, confused. It is not likely that your father had received the news of Rhaenar and Aelys’s births so quickly, and undoubtedly impossible for him to have already made the journey. And to have travelled without the Hand or the Queen or his bevy of attendants…

You release the chair. “Thank you for informing us, Ser,” you say to the Kingsguard, folding your hands together before you. It is difficult to abstain from digging your nails into the skin of your palm. “You may return to your post.”

Ser Lorent bobs his head, eyes lowering in deference. “Princess.”

“Something’s going on.” Daemon stares pensively at the door following the knight’s exit. You make your way toward him. “For him to have come without his lackeys or the Hightower whore—”

“If he has not requested to see us”—you lay a hand on his arm—“then we should not entertain his presence here.”

A noncommittal sound rumbles through him, his countenance as harsh as the craggy silhouette of the Dragonmont. Athfiezar could carve a cavern to himself in those lines upon his face, you muse. He appears older than his thirty-six years, tired, a tension to his frame that you know you cannot ease, and not just from the incessant disruption to the evening hours your children have brought in so short a span and the burden of caring for more than just oneself.

It is the way he always becomes when the King is mentioned: silent, brooding, sullen. You despise the effect your father has on a man so fierce and formidable as your husband. It is most unfair.

“Kepus,” you say, an idea forming. “We should go visit Athfiezar and Caraxes. Introduce the babes.”

His brow raises. “Now?”

You would rather not. They are still far too small. But the notion seems far more attractive than waiting about, wondering if the King might summon him or you or both, driving yourselves mad with possibilities. In addition, it is sure to be a worthy distraction.

“Now.” With a teasing little smile, you lean into him, winding your arms around him and propping your chin on his chest. “They are both awake, and in pleasant moods. I even believe the sun is out.”

“Hm.” His mouth twists reluctantly, finally shifting his gaze down to you. “It is tempting to know I’d sleep tonight without being roused by your shrieking beast.”

You roll your eyes, pushing away from him to prepare.

Brief as you imagine the outing will be, it is nonetheless strange to be attired in daily wear designed for company. You had nearly forgotten how itchy the sleeves of some of your outfits are, how restrictive they are upon the bust. Between the padding against your womanhood and the padding over your nipples, any gown you wear is sure to make for an unpleasant experience. Thankfully, your ladies choose one that laces at the front. Though it is a little tight around the middle—your belly is still quite large, after all—you do cut a fair figure dressed in the traditional Targaryen red and black.

Daemon appears to think so, too.

It is an older gown, and so you find that your breasts spill over the top of the neckline in a fashion that is clearly noticeable, though you had been assured by Jeyne and Bethany that the result is not indecent. Your uncle’s eyes fall immediately to this change, alighting with crude intent and grinning as you venture near.

He frowns when you hand Aelys to him instead, casting a longing look at your revealed flesh. “Kōres maegītsos.” Wicked little temptress, he mutters, hoisting your daughter up so her head is braced against his shoulder. She most prefers this vantage, though you are unsure if her eyes yet possess the capability to see beyond what is directly before her.

Beaming, you flutter coy lashes as you lean on tiptoes to brush your lips across his cheek, dodging his free arm so that you might retrieve Rhaenar from the wetnurse.

A soft breeze blows from the shore as your small party—yourself and Daemon, Ser Lorent, Ser Alton (who had graciously accepted a post as your children’s guard) and a distinctly white-faced Freda—walks the path past Aegon’s Garden to the craggy cliffside. It is a long drop from the grassy plateau, a straight line down to the beaches below. On some days, the winds are so strong that anyone who dares to stand upon the precipice risks falling to their death. You move slowly, in part for your own sake and especially for Ser Alton. He may have skill with the blade, but his leg pains him still.

Caraxes tends to prefer sunning himself on the grassy knolls that spread across the bluff and had only recently begun to be joined by your own dragon, albeit reluctantly. They make for a strange pair, though you are glad to see your boy welcomed by one of his own kind.

Athfiezar must detect your arrival on the air. His massive form rumbles low from beside your uncle’s beast, tail whipping with agitation and sending stray rocks careening over the side of the bluff. Caraxes uncoils himself at the disturbance, his serpentine neck gliding like so many snakes as he stretches out to take in his visitors.

“We ought to greet them ourselves first, acquaint them with the babes’ scent,” Daemon says, coming to a stop beside you. He passes Aelys off to Freda, who keeps herself firmly behind the gold-plated Kingsguard. “Here’s hoping Athfiezar doesn’t decide to expand his diet to include Targaryens.”

“He knew of their existence before I did.” Rhaenar whinges when he is placed in the crook of the wetnurse’s arm. The warmth of her body must be too difficult to refuse, though, for he settles easily enough. You turn to levy Daemon with an unimpressed glare. “And what of Caraxes? Perhaps he will be the one to behave abominably.”

He scoffs. “Hardly.”

Though the Blood Wyrm is famed for his temper, you know Daemon speaks true. Of the pair, Athfiezar is the likelier to require caution in approaching. You are the only person that might consider themselves safe in his presence.

Your dragon hisses warningly as Daemon makes his way toward his own mount, unfurling his wings to display the full breadth of coal-dark, leathery membranes pockmarked by scarring. The threat position is surprising. You had assumed that Athfiezar tolerated him well enough. Perhaps not, you think, eyeing the beast as your uncle ignores him entirely to converse in low tones to Caraxes, too far away now for you to hear.

The rattling pitch abates when you venture forth, reaching up with tentative fingers to trace the outline of an old injury on his maw. He pauses; growls. His wings flatten down, folding in upon themselves. And, finally, he cranes his neck down, angling his head so that he may look at you with a single fixed, unblinking eye. I remember you, it seems to say.

“Yne issa, ñuhus taobus.” It is me, my boy. You keep your voice soft, calming, guilt roiling in your gut like hot lava. It has been far, far too long since last he saw you.

In an echo of another day—another time—he shifts about, the inner folds of his nostril expanding as he takes a deep sniff, relearning the aroma unique to you, The resulting gust of air when he exhales bursts against you in a concentrated stream. At once, his tail ceases to lash about; his spine no longer hunches; all traces of defensiveness vanish like dust on the wind. His giant muzzle presses into your touch like an eager pup, driving you back several paces. You giggle even as you stagger, thrilled.

For a moment, you had worried that your moons-long absence would undo his memory of you. You ought not to have fretted so, for a dragon’s recollection far outlasts any man.

“Avy ozmijetan.” I have missed you, you whisper, warming your palms on his scaled flesh, searing in its heat as it always is. He huffs. You imagine he is reproaching you for staying away. “Drējī usōven.” I am very sorry.

This time, he snorts, a current of smoke stinging your eyes to streaming. You and he do not share the same language, but you nonetheless know in your heart of hearts that all is forgiven. It is a sense just out of the realm of understanding—something you cannot fully describe, but a glow that spreads soothing through the very marrow of your bones. A true bond between rider and dragon, as your blood and his have called you for.

Athfiezar snarls, his lips sliding back to reveal jagged teeth that glint like ivory in the light, the crested spines extending along his skull and down his neck flexing with tension. He is no longer paying mind to you.

You turn to see Daemon sauntering over from Caraxes, hair ruffled by the breeze and shining brilliant white. It is a stark contrast with the cut of his charcoal coat, the hem fluttering aimlessly, and so the matching snow-capped heads of your babes in each of his arms is exceedingly difficult to miss.

“Oh, do be quiet, you great brute,” he says when he is within earshot, brow raised as though said brute was a particularly vexing gnat rather than a colossal, hulking firebreather. “Don’t frighten the hatchlings.”

“Don’t call them hatchlings.” Glaring at him, you slip your finger into Rhaenar’s loosely curled fist. It squeezes reflexively, trapping you to him. “He will think they are his next meal!”

Athfiezar rumbles his agreement. Daemon chuckles. “I doubt it. He’s obsessed with you, and these two”—he bounces Rhaenar and Aelys gently, casting a tender glance upon each—“are of your body. Your blood. He’ll recognise them.”

Already has your dragon extended the scant distance between himself and Daemon to inspect these strange companions of yours, advancing to invade your shared space in a surprisingly gregarious move. It seems the promise of novelty renders your husband a neutral participant for the time being, animosity forgotten for the sake of his interest in your quarry. Huddled close to Daemon, you watch with bated breath, waiting for your mount to make his judgement.

He remains immobile, though you can see the spasm in his eyes that indicates a subtle shift in focus, darting from you to the babes and back again. His head cocks like a bewildered hound’s.

So unwittingly hilarious is the comparison that you let out a laugh at the sight. “Ñuha rūhossa issi,” you say to him. “Zaldrītsossa, hen ñuhā iemnȳ sittis.” These are my babes. Little dragons, hatched from my belly.

There is recognition in his gaze. You know not how you know this, but it must be truth. What else can explain the echo throbbing in the recesses of your mind, the ancient sentience of thoughts that do not belong to you? It is a connection that has existed for what feels like an age, sputtered back to life after moons of dormancy.

His breath rustles as he scents you all, you and Daemon and the babes, inhaling the blend of spice and rose oil and the things that make you each unique, stripped down to their very foundations. You wonder if Rhaenar and Aelys can be traced back to you through aroma alone—if there is some sort of calling card embedded within their skin and blood that signals their belonging.

Aelys’s small, pudgy hand swings out, smacking Athfiezar against his nose. A puff of heat tousles her wispy strands, though he is not annoyed. Nor is she, astonishingly. She coos up at him, kicking her legs in what seems to you like excitement. Rhaenar gurgles at the sensation—for your dragon is much too large to have possibly avoided one babe with his deed—opting to draw the focus from his sister. He too is unafraid of the titanic beast before him. Athfiezar’s eyes snap to him, a sibilant rattle of curiosity slinking forth.

Daemon laughs. “See? They’re naturals. Born dragonriders. I told you, sweetling!”

The satisfaction in his tone is utterly endearing. He is the very image of a proud father, though your children have admittedly done little to warrant such sentiment. Still, the healthy flush of exhilaration and the happy grin that adorns his face make your heart flutter.

“Well, they will not be riding today,” you say, stifling your smile. Daemon pouts as you knew he would, and so you reassure him. “Give Athfiezar and Caraxes both time to accustom themselves to the idea of little Targaryens before we subject them to flight.”

“Hm. As long as we beat Viserys’s nine days.”

You capitulate to this, shaking your head wryly. If I refuse, you suppose, he will only seek to achieve his goal without my knowledge.

Suddenly, a reedy whistle sounds, swiftly followed by the mass of a dragon’s head knocking into you from the side. It is not violent, but the motion startles you, the periphery of your vision occupied by so much red in radiant lustre. Caraxes nudges you again, clearly displeased by having been left out of the proceedings.

