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tellingtell5 · 3 months ago

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Stand by me. 《Invincible, Mark Grayson 》

A short story about the multiple Invincibles, a bunch of Mark Graysons.

I don't know what this is, I just know I had it in my head and needed to write it down.

¿part 2?

Mark Grayson x oc!fmale

Smut bellow the cutt, MDNI, be warned. Unprotected sex

She could definitely die like this and go happy.

Every nerve in her body was burning, pleasure coiling and tightening low in her belly as she rocked her hips back, pressing against him just to feel the way his breath stuttered. He was holding her close, one thick arm wrapped snug around her throat, but not tight—just enough to remind her who was behind her.

She loved that.

Olive bit her lower lip hard, swallowing the moan that threatened to slip out. She was slick with sweat, her hair a mess against the pillow, body trembling and slick from how long they'd been at it. She'd lost track of time. Hours, maybe. Maybe days. She didn’t care. If she went out like this—pinned, ruined, blissed-out of her mind—she’d go with a smile.

Normally, she was the one in control. She liked it that way—liked teasing him, keeping him on edge, giving just enough to drive him crazy and then pulling back with a smirk. But today? She hadn’t needed to lift a finger.

Mark was obsessed with the way she writhed for him.

"Liv..." he groaned against her ear, the gravel in his voice sending shivers straight down her spine. "You keep doing that, I’m not gonna last."

She smirked against the pillow. He’d been saying that for hours. And yet—he was still holding on. Still torturing himself to make it last longer. Maybe it was Viltrumite stamina. Or maybe he just liked giving her everything.

She shifted just slightly, dragging her nails down his forearm, letting her voice drip with teasing. "Then don’t."

A rough noise rumbled from his chest. She felt it before she heard it—then suddenly, all his weight came down on her. His chest pressed tight to her back, his thighs heavy over hers, hips flush.

Crushed. Owned. Trapped.

Her breath hitched. It wasn’t painful—far from it. She could take it. She was strong. But the sheer force of him pressed against her like he could split her in two. She whimpered, not from fear, but from the heat it sent spiraling through her. The idea that he could crush her if he wanted to—that if she didn’t have powers, maybe he would’ve—sent a dangerous thrill racing through her.

Mark moved, slowly, deliberately, grinding against her just right, and her body betrayed her with a high, helpless sound.

“You okay?” he asked against her neck, voice thick with tension, trying to hold back again.

But she didn’t answer with words—just clenched around him, hard. His reaction was immediate. A ragged gasp. A tremble. He faltered, losing rhythm for the first time all night.

"Shit—Liv..."

She turned her head enough to catch his eye. "You like that?" she whispered. "Poor baby... You’ve been trying so hard."

Mark let out a wrecked laugh, somewhere between adoration and frustration. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm,” she hummed, pressing back again. “And you love it.”

His hand slipped between her thighs—because of course it did—and she nearly came undone again right there. He knew exactly what to do with her now. Which spots made her cry out. Which ones made her knees give out. Which ones made her legs tremble.

Her fingers curled into the sheets as her release slammed into her again, sudden and electric, her back arching involuntarily. She didn’t even have the strength to curse. Behind her, Mark was cursing plenty. Still holding back. Still not letting himself go.

He hadn’t even finished when her body gave out beneath him, boneless and soaking in the afterglow, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips.

And then... bzzz.

Mark growled when his phone vibrated. The sound was shrill, sharp, unwelcome.

"Fuck. Seriously?"

He shifted, and Olive groaned in protest under his weight. She was still pinned beneath him, breathing hard, limbs loose and useless.

"Don’t move," she murmured. "You’re heavy. It’s nice."

He glanced down at her, half-scowling, half in awe. "You’re insane."

Mark let out a frustrated growl, releasing his hold on Olive’s throat just enough to steady himself, his other hand shooting out blindly to silence the damn thing.

"Alright," he exhaled, voice wrecked, "where were w—"

Olive was completely limp against the bed, her body sprawled out like she had turned to liquid. Her chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths, her face turned into the pillow, eyes closed, sated.

Mark frowned. "Did you seriously just—"

She hummed lazily, stretching out like a cat, her smug little smile hidden against the sheets. "Mmm… you should answer that. Could be important."

Mark scowled. "But I didn’t even finish”

"That’s what you get for showing off."

The teasing lilt in her voice sent a violent shudder through him, making his entire body tense because fuck, he was still inside her, and he was still aching for relief.

His jaw clenched. "Liv—"

"You had plenty of chances, big guy."

Her smug, satisfied tone was too much. He knew she was right. He had been so focused on making it last, on keeping control, that now she had completely undone him, and she knew it.

Mark let out a low, suffering groan, reluctantly pulling out of her, gritting his teeth at the loss of warmth.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, grabbing his phone with all the irritation in the world. "This better be the fucking end of the worl—"

It was indeed the end of the fucking world.

Despite his protests, Olive had gone with him to deal with the disaster unfolding worldwide. She and Mark had split up after realizing multiple alarms were going off at once. Even if it wasn’t the best idea, they had agreed to cover more ground by handling different locations.

A mohawked head emerged from the rubble, cursing at the sky. Olive hovered above, waiting for him to get up. The prison was already in ruins when she arrived, and the moment she saw the maniac in that all-too-familiar suit, she didn’t hesitate—she slammed a punch straight into his spine, sending him flying.

In the blink of an eye, she found herself grabbed by the throat, dragged across the ground, carving a trench into the asphalt from the sheer force of the impact.

She lifted her hands, clasped them together into a fist, and started hammering down on his forearms, ripping pained grunts from her attacker.

"Let me go, asshole."

Then suddenly, everything stopped. The debris and dust froze in the air. And she locked eyes with a stunned face.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw Mark.

But this wasn’t Mark.

It couldn’t be him.

"Olive?"

His face twisted in shock, like he hadn’t expected this.

"That fucking nerd was right—you’re alive."

He took a step toward her, radiating danger, hesitation flickering in his gaze. As she debated what to do, her eyes drifted to the mangled bodies he had left in his wake. She repeated to herself over and over that this wasn’t her boyfriend. This wasn’t the man she loved with every fiber of her being. This was just a copy, a failed attempt to replicate him.

With that thought, she punched him square in the face, sending him flying.

The mohawked Mark started laughing like a maniac, kneeling on the ground, gripping his head with both hands, muttering to himself.

"Shit, I know he said she’d be here, but I didn’t expect—"

He cut himself off when he saw Olive staring down at him. Power radiated off her, and a shiver ran down his spine. God, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to drop to his knees and do whatever this Liv asked of him.

"Who the fuck are you?"

She grabbed the fabric of his suit, lifting him nearly off the ground. Mohawk Invincible didn’t resist. He went slack in her grip, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He had missed her so much that, suddenly, all this destruction started making sense.

"I’m Invinc—"

“I know who you’re pretending to be.”

She reinforced her words with a punch straight to the face. The impact made him turn his head, spitting out blood. This shouldn't be turning him on as much as it was... right?

“Now tell me the truth.”

He grabbed her hands, caressing them gently despite the pain she had just inflicted. Olive recoiled in disgust at the look of satisfaction on his face. Shit, it was the same expression Mark wore when…

“God, it turns me on so much that you have powers in this reality, Liv.”

There it was—confirmation. She hit him again, this time letting go so the force of the blow sent him flying away from her. What the hell was happening? She replayed his words. In this reality. Was she really beating the shit out of Mark?

“Ohohoho. You’ve always liked it rough, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

He was staggering to his feet, wearing that same infuriating smirk she had once loved but now only wanted to punch off his face.

“You’re a fucking ass—”

She choked on her words when a hand wrapped around her ankle, yanking her off balance and spinning her through the air like a hammer. With a swift flick of his wrist, he hurled her away, sending her crashing into one of the few remaining watchtowers. Fuck, that hurt.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a figure hovering above the battlefield, fighting against the fake Mark. As her vision steadied, she focused on the source of her pain.

Omni-Man.

She swallowed hard, trying to dissolve the fear knotting in her throat. He was arguing with the mohawked Mark. She struggled to her feet, disoriented. With a single leap, she shot into the sky, fist extended, aiming straight for Nolan's jaw. But he moved at the last second, and she shot past his face. Her breath hitched in her throat because that wasn’t Mark’s father.

Jesus, another fucking Invincible.

“You almost killed her, dumbass,” Mohawk Mark scolded the Omni-Man lookalike, while Olive could only stare at them in shock.

“Swearing doesn’t make you cooler, just so you know.”

He remained impassive, arms crossed over a much broader chest than her Mark’s. Taking him down was going to be way harder than dealing with the pervert.

“I didn’t realize it was Olive. I just saw her beating the crap out of you.”

“I was letting her, for your information.”

“Bullshit.”

She stepped between them, cutting off their pointless conversation, weighing her options for getting out of this completely insane situation alive. And to think, less than an hour ago, she had been having one of the best org—

“Liv, sweetheart. Even if you have powers in this reality, I could break you if I wanted to. But lucky for you, there are so many things I want to do to you first. Like trying that position you were too scared of because you thought I’d crush you. Or maybe that other one wher—”

She hit him again, this time darting after his flying body to strike him over and over, playing ping-pong with his limp form. She pressed her palms against either side of his head, ready to crush his skull—but a hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her away with brute force.

She was dragged through the sky, far from the other Mark.

“Tell me, did he hurt you?”

His face was cold, calculating, but a flicker of concern shone in his eyes. He reached out to touch her cheek, but she slapped his hand away. Using his brief confusion, she grabbed his shoulders and shot toward the ground at full speed.

The impact shattered the concrete, creating a crater beneath them. Before he could react, Olive climbed to her feet and planted a boot on his throat, pressing down hard.

“Tell me, Mark. Did that hurt?”

His face twisted with fury as he struggled beneath her. How the hell is he this strong? This makes no sense.

She pressed harder, cutting off his air—but a sudden impact sent her flying. Expecting to see the perverted Mohawk Mark, she was instead met with yet another Mark. This one looked much more like hers, though his mask lacked goggles and his suit was still yellow.

“Finally, a fight worth having, Liv.”

With a wicked grin, he slammed her through the prison walls, dragging her through them with such force that the entire structure crumbled around them.

For the first time since this nightmare began, fear clawed at her skin. She needed to break free; her ribs were snapping under the pressure. She had fought with Mark before, but never against him. And she had no idea just how much each version of him was holding back.

When he reached for her throat, she whipped her head back and smashed it against his skull. He let go, and Olive tumbled across the rubble. She stayed on the ground for a moment, trying to catch her breath, searching for strength she didn’t have. Bracing herself on her hands, she lifted her upper body, just in time to see the goggle-less Mark approaching her.

“You always seemed so weak to me.”

He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up so their faces were inches apart. She screamed in pain, which only seemed to amuse him further.

“If you couldn’t keep up with me, why did you start dating me?”

He lifted her higher before slamming her into the ground. He was about to repeat the motion when another Mark tackled him away.

“Don’t touch her, asshole.”

Even through the ringing in her ears, she heard the sickening sound of a fist connecting with flesh.

She was dizzy again, the metallic taste of blood making her gag. Blinking rapidly, she saw a Mark who looked exactly like hers. Identical. When he knocked his alternate self unconscious, he flew straight to her.

“Liv, are you okay?”

Before he could touch her, she swung her leg, kicking him in the jaw and sending him flying.

Gasping for breath, Olive watched him pick himself up, confusion etched across his face. Her heart clenched, terrified she had just hurt her Mark. She shot toward him, grabbing him by the collar just like she had with the mohawked one.

“Liv, it’s me.”

His voice was hoarse, likely from all the blood he was swallowing.

“How do I know that’s true?”

He let out a tired scoff.

“If we hadn’t been interrupted, I would have given you the best afternoon of your life.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and she crushed him in a hug, whispering apologies over and over. Mark's arms wrapped around her, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping the world together.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through this alone. I wanted to get here sooner, but they’re everywhere and—”

She silenced him by cupping his face, repeating again and again that it wasn’t his fault.

“How touching.”

Several Invincibles hovered above them, watching with varying expressions. Olive’s mind raced, searching for a way out. But most of all, she couldn’t stop wondering—how the hell could they all be so different?

“Liv, seriously? You’re choosing this loser?”

She stood up with Mark at her side, their backs pressed together, preparing for the fight ahead. Her fingers brushed against his, and he gripped her hand tightly, refusing to let go.