“Oh! Rytsas!” You laugh, pushing him back playfully. “Īlōn imazumbagon jaelā?” Hello! Do you want to join us?

He coils his neck around you to re-examine the babes, gently touching his snout along Daemon’s arm to feel their warmth on his scales. Rhaenar wiggles against him.

“Your Highness! Your Highness!”

You turn. Ser Cargyll—you know not if it is Erryk or Arryk—comes to an abrupt halt by the waiting forms of Ser Lorent, Ser Alton and Freda. He is panting from his exertions, the brilliant gleam of his golden breastplate refracting light into your eyes with every rise and fall of his chest.

Daemon scowls. “What?”

“The King,” Ser Cargyll’s voice cracks as Athfiezar zeroes in on him, teeth bared. “His Grace has ordered your presence in the Chamber of the Painted Table.”

Your uncle sneers. “Can it not wait? We’re busy.”

Like a shadow follows his master, Caraxes rises behind his rider, extending his form high to display the full breadth of his power. The babes begin to fuss at the raised volume. There is naught you can do but soothe them with soft humming, reaching across to pet their cheeks. Daemon ignores this.

“I’m afraid not,” the knight says, glancing at your milling companions.

You cannot see his expression from here, but it appears as though he is deciding what ought to be disclosed before those gathered. He straightens; Athfiezar growls. And then, the damning revelation spills forth.

The Kingsguard’s voice is grave as he speaks. “Prince Daemon—King Viserys wishes to question you on your involvement in the death of Lord Larys of House Strong.”

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/118008595

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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daisies-daydreams · 1 year

Note

Hello hello. I’d like to request some Alejandro x F!Reader fluff where he makes her something homemade after she had a really rough day? 🥺 Ty!

Pairing: Alejandro Vargas x F!Reader Category: Fluff Warnings: Slight Angst, Toxic Work Environment/Verbally Abusive Boss, Swearing Word Count: 1,370

Author’s Note: Hi! Thank you very much for your request. My Spanish is pretty rusty, and I apologize for any mistakes (feel free to correct me). Also, I couldn't help but think of this song ("Mi Ancla") while writing this. I hope you enjoy!

MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI

You rubbed your eyes as you yawned, exhaustion seeping into your bones. You had just gotten home from a long day at work, sitting on your bed while you listened to the raindrops patter against your bedroom window. You cringed when you thought about today. Apparently, you made so many mistakes that your boss called you into his office. His harsh words still stung, venom seeping into your heart and leaving a bitter taste on your tongue.

"Are you fucking stupid? We've been over this several times."

"You can't do anything right"

"I've never had an employee make this many mistakes. Are you trying to make me look bad?"

Your nostrils flared as you released a heavy sigh. You desperately wanted to leave your job, but you didn't want to burden your boyfriend, Alejandro, with supporting you while you searched for a new one. Your fists clenched as hot tears stung your eyes. You wanted to kick and scream and punch your pillow, your frustration boiling inside of you like lava. You were so wrapped up in your thoughts that you didn't notice the front door closing. Suddenly, a pair of muscular arms suddenly wrapped around you. You squeaked before whipping your head around, your boyfriend’s warm features greeting you. His grin slipped when he saw heavy tears streaking down your face.

“¿Cariño?¿Qué te pasa?” Alejandro asked, his brows furrowed. You shook in his hold.

“Nothing,” you stated dully. He tilted his head down and gave you a knowing stare.

“(Y/N), you know you can tell me anything,” Alejandro said as he moved to sit by your side. Your bottom lip quivered before you released a pained wail. Your boyfriend was silent as he drew you in even closer. “Shh, estoy aquí,” he repeated softly, his hand coming around to stroke your frizzy hair. You sniffed and pulled back.

“I-I’m such a failure, Ale,” you sobbed. His face fell, shattered by your own words. “I can’t do anything right at my job,” you cried. Alejandro shook his head as his hands gripped your upper arms.

“Mi vida, you are far from a failure,” he assured you. Alejandro's face suddenly hardened, his eyes darkening. "Wait...was it your boss again?" he asked. You sniffed, eyes sinking to look at your lap. "Culero," Alejandro hissed through gritted teeth. His grip on you tightened as he held you close, as if to shield you from the events that occurred today. Your body trembled as he rocked you gently.

"I-I want to leave so badly," you confessed.

"You can leave, no one is going to stop you," he said innocently. You shook your head violently.

"I can't," you muttered. His brows knitted together.

“¿Por qué? Cariño, this job is making you miserable!" Alejandro said exasperatedly. You sniffled, your words caught in your throat. "(Y/N), it makes my heart ache to see you hurting this much. Whatever reason you have for staying, I'm sure its nothing compared to finding a much better job," Alejandro explained.

"I can't because I don't want to be a burden to you!" you suddenly snapped . You clasped your hands over your mouth. Alejandro leaned back, his brows raising and lips curved into a deep frown.

"A burden? Cariño, you never have to worry about being a burden to me," he cooed. You sobbed as he kissed the top of your head.

"I just...I don't want you to feel the pressure of me relying on you while I'm trying to find a new job," you sighed. He hummed.

"Even if it takes months for you to find another job, I will always be here for you," Alejandro murmured into your hair. You gripped his white shirt, as you soaked his shoulder with your tears. He placed a chaste kiss on the top of your head. “Te amo, (Y/N)," Alejandro whispered, his husky voice unwavering. You pulled your head up to look at him. A small, tired smile grew on your face.

“Gracias por todo, Ale. Yo también te amo,” you murmured. "Te amo, te amo..." you whispered like a tired, broken record. Both of you exchanged quiet glances before he leaned his head down. You sighed as he latched his lips onto yours. Alejandro was usually a very passionate lover, his words and actions always full of vigor. But now, all you felt was a soft, sweet tenderness as his lips caressed your own. You slowly closed your eyes as the rest of the world faded away with your kiss. Your head felt dizzy as he pulled away, a blissful eternity passing in a few seconds.

"Have you had dinner yet?" he asked. You nodded.

"I picked some up on the way home," you said. He hummed to himself.

“Me too. In that case, why don’t you take a shower? I can make us a little treat in the meantime,” Alejandro offered. You smiled.

“That sounds lovely,” you said. He exhaled through his nose, his hands squeezing your arms as he rose to his feet.

“Take your time, hermosa,” Alejandro said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. You nodded before he slipped through the bedroom door.

***

You took the longest shower you've ever had in your life. The warm water was a welcoming sensation, calming each and every one of your tired and aching muscles. You slipped out of the bathroom and changed into some comfortable clothes. A savory smell of something being fried wafted in from the kitchen. You smiled when you walked into the open area of your apartment. Alejandro was humming along to a song while he busied himself at the stove. Alejandro turned when he heard you enter, flashing a wide grin.

“Hola, hermosa,” he whistled, his eyes scanning you up and down. You rolled your eyes as you came around to stand at his side. You rested a hand on your hip.

“So, what delicious treat have you prepared for me tonight, Chef Vargas?” you piqued as you eyed the pan on the stove. You gasped as he grabbed your hand, twirling you around suddenly. “Ale!” you squealed. He chuckled before pulling you to him, your body flush with his. Alejandro gazed down at you, his hands coming down to gently rest on your hips. Your eyes flicked up to him.

“Bailar conmigo, cariño,” he husked into your ear. You nodded slowly, allowing the music to take over you as you rested your head on his shoulder. The rhythm was slow, gentle and steady, just like the way he guided you through the kitchen. It was so relaxing, you could’ve fallen asleep in his arms right then and there. Alejandro kissed your temple as the music began to dissipate.

You smiled as he moved some of your wet hair from your face. Your heart fluttered as you locked eyes and kissed again, this time angling your head to capture his lips more deeply. Both of you remained in your embrace before the timer suddenly screeched. Alejandro groaned before turning back to the stove. He flicked the burner off and flipped the fresh sopapillas onto a paper-towel covered plate. Your mouth watered at the sight of the golden-brown pastries.

“Is that face for the sopapillas or for me?” Alejandro teased with a cocked brow. You slapped his arm playfully, both of you chuckling as he reached into the nearby cabinet. Alejandro pulled down two containers and dusted the sopapillas with powdered sugar, then cinnamon. You were one step ahead of him, grabbing the honey from another cabinet as he whipped around to you. "Muchas gracias," he smiled before drizzling the liquid over the warm pastries.

Alejandro took you by the hand, leading you over to the couch. You smiled as you snuggled next to him, happily taking one of the treats and savoring every bite that melted on your tongue. A small smirk made it's way across your face.

"¿Qué?" Alejandro laughed. You leaned over, pressing a kiss to where some powdered sugar and cinnamon dusted the side of his mouth. He froze, eyes trained on you as you licked your lips and giggled. Needless to say, you were soon bombarded with kisses sweeter than any sopapilla.

____

Thank you for reading!/¡Gracias por leer! ❤️

A/N: I'm kind of tempted to make a Part 2. 👀

____

Translations:

¿Cariño?¿Qué te pasa? - Honey? What’s wrong? Estoy aquí - I’m here. Mi vida - My life Culero - Asshole ¿Por qué? - Why? Mi amor - My love Sí - Yes Te amo - I love you. Gracias por todo, Ale. Yo también te amo - Thank you for everything, Ale. I love you, too. Hermosa - Gorgeous Hola, hermosa - Hello, gorgeous. Bailar conmigo, cariño - Dance with me, honey.

Muchas gracias - Thank you very much.

#call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty #cod x reader #cod #cod fluff #cod angst #fluff #angst #alejandro mw2 #alejandro vargas #alejandro x you #alejandro x reader #alejandro x y/n

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marwhoa · 1 year

Text

request: none! (well technically so, technically not!)

🝮 little drabbles !

tmnt x readers; usually rottmnt

author’s note: hi! I haven’t been givin y’all anything lately, and me and my bestie *cough @tmntxthings cough* have a shared document for little writes and ideas we randomly have! Figured I’d give y’all some as an apology for my heavy lack of new writing :))) Also fair warning, my Drabble writing is very “bare bones” kind of ideas :)) not usually as descriptive as my published fics.

word count: I don’t feel like it :))

┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Mikey x Mermaid!Y/N

Mikey secretly sneaks off at night to be by the water, listening to it and watching its waves crash against the dock he sat upon. Legs kicked, disturbing the water’s surface.