“What do you want?”

“To ruin your fucking life, dumbass.” Mohawk Mark was definitely the talkative one. Olive made a mental note of it.

“I just want to take Liv and Mom home. I miss them.”

The Mark who spoke wore a dark mask, his face completely covered. She knew he wasn’t from her reality, but his voice—the sorrow in it—crushed her heart.

"You're such a crybaby."

The two of them started fighting among themselves. They didn’t look like a team—hell, they didn’t even look like a group. Olive’s mind raced, trying to come up with a solution, but she needed time.

"Why this dimension? What’s so special about it?"

"You." One of the Marks, dressed in full Viltrumite gear, spoke over the others, silencing them.

"Me? You’d destroy an entire world for one person?"

Another Mark scoffed, this one wearing a mask that didn’t quite fit his face.

"You’re not just anyone. You’re Olive."

"The one who always cared about us," the one who looked like Omni-Man added.

"In any dimension," continued the one without glasses.

"No matter what we did," finished the one with the mohawk.

Oh, God. Olive felt sick. This was all her fault.

"Looks like you have a type." That last comment came from her Mark. He wanted to laugh, but humor had completely abandoned him.

"The one who brought us here told us to destroy this dimension. As a reward, we’d find you—alive."

Something finally clicked in Olive’s mind. She squeezed Mark’s hand, as if warning him of what she was about to do. He glanced over his shoulder at her and gave a subtle nod.

"Mark?"

They all turned at the same time, speaking his name in unison. A shiver ran down her spine.

"Who am I supposed to stay with once you’ve destroyed the world?"

A chorus of "With me" erupted all at once, and the Invincibles glanced at each other. Their stances shifted, preparing for a fight—not against Olive, but against one another.

"Obviously, she’s staying with me. There’s a ton of filthy things we haven’t tried yet. And come on, she’s got super strength." The mohawked Mark was the first to speak. Of course he was.

"You’re disgusting. She’ll be with me. We have duties to fulfill for the Empire."

"You’re talking about her like she’s a damn toy." The masked Mark’s voice rose above the others. "She’ll be with me. I’ll protect her. Her and Debbie."

"You’re such a fucking weakling."

Olive took advantage of their rising tension, slipping out of the circle they’d formed above her. She grabbed Mark’s hand, pulling him along as he struggled to process what he was hearing. Without hesitation, Olive took off into the sky, and Mark followed closely behind.

"This should buy us some time while we figure out how to take down a bunch of versions of you."

Mark felt awful. His brain spun in circles. He loved Olive more than anything—they had always been together. He couldn’t imagine life without her. But he thought about what all those other Invincibles had done just to have her back.

Would he do the same?

If he lost Olive, would he go mad with grief? Would he do anything to have her by his side again?

He gripped her hand tighter as they flew away and gave it a small squeeze.

"Olive?"

She hummed in response.

"I love you too."

Her heart did a somersault in her chest. She felt whole… but a sliver of fear ran through her. Did that mean he would also destroy an entire world just to have her back?

She stared at their intertwined hands and tried not to think about it too much.

Meanwhile—

"Where the hell are they?!"

"You fucking idiots. They played us."

And then, a blood-curdling scream from one of the Invincibles:

"OLIVEEEEE!"

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hildergard · 11 months ago

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A GENTLE HAND ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

SUMMARY | "Gentle Hand," Mylenda insists on calling you, and perhaps that is what you are destined to be, perhaps that is what Prince Aemond needs.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Maid!Reader

TAGS | Mention of sexual assault and abuse, mommy issues, angst and light fluff.

WORDCOUNT | 10k

NOTE | This is my first fanfiction on this website. Ewan Mitchell plays such a fascinating Aemond that I had to write this. I hope it's any good. Tell me if I should write a part 2! <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The roebuck’s blood turned your fingers sticky and the knife handle slippery.

Brought by the royal hunters that very morning, the poor creature now lay on the counter of the Red Keep’s kitchens between the dismembered rabbits and the plucked ducks. It had only taken you a few cuts to skin the beast⏤practice makes perfect.

The flesh was now raw and spilling its bloody perfume. You grabbed a thyme leaf from one of the bouquets garnis picked for the mutton stew and pressed it against your nose to soothe your nostrils, assailed by the disturbing scent of game⏤a full-bodied mixture of earth and wildness. Above this acrid aroma, death distilled its powerful bouquet and turned your stomach. It had been years since you entered the service of the Crown and yet the disgust never vanished.

"She's coming," a small voice yelped from the kitchen entrance.

A murmur passed through the crowd of maids. All around you, they hurried their movements. Two tables away, Cass grimaced and hurriedly threw the pieces of mutton into a large pot before drowning them in wine. You met Dacey's panicked gaze as she hastened to peel potatoes. The blade of the knife slipped and nicked at her palm, but she had no time to care or feel.

Nothing mattered when Mylenda was around.

You straightened up and slipped the thyme leaf into your apron pocket. Your knife took no time to sever the roebuck’s tendons, spread the muscles, scrape the bones and, finally, dislocate the shoulder with a clean cut. The second limb followed immediately afterwards.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the kitchen and rattled the pans. The strong, greasy smell of venison, which had been bothering you all morning, disappeared at this familiar noise. Your fingers tightened around the handle of your knife as you stuck it in a leg.

One piece of meat wasted and your head would be chopped off.

"Is that venison ready, girl?" the matron’s voice grated against your eardrum. "It shouldn’t take you hours to cut up a poor carcass. I taught you better. Has my absence made you lazy? You know what happens to slackers."

You shook your head.

"Sorry, ma’am."

She grabbed your hand. The knife fell with a sharp clang, silencing all movement in the vicinity. Pots and pans, chopping boards and spits were cast aside. Amidst this deathly silence, all eyes fell on you.

"These are no hard-working hands. No, they're not… Next time I see you, I'd better see blisters on your lazy palm. Such… Such gentle hands in my kitchen," she scoffed, "Even whores get rougher skin jerking off cocks."

You flinched.

"You better start working harder, got it?"

Terror ran through you. You nodded frantically before wrenching your hand from her grasp and cradling your clenched fist against your heart.

Mylenda muttered something you did not care to hear, your ears deaf to anything but the frantic pounding of your heart against your temples. You looked down and immediately came across the beast's eyes, sitting in a clay bowl and reminiscent of the pile of gooseberries that would be used as a sauce for the chops. You could almost taste the delicious berries on the tip of your tongue.

Your stomach rumbled.

If the old woman heard it, she said nothing, too busy assessing your work.

"The cut could be cleaner," she criticised, "but I don't suppose the royals will mind when the meat crumbles into the stew. You're lucky we're not roasting it. You’re as tactful as a headsman, girl. You’re not cutting off a thief’s neck but the King's dinner. You better fix that."

"Yes, ma’am."

Your gaze fell even lower, to the hide piled up in a jumble on the floor. You were hoping to make a coat out of it this evening, in the privacy of your little bedroom. The air was getting colder and colder and your cotton dress would soon no longer suffice. Gilliane, like a true Northerner, kept saying that winter was coming.

Whatever that meant.

You kicked the skin under the table and prayed to the Seven Gods that Mylenda would not see it.

"Once you've finished cutting it up, you’ll make a terrine from the legs and shoulders," she ordered. "The Hand loves it. And don't forget to cook the guts. I ain’t letting a plump liver like that go to waste. Must’ve been a brave beast, that one," the matron said as she struck the bloody organ with pride. "A persillade should do. The mutton stew will be the main course."

You nodded and swallowed down your bile. The rancid scent of the old woman rivaled with the earthy exhalations of the venison.

"Back to work, girl."

With these words, Mylenda left to go and torment Cass, who was struggling to cook the mutton. Bubbling wine stained the sides of the copper pot and evaporated on the flame.

"Gi' me that. I'll carve it up for ya."

Someone snatched the knife out of your hand. You lifted your head and found Gilliane beside you, her gaze riveted on the matron who had turned crimson from screaming at poor Cass.

"Gentle hands... Gentle hands... I’ll tell her what I think of her hands. I'd love to see them so-called palms wrinkled wi' effort. I've never seen her hold no knife since I arrived," she mumbled.

Her defence warmed your heart.

"Tek care o' them offal ‘fore the old cow decides to serve yer kidneys wi' mustard instead," she whispered. "She'd get a kick outta that, that madwoman."

"Do you think she can smile?" you asked.

"Gods, no," she scoffed. "She was born wi' pursed lips and that ugly wrinkle between her eyebrows."

You both laugh before returning to your tasks. Gilliane was busy carving up the rest of the venison so you concentrated on the liver and the parsley. The smell of garlic and herbs wafted out of the mortar in front of you and made your mouth water as you added a pinch of salt and a spoonful of oil.

For a second, you dreamt of being a lady and imagined tasting these exquisitely flavoured dishes. The soup⏤more water than broth⏤and the stale bread you were entitled to once the service was over were intended to feed you, not to please. This right was reserved for people of good breeding.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Mylenda stopped to face Hendry, a little boy of just thirteen who had joined you a month earlier. It wasn't unusual for people to sell their children in exchange for a new cart or some meat. Sometimes, mothers would lay their babies outside the gates of the Keep and pray that the place would blossom into a better life. From here, you could see the boy's pale complexion and shaking shoulders. The plate he was cleaning was dangerously close to falling. You prayed to the Gods to spare this child from the wrath of the woman next to him.

"The King's dinner my arse..." you grumbled as you started to dice the liver. "She doesn't give a damn about doing His Majesty a favour as long as she can torture us."

"What's worse is she doesn't realise that she doesn't need t'beat us. Just a whiff of her rotten breath and believe me, even the worst brigand would fall to their kn–"

Oswell Pyne stormed into the kitchen, his fist wrapped around the arm of a weeping Prudence.

You dropped the pestle at the sight of her swollen face. Her milky complexion faded into a mass of frightening bruises. The purple and blue weren't enough to hide the drops of blood beading at her temple and the edges of her lips.

What had this poor girl fallen into?

You immediately abandoned your post⏤to hell with the damn parsley⏤and tried to make your way through the other servants who had gathered at the entrance to the kitchens, just as eager to find out more. Gilliane insulted two or three of them, who immediately moved aside for fear of poking the Nordic woman and having to face her coarse tongue.

"Steward Oswell," Mylenda stammered. "To what do I owe your visit? You don't normally drop in until dinnertime, which, if I'm not mistaken, doesn't start for another two hours."

She turned to the maid, whose sobs had worsened at the sight of the old hag. Her headdress had been ripped off and her blonde hair was falling in knots over her tiny shoulders.

"Prudence, what have you done, girl?" she asked dryly. "Oh, sir... I hope she didn't cause you no trouble. My girls usually know how to behave."

"Well, it seems Prudence here has seen fit to answer back to His Majesty."

The whole kitchen fell in an uproar.

Mylenda, who ruled with an iron fist over the henhouse of the Red Keep’s maids, harped on to you all day long about the importance of keeping quiet. You still remembered your first day in the service of the Crown and the words she had screamed…

"Maids can gossip all they like in the kitchens, Gods know stirring a stew for two hours can put even the most seasoned of maids to sleep, but if I catch any of you uttering a single word outside these walls, they will be punished. The Lords don't need to be reminded that we exist. As soon as you stop smelling the kitchens, you shut up."

Shivers ran down your spine.

"Obviously," the steward continued, heedless of the chaos his words had unleashed, "Prudence didn't care about the repercussions such disastrous behaviour might have on the maids. Or on Mylenda herself. Am I right, girl? Own up your mistake."

He shook Prudence's arm and she let him, her chin trembling. You wanted to slap that horrible man, to make him swallow his arrogant smile, but what could you do but stand by and watch this horrifying spectacle?

Next to you, Gilliane cursed against the matron and the steward. Her insults were drowned out by the whispers of the other maids. Cass, her apron still stained with wine, was turned towards Ellyn, the baker. Even Hendry had leaned over to Dacey and was whispering something in his ear.

"Quiet, girls!" Mylenda shouted before turning back to Prudence. "Well, what are you waiting for? Speak up! For Gods’ sake, what's got into you?!"

"He... He tried to... To... I didn't want to... My father... he would have... No... I couldn't..."

Your heart fell into your stomach. Of course. You closed your eyes and breathed in to try and silence the flicker of indignation blossoming inside. The hubbub around you increased. Several girls gasped. A few had the courage to protest. Next to you, Gilliane grunted and clenched her fist.