He notices something disturb the waves with a splash, one that gave the oddest feeling that it wouldn’t have been a little fish. It stirs his curiosity—not enough to dare a dip into the water, though. He can’t swim, so why would he do something so foolish?—but my do his eyes search the inky abyss for it’s disruption. This night lends to no answers and neither does the next.

Imagine his amazement one day, finding the suspicious splash reoccur each time he visits the dock, but this particular day, he sees something—someone?—gazing at him with wondrous eyes and a friendly smile. It was a shine like that of a child discovering something amazing.

Bonus idea:

Mikey and his brothers are fighting villain by the docks. He gets knocked off and at first, they’re like “!! Mikey! Ah, he’ll come back up, we need to keep going” and then Donnie freezes and is like “… He’s a box turtle.” And they’re like what? “He’s a box turtle—They-They don’t SWIM, THEY DON’T SWIM, MIKEY—“

They turn towards the water, ready to leap in, when suddenly Mikey comes up and they’re like “??!?!? How?!”

Pushing him up are the frantic arms of a mermaid. All brothers are speechless, Mikey’s unconscious. Y/N stares at them then gestures frantically to the passed-out brother, trying to tell them, “ help him! give him air! do it, land creatures! “

┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Donnie x Y/N

(apocalypse angst, tw for detail)

Donnie was holding Y/N’s lifeless body in their arms, screaming at them in misdirected frustration, “WHY WERE YOU EVEN HERE, YOU NEVER BELONGED IN THE BATTLEFIELD! I TOLD YOU TO ST… TO STAY… “ He chocked on the heavy sobs and screams, wiping at his running nose, and spiraling downwards until all he could do is hold your body so tight. His screams are heard for as far as possible, compromising his position to the enemy, but there was nothing that could stop his wails.

Surrounding him are alerted Kraang monsters. Whirring, cawing, screeching—all painfully obvious signs that he’s unsafe, that he should be getting away, escaping—tucking tail and running!

And yet he doesn’t stop screaming at you, wiping hair out of your face roughly. “Open your eyes—open your GOD DAMN EYES, Y/N, PLEASE.” An alien appendage stabs through the flesh of his shoulder, jerking him forward and then back—away from you—as it violently shlunks out of the wound, but he couldn’t care less. His voice raises, cracking under the pressure as he yanks away and scrambles back to what was once you. He begs you to wake up, to please please just get up, you guys needed to get out of here!

Over and over again, he begs.

And he begs.

Begs until it’s the last thing he can say before blood fills his mouth and the last bit of life is drained out.

“ Please… “

His voice is weak, far from the strength you ever knew it had.

“ I’… “

“ I’m sorry, ju… just o… p… ”

“ open… your eyes… “

There’s just something about that inconsolable sadness, where they hold the body of someone once so full of love, begging in frustration that they please, PLEASE come back.

The choked sobs, the heavy wails, the desperation to hold them no matter the danger.

Trying their hardest to never let them out of their grasp as if that somehow symbolized facing the truth in its entirety, the truth that you were gone.

┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Donnie x Y/N

(apocalypse angst again)

Donnie’s in his lab. It’s the apocalypse. He’s tinkering away on his gear, when one of his devices dings, indicating a video has been sent. This happens whenever his tech breaks, turns off, when their location changes drastically, if he set it to do so, etc. Many reasons, so he thinks nothing of it.

He doesn’t even realize the smaller screen beside his monitor shows one of his bands have been broken, gone offline, and stopped monitoring the heartbeat and life signature of a particular someone.

He clicked on the video, planning to let it play in the background—maybe it picked up something interesting or helpful with turning the tide of this war.

He watches with a bored expression as the display boots up, until he realizes he recognizes the voice. It’s Y/N’s wristlet that sent the video in? He hadn’t even noticed she was out. Donnie casts a glance behind him, as if doing so would make her appear at his doorway, laughing loudly as she beamed her signature smile and shattered his ears with her loud voice (that he would never admit he loved, never, never ever!)

His attention is brought back to the video as she says something. “What…?” He whispers, looking down and grabbing his mouse to rewind. “What did you say…?” He whispers, leaning in with his head heavy against his palm while his elbow’s leaning into the metal desktop.

A grunt echoes through the video’s wavering audio—a mental note to update their decibel limiters is made—before an obscenity slips her lips and she growls out a, “It was risky, but Donnie will know what to do!”

He gives a prideful grin at that, chuckling as he closes his eyes and replays that in his head. ‘ Donnie will know what to do ‘ is probably the smartest thing she’s ever said, he thinks, humming a bit too peacefully. He’s brought back to his senses as her scream crackles through the recording. He stares wide-eyed at the monitor as the view of a Kraang Commander “Bot” looks down at her. Donnie grabs the sides of the computer screen, clutching tightly as he yells, “Get out of there!”, ignoring that she wouldn’t be able to hear him at all. He watches helplessly as he hears her struggle and scream, yelling insults and cursing, shouting, “For the Revolution!!” before a loud thud and crack. The video’s display has streaks through it and discoloration, indicating damage done to the wristlet. The one /attached to her arm/. Tears well up in his eyes as he shouts, “NO!” as the bot’s foot slams down, disconnecting the transmission entirely. That must have been when the file was sent to him.

He glanced over at the monitor for life signatures, seeing Y/N’s listed as “Undetectable”. Donnie feels himself become weak and light-headed. Anything on his table promptly meets the floor in a fit of rage.

Why her, he mutters.

Why was she out, he yells.

The only thing that calms him is the silhouette that appears in his doorway. He turns, shouting, “Get out, now isn’t the time!” Only to hold his breath as Y/N stands breathless and tattered up, leaning into the doorway as if it were the only thing holding her up. Frankly, based on her state, it probably was. She grins tiredly, shaking a strange circuit board in her hands. “Wh-Why the long face, Don… Donnie? Ah, sorry, I’m… H-Hey, is that my transmitter’s—“ Her eyes roll back as she slumps forward.

Y/N WOULD'VE hit the floor, if not for the desperate hold the genius Donatello had on her. He had sprinted across the room and opened his arms to her desperately. Whatever trinket she brought in could wait, slipping from her weak fingertips to think against the floor.

Best believe as soon as she woke up, a huge scolding was in place! She gave him the scare of a lifetime.

┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — 2012!Donnie x Y/N

(are you sensing who my favorite character is yet?)

I’ve had this idea for a while for 2012 donnie where y/n is his computer that got some mutagen on it

And then y/n crawls out of the fried computer, glitching all around the room before finally settling above donnie and being like “wooo !! It feels so nice to be able to be free now hey did you know you type really hard like REALY hard oh my gosh it was like a jackhammer on my back and omg your brother the orange one has the stickiest fingers ever just tap tap tapping and getting all my keys sticky oh but hey you always do your best to make sure I’m functional you’re so cool for that! Wanna know some cool funfacts? Searching Google Databases for Fun Facts, loading, ding! Hey, did you kn—“ and he’s just like “ I don’t know if I should be amazed at this literal super computer person or angry that someone more annoying than Mikey has appeared…”

Donnie’s just throwing a wrench across the room, apologizing when he hears Y/N squeak. Turns to see a part of their body glitching out from metal touching them. This tech hes working on won’t work, so they zap on over, floating above his head and leaning on top just for fun, then just goes “Searching Circuitry 62KBLG3.78K Guides on Google Database” and he’s like “What? Did you just identify—never mind that, what issue is there?” And they give a big happy grin, floating above the circuitry and holding a hand out, “One second!” They cheerfully exclaim, zapping out of the air instantly and making sparks come off the scraps he’s working on. Mans panics like holy hell what just happened where did they go when WHOOSH, the tech boots up and their body zzts out. Hands in the air gleefully, they’re like, “Finished! I did it, Donatello!” And he’s all giddy like whoa! You did?!? How did you??? And boom, friendship flourishes!

┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Casey x Y/N

(Betcha didn’t expect that?)

Y/N and Casey are out on a mission, they’re in charge of being stealth scouts given that their slick stealth abilities—best of their line.

The scene takes a turn for the worst when they’re in an overgrown building, trying to get a better angle to the scene, to the place they’re contemplating a hit on. The two of them enter a slo-mo state as a kraang tendril juts out from the middle of no where and nics Y/N in the face.

They stumble back and the two share a split second of locked-eyes before quickly making a break for it—their position has been compromised, Casey shouts through his mic. He grabs Y/N’s hand and yanks them with him as he makes a sharp turn, knowing full and well that sharp turns are their weak point. They’re trying to get to a “safe” space, running through the dilapidated halls and crumbling floors. Ahead of them is the opening, a large, long-since shattered window. If they could just leap through that, then the tech around their wrists would give them the boost they needed to escape.

So they focus on that, running as fast as possible—occasionally stumbling or falling through the floor. One helps the other, leaving no one behind.

They’re almost at the edge when an ear-splitting screech stuns Y/N for one second too many. The alien appendage slices across their thigh, rubberbanding through the wound and back to the monster behind them in a fashion similar to a serrated knife.

Y/N screams out, Casey stalls. He pivots on his foot, rushing back to them and reaches out for their hand. He can carry them, he can take it. No one gets left behind, especially not them.

Y/N shakily but swiftly takes his hand, ready to quickly pick up slack so as to not jeopardize them.

But, right before they’re hoisted up onto their feet, their blood runs cold as the monster’s tendril shlunks into Casey’s shoulder, jerking his body back. Away from Y/N, leaving their hand cold, and soon their heart heavy as his feet stumble right off the window’s crumbling edge. The alien’s ligament yanks out of his body as the boy slips down. He’s gone, so fast, as if he wasn’t standing in front of them a second ago.

Y/N is filled with adrenaline immediately as they scream so loudly that their ears ring, the wavering sound in their eardrums could never match the pain in their chest as they stumble and rush to the edge, leaping off and narrowly dodging the next attack sent their way. Falling through the air, the grappling hook around their wrist lets out a series of beeps as it detects an uncharacteristic descent, instantly swinging out to attach to nearby rock and rubble stacked firmly. Y/N ungracefully slams into the wall, scrambling for footing with an injured leg before they began their aided swing down, searching everywhere for Casey. He’s no where to be seen, the further they go and still no sign of him!

Their feet plant firmly into the ground, hundreds of feet below the building’s drop, yet still no Casey. Tears are welling up as they throw caution to the wind and cry out his name.

“ Casey! “

No answer.

“ Casey, god—god damn it, please! Where.. “

No answer, they rub their eyes harshly of the spilling tears.

“ Where are you, CASE—“

A hand clamps against their mouth. A soft yet injure—familiar, too— voice whispers into their ear, and they can’t help but melt into the hold, back pressed against his chest.

“ Y/N, you know how dangerous.. dangerous that is, don’t shout in Kraang territory..”