How many more maids would have to suffer the same fate before someone took action? How many young girls would have to be broken, their prospects dripping down their aching thighs, because of the animal urges of one and the same man?

"And that gives you the right to answer back to the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms?" the steward growled. "You fool!"

The memory of Dyana still haunted the kitchens. No one dared mention her name for fear of invoking her tormentor, whom the aromas of poppy and dirty gold could not mask. How naive you had been to think this had been enough to keep him out… The executioner had invited himself into your ranks and was sowing his eternal seeds of destruction. Again and again and again.

Such was the luck of Targaryens and their royal blood while the small folk picked up the pieces and healed the wounds. Spoilt blood flowed and flowed and flowed without a care in the world. Who would stop the bleeding? Were we destined to die, our empty bodies turned towards the gold-covered hands that held the knife?

"I understand Prudence was to be one of the cupbearers at tonight's dinner. You can understand why the King would be... offended if he had to endure the sight of that... that seductress while he ate his meal. Would he not?"

Ashamed, the old woman grumbled under her breath, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Mylenda only cared about her reputation. She forgot that, like all of you, she was nothing. You frowned, disgusted by this dishonourable but not in the least surprising display.

"Of course, sir! Come here, girl!" Mylenda barked at Prudence before grabbing her hair and pulling her forward. "I'll show you what I do to maids who dare to talk back! You'll be sorry you didn't let the King get his way!"

Next to you, Gilliane took a step forward, ready to fight, but you held her back before she too sealed her fate. You had seen what happened to girls who dared to speak out and you didn't want to see your friend beaten to death by a stick.

Mylenda's crazed gaze swept across the assembly before coming to rest on you. She pointed at you with her bony finger.

"You! Gentle Hand! You'll be the cupbearer in Prudence’s stead. I hope you fill glasses better than you cut meat. I will not be humiliated any further by one of my maids. You will behave yourself and do me honour. Got it?"

You paled and glanced around in panic, but the other maids lowered their heads, happy not to have been chosen. Nobody wanted to be the cupbearer. Not since the coronation. Standing for hours enduring King Aegon's indecent babblings, his lips loosened by the acrid taste of wine, was an ordeal you all sought to avoid. Until now, you had managed to escape it, eternally hidden behind the steaming pots.

The Gods had now taken away your chance and were throwing you into the dragon pit.

You stammered incomprehensible words, pointing to the pieces of liver ready to be cooked, but Mylenda would have none of it and glared at you until you bowed your head and admitted defeat.

Oswell stood next to the matron, staring at you with his nose turned up⏤like watching an insect, you realised. He finally nodded and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

His departure set off a firestorm. Gilliane turned sharply towards you, her grey eyes ablaze with rage.

"One day, I’ll gut him like a pig," she spat. "Mylenda. Oswell. They're rats, all of 'em."

You watched as the others busied themselves around Prudence. Cass wrapped a cloth around her shoulders and led her to a chair. Ellyn handed her a loaf of bread and forced her to eat before bringing a glass of water to her bruised lips.

"Poor girl," Gilliane continued but you were listening with a distracted ear. "She's far too good to work here. I'll pray t'the Old Gods for her tonight. Maybe they'll hear me and get her outta this hell ‘for the old cow gets the better of her."

The Northerner shook her head and, at last, looked at you, her eyes moistened with concern. She leaned towards you and asked if you were all right. Words fell short on the tip of your tongue, troubled by the sight of a destroyed Prudence and the evening ahead of you. Your chores consisted of cooking and washing cloths, nothing that would justify being in the company of the royal family.

You shrugged.

"If ya want, I can ask Mylenda to swap us," Gilliane suggested. "I don't want ya to have anything to do wi' him. Not after all that mess," she nodded at Prudence.

Henry was clumsily dressing up her wounds.

You shook your head.

"No. It'll only get you in trouble with the old cow. I'll go. It's just serving wine, isn't it? It can't be that bad."

"I guess," Gilliane conceded.

You knew very well that your friend wanted to protest. You could see her plea right at the edge of her lips, but you went back to your post and your persillade before she could tell it. Protesting wouldn't change anything, so you might as well get used to the idea and put up with it. You deliberately ignored the shiver of terror that ran down your spine at the thought of the King and grabbed a new sprig of parsley, chopped it roughly before adding it to the mortar.

Mylenda appeared beside you as you grabbed the pestle.

"What are you still doing here, girl? Didn't you hear me? Go and look after the wine. We still have to add the honey and decant it. And for Gods’ sake, change that bloody apron! Spare the royal family the sight of these hideous rags! Ahem. Right, then. Now, where was I? Henry, polish these bloody chalices!"

The old matriarch left you alone, arms flailing away.

Contrary to popular belief, the wine cellars were not next to the kitchens. You had to venture even further down to find the huge and cold rooms. You were already missing the lively melody of the kitchens before leaving them.

"We probably won't see each other again before dinner, so... Stay away from t’King," Gilliane whispered to you before pursing her lips. Her hand squeezed your shoulder painfully. "If anything happens, anything, tell me and I'll take care of it–"

"Don't you worry about me," you put an end to her budding act of betrayal.

She nodded, frowning and her gaze determined. It was hard to believe that this fiery fury had been bred by the icy winds of Longtown.

"Can you do something for me?"

"Anything," she replied immediately.

"Hide the roebuck skin."

Gilliane smiled and winked at you.

"As long as ya leave me some to mend me cloak."

"Deal."

You gave her a thin smile and abandoned the venison and parsley, your knife and mortar for barrels and crushed grapes. When you reached the caves, a cellarer was stirring wine in a gigantic pot. Beside him, another was pouring honey into the red bath. They were probably making the hypocras the King was so fond of.

"I... Mylenda sent me. I'm the cupbearer... For tonight’s… dinner..?"

The pourer interrupted your poor explanation and nodded towards the corner of the room.

"Make yourself useful and fill those jugs up, girl."

The two hours passed quicker than you had wished and soon you found yourself with your back against the wall, your arms already tired from carrying the jug of wine you had filled yourself.

You thought back to Mylenda and lowered your head a little more. Her orders, engraved in your skull, haunted you. You could almost feel the old woman's bony fingers wrap around your chin and yank it down. The labyrinthine floors of the Keep were not enough to blur the threat of the old woman. Even when she wasn't there, she forced you to keep your head down, your eyes glued to the floor and, above all, your mouth shut⏤if you dared utter a single word, you'd suffer her fury and her fist.

You remembered Prudence's swollen face and shivered. Aegon Targaryen may have cast the first stone in her doll's face, but you had no doubt that the matron would throw all the others and beat her to the bone. You tightened your grip on the jug's handle and prayed to the Gods to spare you from the same fate.

With a distracted ear, you listened to the Dowager Queen, Alicent Hightower, speak in a soft voice, but her words faded under the suffocating presence of the King. He stood close enough to you so that you could hear every gulp of wine drunk, every mouthful chewed open. He spat out your persillade and stained the white tablecloth with vulgar words, obviously caring little for decorum.

The perks of being King, you supposed.

Your mind wandered away from Kings and Queens to the hide under the worktop. Had Gilliane taken it away or was it still lying on the sticky kitchen floor? Would you keep the hair or turn it into a leather coat, less warm but more durable? After what Mylenda had called the "deer disaster", she wouldn't let you butcher any more animals. No more skins for you. You'd have to buy fabric, but the few silver stags you were given every month wouldn't be enough.

Despite the plump little purse hidden under your straw mattress, you refused to dip your hand into it. The Crown housed you and fed you; clothes were a mere futility when the Keep provided you with a red dress and a white apron to wear. So why spend your fortune, meagre though it may be, on coquettish whims? No. The purse would remain hidden until you left the Keep.

Leather it is, you thought.

"Girl. Wine."

You startled and hastily filled the glass the Hand held out to you. Otto Hightower glanced at you for a moment but said nothing. He took a sip and turned to continue his conversation with his grandson, Prince Aemond. You sighed, relieved when his attention left you. A small voice in your head, however, whispered to you that he would definitely mention this incident to Oswell, and if not to the steward, to Melynda herself.

You gulped and absent-mindedly wiped the drop of wine from the jug.

As you moved to regain your place by the wall, your eye drifted to the venison terrine in front of the Hand, left untouched. You frowned. The fruit and cheese had long since filled the plates and foretold the end of dinner. A bitter taste poisoned your mouth and tugged its corners down. They were happily wasting the food while, under their feet, maids would fight to trim the bones of their leftovers, like vile carrion-eaters around a leprous corpse.

The nobles boasted of their noble education and mastery of good manners, but these vanished in the indecency of their existence.

A pale hand burst in front of your eyes and stopped under your nose to present you with an empty cup. Without a word, you poured the King another drink and kept your head down. His insistent gaze burned the side of your face and moved lower, stopping on your heaving chest. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end and the handle of the jug pressed painfully into your sweaty palm.

You pig.

You looked around for a way out and found no better distraction than the Prince Aemond. Your gaze immediately fell on his eye patch. You were standing on his blind side, you realised. The thought reassured you. For the first time, you could observe the members of the royal family as you pleased.

Unlike his brother, the second son of the late King Viserys did not take pleasure in fondling servant girls. He spent his urges studying the texts and holding the blade when he wasn't off murdering his nephews⏤for the war that emptied your stomachs and purses had blossomed at the hand of Aemond Targaryen.

Your eyes fell on his clenched fist, his angular jaw and his famous leather eye patch.

Yes, you could easily picture him a as murderer.

You left your thoughts for a moment to serve the Dowager Queen again, noticing that there was nothing left of the parsleyed liver that had filled her plate⏤a flash of satisfaction shook you⏤but your gaze quickly returned to the statuesque figure of the Prince.

You frowned.

A crack split the fascinating sight. His hand was gripping his glass so tightly that his knuckles were turning white, but even this strong grip couldn't mask the tremors shaking his fingers. The veins in his wrist gushed against the pale skin and seemed to be screaming out a pain that no one could hear but you: the King had started singing, the Dowager Queen was biting her nails and the Hand seemed about to insult his Grace.

Other details suddenly jumped out at you, as the din next to you worsened: his eyebrows furrowed, his other hand gripping the edge of the table, his vacant purple eye. He wasn't even answering Otto Hightower any more, just nodding absently.

Prince Aemond soon had enough of his brother's ditty and stood up. The chair legs creaked against the floor and made you wince, but you lowered your head and pursed your lips. He greeted his family in a curt voice before leaving, his head held high, a far cry from the spectacle of weakness you had just witnessed.

"My glass isn't going to fill itself, girl. More wine. And don't be stingy. To the brim. I'm thirsty."

You watched in silence as the red liquid crashed into the golden glass. A fine foam rose to the surface, the syrupy aromas of the spiced wine oozing out of it. For a second, you indulged yourself in the divine fragrance and its sweetness, which almost made you forget the King's perverse eyes.

Aelinor stepped forward and cleared the Prince's place setting. She took the empty plate, then the glass, and soon it was as if Aemond Targaryen had never dined here. Only a round of wine, where his glass had been placed, was proof of his presence.

He had never asked for a refill, you realised.

For some reason, the vision of Prince Aemond stayed with you for days.

A new servant, Gretchel Stone⏤a bastard of the Vale⏤had been hired to replace Prudence as cupbearer and waitress. The blonde girl had disappeared from the Keep three days after what the maid now called 'The Accident'. Wherever she was, you prayed for her good fortune and health. The law of the Lords was merciless⏤they played games and let the Small Folk suffer the consequences of their actions.

If Prudence's departure had saddened you deeply, Gretchel's arrival had freed you from your duty as cupbearer. You were elated to be back in the kitchens and the laundry. The mere memory of the King's gaze still sent shivers down your spine. It stuck to your skin despite the hours you spent in the bath, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing. Your flesh, however raw, couldn't shed the terror.

The hour of the Nightingale enveloped the Keep in an unrivalled softness. You enjoyed this in-between moment, when the night clung to the fragments of moon that still remained and left the few early risers to enjoy the quiet that the sun would take away.

The journey to the Great Sept was quick and untroubled. The few drunkards sprawled out on the ground in their own filth were fast asleep and the laborers already working had no use for you. Wrapped up in Gilliane’s cloak, your friend still asleep, you hurried on⏤soon, the Red Keep would awaken and duty would crush you.