“ Casey! “

They hugged him tight, excruciatingly so. Scares in the apocalypse were the worst.

┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Mikey x Y/N

(apocalypse au)

Y/N sits under an old abandoned monument, around the same time as always, telling the sculpture about their day because they have no one else to listen and tell it to, being that they’re a humble nobody living outside of society in a little abode deep in a quiet forest.

One day, on a particularly heavy day, they’re telling the monument about what they saw when they went towards the city—it seemed as though there was an apocalypse of sorts beginning, so back home they ran, fearing that one day the apocalypse would encroach on their home.

When that happens, they worry what will become of their beloved friend, the unspeaking sculpture.

Sending it time to return home, they wipe their teary eyes, glance again at the stone smile of a long-forgotten hero, and leans into them for a hug.

As they do, suddenly there’s a rush of gravity. Arms wrap securely around their shooken frame as they pmf gently into the grassy beds below.

“ Whoa…”

Says the sculpture, glancing down to stare are their patron with a smile. Orange eyes flicker with a friendliness as he caresses their cheek.

“ Finally, I’m free to do this..”

┆ ── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ — Someone x unhinged!villain!Y/N

Villain!Y/N, menacing and feral. Always avoids the cops—always. That includes the brothers. You don’t really terrorize New York that often, so tbh they forget that there’s a real top shooter within their zip code.

They’ve tried to fight you once before and basically got that you are your own form of chaotic lawful, kind of like a real Robin Hood one step away from immoral, unethical. So, deeming you a step behind Hero, they leave you to your own devices. After all, most antics of yours only bring harm to their enemies, never really innocents, so of course they wouldn’t make you a priority.

One day, one of the brothers is in a real conundrum—cornered, isolated, and taken off guard. The tides of the battle teeter both ways, not exactly lending anyone an upper hand, until this player strikes a good hit to the dude’s jaw.

Imagine their shared fear when something a few paces away catches their attention: a figure, silhouetted by the light behind them, wearing a maniacal expression with a substance dripping their hands.

“Come now,”

Crack of the neck, sickeningly so,

“That one’s mine. What high horse you on to be scruffin up what’s mine, baller?”

The fighter lasts only a second of surprise, twinged with fear, before you’re in their face with frighteningly fast speed, hand gripping their face in a way that seems like slow-mo to the downed brother. He watches the fighter get risen and then slammed into the ground. Silence plateaus until finally he speaks up,

“ … Thanks? “

“ Thanks? “

You respond confusedly, eyes glinting with an emotion softer than the wild-child energy it usually embodies.

That’s all for now :)) thank you for reading uwu

If there’s any of these that you’d like to see as a longer fic, just ask I guess.

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hxlda-hxlda · 23 days

Text

black brothers... character study? microfic? i haven't a clue! but it exists!

The first time Sirius performed magic, he young, only two years old. Sirius had always felt the magic within him, as most wizards could. It welled in his veins and made his fingertips go all funny. Sometimes the magic would make him cry. Overwhelmed by a striking power he neither understood nor was able to expel, his body did the only thing it knew it could; to yell and to sob and to pound his funny-feeling hands into the ground until someone made it better. Occasionally, and worst of all, he could feel it in his feet, until Sirius was certain that his toes were turning blue with the way the magic smarted — making him itch, making him want to run and run and run some more, until the uncomfortable feeling went away. Sirius barely knew how to run at such a young age, but he had forced his early steps into bounds into sprints, if only to rid himself of the stinging pads of his own feet.

On this particular day, Sirius was two and a half, or maybe two and a three quarters, and Regulus was the ripe old age of one. Reggie was crying. More than crying, he was screaming. Wailing. Sirius wondered if Regulus could feel the magic in his toes too – if that was why he was causing such a fuss. But when he had tried to grasp at those tiny little feet the matron had merely pushed him away.

“You’re upsetting him, go sit in the corner.”

Sirius fidgeted in his corner as his brother continued to cry. He listened to the sound and winced when those yells were met with another, their mother who always grew irritated by Reggie’s crying.

“Shut that whining up!” she screeched from the other room. The matron nodded, despite the door being closed and Walburga being entirely unable to see her hurried affirmation.

The matron cooed at Regulus, using her wand to make the bat skeletons above the crib dance. Regulus screamed louder. Sirius wondered if it was because Regulus hated the skeletons just as much as he did. Matron tried and tried to get Regulus to quiet, but Reggie merely continued to cry and cry.

So, Sirius, after the third shout from his mother, decided he had to help. His toes tingling in the way that made him need to run, he ran toward the only person he already knew he wanted to run to rather than away from.

Sirius stumbled up to the crib, slipping under the matron’s legs and ignoring her cried “Sirius!” as he clutched at the bars of Regulus’ bed.

“Reggie,” he whispered. “Reggie, be quiet, please.”

The crying was silenced at once.

“Sirius!” The matron scolded again, forcing him back with a firm and wrinkled hand tugging at his shoulder. “Sirius, no!”

Sirius stared confusedly up, watching as the matron lifted baby Regulus from the cradle. He was still fidgeting with balled up fists and feet that kicked. Reggie was still crying – only, he wasn’t. He was silent. And yet, his eyes continued to spill tears and his mouth continued to bare his tiny little teeth, as though mid-shout. But there was no shout to be heard. He was quiet as the mice their older cousins would practise their hexes on.

“Sirius!” Matron chided. “I can’t undo the spell. Undo the spell, now!” she commanded.

Regulus squirmed some more, thrashing violently as though desperate to be heard; to be known and recognised even without a voice to make him so. Sirius watched this sobbing, tiny little thing with not a peep to be heard from the baby’s agape mouth.

Sirius was entirely, utterly puzzled at what he had supposedly done wrong. He did not yet understand that silence and safety were not the same. He’d only wanted Regulus to be safe.

They soon found he could not undo the accidental muffliato charm. They simply had to wait for it to wear, just as Regulus wore himself out. By the time it had dispelled, Regulus was asleep. Fitful as ever, still kicking — perhaps dreaming of running, Sirius thought — with tightly clenched fists.

Sirius slipped his pointer finger into Reggie’s hand once the matron left the room, watching as his unconscious brother clutched at him so tightly Sirius couldn’t have been let go to leave if he wanted to. Their mother did not shout again that evening, and neither did Regulus. Quiet drenched Grimmauld Place once more and they were safe all the same. Sirius did not understand how there could have been a difference.

He would understand, eventually.

When tearfully red eyes hardened into stern grey ones, just a bit bluer than Sirius’ own and deadly with their quietly piercing glares. When shouts turned to snide comments uttered from the very corner of Regulus’ downturned mouth, hissed in a spiteful whisper. When a simple concrete headstone refused to reply, not even when Sirius knelt at the grave and garbled nonsense for hours, not even to call him an idiot like he’d once so loved to do. But Sirius did not understand any of that, then. He only knew to wince when Regulus began to hiccup – a sign that he was about to cry. He only knew that it made his toes twinge with the magic that made him want to run, run, but Reggie was too young to even walk and running would mean having to leave his little brother behind. Sirius only knew that if he willed it hard enough the magic would leak from his tingling fingers and rest heavy in the room. Like moisture in humid air it burdened them, slightly suffocated them, muffled the brothers to silence and kept them safe.

#sirius grows to be loud in his rebellion for a reason #this is the reason #aha we have fun here #sirius black #regulus black #black brothers #marauders #writing tag

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atomic--peach · 11 months

Text

Imagine: Severus and the Marauders helping you escape an arranged marriage.

Pt 1/?

(Young!Severus x Reader)

(Warning: mentions of SH)

The anguished wails that had echoed off the domed ceiling of the astronomy tower had subsided into choked sobs.

Your face buried into his chest, Severus gripped you tightly as your whole body jerked and trembled and you gasped out the last of your sobs violently.

"I won't do it" Your grip on his cloak tightened. "I won't, they can't make me! I'm 18 now, I don't have to if I don't..."

You trailed off, both of you aware of how hollow those assertions were. At the end of the year, you family would meet you at the train station, and traffic you off to some chapel or ministry office and all but physically force you to sign the marriage certificate.

"Oh, God" a fresh round of sobs threatened to wash over you as your breathed deeply. "I can't, I can't do it."

Severus wished he had some words of comfort, some grand plan to protect you from what was to come. But when you dropped the news on him, it was as if all the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

"I'm sorry" He breathed, "Darling, please we'll think of something. We just need some time."

You only had two days.

You sighed, wiping your eyes and drawing away from him. You looked up at him with puffy, blood shot eyes with fresh tears threatening to spill down your face.

"You can't take me away from you" You tried to sound firm but came off as desperate. "They'll have to drag me away kicking and screaming. I'll kill myself before-"

"Don't say that!" Severus grabbed your face so tightly it hurt. "Don't you ever say that again! No, you won't do that, because we are going to think of something."

He tried to sound sure, but you could hear the fear the edged his voice.

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

The next day your tears had dried, but in every room, you brought a shadow of grief. Like a drifting ghost, gazing ahead with sightless eyes, saying nothing to anyone at all.

"Hey"

Your head had drooped over your desk, deaf to whatever the professor at the head of the class way saying.

"Y/N?"

You glanced to the side and found two well-formed faces blinking at you expectingly, conveying both curiosity and pity.

"What, Black?"

"I... well, We-" He swallowed, "We heard, about what's happening. To you, I mean."

"Come to congratulate me?" You spat sharply.

"No" Sirius growled, going impatient.

"It's just that-" James whispered over Sirius, "We think we know a way to get you out of it."

Your body stiffened; your grip snapping the quill in your hand.

"Don't you fucking play with me" You growled "Don't you do it."

"We're not!" Sirius insisted. "Look, I know we haven't always been on the same side. But this is serious. It's not fair. And if there's a way we can help, we want to."

You stared at them both, shocked at first, then feeling a fresh wave of tears as hope began to sink it.

"Please" you whispered. "Anything you can do. Do it"

At the end of the day, you sat in the courtyard, looking around you expectantly.

Where were they?

"Y/N!"

You shot up and whipped around, smiling smally as Severus took long strides across the courtyard. As he approached you, he took your face in his hands and dress your brow to his.

"You said it was urgent."

"It is" You nodded, take a moment to appreciate the closeness between you, "We may have an out. But you're going to have to trust me, okay? I mean really trust me."

"With my life. " He nodded firmly, before glancing over your shoulder and frowning deeply. "Oh fuck, here we go."

You glanced back and watched as James, Sirius, and Lily approached.

"No, no, no. I said to trust me. Remember?" You grabbed his face to redirect his attention. "Please, please just do this for me."

"Hackles down" James sighed "We're not here to fight"

"Then what do you want?" Severus tried to keep the edge out of his, if only for your sake.

"We have an idea." Sirius began. "But it's going to take a lot of work. And if we want it to work, we're going to have to trust each other. If only temporarily."

"That's a big ask."

"Please" You grabbed his hand, pressing your brow back to his. "Please, this needs to work. I can't bear the idea of them taking me away from you. I won't survive it."

Severus swallowed hard, his grip on your hand tightening before letting out a drawn-out sigh.

"What, exactly, is your plan?"

"Congratulations, you two" James grinned. "You're getting married."

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

Even with the expansion charm, the chest was cramped.

You were practically in Severus's lap, too scared to blush, as you glanced at the girl sitting across from the two of you.

"Thank you." You began carefully, "For doing this, Lily."

The red head had been operating in uneasy silence since the beginning. You knew there was tension between Severus and Lily, but you tried to keep out of it.

Severus moved you off of him slightly and sighed.

"I-"

"Don't" Lily stopped him. "I am not doing this for you. I think it is barbaric and medieval for anyone to be forced into marriage. Especially when it's a woman being practically sold like chattel."

Her green eyes narrowed at him sharply. "That being said, if you get cold feet and back out of this at the last minute, I'll kick your ass myself."

She would too.

You grabbed Severus's hand and smiled trying to break the tension, "This really isn't how I envisioned my wedding day as a girl, but..." A cold chill ran up your spine. "Are you sure you want to do this?

"What?" He blinked at you.

"You have a whole life ahead of you." Dread crept into your soul as you continued. "And I... I don't want to take that away from you."

"Are you out of your mind?" He scoffed. "My life's potential will not be diminished by being attached to you. If anything, it will be improved greatly by your company."

The crate jerked to a stop, and Lily shushed them both. There was muffled voice above them and your blood froze in your veins. Severus's grip tightened and pulled you closer to him as you strained to hear what was going on above.

Please God, you prayed, please just let us pass

Once the crate started to move again, you let go of a breath you didn't know you were holding.

The crate was flooded with light as the lid swung open and James peered it. "We've left the station, you two have an appointment at the Ministry in 15 minutes, so everyone out."

You scrambled out of the crate and looked at James and Sirius for a second, suddenly acutely aware this may be the last time you ever see them.

"Snape."

"Hm?"

Sirius shuffled awkward, "I....This makes us even, alright?"

Severus blinked at him blankly for a moment before glancing away silently.

There were no goodbyes as You, Severus, and Lily made your away to the Ministry as quickly as possible. But by the time you arrived you were already 10 minutes late and the office you were supposed to enter was being locked up.

"No, no no no no!" You begged to no one in particular.

"I'm sorry, miss." The judge shook his head, jamming his keys into his pocket. "I'm gone for the day."

No, no you don't understand." You stumbled after him, gripping your last-minute fiancée's hand like a vice. "We *need* to get married today. It absolutely cannot wait."

The judge looked the two of you up and down and scoffed with a shake of his head. "Look, you seem like nice kids. But maybe hold off for a few years, huh?"

"Sir" Lily rushed forward, pulling the judge aside "It's just...my friend here" she motioned to you and pulled a pitying face, lowing her voice to a scandalized whisper. "She's gotten herself into a bit of *trouble*, if you know what I mean."

The judge blinked for a second before nodding in sudden understanding.

"He's just trying to do right by her, you know? Trying to do the honorable thing."

The judge straightened up stiffly and sighed. "I can respect that. Come in and I'll make it quick. I hope you know what you're doing, young man."

The wedding last about 15 minutes, no vows, no rings, just three signatures and a firm handshake from the judge and that was it.

"Be good to each other." Lily advised them, walking slightly ahead before eyeing Severus in particular. "Don't ruin it this time."

Standing hand in hand in the middle of the ministry lobby, you released your first free breath in three days with a laugh.

"Oh, my God" You leaned into your now husband, who draped a long arm over your shoulders. "We did it"

"We did" in a voice so calm it almost wasn't appropriate for the situation. "Now what?"

"Now...." You breathed. "I don't know. I didn't plan this far out."

"Hm" Severus swallowed, anxiety creeping in rapidly as he tried to seem as nonchalant as possible, "Well, first things first, we might want to tell your parents the wedding is off."

0You thought on this for a moment before smiling deviously, "Nah" you shook your head with a sly grin. "Let them sweat for a while. After all, this is our day, not theirs."

#severus snape imagine #Young!snape #severus snape x reader #harry potter imagine #marauders era #sirius black #lily evans #james potter imagine #sirius black imagine

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earthling55 · 2 years

Note

Hello what’s up ?

Request daemon Targaryen x witch reader if is possible.

I don’t know if you watched The vampire diaries or The originals, but I would love see daemon married ou have for a lover a witch. She make medicines and have a room with weird stuff. She freaks everyone out.

Have a good day 😘

Hi! I hope you like it. It's been ages since I watched The Originals, so I can't remember it that well (also don't know why I made the reader pregnant - it's just what came to mind). Anyways, here it is.

Untamed Emotions

The child in your womb kicked hard against your spine, causing you to double over in pain even as you continue stirring the pot.

You call it a pot, it's really a large cauldron. Made of thick cast iron, it safely protects the pot from the murky green potion inside.

You throw in the last ingredient: red berries of the Wvyr tree. The potion responds in turn, quickly turning from its light blue to a lovely murky green and omitting a slightly sour smell. A smell that, even as it has you running to the bin, brings a smile to your face.

It's finally ready.

You had been working on this brew for months, and it was finally ready.

Suddenly, oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

There was an itch in your nose, and try as you might, you could not hold your hair back, vomit, and itch it at the same time.

You sneeze violently, your magic mixing with the fiery blood of your husband and leading you to emit a sparky puff of magic. It tears through the room, spilling over everything, including the one potion you had spent months trying to make, not to mention years researching.

Tears well up in your eyes at the sight. All of that hard work, just gone in the blink of an eye.

You couldn't do anything to stop it as the tears bubbled up, spilling over your bright green eyes and down your cheeks before finally dripping onto the hard stone floor below.

That's how Daemon found you, hours later. You were still sobbing, though now you were sitting against the wall clutching your bump, staring at all your ruined work through bleary eyes.

Your emotions had run rampant in the hours since it happened.

First, you cried. Fat, angry tears streamed down your face in rivers that seemed never-ending until, at last, they stopped.

Then, you got angry, but try as you might, no amount of screaming or yelling could put it all back together.

No matter how loud you got, no one came to check on you. The servants and staff far too scared of your powers to attempt any kind of help or show you any kind of kindness, for that matter.

Your anger turned to fuel, but try as you might, you could not lift the cauldron.

Oh, curse your weakened state.

You screamed. You wailed. You threw your fist at the sky, but alas, nothing seemed to work. And to make matters worse, your magic was completely out of wack.

But your anger soon turned to tears again, and that's what left you crouched against the wall cradling your bump.

He came in slowly, taking in the demolition that was your current workshop before kneeling before you on the floor.

You were a right state, the edge of your once beautiful lilac dress now stained beyond repair. Your hair, once beautifully braided and pinned with a variety of jewels, now lies halfway undone, tendrils of it curling around your face.

'Hey,' he coos softly, and by God, you wish you were in a state to appreciate the soft side of Daemon that few got to see.

'Hey, what's wrong? What happened?'

'I sneezed,' you whine, hands raising and dropping to your sides dramatically. Part of you knows you're being overdramatic, but you can't help it.

These damn baby hormones.

He's quick to crouch down to your level, wrapping you in a warm embrace as he listens.

You can feel him stifling a laugh even as he tucks his head in the crook of your neck, and it infuriates you.

And then, you can't believe it, but you're punching him. Hitting him anywhere you can hit even as you're crouched in such an uncomfortable position.

'It's. not. funny.'

Your weak punches humor him even more, as he steps back from you with a soft smile on his face. It only works to make you angrier, but like before, the anger quickly morphs into tears that spill down your cheeks in a seemingly never-ending river.

You wipe at them furiously.

'Where are they coming from!'

Gently, he pries your hands away from your face, taking in your sullen state and quivering lips.

And then, you're hoisted up into the air, safely cradled in his arms as he carries you bridle-style, the messy remains of your workshop nothing more than a bad memory as you come into view of your shared chambers.

Any servants milling about dive out of view as the two of you approach. The stares that previously never bothered you suddenly make you feel shy, and you snuggle deeper into Daemon's embrace as he walks.

He's only too happy to oblige you, sending withering looks to any and all servants even as he keeps his sharp tongue firmly shut.

It's highly unusual behavior for the Rouge Prince, but he can't help it.

His only priority right now is you.

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon prince #house of the dragon fic #hotd season 1 #hotd fic #daemon fic #fanfic #fanfiction #house targaryen #house of the dragon #dragons

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cherryberry-sugarandspice · 7 months

Text

Mi niñita

Sad Miguel Hours Once Again

CW: grieving, loss of a child, dreaming

Miguel stands on his platform, burning dry eyes staring past the orange screens. His hands move on their own, pushing aside pointless monitors and bringing forth what they think is important. Only his eyes don't look at them. They've lost their light, a heavy frown set to his lips, and he drops back into his seat, massaging his temples.

His heart and soul aches the moment he closes his eyes and sees the little girl with sparkling brown eyes, beaming up at him. She reached out her tiny little hands, asking to be held. "I did it! I did it, daddy! My team won!"

I'm tired.

Miguel forces his eyes open, but they felt as though they were glued together. He slouches over, elbows digging into his thighs, hands covering his face. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes, his chest constricting. A blade traces the outline of his heart, the sharp tip poking at the muscle. He tries to block the memory out, but it's on lonely nights such as these, it's all he can think about.

Her little face continues to bombard his mind. From smiling to pure terror, brown eyes wet with tears.

She's confused, not sure why the world is collapsing. But she held onto him tightly as he hugged her close, running aimlessly towards a unknown destination. Why run? He already knew what was going to happen, yet there was that sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe she'll live.

"Dad?" she whimpered out in fear, reaching up to touch his face. Her small body began to disappear, fizzling out into the air. Miguel watched in horror as his little girl ceased to exist, her body growing lighter, her voice high-pitched as she screamed, "Dad! Dad, no-!"

It's all my fault.

Miguel groans, blowing out an angry breath. He accidentally digs his talons into his palms and retracts them back into the pads of his fingers, the physical pain almost nothing to him now. He already faced the pure agony of losing his daughter. Nothing will ever effect him the same way every again. He eyes the way the crimson liquid beads up from the puncture wounds and trickles down his palms, leaking onto the floor.