When you finally passed through the monument's great doors, septas were silently cleaning the wax from yesterday’s burnt-out candles.

You passed them and knelt before the wall of the Crone, letting your gaze drift over her wrinkled statue and the murals carved in her honour before taking a splint and lighting a candle. You clasped your hands together and closed your eyes.

"Dear Crone," you whispered, "You who have seen so many lives and so many fates, grant me clairvoyance and discernment, for the future seems full of trials. Give me patience in my struggle and the strength to act with justice and compassion. Enlighten my steps and bless me with your mercy."

A bruised, stoic face appeared before your eyes, but you stood up before your thoughts drifted into those dangerous waters.

Lowly people need not concern themselves with the affairs of a Prince, an unknown voice said firmly.

When you returned to the Keep, it had come alive, bustling with hurry and duty. The kitchens were busy preparing meals for the Lords as other maids were coming and going, their arms drowned in clean and dirty linen. When Mylenda saw you, she threw a white pile into your arms and ordered you to change Prince Aemond's bedding.

"Gwenys, the poor girl, is ill," the matriarch explained. "The flu, no doubt. Bloody business. I'll be damned if the Prince catches it. He breaks his fast an hour after dawn. Any minute now, in fact. Make haste, Gentle Hand! And don't let anyone see you."

You stammered your obedience and hurried to Maegor's Citadel. The huge closed doors sent shivers down your spine. They separated you from the power of the World and its cruelty. The blood of the dragon slumbered in these quarters and you would not be the one to poke the sleeping beast. Your gaze fell on the King's chambers ⏤had an innocent soul once again fallen to his cruelty last night?⏤but you lowered your head and continued on your way.

You knocked on the door⏤your knuckles hitting the carved wood painfully ⏤but nobody answered. Your shoulders relaxed and your breathing calmed. The heavy door would not budge as you tried to push it open. Where were the Kingsguards? You threw your entire weight against the wood and when it finally did open, a thick layer of sweat was soaking your back.

Your eyes quickly swept over the Prince's quarters, drowned in the distinct opulence of royalty. In one corner, a bookcase was overflowing with ancient tomes and the smell of parchment filled the room. On the walls, murals glorifying House Targaryen caught your eye, but you forced yourself to keep your chin down, your mouth shut, and moved towards the bed, ignoring its warm and cosy appearance, a far cry from your straw mattress.

The four-poster bed alone was bigger than the small room you shared with Gilliane. Its tastefully embroidered green and black curtains caught your eye, but you resisted the urge to touch them.

Your arms went to work on their own and fell into familiar gestures.

You pulled off the worn sheets⏤trying not to think about the fluids trapped in them⏤rolled them into a ball and let them fall to the floor before taking the new ones and draping them over the feather-filled mattress. At last, you fluffed the cushions, releasing a musky and unmistakably masculine scent in the air. It floated in your nostrils. Your heart raced and your cheeks flushed. A little voice⏤sounding strangely like Mylenda’s⏤discouraged you from giving in to temptation, but the perfume numbed your senses and your reason.

Your trembling hand grasped the cloth and brought it to your face... Already, the scent caressed your cheeks. You gasped, your lips parted, ready to taste this intoxicating bouquet...

The door slammed.

The cushion fell from your hand.

You scrambled to your feet, almost tripping over the pile of dirty sheets on the floor.

The look on Prince Aemond's face made your blood run cold.

"Out."

Head down, you picked up the linens and left, taking care not to approach the Prince, who was visibly enraged. As you passed him, his gasping breath caught in your eardrum. You risked a glance in his direction and glimpsed at his clenched fist.

Just like at dinner.

The doors closed behind you with a slam that startled you. You had just enough time to hear a grunt and see the Prince's silhouette collapse to the floor. You paled and opened your mouth, ready to offer help, but Mylenda's threats came back to haunt you. You lowered your chin and disappeared around the corner of the corridor, determined to turn a deaf ear to the Prince's groans of pain.

Surely he would have ordered you to stay or fetch a Maester if he felt the need. His silence said it all, didn't it? A creature as proud as Aemond Targaryen probably wanted to be left alone to brood over the illness that was tormenting him. Perhaps Gwenys flu had affected more people than Mylenda thought.

Yes, that must be it.

Gwenys' ailment had turned out to be much more than the flu. Blood flux, a nasty ordeal… Oswell and Mylenda had tried to keep the matter quiet so as not to alert the Lords and give them more reason to hate the servants they were condemned to brush shoulders with. Several maids were dismissed from their duties to stop the spread of the disease⏤better letting it grow in Flea Bottom than the Keep, the steward had said⏤and their tasks had fallen on the already stooping shoulders of the remaining workers.

Busy changing the Prince's sheets at dawn and working in the kitchens during the rest of the day, it had become difficult to find time to pray to the Crone and the Mother in the Great Sept. This new schedule left you exhausted and irritated. Gilliane sometimes had to wake you up⏤something that would have been unthinkable just two weeks earlier. You were finding it hard to mourn the Hour of the Nightingale and the peace and quiet that Mylenda had forced you to give up. Now you had to pray in your room late at night, with the smell of cooking and soap still clinging to your skin.

But the Gods turned a deaf ear to your pleas and left you to face alone the guilt that grew in your heart each time you abandoned the Prince to his painful fate.

Your mornings were structured around a heavy sense of déjà vu. No matter how late you changed the Prince's linens, he would always appear and order you to leave with a booming voice before collapsing in a tornado of pain that, strangely enough, broke your heart.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," you shrugged. But I'm sure... I mean… It can't be the blood flux," you dared to whisper the forbidden word. "His sheets are always clean. I've never found any blood or vomit or... or anything. No... It must be some other affliction. For it to happen every day... Maybe it's his spirit? With all this talk of war... Oh, it's terrible. And strange. I can't stop thinking about it. Perhaps I should speak to the Maester..."

You stirred the contents of the pot absent-mindedly. As you had predicted, Melynda no longer trusted you to cut the meat and had assigned you to the sauces, much to your delight⏤the dreadful scent of fresh had been replaced by bouquets of redcurrant, wine and mustard.

Next to you, Gilliane cut a rabbit’s head in one clean stroke.

« Dozens of masters would travel from the Citadel just to treat him. It's not yer job to worry about him. He doesn't deserve it and it’ll only get ya into trouble. Maybe it's a ploy to bed ya. ‘Ve heard he spends lotta nights in the Street of Silk."

"Hmm... I doubt that's it. What's the point of dismissing me, then? If it was a ploy to... to do that… wouldn't it be easier to let me help him? I don't think the Prince is like his brother. No... He seems genuinely unwell."

"Generations of incest do that to ya," your friend scoffed. "It's about time the Gods punished 'em for their sins... These Greens are rotten to the core and you'd do well to remember that. These... These usurpers are–"

"More cutting and less talking, girls. The Crown pays you to fill stomachs, not to gossip like wenches. If working is such a bother, I'll be happy to replace you with obedient young ladies. Hundreds of them dream of your position in Flea Bottom."

"Yes, ma'am," you replied in unison.

Gilliane waited until Mylenda had gone before turning back to you, the bloody tip of her knife pointed towards you.

"Don't waste your prayers on that kinslayer. And keep away from him, d’ya hear me? There's something evil about that boy, I know it."

You nodded silently and stopped your thoughts from drifting to the Targaryen man. Perhaps Gilliane was right. A prince's business was none of your concern and it would be foolish to think otherwise.

Yes, you would do your chores quietly and let the lords play their game and fight their demons alone.

Prince Maelor's flushed and tearful face refused to leave your mind as you took his dirty linens to the laundry. You did not normally look after the King's heirs⏤Queen Helaena preferred to entrust this task to her trusted servants since that night⏤but a panicked Jenny had stormed into the corridor of Maegor's Citadel, a crying Jaehaera in her arms, as you went to the Prince's room. You had not hesitated to volunteered to take the soiled sheets to be washed; on the contrary, you welcomed the distraction with open arms⏤everything was good to postpone the duty that awaited you.

The smell of urine emanating from the sheets in your arms made you wince and quicken your pace, but your heart wept for this little toddler whom life had not spared. The King's last child had been prone to accidents since the barbaric assassination of Prince Jaehaerys⏤no doubt the traumatic death of his brother had upset him, as it had all the inhabitants of the Keep.

Once the sheets had been dropped off, you turned around and retraced your steps until you arrived in front of Prince Aemond's room. You swore under your breath as noises pierced the wood. The sun, already high in the sky, was taunting you. Your little diversions had only delayed your duty, not erased it despite your prayers, and now you had to change the Prince's bedding with the man in the room.

Maybe he would not care to hold it against you... After all, he told you to leave every day, whether his linens were changed or not. You turned on your heels and were about to head for the kitchens and Gilliane, but a scream stopped you in your tracks.

A second followed, then a third. You glanced around, hoping to see a Royal Guard burst around the corner, but no white cloak appeared. The corridors remained empty and the Prince's screams continued to ricochet off the alcoves and ceiling mouldings with you as the only ear listening.

Over your shoulder, the door taunted you. It was ajar, you realised. An unusual lack of attention from the Prince. You took a step towards it, keeping your eyes fixed on the small gap. Soon, the Prince's silhouette came into view.

On the ground, wearing only a shirt and trousers, Aemond Targaryen was shaking like a leaf, a trembling hand pressed against his bruised eye. A new wave of pain must have swept through him as he curled into himself and screamed.

You rushed to his side.

"Are you all right, my prince?" you asked breathlessly. Mylenda and her orders be damned. "Would you like me to fetch the Maester?"

Your hand hovered over his shoulder, which twitched with agony, but you did not dare to touch it for fear of retaliation. The Targaryen man raised his head with an almost bestial growl, resembling the dragon on his coat of arms. When he recovered enough to understand who was standing in front of him, his eyebrows furrowed and his complexion flushed with anger. Your heart skipped a beat and fear seeped through your veins in a matter of seconds.

"Get out," he gritted before turning his head⏤no, hiding.

"My Prince, I fear I must insist. Your eye–"

His eye patch had slipped off and, although it didn't unveil the horror that lay behind it, it did reveal a red and irritated scar. The lower eyelid was now a mass of inflamed skin. You turned your head and saw a bottle of milk of the poppy overturned, its translucent liquid staining the floor.

"Get out or I'll have your head!"

You jumped. In an impulse you would no doubt regret, your fingers went to his bruised cheek and brushed against the burning skin to feel the damage before you squeaked. The Prince's hand tightened around your wrist and squeezed, squeezed, squeezed, until you yelped and abruptly pulled away. Pain colonised your palm, your fingers you could now barely move, and the bone at the centre of it all. You got up on shaky knees and walked away, leaving the Prince alone with his torments.

Instead of heading for the kitchens, your legs led you to Maester Orwyle's dark and silent storerooms. No doubt he was busy deciding the fate of the kingdom with the other members of the Small Council. Silently, you slipped through the door and lit a candlestick before examining the shelves filled with ingredients of all kinds, some perhaps older than you. Hundreds of labels jumped out at you, but none caught your eye until the orange of a jar lit up your retina.

You glanced behind you and were relieved to see the room still empty. Hastily, you uncorked the jar and dipped your hand in. Your fingers brushed against the softness of its contents before closing around it. You repeated the operation once, twice, thrice, until your pockets were overflowing with expensive and precious ingredients. When it came to stealing the powder you needed, you hesitated but ended up finding a small wooden bowl, insignificant enough so that no one would notice it missing.

Just as you were about to leave, the faint glow of the candle caught on a small metal container and blinded you. You read its familiar inscription before dropping it, too, into your apron and setting off again, praying to the Gods that the Maester didn't notice the missing ingredients, otherwise you'd certainly end up on the scaffold.

Your footsteps hit the floor of the Keep. The corridors gave way to staircases that revealed the lower floors, hiding your bedroom. Once you were safe, you tossed your loot onto the bed before digging out a mortar and a sticky jar from underneath it. With trembling hands, you dipped a wooden dish into a bucket of clear water normally used for bathing before grabbing the pestle.

In the mortar, you emptied the bag of green clay and drowned it in the water before stirring. The pain in your wrist redoubled, but you gritted your teeth and persevered. You added the marigold and camomile petals, then the gooey inside of a Dorne plant whose name you didn't know, before adding two large spoonfuls of honey.