He leans back into the chair, empty eyes staring up into the ceiling.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. He hopes she can hear him. Hopes that she see the regret that weighs heavily on his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, mi niñita."

Miguel falls asleep, a singular tear trickling down his cheek.

Yet when he opens his eyes, he finds himself in an open field. He blinks, standing to full height, guard up. He flexes his talons, eyes scanning his surrounds, right until he spots her.

Gabriella.

She's running around the field kicking a soccer ball, squealing in delight. She bounces it on her feet before delivering one last kick and making a goal. She jumps up and down excitedly, clapping her hands.

Gabriella then turns to face Miguel, smile growing larger. She runs up to him and around in a circle, laughing.

"Did you see that? Did you see that? I made a goal!" Gabriella cheers, hugging his leg. A steady stream of tears trickle down his face and it soaks into her hair. She looks up, taking a step back, tilting her head curiously. "Daddy? What's wrong? Why are you so sad?"

The floodgates finally open. His walls come crashing down. He tried so hard to contain it, but it's now broken.

Miguel drops to his knees and hugs his daughter, wailing. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I-I didn't mean-" didn't mean to kill you "oh, my sweet heart, can you ever forgive me?"

His body shakes violently as he wails, hugging his little girl close. "I can hardly live with myself for what happened to you. My beautiful angel. My sweet, baby girl. I'm so sorry! I'm so, so sorry!"

Miguel chokes on a sob, his vision blurred by tears. He lived in regret every wake moment since the incident. He hardly got any sleep for weeks after. He busied himself in work, projected his own fears and insecurities onto others, but at the end of the day, he still recalls the night he killed his daughter.

I didn't mean to.

His heart caves in on itself and he wails, as if he was a child himself.

You were everything to me.

He hugs Gabriella close, screaming out his cries.

You were the reason why I smiled.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

How can I even call myself a father when I'm the reason you're gone?

Miguel's crying comes to a full stop when Gabriella pulls back and cups his face with her tiny hands. She smiles at him, not a single trace of anger or hurt in her expression. She wipes away his tears and kisses his cheek, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"It's okay, daddy, I forgive you," she said, her words melting the ice off his heart. "Please don't be mad at yourself anymore. Please, daddy, be happy again."

Miguel hugs her tightly, a small smile forming on his face. He hugs her close to his heart, enjoying this last moment of hugging his little girl again. The only time he was ever truly happy was being her dad, and he's not sure if he'll ever be happy again, but for her sake, he'll try.

"Okay, mija, I'll try." He pats her head, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn't want to let her go, but he knows that one day, he has to.

"I love you, daddy," Gabriella says as her body turns into dust, disappearing from his arms once more.

"I love you too, mi niñita."

Miguel looks up to the blue sky where she disappears to. He holds his hands out towards her, his smile dropping, teeth clenched.

No, please, come back.

He curls into a ball and proceeds to cry.

Miguel will try being happy for her, but for now, he'll grieve the loss of his little girl.

I love you, mi niñita.

#miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel ohara fanfiction #sad miguel hours #gabriella o'hara #gabriella ohara #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #miguel spider man 2099 #miguel spiderverse #across the spider verse

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amspams · 6 days

Text

Protective father

A/N: After one accidental deletion, crying my heart out and having to rewrite the whole thing, I've finally finished another fanfic. :,)

TW: Swearing, violence, child abuse

Glenda had gotten herself into some trouble. She watched as one of the other girls she'd been playing with - Katy - wailed in front of her. Who knew a simple game of tag in the park would lead to this? If only that whiny bitch hadn't refused to be 'it' when Glenda had caught her, Glenda would not have shoved her. Now Katy was going to have to deal with her bloody, scraped knees, by herself.

And Glenda did not feel any remorse for her actions. In fact, she was amused by the little girl's sobbing. Glenda thought Katy was being way too dramatic over what happened. It was only a few scratches after all.

"Glenda, what did you do!?" Said a panicked voice from behind her. Glenda turned around to see her twin brother, Glen, staring at her with wide eyes. "Is she hurt?"

"No-" Glenda replied stoically, but was interrupted by Katy.

"Glenda pushed me!" She cried.

"I did not!" Glenda denied, and stomped towards her.

Glen tried to hold her back. "Glenda, stop! It's not worth it."

"She's lying! She hurt me for no reason!" Whined Katy.

"Shut up, you cunt!"

However, just as Glenda was about to kick the sobbing girl, someone grabbed her by her wrist and flung her back. Glenda landed on the ground with a thud. The force of the impact took her by surprise, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes. Glen quickly ran to his sister's side. "Oh no. Are you well?"

"Does it look like I'm-"

A man grabbed Glenda by her shirt and lifted her up, letting her feet dangle above the ground. "You little brat, what gave you the right to treat my daughter like that, huh!?"

The twins gasped, and Glenda frantically tried to wriggle her way out of the Katy's father's grip.

"Please don't hurt her, sir," Glen pleaded. "She didn't mean to-"

"Stay out of this, boy!" The man yelled before shifting his attention back to Glenda. "You little shit. Did your parents teach you nothing?"

"Let go of me, asshole!"

"Oh I'll let you go, alright," spat the man. "I'll let you go after you're hurting just as much as my Katy is!"

The man let Glenda fall back down before grabbing her by her shoulders and violently shaking her. "You think you can just walk off with no concequences? I'm gonna teach you a lesson your parents should've a long ago."

"DADDY!" Screamed Glenda. "Daddy, der Mann tut mir weh!" (Daddy, the man hurts me!)

The man clasped a hand over her mouth. "Stop screeching, girl. And speak english!"

Just when it seemed as if the man was about to strike her, he was violently shoved away by an infuriated Chucky. "And what the hell do ya think you're doin'?"

The man was taken aback, but quickly regained his composure. "I was just-"

"That was a rhetorical question, idiot," said Chucky, and punched the man in the face. A horrible cracking noise was heard when his fist made contact with the man's nose. Chucky had more than likely broke it. "I don't give a flying fuck about your excuse. You don't hit kids. Especially not my kids."

Glen covered his eyes whilst Glenda grinned from ear to ear at her father's display of aggression. Chucky forced the man down to the ground.

"Get off me, you freak!" The man demanded, and tried to push Chucky off of him. But he was no match for him. Chucky had been fighting his whole life. He grew up on the streets after all. Your average man stood no chance against him, and he was very well aware of that.

"Shut up," Said Chucky, and held him down.

"Ya know, if we weren't in public right now, I'd..."

Chucky trailed off when he saw two officers approaching.

"Please get off, sir. We'll take it from here."

Chucky did as he was told, but before he got up, he whispered into the man's ear loud enough for only him to hear. "Lock your door, dickhead. We're not done here."

Chucky then picked Glenda up and took Glen's hand before walking back to the car with them. "Lucky bastard," he muttered.

#child's play #bride of chuky #seed of chucky #the twins #Glen & Glenda #Glen Ray #Glenda Ray #Chucky #Charles Lee Ray #The Rays #Human!AU #German!Chucky AU inspired by lovely @fanficwriter284

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bellafragolina · 11 months

Text

Emmet doesn’t like anger. Being angry makes him feel out of control, a slave to his emotions. He shakes his head violently, then slaps his cheeks with his palms loud enough to echo through the apartment.

Slimy watches him with cautious eyes, but Emmet just paces. He’s angry, arms pumping out, punching the air, invisible foes that threaten him. On one particularly sharp about face, he shoves his fist into his mouth, biting on it, screaming into it.

Emmet is not loud, not like Ingo, but his anger is thunderous.

He kicks a pillow on the floor, sending it towards the door. Gal huffs, but lowers from the ceiling to grab the pillow, tossing it back towards the mess of blankets on the couch. Emmet meets it there, then starts punching it when invisible foes give up on him.

Emmet punches and punches even as his arms grow tired. He punches the pillow into a crumpled heap, sobbing when his arms finally give up from exhaustion. He falls face first into the pillow, wailing and screaming into the rough fabric even as a familiar birdy weight settles into his back.

He cries and punches again, weakly this time. It barely makes a dent in the pillow, and that sends him further into his hysterics.

“They gave up.” Emmet croaks between messy hiccups. “And I can’t do anything.”

The Pokémon remain silent, merely watching as their trainer cries himself to sleep.

#monthofemmet #prompt: emotions #angst time

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konigsblog · 1 year

Note

Partial break from angst

I think after the first little boy gains sentience price tones the domestic violence back. He doesn’t want him to grow up and be violent. Or even worse grow up hating his father and kick his ass when he’s older. And I think at some point when price hears the readers screams trigger the babies to scream he goes “huh. Maybe I shouldn’t do this” obviously you’re still his and he’s not letting you go, but he starts acting like a decent human being… sort of

He moves you from the basement to his bedroom (“why does your mom live in the basement” “dad doesn’t want her upstairs” he has to make sure the kids aren’t tipping anyone off). He starts being sweeter to you when the kids are around, (forcing you into) laying on him, letting him stroke your hair and kiss you gently. Saying how much he loves you and loves the life he’s made with you. How glad he is you stopped putting yourself in harms way just because you wanted to rebel against your parents and prove how strong and independent you are. He’d be sweet and loving, saying how you don’t need to prove yourself because he knows it takes a strong independent woman to have his babies

Omg him coming home after a long day on work, and the kids after a long day of being kids, and they all just get into a big cuddle pile on your bed. If you didn’t know any better you’d think price was a loving father and husband. And maybe he is. Maybe he’s changed and you’re stuck in the past. He doesn’t lock you down stairs anymore, he doesn’t yell, he barely even hits you. Sure you don’t exactly like being here, being stuck, but you’re safe. You’re taken care of. Your kids are happy. Maybe it’s not too bad. So you lay with them, dreams of being a war hero stomped out, replaced with being grateful to just be alive, and safe with your kids.

The next morning price would see you laying there with his babies and absolutely melt. He did it. You’re a sweet little house wife and mother. Sure you have spurts of rebellion, but that’s better than before. He’d pick you up and put you in the bathtub and kiss your face and wash your back. Thanking you for finally seeing how perfect he is for you, for your kids. How good of a husband he is. He’d tell you how good you are with his kids, his babies, how happy he is to be a father. How he wishes you would pay a little more attention to him like his work friends wives do with them. Trim his beard, cut his hair, go on weekend getaways. Stuff normal couples do. And now that your finally his, sweet and submissive and compliant, you can be normal

Cutting myself off because I could write about this for hours

🪤

tw; abuse

i feel like he would manipulate you into thinking it wasn't as bad as what you thought, his constant attempts to downplay what you experienced and endured during your pregnancy and birth, even with the baby he gaslighted you into thinking this was all just one of your delusions.

and he could use the fact that you've been to a mental hospital before, telling you these were parts of your pyschosis and nothing more than a hallucination. if you ever tried to divorce him, he would make it known about your mental state, telling you that you would lose custody over your sons, making you sob and wail, curling into a ball because you feel so lost.

putting on a show when you went out in public. taking you to a bar with his work friends and their wives, seeing the actual and genuine smiles on their faces whilst you lived in dystopia and a state of delusions.

even worse if after your second baby, you endured postpartum psychosis, sending you back to the hospital whilst he built a connection with the new baby.