The neck of the metal container hung in the air for a few seconds. Was that wise? You hesitated, thinking back to the bottle spilt in the Prince's room, but gave in to temptation and let three drops fall into the concoction.

You ran back towards Maegor's Citadel and snuck into the Prince's quarters. He raised his head and his features quickly contorted with rage at your sight.

"You again! I shall speak to the steward of your–"

You threw the mortar on the floor, along with some bandages, before turning around and slamming the door. Your back slid against its wood until you fell to the floor, gasping for air.

Seven Hells, what have I done?

For a week, your nights were spent praying to the Gods to spare you from the Prince's rage. Sleep slipped away in night terrors that always woke you with a start, leaving you paranoid enough to look over your shoulder every few minutes, waiting for the inevitable. A beating by Mylenda, a dismissal by the steward, even a visit from the Royal Guard... but nothing happened. And that somehow made it worse. Perhaps the Prince wanted to deal with you alone. A series of shivers made you waver. He was terrifying, untouchable⏤impunity incarnated. If anyone found out what you'd done...

No. No one would know, you tried to convince yourself.

You decided to keep the incident from Gilliane, who wouldn't have understood anyway. No doubt she would even have chastised you for not leaving him to die on the icy floor of the Keep. A staunch supporter of Rhaenyra, she hated the idea of working for the enemy. You had no thought on the subject. Politics did not matter to you as long as you were paid and the Gods let you live. You wouldn't spit on the hand that fed and housed you.

It was comfort that kept you under the yoke of Mylenda and her petrifying breath, not ideology.

The dirt on the King's sheets dissipated in the icy water of the washroom. Your purple fingers struggled to wring the fabric. Terrified of having to face the Prince and reap the consequences of your reckless act, you had asked Mylenda to change your chores in the morning. Fortunately, the matron didn't argue too much, sending you away with just a barb about your hands⏤as was her custom⏤before returning to her duties. Washing clothes had never been your forte, but you preferred it to Aemond Targaryen’s presence.

Two more weeks passed without the Prince making his presence felt. He seemed to have disappeared from the Keep. According to the other maids, his appearances at meals were brief and always tense, and some had even seen him lose a duel during his sparring sessions with Criston Cole.

When you realised that the Prince would not take revenge, your shoulders relaxed and your mind returned to more pleasant thoughts.

How naive of you to think that Aemond One-Eye would give up.

He cornered you in a corridor one evening as you were making your way to your room. Your fingers were itching to do something other than stir sauces and wash cloths. The deerskin, hidden under your bed and still intact, was waiting for you. With all this fuss, you had never found the time to make your long-awaited coat, a decision you bitterly regretted⏤the cold had definitely fallen on King's Landing and left you shivering when your chores weren't there to warm you up.

A hand pulled you into an alcove. You attempted to struggle but the stranger quickly overpowered you, leaving you unable to move or scream. White streaks cascaded in front of your eyes, carrying a distinct musky smell which stunned you into compliance.

By the Gods, he had come seeking revenge.

Aemond Targaryen was going to kill you.

"Which Maester did you steal that poultice from?"

His sharp tone was terrifying. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes and a squeak fell from your lips. The prince turned you towards him, waiting for an answer, but you didn't know what to say. Your thoughts were all jumbled together, rendering you as mute as Cromm, the horse keeper from Flea Bottom. He was close, so close that you could see the grain of his skin, the purple of his eye and the scar on his cheek⏤less red than last time, you noticed.

"Answer me, girl. Where did you find this ointment? Maester Orwyle assures me he has no knowledge of it. Nor do his colleagues. No one in this Keep knew of its existence until I mentioned it. So speak up!"

You stammered a few words, incomprehensible even to your own ears. This seemed to frustrate the Prince to no end as he tightened his grip on your arm.

Your wrist throbbed, reminiscing the pain.

"If you do not tell me who–"

"It’s mine," you cut him off, eager to free yourself from his grip. "I made it."

The silence stretched and wrapped around your neck in a horrifying premonitory vision.

"... You? »

"Yes?"

He glared at you. The darkness of the alcove didn't dull the brilliance of his purple irises. It glowed and made your heartbeat quicken. Legends said the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men and you couldn't help but agree, blessed enough to contemplate their work.

"Hm."

The pressure on your arm vanished.

"You will tend to my linens. The new maid cannot do it properly."

The Prince turned around and disappeared into the night.

The green and black curtains of the four-poster bed had long lost their novelty but none of their splendour. You fluffed the pillow before picking up the duvet. The musky scent of the Prince invaded your nostrils and dilated your pupils. You'd never admit it, but you were relieved to find yourself back in the quarters of the Dowager Queen’s second son. No more freezing water. No more soiled sheets. No more vomit and sperm staining the King's robes.

The Prince entered the room without a word, but his panting alerted you. Over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of his clenched fists, furrowed brows and soaked forehead... You didn't wait for him to dismiss you before curtseying, your headdress almost falling off. You gathered up the sheets and headed for the door, but he held out a hand.

"Stay. I've... I've got to..."

The sheets fell at your feet as the Prince wobbled. Your hands struggled to hold on to his torso, which, in its mass, threatened to send you to the floor too. With clenched teeth, you guided the man to his bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in your arms, and immediately covered him with a blanket, not caring that you had spent time tucking it.

"What... what should I do? Should I fetch Maester Orwyle? Or someone else? A guard? Ser Criston Cole, perhaps?"

The situation was surreal. Prince Aemond Targaryen, kinslayer and rider of Vhagar, was turning to you for help. A spark of jubilation ignited in your chest but panic spoiled the moment. Large beads of sweat beaded on the Prince’s forehead and ran down his skin to his twitching eyebrow. Your eyes widened at the sight. The whole left side of his face was twitching and convulsing.

You were right to add chamomile, you thought gravely.

Prince Aemond had spasms, his muscles never healed from the loss of his eye.

A pang lacerated your heart at the thought of this young boy, fated to suffer in silence during all those years.

A warm sensation brought you back to the present. A pale and large hand had engulfed yours and was gripping it so tightly that you winced. But you said nothing, just whispered words of encouragement that were drowned out by his groans. He was no longer the terrifying Prince the maids talked about. He was turning into the fragile, battered being he had once been before your very eyes

"Do you... have your... your poultice?" he managed to say.

You shook your head. The prince had started to shiver. In a fit of bravery, you placed the back of your hand against his forehead and found it burning. A spark of panic ignited your chest.

Fever was never a good sign.

"Can you... Can you make some?"

"I–" you stammered. "My Prince... The ingredients are not easy to find."

"Paper… And a quill."

Not wanting to exhaust him further, you rushed to his secretary and promptly grabbed the items before running back to his bedside. He grasped it with a trembling hand and scribbled something on a roll of paper before handing it to you.

"Give this to Maester Orwyle. He'll grant you access to his supplies. I... I need your help."

With a determined nod, you set off in the direction of the healer's quarters, who was stunned by your request before letting you in. The man watched you make the ointment in silence. The weight of his gaze slid over your tense body, too concentrated on your movements to pay attention. You left, throwing a thank-you over your shoulder, and returned to Aemond's room, out of breath and with your heart pounding against your temples.

The Prince had not moved. He only moved when you handed him the pot.

"Can you... put it on me?" he asked in a small voice.

So, you, the ever-dutiful maid, did what you knew best and obeyed.

Gently, you removed his eye patch with his permission and dipped a bandage in the poultice before placing it on his wound. You were careful not to stare at his wound for too long. The Prince was tense, uncomfortable with the idea of his face bare. His hand had found a piece of your apron and was clinging to it like a mussel to a rock in the vain hope of finding comfort. Sometimes, in an uncharacteristic show of bravery, you would let your fingers caress his before taking a new strip and starting the operation all over again.

Soon his scar was entirely covered with the ointment except for his eyelid, whose bright red flesh alarmed you.

"You must remove the sapphire, my prince," you murmured, thus speaking into existence what had until then remained silent.

He tensed under your fingers. A rustle echoed in the room. His hand had torn off a piece of your apron. You swallowed and looked down.

Had you gone too far?

Mylenda will beat you for ruining your apron, a more urgent voice reminded you.

"Your eye socket is irritated," you tried to explain. "And the pressure of the gem seems to be... making it worse. Perhaps it would be best to let the flesh rest and not torture it any further."

"Turn around."

Your eyes latched onto the drapes and slid higher, over the murals. Dragons were drowning castles in their flames, ridden by white-haired men. Behind you, something clanged against the bedside table. Here and there, blue reflections ricocheted off the wall and drowned the blaze in a fragmented ocean.

"Resume."

A gasp escaped from your throat before you could take it back, horrified by the new mural, even more violent than the war scene you had just abandoned. There was nothing left of the eyelid. The empty eye socket clung to the remaining skin, but it was tangled up in a carnal mess⏤the work of a hurried butcher. The roebuck galloped into your mind. Mylenda would have grumbled at the sloppy stitching.

"Resume," he repeated.

His voice trembled with rage.

Silently, you wet yet another strip of cloth and placed it on the remnants of his eyelid with a trembling hand. Your finger grazed his temple before falling back into your lap. Once again, the Prince grabbed your apron. The chamomile perfumed the room, releasing its soothing fragrance all around you, but he remained impervious to it, battered by pain and ghosts.

With his face wrapped in white clothes, Aemond Targaryen resembled the dead king.

At least the spasms had subsided. That reassured you. The first bands were already hardening and working their miracle. The hollows in his forehead had disappeared, his body finally giving itself a well-deserved rest. The Prince let himself fall back against his pillows.

You took this sign as a dismissal and got up, not wanting to impose your presence on him any longer. The dirty sheets from the night before were still lying on the floor. Mylenda was probably wondering what you were up to. Gilliane couldn't make up excuses indefinitely.

"Stay."

"I have to get back to the kitchen. And your sheets..."

"Stay," he commanded in a weak voice.

What could you do but make yourself comfortable at the Prince's bedside? The order sounded like a request, but no doubt he would have taken your refusal as an affront. He was still a noble and nobles did not like to be contradicted.

"Can you touch my cheek? Your hands... Your hands help."

His purple eye rolled in its socket and struggled to stay awake as it rested on you. The Prince was not in his right mind. The pain left him bare before you, vulnerable. What could be more dangerous than a vulnerable Targaryen? He would wrap you in his secrets, not caring that you would surely burn in them. In the Red Keep, it was wiser to remain ignorant. To be a confidant was to meddle in unknown and dangerous matters.

Mylenda was right. You should have kept your mouth shut.

So you said nothing as the Prince grabbed your hand and pressed it against his cheek. His courage seemed to surprise him, for he tensed before relaxing and pressing back against your hand, desperately seeking the warmth of your palm. His lips parted and he sighed. Your cheeks flushed at the sensual sound, but you clung to the illusion of peace that embraced the room and buried your fears in a corner of your chest.

It was easier to cooperate.

Your fingertips traced his temple, the arch of his eyebrow, the hollow of his cheek, the bridge of his nose, and then repeated the exploration on the other side. His purple eye disappeared behind an intact eyelid, so different from the other. He sighed happily and curled up against you. The grip on your apron loosened. His breathing slowed.

"Mummy."

The moan pierced the silence and took the peace with it, leaving only the cruel reality. She laughed at you and your naivety. Your blood turned cold. A wide purple eye looked into yours. You immediately stood up and mumbled an apology. The Prince followed suit, despite the pain. A bandage fell with a wet noise onto the sheet but, for once, you could not bring yourself care. Your eyes remained stuck on your hands.

Stupid, stupid girl. What had you done? Touching a Prince like that? If His Highness didn't take care of you, the steward would beat you⏤like Prudence, like all the others. And Mylenda... The horror squeezed your stomach painfully and twisted your guts.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll–"

Hot tears rolled down your cheek and dried your skin before landing on your trembling lips. You shook your head frantically and picked up the pile of dirty sheets before running for the door.

If there was one thing Mylenda had taught you, it was to shut up.

#★ WRITING #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond series #aemond angst #aemond targaryen #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic

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iwouldfightforfrenchie · 1 year ago

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Gif by: @iheartcrawford

Kevin Moskowitz x female!reader smut

Hate sex with The Deep

Tw: Smut, p in v, insults, blowjob and Kevin being the dumbass he is.

(Also this is my first smut and english isn't my first language so please don't be too harsh on me😭.)

Inspired by: @vaporwavebeach-writes, this fanfiction (By the way I love their writings so go check their profile!)

You hated him, you hated his dumb smile and his dumb laugh. He was so fucking annoying. So when you heard about the dolphin incident you were more than furious. How could this dumbass do something like that?! He was part of The seven for god's sake. You decided to have a talk with him. Like any normal person... a talk right?

He was there sitting in The seven's room eating chocolate and watching the news. Once he heard the door open he looked behind him and saw you. "I think you're the last person I wanna see" he said. "Because you think I'm happy?" You said as you sat on the table and turned off the TV. "Common I was watching-" you cut him off. "Seriously. A fucking dolphin!?", he looked down. "I can't deal with you anymore! Why are you so fucking stupid all the time?!" You shout. "Because I wanted to save the dol-", "What in your tinny little brain can't you understand when Ms Stillwell tells you no?!" He sighed, "I was thinking-", "you didn't think at all, all you do is bring me and The Vought company problems."

He gets up from the chair. "Hey, I'm the reason you have a job! you should be grateful and keep your mouth shut!" You push him back in the chair. "And what?! Let you continue your fucking bullshits!", you looked at him angry. "I-it's not bullshit." He turned red for a second.

"And what is it?" you scoled. "It's uh-it's..." His breath got caught in his troath. Why was he so red, why was he sweating why did he like it? You were screaming at him about how dumb he was and all he could think about is how he'd like you to scream his name instead. "-vin kevin! Hey I'm talking to you! Do you hear me!?" Kevin looked at you confused. He was so flustered that he didn't hear a word you said. "I'm sorry..." You looked at him, "you're so fucking pathetic!", you stepped closer to him and blocked him in the chair with your arms placed at his sides. He was so red and before he couldn't even say something he felt something going down under. His pants tightened as your chest was right at his eyes level.

You cutt him off "are you fucking eyeing me! I'm fucking scolding you and that's all you do? You're disgusting!", disgusting? He would've found that insulting moments ago but right now, this word made him feel so hot and bothered. "Are you having a fucking boner!?"

All he could do was look at you wih his big annoying puppy eyes and his red cheeks.

You get off of the table and open a drawer as he looks at you confused. You turn around a condom in you hand. "If you can't understand words maybe I can fuck some sense into you!" His mouth drop as he looked at you in pure shock getting even redder (if it's physically possible). He stared at you while you dropped on your knees and started opening his belt completely at loss for words.

You pushed his underwear away and looked at his cock. No wonder why the man had an ego this huge. He did have something in his pants. You took it in your hands and just with a stroke he started moaning like a bitch in heat, you chuckled. "For a superhero you don't look that strong right now."

"Shut u-aaaah!"

He moaned as you licked the tip. You start to push the tip in your mouth before taking him all slowly meanwhile he was screaming your name and clenching at his sides. You started going up and down on him, and saying he was moaning would be a lie. He was literally screaming. He rolled his eyes back as he felt your mouth around him. Just a few more pressure of your tongue are enough to make him cum in your mouth. White sticky liquid all over your tongue and lips as he was whimpering and breathing rapidly. You grab the condom and open it with your teeth before putting it around his cock. He whimpers your name again and again like a brocken record as you slowly take off your bottom and your underwear tossing them aside.

"You better make it quick you asshole." You say as he nods and gulp. You place your legs on either side of him and start going down on his dick while he is moaning. "Ohh please -please-yes!" You wrap your arms around him to catch yourself and start riding him.

He felt like he was in heaven, he never wanted this to end, sure he had sex before, but he had never felt this... Great. While you were talking dirty oh so dirty to him. "You fucking douchebag. All you do is-ah fail your work. You're so fucking dum-aah-ahh-umb you can't do anything right! You're just a little baby! With no intelligence! Aahh!" You started to trust your hips faster and harder his tip kissing your cervix at every trust and a hot feeling getting in your head until you were both a pile of sweat and two body stuck to each other both breathing heavily and moaning.

"Aah-I'm gonna cum! I'm gonna cum! Please please!-", he said his voice breaking. "Just cum you dumb bitch. Fucking cum the same time as me." You both started screaming finally hitting your climax, Kevin filled up the condom as all your juice wetted the table. He didn't have the time to touch you that you were already off of him cleaning yourself.

He tried to catch his breath as you looked back at him fixing your bra. "You should clean the table, wouldn't like anyone to know. Oh and by the way. Don't mention this. ever again."

He nodded as you leaved. And when he was finally alone he muttered 'damn, I'm in love with her...'.

Might make a part two

(By the way you can repost to help the post gain more views! Some people don't know that but it helps a lot of other writers or artists on this app! 😊)

#the boys smut #the boys #the boys amazon #the deep #smut #i need him so bad #i'm going feral #kevin moskowitz #the deep x reader #the boys x reader #kevin moskowitz x reader #The deep smut

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fantasticstoryteller · 11 months ago

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Maddie hummed a familiar lullaby as her scalpel moved with precision. She made the incision, opening the torso in front of her. Jack waited with the bone shears until the rib cage was visible. Then he carefully snapped each rib, the body on the table jolting with each movement despite the straps holding it down.

Images danced in her head as Jack pried the rib cage apart while she worked. In her mind's eye she could see Danny. She remembered when he was about three and obsessed with giving her flowers. His favorite flowers to give her had bees napping in them. It was so cute.

There. Anomaly one. She carefully removed it from the body in front of her and Jack solemnly held out a biohazard bin for her to put it in. She didn't know how many more to go, so she got back to work.

She remembered when Danny was first starting school. He'd been so excited to meet all the other children. He'd told wild stories about he and his friends would go on all these crazy adventures, and hunt ghosts just like his parents. She still remembered the gleam in his eyes as he proudly said he was gonna grow up to be just like them.

There. Two more Anomalies. How many were there? How many did she have to--no. Speculation was useless. She continued to hum the lullaby.

Danny had been so excited when she and Jack had finally scraped enough money together to send him to a NASA sponsored space camp. He'd come back with the stars in his eyes and a new goal: to become an astronaut. While she and Jack had been slightly saddened to see that he no longer wanted to be just like them, they'd been supportive.

There. Another--dear God, this one had broken. "Jack," she whispered, voice tight.

"Got it," he said, his voice unusually grim.

She barely bit back a hysterical laugh. Of course he was grim. Of course he was worried. Who wouldn't be in these circumstances? She double checked the restraints of the motionless body on the table.

Jack returned with a small vacuum, and she used it to get all of the Anomaly. She knew that she couldn't leave any trace of it.

Danny hadn't had as much success--on paper--in high school as he'd had previously. But he had his two best friends, and she knew they got up to mischief together. Typical teen shenanigans, as her grandmother would say. Always running, always on the move. Always--always the best.

"What are you guys doing?"

Maddie glanced behind her at the entrance to the lab and saw Jazz staring at them in horror. Hands brought to her mouth. Jack moved to stop her as she rushed towards them.

Maddie couldn't blame her daughter, but bent back to her work as Jack tried to explain what had happened. She couldn't leave any of the Anomalies in the body in front of her. She also knew that Jazz would stop her in a moment. Jazz would do anything to protect her brother, and Maddie took pride in that. She'd raised her children well.

There. Last Anomaly. She dropped it to the floor, heedless of the way the glass container broke. "Jack!" she yelled as she slammed the rib cage back together and began to staple the incision.

"Got it!" he broke away from Jazz, grabbed the emergency box, and slammed the syringe into Danny's thigh as Maddie released the restraints.

"Quickly!" Maddie ordered as her daughter came closer. Jazz, sweet Jazz, she was not ready for this.

None of them were.

She grabbed Danny's still (too still, too lifeless, had they made it in time?) body and heaved it towards Jazz. "Get him to Frostbite!" Jazz stared at her mother in disbelief. "Now!" Jazz's mouth set in a grim line and she hauled the body towards the portal. Not a moment's hesitation before she went through it.

Good. Maddie turned to see Jack on the floor, holding one of the broken bullets, fine red powder sifting around his hand. "They're getting smarter," he said, voice soft.

Maddie nodded. Then the enormity of what she'd had to do hit her and she collapsed onto her husband. She sobbed as her mind, her treacherous, torturous mind, replayed her own hands cutting, cutting, cutting into her son. She'd had to do it. The Blood Blossom bullets would have killed him if she hadn't, and even then--

No. Jazz would make it. Danny would survive.

They couldn't do anything else.

#danny phantom #dp #why no officer; i don't need therapy #that's what fanfic is for

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hottpinkpenguin · 1 year ago

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Letting Someone Go - Part 2

Benny Cross X Female Reader A/n: part 1 is here! Word Count: 2014 Warnings: cursing, alcohol use Taglist: @real-lana-del-rey @putherup

Fifteen months. That was all it took for you to find Benny, love him, and lose him. The easy version of your story went like this: it was Kathy Bauer’s fault. Simple as pie, like your mama used to say.

The truth was a lot different. The truth was messy and it hurt a hell of a lot more. Because the truth was that you hadn’t lost Benny at all. To lose something, you have to have it in the first place. And when you were being really honest with yourself, you knew that you never had Benny Cross. You had as much of a claim to him as a kite does to the wind. That was to say, none at all.

You didn’t like the truth. But, you weren’t the kind of girl who could live a lie either. So, you did the only thing you could think of: you ran away. Kathy Bauer’s first night in the Vandals bar was early November, Benny broke it off with you in early December. You spent Christmas drunk and stoned. And by New Years, you were gone.

You thought putting Chicago - and Benny - in the rearview mirror would help. You’d banked on it helping. Running was your only plan. There wasn’t any other choice, really. Sure, some of the Vandals had pitched you on sticking around, club president Johnny among them. Your waitressing pal Sheila had asked you to move in with her, given that you were now two months’ behind on rent without Benny’s side-hustle cash around to help pay the bills. Hell, Cal had even offered you a soft place to land on the left side of his queen sized mattress.

None of those offers had tempted you for even an instant. So, while the rest of America was counting down the final seconds of 1965 from their couches, you were sitting on the back of your fully customized Sportster, driving like a bat out of hell on the back roads leading west out of Chicago. Your only destination was the fuck out of here.

It took you fifteen months to figure out what love was and to lose it again. You weren’t sure how long it was going to take you to do something approximating move on, but you figured it would be a lot longer than fifteen months. And you were right.

***********************

Your phone rang at 3:13am in the morning on September 19th, 1969. The first thing you thought was that your daddy must have finally died. Sonofabitch had been fighting a chainsmoker’s strain of lung cancer for almost six months now, and damn had it been a hard fight. Your mama had actually begged you not to come home and see him. Nothin’ you can do here, baby she said in her soft, sad voice each time you called and asked if you should come home. Your daddy, for his part, couldn’t talk anymore, on account of the laryngectomy the doctors gave him a few weeks prior. He’d declined one of those robotic voice boxes. Figured he’d said all he needed to at this point. Nobody wanted to hear the ramblings of an old biker on death’s door at this point. Especially himself.

But it wasn’t your mama’s voice on the other end. It was Johnny Davis.

“Hey, kid.” Not a question, not a hey, how are ya. It had been almost four years since the last time you’d talked to Johnny. Four years since you’d last seen a Vandals cutte. You wished you could say it had been that long since you’d thought about the club, but that would be a damn lie. Your mind drifted back to a certain handsome blonde-haired blue-eyed biker almost every day.

It took you a minute to place the voice on the other end. It was familiar in the way a dream is familiar, but between the fog of leftover whiskey, a deep sleep, and buried memories, it didn’t come to you quickly.

“Who’s this?” you asked, wiping the tired out of your eyes.

“Oh, uh, well. It’s Johnny.”

There it was.

“Johnny? Johnny Davis?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s me, kid. Listen. How you been?”

You couldn’t help but let out a short, sad chuckle. The easy answer to that question was oh, I been alright Johnny, you? But the truth was something more like, well Johnny, let’s see, since I last saw you in Chicago I’ve been on the road pretty much constantly for four years, running for so long I can’t tell if I’m running to or away from something, much less what that thing is. I’ve picked up about a dozen bad habits, like drinking too much and riding too fast and going home with the first guy who’ll buy me a brew at a bar. Oh, and by the way, my daddy’s dying.

But Johnny didn’t deserve your bitterness. Especially not at 3:14 in the morning.

“You know me, Johnny, I’ve been doin’ just fine. Why’re you callin’ so early?”