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ajgrey9647 · 3 months

Note

Self-soothing prompts: Wrapping themself in a large blanket that makes them feel small and safe. + Coinless Zack?

Pain in Multiples/No One Can Save You But You

His life had changed so dramatically and rapidly that Zack had no time to process the traumatic events as they unfolded. The Black Ranger had stubbornly held on to the big picture once his initial shellshock in the aftermath of Drakkon’s birth had receded. There hadn’t been a choice, really.

The survivors needed him to get his head together, to keep them safe, to formulate some kind of plan to defeat the monster. However, everything he came up with amounted to a suicide mission, their chances of success well in the negative percentile. Which Billy claimed wasn’t empirically possible as his mind scrambled for tight control of whatever it could find and, of course, mathematics and its precise outcomes fit the bill nicely.

Zack barely kept himself from the flashpoint of rage at the silly, pedantic statement, his hand smacking sharply against the assortment of scribbled papers littering the rickety table.

“Obviously, I don’t literally mean we have a -1000% of defeating Lord Drakkon, Billy!” he snapped, hating himself for his irritation even as the words tumbled forth. “I just don’t care for the words ‘certain death’, alright?”

The Blue Ranger retreated back to his tiny cot in the stark, barren room of the abandoned nursing facility like a scolded puppy.

“Oh God, Billy! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” the black-clad teen sighed, following his friend’s retreat.

He nestled on the lumpy piece of furniture next to where the blonde genius huddled under a ragged scrap of a blanket, only the wispy top of his golden locks visible.

“No, Zack. I’m the one who should be apologizing… I should have been able to determine a quicker way to infuse Jason with the White Tiger powers. Or invented a way to help fortify the Command Center against breaches. If I had, then Zordon, Alpha, and Jason would still be here,” he sobbed brokenly. “This is all my fault!”

Placing a shaky hand over the tightly bundled fabric, the Black Ranger hissed forcefully.

“That’s not true, man! If anything is anyone’s fault…well, I could have tried harder or looked longer to find Tommy before that son of a bitch hitched himself back with Rita! I could have convinced him his place was with us! Then there would have no need for new powers or any of that other shit!”

Of course, words were hollow in moments such as these.

The icy fingers of blame stretched far and wide, ensnared deep in the darkest parts of each Ranger’s heart. No amount of countering could convince any of them that they did not have a direct hand in the terrible emergence of this homicidal, superpowered dickhead.

Zack already knew full well where Kimberly Hart stood on her role in this nightmarish clusterfuck. Their conversation had gone no better than the one he’d had with the Blue Ranger. Full of rage and vengeance in addition to her bitter tears, the Pink Ranger spit fire as she insisted upon her failure.

“And if I pressed harder on my suspicion that Tommy was the Green Ranger way back before we finally found out, maybe that would have changed things, given us more time, I don’t know! Or if I had been able to get through to him when I confronted him in the Youth Center before the Sword of Darkness was destroyed…” she yelled, kicking violently at a haphazard stack of old wooden crates outside the kitchen.

The tiny girl had been profoundly changed the moment Drakkon’s deadly hands held forth Jason’s blood streaked red Tyranno helmet with its shattered visor. Something broke inside her at seeing the graphic evidence of her beloved big brother’s murder.

Kimberly often awoke in the wee hours of the night, screaming a heartbroken wail that echoed easily down the tiled corridors where the remaining citizens secreted themselves from Drakkon’s Red Sentry army.

“I miss him, Zack! I don’t know how to live without him here, to protect us, guide us… I’d give anything for one more of his big teddy bear hugs right now!” she moaned, her knees giving out and dropping her to the ground. “To hear his voice…”

From a battered canvas bag she kept guarded on her person at all times, her trembling hands pulled out a small, velvety plush dinosaur, it’s black plastic eyes seemingly gazing into their souls, the two small front legs adorned with soft, felt claws.

“Rexy…” Zack gasped in wonderment. “How the hell did you get that? And when? Drakkon’s goons…”

Kim cuddled the T Rex tightly to her chest in defiance.

“Don’t worry about it,” she retorted. “It’s one piece of Jason that motherfucker won’t ever get!”

She breathed deeply of the top of Rexy’s head.

“It still has his smell. I’m afraid of the day that it will be gone too.”

“Kim…”

But the Pink Ranger turned her head away.

“Just leave me alone, Zack… Please…”

As for Trini, she didn’t speak much for quite awhile after the events of Ascension Day, merely staring into space and only doing anything when guided physically by another person to do so. Usually that person was the Black Ranger. Caring for the catatonic girl was one concrete thing he could do to help anything in this godforsaken hellhole.

With his diligence, he’d finally coaxed the start of a few small words from the Yellow Ranger as they sat nibbling a stale piece of bread covered with a swath of crunchy peanut butter to disguise its brittleness.

“Evil won,” she whispered. “Rita…won..”

Zack couldn’t stomach hearing that sentiment.

“No, she didn’t. We’re still here, girl! And we’ll find a way to beat them! Just like we always do!”

But she shook her head, long dark swishing her upper arms.

“Not this time. There’s no going back. He killed them…”

Damn, but those early days were rough. Days? Hell, months to be more accurate.

They were all fortunate to have some time to regroup and rest within the confines of the crumbling facility Bulk had led them to before they’d been flushed out like a nest of fledgling mice into the night. More people were lost in the confusion and chaos… there was no to prevent that with the might of the jackal-like Sentries.

He, along with Kimberly, Billy, Trini, Bulk, and Skull, had managed to herd whoever he could to safety, delivering a series of satisfying blows to the marauders as he did so. Morphing into their respective suits was eerie and horrible without Jason there to call out in his deep, authoritative yell, ‘It’s Morphin’ Time!’ or ‘Tyrannosaurus!’

It was salt in their still fresh wound.

But once again, Zack was unable to take the time to properly mourn or grieve or fully appreciate the gravity of their new rebellious resistance. It felt like a movie or a nightmare or a really bad bout with alcohol… anything but reality. He always half expected to wake up in his bed before school or in the Command Center with his head bandaged or being given some elixir to reverse a spell… only to be depressingly disappointed.

The Black Ranger had not one spare minute, not when there were issues to address such as procuring food, medical equipment, weapons, clothing, or other supplies, finding safe places to hide out, or constructing their new Coinless leadership. Trini seemed to come back to life when this was going on, drawing on tremendous inner strength and determination in their fallen friends’ honor.

They would slay the dragon.

But the spiteful prick inflicted more lethal wounds before they even got that far in their day to day considerations, operating from a primal survival mode as they cared for what people remained of Angel Grove.

Rumor spread that Rita was dead, killed by ‘her’ evil Ranger’s dagger. Whispers swirled throughout what remained of the city where a lavish palace was being constructed even as the surrounding landscape slowly regressed, unnoticed in the wake of Drakkon’s coup. Those with firsthand knowledge described Rita’s final moments, screeching at the tyrant about his ‘careless, short-sighted, and impertinent decision’. No one knew to what she was referring but rather than argue, Drakkon turned toward his Empress, smiled beatifically as he declared his entitlement to a ‘prize from his battle’, and casually drove his blade through her torso.

Death and loss followed the asshole like a contagious disease.

Drakkon took Billy from them, as effortlessly as blowing a girlish kiss, his Red Sentry blasting a gory hole through the Blue Ranger as he stood protectively before Trini, her morpher already yanked from her belt and being twirled in the tyrant’s long fingers. Zack had swooped in then, challenging the dictator after knocking the murderous Sentry from the bluffs overlooking the ocean.

“Well, hello again, Zackary…” Drakkon purred, his helmet slowly roving up and down the Black Ranger’s battle-damaged suit. “Tough breaks, hmmm? Looks like you’re down another Ranger. Too bad little Skullovitch wasn’t here to save his precious boytoy this time.”

“Fuck you, you cowardly piece of shit!” Zack screamed, calling forth his axe. “I’m going to send you back to hell where you came from!”

This bluster only made Drakkon laugh wildly.

“Look around, dumbass… We’re already there.”

A white and gold saber appeared in the tyrant’s gloved hand.

“I’m glad we’ve finally gotten the chance to chat again…I never had the opportunity to regale you with my little convergence of the twain… Jason’s agonizing death when he refused to submit…”

“Shut up!” Zack snarled, swinging the heavy weapon in a wide arc that Drakkon deftly dodged with a combat roll.

Giggling, the evil Ranger slashed his blade through the air in an arrogant display.

“I tried to be merciful, Zackary, for what’s it worth… a quick, painless snap of his neck… like a chicken in a barnyard or a bunny rabbit outside its warren. But he just wouldn’t hold still… until I beat that hard head of his like a punching bag.”

Grinning through his lies, Drakkon wished he could see the Black Ranger’s face as he made up the nastiest details he could imagine.

“I destroyed that disgusting red helmet and he still thrashed around like an animal in a snare, covered in piss when he lost control of his bladder and running into things because his eyeballs ruptured under my fists. It looked like raspberry jelly smeared down his cheeks… But I really thought that crack to his neck did the trick when he dropped like a ton of bricks!”

Roaring in fury, Zack charged again, locking his axe with Drakkon’s sword as the tyrant continued to fib.

“I reached down to take his coin, Black Ranger, and that silky little belly was moving up and down. He was still breathing, crying and begging for his ‘mommy’”, he sneered in disdain. “So, I did the kindest thing I could… I hacked him open and field dressed him like a deer, pulling his guts out while he tried to scream…”

His words were cut off when Zack’s fist collided squarely with the hybridized helmet, knocking Drakkon backward toward the drop off to the turbulent ocean below. The Black Ranger was too enraged to question the tyrant about some of the inconsistences in his gruesome tale, namely that if he had gutted Jason, Drakkon should have been painted with his scarlet blood instead of just what dripped from the Tyranno helmet.

“And Zordon got to witness the whole shameful thing!”