There was a heavy silence on the other end of the line. An image of Johnny, taking a deep drag on one of those Pall Malls he loved to smoke, came to you in the darkness. In the quiet of his reply, you heard a dense grief. You braced yourself for what you were sure was bad news and flicked on the bedside lamp on your nightstand. Next to you, the latest biker boy of the week stirred grumpily and waved at you to turn the light off. You ignored him, throwing off the covers and dangling your feet over the side of your mattress.

“Well, kid. It’s Brucie.”

Brucie. It took the air out of your lungs. You could have named a half-dozen Vandals you’d expect to kick the bucket before Brucie. Zipco, Wahoo, Corky. Hell, even Johnny himself. And Benny, of course. You couldn’t help but feel the knot in your chest relax an inch to know that Johnny wasn’t calling to tell you that it was Benny. But damnitall, Brucie? Careful, pragmatic, thoughtful Brucie? What the fuck was Gail gonna do?

“Brucie? What the fuck happened?”

Another jagged inhale on the other end. Johnny was crying, you realized. It gutted you.

“Oh, you know. 1967 Pontiac came outta nowhere, you know, just caught him in a bad way. It’s always the ones you don’t see comin’, y’know? Fuckin’ Pontiac.”

“Jesus, Johnny. Brucie? Shit.”

You lit a cigarette of your own as you let your mind wander back to your time in Chicago. Brucie was solid, Johnny’s right-hand man and a kind, gentle sorta guy. You’d liked him instantly, and Gail too. Real good folk.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been hard, y’know, I mean, club is real beat up over it.”

“Fuck, Johnny, I don’t even know whatta say. I’m so sorry.”

You and Johnny took matching drags and tried to swipe away your tears. The guy in your bed next to you rolled over and fixed you with a bleary-eyed glare. You couldn’t remember his name - Steve, maybe. You covered the receiver with your hand, told him to get the fuck out, and drank down the last swallow of whiskey in the only upright glass on your nightstand.

“Yeah, well, I ‘preciate that, kid, I really do. Listen, we’re havin’ a get together for Brucie. Next weekend. Entire club, all charters gonna be there. Invited a few others, too. Ones that knew Brucie. I know he’d want you there.”

Of all the things Johnny had said to you tonight, this was the one that stole the air from your lungs. Go back to Chicago, to the Vandals? You weren’t sure how you’d do that. Or if you physically could.

“Aw, shit Johnny. I dunno…”

“I know you got history here,” Johnny interrupted quickly. “I know you got… I know you got a lot you’re tryin’ not to come back to. I get it.”

Lots of people might have tried to tell you they understood how you felt. You’d opened up about Benny to a few people since you’d left Chicago. Most people you met on the road were a little bit broken, like you. They were running, just like you, and they weren’t strangers to heartbreak and dead-endings and being fucked over. But, no matter how many times you tried to tell your story, you just never felt like you got it right. So nobody really understood it, because you weren’t sure you did. But Johnny? Johnny didn’t need to hear you tell it. He’d watched it happen. Maybe he really did get it.

Still, was that enough for you to go back? Unsure of what to say, you just stayed silent. Behind you, maybe-Steve was dragging himself out of bed, untangling his clothes from yours, and doing a shitty job of trying to stay quiet.

“You think about it, aight? But I know you’ll come. For Brucie.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Johnny was right. ‘Course you’d go back for Brucie.

“Aight well, I’ll let ya go then. Sorry for wakin’ you up.”

“Johnny, wait.”

He hesitated. “Yeah, kid?”

“How’d you get my number?”

There were about a million questions you wanted to ask Johnny, although you knew yourself enough at this point to know that you wouldn’t want the answers. So you asked the safest one you could think of.

He chuckled softly. “I keep an eye on my friends,” he replied cryptically before he said goodnight again, and the line went dead. You wished you knew what that meant, although just knowing that there was someone out there in the darkness who cared for you enough to go to the trouble of checking in with whatever backwater charters you shacked up with (because realistically that was the only way Johnny would ever be able to keep up with you) made your heart warm.

“Who the fuck was that?” demanded maybe-Steve. He was halfway out the door of the dingy room you’d rented in this roadside motel, hoping you might still ask him to stay.

“Old friend,” you said brusquely as you stood up and threw an old tshirt over your bare chest, heading for the door behind him. “Time for you to hit the road,” you told him by way of invitation, pointing towards his bike in the parking lot.

“It’s fuckin’ 3:30 in the mornin’, you sure I can’t just sleep it off here?”

“Nah, fuck that. Get lost.”

He grimaced and spat thickly on the ground. For an instant you wondered if he was going to give you trouble, but he just shook his head in disgust and left you there to curl up on the rickety plastic chair outside your motel room with plans to chain-smoke until sunrise. You watched him go, his tail light streaking across the long, dark, flat expanse of Iowa farmland until it melted with blackness around it. Your mind was fluttering with all kinds of memories and thoughts that Johnny’s voice had stirred up. Rather than try and fight it, you let yourself sink beneath the surface and zone out, wading through a chapter of your life that you’d deluded yourself into believing was over. The sun had climbed up over the horizon by the time you came back to yourself with a bleak glance around the ramshackle motel. Your Sportster was gleaming like a lighthouse over in the corner of the lot under the only tree around for miles, a huge black walnut that seemed to be holding up its branches and asking the sky to sweep it up and take it away from here. Exactly how you felt.

Unable to fight against yourself anymore, you splashed cold water on your face, tied your hair up, shoved your belongings into the leather saddlebags you’d been living out of for the last four years, and got on the back of your Sportster. As soon as you kickstarted your bike, you knew where you were going. Straight back to Chicago, back to the Vandals, to Benny. Straight back home.

read part 3 here **let me know if you want to be tagged in future parts!

#the bikeriders imagine #the bikeriders #benny cross x reader #benny cross x you #benny cross x y/n #benny cross imagine #bikeriders imagine #austin butler x you #austin butler x y/n #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine

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holeforzenin · 7 months ago

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A short storytime about me and my best friend!!

we’ve been best friends since we were 14 and back then he wasn’t the best looking guy and was a hardcore nerd so he never had a lot of friends that were girls till I came into his life and fast forward to now, in those 5 years of knowing him— I’m still the only female friend he has and we’re extremely close like if I asked him to wipe my ass he’d do it without any hesitation type of close. I was his first everything, the first girl he liked, first relationship, first kiss, first everything.

LIKE HES NOT GOING ANYWHERE YALL I PROMISEEEEE and he changed so much over the years he’s been working out for like 3 years now and he made so much progress like he changed so much and what makes me happy is the fact that he’s not one of those guys that starts working out and change to look better then immediately starts whoring around and getting girls and forgetting who’s been there since day one, yk what I mean? It’s been just me and him since we were 14

The reason we’re not together rn is bc we made a mutual decision to not be in a relationship because he’s busy training to be a firefighter and I go to college and I’m studying to be a software engineer so it’s DIFFICULT AND OVERSTIMULATING OVERR HERE. But we have this certain type of bond where we tell each other everything, we communicate well and we’re very understanding of each other like I’m his main friend and he is my main friend and we’ve been friends for more than 5 years now so it’s been a while

And I’ve tried talking to other guys before but no matter what they could never meet the standard that he has set for me, he pays for me everywhere we go and eat, he’s so understanding also he’s a lovely man and his family loves me and he’s soo respectful and nice yall like I can never get tired of him. And he has so much patience with me, it’s like when I’m with him I don’t have to use my brain he just does everything for me

Also sexually speaking, we’re friends with benefits so don’t worry y’all I do get that firefighter dick time to time. But he’s submissive not some hardcore dominant dude like toji💔💔which is okay with me because I don’t mind, he’s the reason why I’d only date a submissive guy irl like he’s the reason for my WHOLE type and he does everything I say and I talk him through it so it’s fun ig like it’s so hot that he’s so big and tall yet I still need to guide him where the hole is :3

And I wanna show what he looks like but he doesn’t know what I do on tumblr and I don’t want to disrespect him like that but he’s so handsome, he has long hair wavy hair to his shoulders and his hair deadass looks like geto and eren bc he always has it in a bun, HE HAS THATTT HAIR CUTT and looks like a mixture of heath ledger and Goku 😭 and he’s 5’11 and he’s JACKED LIKE He used to be kinda chubby but he lost weight and he has so much muscles nowwww and it’s so sexy bc he literally towers over him and he once lifted me up in the air and ate me my pussy just like that while he held me up with his arms.

AND AND HE’S STILL A FUCKING NERD!!! He plays Pokémon go and pet simulator ON ROBLOX at his grown ass age BUT I LOVE HIM AND I SWEAR YALL WE WILL GET MARRIED AND ALL OF YOU BETTER COME TO MY DAMN WEDDING. I AM PAYINF FOR PLANE TICKETS DW!!! THAT MAN IS NOT GOING ANYWHEREEEEE. He does not and will not fw any girl that isn’t me.😭

In conclusion, my best friend is the reason why I still have hope that they are still good men in the world and i honestly don't even think I deserve a man like him.

#at some point we'll get together #just not right now #we’re both focus on other things

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delight-angelsbliss · 5 months ago

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haii:33 ur writings so cutte omagaatt can I request S1 17 & 21 with Sonic?? I think it fits him well hehehe... thank yuuuu and i hope you have a great day :DD

Prompt: first kiss together on valentines + "I think I deserve a kiss"

Warning: none to my knowledge

Notes: I am so sorry of how late I posted this I had sm going on and also ty for ur patience

Being in a relationship with sonic wasn't a bad thing, more of a blessing if anything

But the fact that he goes out on a new adventure everyday felt like too much

He'd leave you all alone at home thinking of what to do

When he was home he'd give you so much love it felt like a shower of love; movie nights, cuddling, cooking together, going outside, having a race(that you'll never win), and much more

Yet even then you still missed one thing

A kiss, you've been together for months and have never shared one

You've wondered to yourself so many on why you haven't shared one

It's not like he doesn't like you, quite the contrary, he wasn't a very shy person either, yet he always was when it was about you

Valentine's Day was growing increasingly closer

Sonic thought it was only right to share your first kiss on that special day

It felt like an amazing plan! Everytime valentines came you'll remember that amazing day where you first shared a kiss with the hero of mobius

When the day finally did come, he seemed more distant

His hugs were short and felt forced instead of the ones that were warm and full of love

Sonic didn't like being distant, of course he didn't

You're his significant other for crying out loud! He loves everything about you and he's so lucky to have someone as amazing as you in his life

When the day was about to end

13th of February 23:57

You thought he was going to be distant on valentines too

23:58

When sonic came through the door, he was holding a rather big bouquet with a letter inside

23:59 13th of February

He nervously held it up to you for grabbing

After you took it his smugness returned to his face

"I think I deserve a kiss, don't you?"