Zack’s vision misted over with tears, the vile meanness of what happened to Jason making him want to vomit. And that was when Drakkon ceased his possumy, demure antics and proceeded to maul the Black Ranger like a pit bull, a stunning about-face that left the teen reeling.

His Mastodon coin was savagely yanked from his belt, depowering him in a flash of crackling black light. Only the sudden interference from Kimberly saved him from a deadly blow by Drakkon’s sword, as the Pink Ranger’s arrow struck the tyrant’s leg, dropping him to one knee.

She’d overheard everything, every vile detail he had had spewed and after seeing Trini cuddling Billy’s mangled corpse in her arms, watching Zack’s helpless struggle, she could no longer hold back.

“You son of a bitch! I’m going to kill you! Gut you just like you did Jason, you sick fuck!” Kim screamed.

Reinforcements arriving vibrated the ground they cowered upon and time was up. At least for now.

Trini dashed into the bracken, her blood-soaked shirt clinging to her upper body and Billy’s Triceratops coin hidden in her bra. Zack foolishly snared Kim’s waist and hauled her off into the woods as Drakkon bellowed in pain, pulling himself to his feet.

He glared after the retreating former Rangers, then lifted his hand, waggling his fingers like a toddler.

“See ya later, alligator!”

The Mastodon and Saber tooth Tiger coins were clutched tightly in his palm, perfect additions for those clamoring for the opportunity to serve in his ranks. He grinned, satisfied he’d supplied enough nightmare fuel to keep Kimberly and Zack awake for years to come.

The loss of his coin, forcefully removed from his body instead of transferred to another, left Zack in the throes of physical withdrawal as he adjusted from the enhancements of the Grid back to a mere mortal human. His skin was clammy, drenched in sweat, and he suffered the shakes to the point he couldn’t even feed himself without help.

Not that it mattered much.

He vomited everything he put in his mouth anyway.

So, ultimately all he could do at that point in time was lay upon a pallet in a ramshackle farmer’s barn somewhere in the countryside, listening to the world go on outside its sun-faded red walls. Unable to get up, or sit up, or speak more than a few words at a time, even that was exhausting.

Zack had the distinct privilege of hearing Kimberly’s loud, enraged cursing, swearing, and threatening all manner of violence upon Lord Drakkon, rebuffing all who attempted to calm her down. Skull curled into a ball somewhere near the cow pasture, wailing and wishing death for himself at the loss of Billy as Bulk tried helplessly to protect him from his own hand.

Eventually, both the Pink Ranger and Eugene disappeared into the night some time down the road. Kim returned as the devil’s right hand warrior and Skull not at all, both to Farkas’s immense grief.

Loss after loss after loss after loss. A whole goddamn mountain of them. And Zack was unable to stem the tide. What more were waiting just around the corner? Who else was going to die?

Zack was still a child himself; they all were. He wished Jason were here because he’d know how to handle things. Then thoughts of his deceased leader coalesced into images of his brutal, bloody murder and then the teen couldn’t sleep for fear of closing his eyes.

He didn’t want to be strong, dammit! He wanted someone to comfort him, to take over, to make decisions, to be a fucking adult, to fix things, right all these impossible wrongs…

But there was no one who could mentally or physically extend themselves to another, as all were as depleted as he was.

So, Zack settled for what he could given the circumstances. He pulled a heavy, old blanket from some unknown room from wherever the fuck they’d ended up now and disappeared into the shadows. Wrapping himself snuggly in the scratchy material, he scrunched into as small a ball as he could manage, feeling like an egg in a nest or an infant being swaddled in his mother’s arms.

And from that cocoon of safety, Zack finally allowed himself to release the agonized tears he’d saved up beginning the day that Jason ‘died’.

#boom! comics power rangers #lord drakkon #world of the coinless jason #power rangers #world of the coinless zack taylor #world of the coinless kimberly hart #world of the coinless trini kwan #world of the coinless billy cranston #self soothing #self comfort #being too strong for too long #loss and grief #sadness

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

Text

ñuhus prūmȳs (my heart) │ Chapter 11 PREVIEW

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Hey, all! I'm around 3000 words into the latest chapter - I know it's a little early for a preview, as I've still got PLENTY left to write for this one, but because it's been so long I figured I'd give you guys a little look at the first part of my draft. I'm honestly unsure when this one will be ready, so no idea re: expected post time/date. Remember, I have a progress bar on my desktop blog that I update regularly! Stay tuned, and thank you so much for the patience!

You are startled awake by the sound of crying.

Daemon groans beside you.

“Fucking hells.” His voice is muffled by the pillow, timbre lacking the heat his words imply. “We were just up, weren’t we?”

You reach out to whack him for the profanity, arm striking across the span of his back. He grunts with the impact.

“I will take your daughter,” you mutter, already untangling yourself from the sheets, “but your son also begs for attention.”

“Fussy thing,” he mumbles, rolling from the bed behind you.

You smile. It is true that Aelys is the more demanding of the pair, and you are certain it is her tinny squalling that dragged you from unconsciousness in the first place. You ache with every step, your body still experiencing the shock of forcing your babes out, but it is difficult to resent the pain when your eyes alight on the pair of pale-haired miracles fussing in the cradle.

“Rhovus riñus,” you coo, lifting her up and carefully manoeuvring her into your arms. Loud girl, you call her, gently settling her fragile head in the crook of your elbow. Mind her neck, mind her neck,you think, a whisper repeating itself over and over again. It is overly cautious of you, perhaps, but you do not wish to inadvertently harm your babe. “Skorio syt ñāqī hīghā?” Why are you screaming at sunrise?

Her lashes flutter and she cranes toward the sound of your speech, lip quivering. Though you know she cannot see yet, you swear her gaze is trained on you, muzzy and unfocused as it must be. She kicks again at the feel of your thumb brushing over her pout, angry soft breaths puffing from tiny lungs. That raw, wrenching feeling of violent love wells up as it does each time you behold these lives you have made, bringing with it the urge to bar the entrances and dash the eyes from the skulls of all those who dare to look upon your little ones.

“Kesrio syt kepo ēdrunon iotāpteks daor,” Daemon grumbles, the warmth of his body spreading into yours as his hands fall to the cradle on either side of you, bracketing you in. Because she has no respect for her kepa’s rest. He punctuates the statement with a drowsed, aimless press of lips to your temple, sliding down to your cheekbone as he sets his chin to your shoulder and peers down at the troublemaker in your arms. “Vȳs zȳhom kiragon jaelza, hm?” She wants the world to wake when she does, hm?

“She hungry?” His palm spans the circumference of her scalp and then some, a gentle ruffling of snow-fuzzed skin – your colouring, his colouring – that coaxes a vexed scrunch and whine from your girl.

“No,” you respond, passing your thumb back over her mouth. She does not attempt to suckle at them. “Just wanting her mama and papa, I think.”

Rhaenar’s whimpers begin anew below you.

“Oh, kepus…” you begin, but you did not need to. Daemon readily slides around you and plucks the babe from the cradle with a deftness borne of familiarity. You do not know if it unnerves or reassures you that you yourself had helped shape this skill, once a newborn niece to the budding Rogue Prince.

“Kesīr māzīs, ñuhus trēsys,” he sighs, cupping the back of your son’s head to his shoulder with a hand propping him up under the rear. Come here, my son.

“Jeva idañe pelrar issa,” he continues, glancing at you impishly. “Vali hēnkirī mazumbiti.” Your sister is a menace. Us men have to stick together.

“Lies. Lies and slander, my darling,” you declare to your daughter, spinning on your heel to convey her imperiously to the bed.

“Give her to me,” Daemon says firmly, hand rubbing soothingly at your waist. “Get back under the covers.”

“But you have–”

“I can bloody well hold two babes, you know,” he insists, levying an expression of utmost stubbornness your way. “You, however, shouldn’t even be up. You’ve scarcely begun to heal after shoving them both from your cu–”

“Language,” you hiss, passing Aelys into the care of your uncle so that you may hobble back to your safe haven. It is still warm beneath the blankets, and you gratefully press your chilled feet into the temperate spaces so as to regain some measure of sensation in your toes. “I wish you would not use foul words in front of them,” you chide half-heartedly, rearranging the pillows on either side of you with unhurried pace. If you move too fast, a fresh bout of soreness will plague you. “If the first thing they say is something horrid they have learned from you…”

“… then they’ll prove themselves adept pupils, won’t they?” Daemon finishes with a smirk, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“Besides, we’ve a while until that becomes a problem,” your husband adds, though you are only partly listening, utterly engrossed in the clench and unclench of her small fists as you shift her, swaddling cloths and all, to one arm. “Not as though they’re performing dramatic orations any time soon.”

You do not get the chance to scold him yet again for the profanity, for your other arm is promptly occupied by your son. The movement startles him but briefly; he squeaks with the jolt of sudden movement and promptly curls into the heat of your skin emanating through your shift, smacking sleepy lips and wiggling his feet against your belly before dropping into slumber.

Rhaenar is a different sort of creature to his sister, you have found. Whether it be that he allows her to make complaints vociferously enough for them both or that he simply does not have any, he is a solemn thing, content enough to while away the hours slumbering or blinking new eyes up at the world, aimless, as though deep in thought. He looks a little like an old man, you think to yourself, charmed by the frowning pucker that forms on his dreaming face. The peace in his darling visage is such that you feel your own lids droop, the comforting weight of happy babes lulling you quicker than any draught or brew could.

Aelys is fire and blood and retribution, the very image of her father. But Rhaenar… he is you, calm and introspective, the cool that acts as balm to the stinging burn of tempestuousness. Nothing pleases you more than to have given new life in equal measure, to have given Daemon both a child he may love for those traits he admires in you and another in whom he may see his own reflection – in whom he may learn to love the parts of himself that he has so long despised.

Of course – being her father’s daughter – Aelys is not one to stay still and silent for too long. Rhaenar begins to stir when she whines, twisting uncoordinated limbs and kicking her heels into his.

“Go back to sleep with our boy, hm?” Daemon leans down first to brush a kiss on Rhaenar’s velvety crown, then up to your lips, his smokeleatherspice scent filling your nostrils and his calloused palm etching tender along your jaw. “I’ll take this one for a time,” he says against your mouth, drawing back to lift Aelys from you with feigned resignation. He tuts down at her with an aching sort of softness as she complains further, striking out at his proffered finger. “Perhaps her fit will abate with some fresh air.”

“Do not go far,” you mumble with eyes already closing, turning to your side to face your son, your firstborn. The babe does not even notice as you make yourself comfortable, drawing him ever closer so that you can feel the line of him against you, small head to tiny toes.

“Brand new to the world, young madam, and already tormenting your brother? A little dragon, that’s what you are…”

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