Your hands wrapped around his neck as you leaned in close, only a few inches away from his lips

One of his hands softly grab the side of your face and the other at the back of your neck as you two finally shared a long sought after kiss

00:00 14th of February

#sonic x reader #x reader #x gender neutral reader #x gn reader #sonic the hedgehog x reader #જ⁀➴ ♡ janahts february #sonic reader insert

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theambitiouswoman · 2 years ago

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hiya, please can we also have ted talk recommendations like your book recs post? :) for the categories you mentioned ♡ thank you

Here you go angel ♡

Business:

The Single Biggest Reason Why Startups Succeed - Bill Gross

The Surprising Habits of Original Thinkers - Adam Grant

The Art of Stress-Free Productivity - David Allen

How to Pitch to a VC - David S. Rose

The Future of Money - Neha Narula

Personal Development:

The Art of Being Yourself - Caroline McHugh

Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance - Angela Lee Duckworth

The Power of Believing That You Can Improve - Carol Dweck

How to Stop Screwing Yourself Over - Mel Robbins

Try Something New for 30 Days - Matt Cutts

Mental Health:

The Gift and Power of Emotional Courage - Susan David

Why We All Need to Practice Emotional First Aid - Guy Winch

Depression, the Secret We Share - Andrew Solomon

All it Takes is 10 Mindful Minutes - Andy Puddicombe

The Art of Stillness - Pico Iyer

Relationships:

The Secret to Desire in a Long-Term Relationship - Esther Perel

The Power of Vulnerability in Relationships - Tracy McMillan

Rethinking Infidelity... a Talk for Anyone Who Has Ever Loved - Esther Perel

The Mathematics of Love - Hannah Fry

The Hidden Influence of Social Networks - Nicholas Christakis

Success:

The Happy Secret to Better Work - Shawn Achor

Embrace the Near Win - Sarah Lewis

Why We Do What We Do - Tony Robbins

Keep Your Goals to Yourself - Derek Sivers

Why You Will Fail to Have a Great Career - Larry Smith

Goals:

The Power of Setting Goals - John Doerr

The Puzzle of Motivation - Dan Pink

Smash Fear, Learn Anything - Tim Ferriss

Why We Do What We Do - Tony Robbins

The Skill of Self-Confidence - Dr. Ivan Joseph

Self Love:

The Art of Being Yourself - Caroline McHugh

The Power of Vulnerability - Brené Brown

Your Elusive Creative Genius - Elizabeth Gilbert

The Psychology of Your Future Self - Dan Gilbert

The Surprising Science of Happiness - Dan Gilbert

Confidence:

Your Body Language May Shape Who You Are - Amy Cuddy

The Art of Self-Confidence - Dr. Ivan Joseph

Dare to Lead - Brené Brown

The Hidden Influence of Social Networks - Nicholas Christakis

The Confidence Gap - Katty Kay and Claire Shipman

Health & Wellness:

The Brain-Changing Benefits of Exercise - Wendy Suzuki

How to Make Stress Your Friend - Kelly McGonigal

The Science of Cells That Never Get Old - Elizabeth Blackburn

Why Dieting Doesn't Usually Work - Sandra Aamodt

The Art of Stillness - Pico Iyer

#ted talks #advice #asks

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earhartsease · 1 year ago

Text

in case anyone's interested, the first attestation of "shoplift" in print is as far back as 1585 in a description of terms for different kinds of nicking stuff

Note that ffoyste is to cutt a pockett, nyppe is to cutt a purse, lyft is to robbe a shoppe.

anie waie if thou seest some one shoppelyfting, nay, i'faith thou didst not so

#etymology #urban foraging

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thisreadswhatever · 2 years ago

Text

Anything For The Club: Part Six

Will you betray Jax to protect The Club?

series masterlist

[description]: jax teller x female reader, reader x oc characters

[wordcount]: 3.2k+

[series cw]: 18+, female reader, swearing, sexual harassment/assault (non-canon characters), alcohol use, mix of fluff, smut and angst throughout, p in v sex, teasing, violence, gun use, mentions of blood, murder, blackmail

[authors note]: and that’s the end! hope you enjoyed this as much as i did writing it :)

“Assume you’re used to riding shotgun”, The President asked as he handed you a black helmet.

You put it on and straddled yourself along the back of his bike. “Not usually in heels.”

Realisation of the betrayal you were committing was crushing you. Here you were, sat on another man’s bike, about to ride off into nowhere so he could do god knows what to you. The guilt weighed on your chest as you gripped The President's waist from behind. You reminded yourself the reason you were doing this, Protect The Club. Protect Jax.

“First time for everything, sweetheart.”

He kicked the bike alive, it roaring fiercely as he rode out of the parking lot.

The journey was short. He pulled into a motel lot two blocks up the road. It was a quiet and dingy motel, known for its drug hookups and escorts. The exact kind of place you used to work before you had agreed with Jax to run Diosa. Jax didn’t like sharing, you were his and that was vital to him. You’d agreed that you’d both be entirely faithful to one another there on out, and you knew after this, he’d never forgive you.

“Classy.” You muttered as you pulled the helmet off your head.

“Ain’t gonna matter where you are once I’m inside you, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He placed the bike on its kickstand, and you followed as he made his way across the car park, up a flight of stairs and to room numbered 208. The curtains were already closed on the outside. He grabbed a yellow key card out from his back pocket, unlocking the door.

You stalked your way inside the room, hearing the bolt echo behind you as he secured the latch on the door.

The room was a simple, one large crimson bed centered between wooden side tables, home to two outdated lamps and a dusty bible. The President wandered straight to the mattress, sitting along the edge. He placed the manilla envelope on the side table closest to him before he pulled his cutte off. He slapped the mattress, coaxing you to sit beside him. Across from the front door was a bathroom that you immediately streamlined for. “I’m just gonna freshen up.”

He laid back falling flat across the bed, “don’t leave me waitin’.”

You closed the door behind you, sighing of relief for the brief moment alone. You looked at yourself in the mirror above the sink. It was cracked slightly along the edge, distorting the image in front of you. You turned the tap, letting the water run. The sound of the streaming fossett was soothing, and you closed your eyes with your hands clutching the sink, trying to overcome the sickness you felt burning through your stomach. You wanted to vomit. You took your jacket off, thrusting it to the floor, trying to breathe as you struggled for air. You’d never had a panic attack before but you imagined this is what it felt like.

He’s got you right where he wanted, you told yourself. Alone in a motel and not a soul knows you’re here. You searched your jacket for your phone, before remembering you left it in the car at the diner. Calling for help was out of the equation. Your chest was tight, the sound of your heart thudding engulfing your ears as you tried to gasp for air.

You didn’t have a phone, but you did have the gun. You could go out there and shoot him, take the envelope and run for the hills. And potentially start a gang war by killing The President of another crew, one that’s associated with the Mexican cartels. Dumb idea.

Your last option, just give him what he wants, get the photos, and be done. You’d already made it this far. The guy was hardly the worst looking man on the planet. He was monstrous and crass but it would be a sacrifice of a moment compared to the loss of everything Jax knew.

You let the water run through your fingers before you turned it off. You pulled your hair to the side of your neck, the cold water on your hands dripping down your skin. You can do this, you tried to convince yourself. Protect The Club. Protect Jax. You were going to have to break his heart, to save his club.

You heard a knock on the door at the same time it abruptly opened, not giving you any chance to respond.

“I said don’t keep me waitin’, little lady.”

“Just had to pull myself together.”

He crept towards you, and you instinctively turned into him, your back pressing into the sink behind you.

“I can help you out.”

His hands found your hair, clutching at the root as he pulled your head back. Your hands were grasping the edges of the porcelain, as he brought himself against your body, pressing his lower half into you. You were unable to move. He held you there, watching your face, taking in the sight of you completely at his disposal.

Tears welled in your eyes, unable to be forced back this time, and they began to stream from your face. You realised at this moment that you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t force yourself to want this man. He placed a hand on your cheek, wiping away the drops with his thumb.

“You look so pretty when you cry.”

He pressed his face into yours, kissing you viciously. His tongue tangled against your lips as it searched for entry, but failed as you kept your mouth forced shut. He pulled your head back again by your hair, staring into your eyes. His eyebrows raised as he watched you sobbing, furious from your apprehension.

“I’m not gonna fuck a corpse. You better give me something back.”

His hand released from your hair as he brought them down to your waist, pulling you from the sink. You stumbled against him, trying to find your balance. You wanted more time, a chance to think or just pause this from happening, to try and find a way out.

You forced yourself to find his lips, kissing him back. You entwined your fingers through his hair, hoping you could sell the facade that you wanted him too. A smile formed at the corner of his mouth while yours did all the work.

He seemed to relax before you pulled away, “should we go to the bed?”

“Fuck the bed. I want you here.”

He dragged the hem of your dress to expose your underwear, pulling you tight to his body by your ass. You squirmed at the feel of his hands on you this way, but tried to play calm to control the situation.

Your heel tangled into your jacket beneath you, and you could feel your gun was right under your feet. You kissed him again while he palmed at your backside, dragging his fingers under the fabric of your panties. You lowered your hands down his frame, leading them to his jeans, rubbing against his erection. You crouched down to your knees, your eyes never leaving his.

He groaned aloud as he watched you undo his belt buckle, your face parallel with his dick. “I knew you wanted this, little slut.”

You ignored his degradation, and carried on feeling him with your hands. His head fell backwards, and just as his eyes left yours, you began to press your mouth against his cock, gnawing at the hard membrane covered in denim. Your mouth continued to distract him, as you searched the floor with your free hand, desperate to find the gun in your jacket pocket.

Just as your hand reached the metal piece, your fingers twisting along the handle, The President looked down at you.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?”

You pulled the piece from the jacket, aiming it up at his chest. “Back the fuck up. Now.”

He chuckled at your advance, looking at the gun point towards him as he slowly stepped backwards.

“Maybe you ain’t so smart.”

He backed through the doorway as you stood, continuing to aim the gun. He reached the bed, sitting upright on the edge, his jeans draped around his thighs. He smirked at you, looking directly down the barrel. “We had a deal, little lady.”

You gripped the gun tighter, “I’m not your fucking lady.”

A chuckle escaped his teeth, “You really do need my dick in that dirty mouth of yours.” You paced towards the side table, holding your aim on him as you walked. You kept your focus on his face as you reached for the envelope. “You got any idea what you're starting?”

You placed the envelope under your arm, grasping the gun with both hands again, edging yourself further from the bed, until you were backed against the far wall of the room.

“Nothing I’m not prepared to finish.”

He held his arms out wide, taunting you. “I got a long list of enemies who would do anything for the shot you got right now.”

“I don’t want to kill you, asshole.

I want to leave this room, and pretend I never met you. I want you to leave my Club the fuck alone. I want to go back to my life before you existed.”

He closed his arms, and stood up slowly, pulling up his jeans and clasping his belt buckle back together. “Then I guess you better kill me.”

You readjusted the gun in front of you, “sit back down!”

He ignored you, continuing to pace forward, step by step. “I can see why he picked you as his old lady. Got looks and balls.”

“I said I don’t want to kill you, asshole. Not that I won’t.”

He grinned, reaching for you, extending his arms out. “Don’t be like that, baby.”

He was inches from you again, his chest now pressed against the barrel. You pushed it into him further, “I fucking mean it. Back the fuck up!”

He didn’t waiver. “Drop the gun, sweetheart.”

You pulled the trigger.

The sound of the gun jamming rang through your ears, and you stared at him wide eyed. He slammed the gun from your hand, the metal flinging across the room. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the wall behind you, the envelope under your arms falling to the ground, images of The Club spreading across the carpet beneath your feet. He pushed you with force against the wall, crushing your wrists in his grasp.

He spoke low into your ear, “No more choices.”

You tried to retreat, but the weight from his body engulfed you, making it impossible for you to move. The stubble of his beard scraped against your skin as his mouth moved against your neck. You screamed for him to stop, but the pleas fell on deaf ears, seeming to entice him further. His body was entrapping you against the wall so harshly that his hands could move freely, creeping their way under your dress as he tore at the seams, ripping it open. You recalled how it felt to be trapped by this man that first night you met at Diosa, and you knew now that had the eyes of the entire lobby not been present, this would’ve been your fate then. You closed your eyes, giving up the fight.

Suddenly he stopped, interrupted by a repeated banging on the door.

“Y/n?”

“Jax! Jax! I’m in-”, his hand slapped against your mouth. You bit the skin as hard as you could, but he didn’t release. Instead he plowed your body into the ground, laying over you as you crumbled to the floor, crushing you into the gap between the wall and bed.

He stared into your eyes as he held your mouth shut, whispering to you through his clenched teeth.

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

Tears streamed as your muffled screams paused. You clutched his hand against your mouth, trying to pry it from your face. You could only listen as Jax repeatedly thrust his entire weight against the wood of the door, the metal latch bulking under the pressure. The bolt gave in, and the door flew open.

“Jesus-” Jax was armed and reeling as he looked around the room. Your jacket, the gun and the images strung out across the motel room.

Your mouth was released from his grip as he pulled you by your hair. You winced at the pain, trying to find your footing as you stood up. He held you there like a prize, showing off your exposed and broken frame, tears pouring down your face. Jax’s core was stiff, glaring at The President with a look you hadn’t ever seen from him before.

His jaw flexed as he put his gun back into his cutte, speaking slowly through his gritted teeth.

“Get your hands off her.”

Your blackmailer smiled, his hands twisting further into your hair. “We were only just getting started.” His hands never left you, taunting Jax further. He looked at you up and down, licking his lips before turning back to Jax. “You got a good one here, Pres.”

“You got one more chance. Then I’m done talking.”

He pulled your hair back further, and you swayed as your balance was rocked.

“Oh, relax. Only wanted to try out the slut for myself.”

That was it, Jax lunged for him. Any restriction of his fury was completely unleashed, as he stormed across the room, grabbing The President by the head, slamming it against the wall. You were finally released from his grasp, and threw yourself across the bed, rolling onto the other side of the room.

You watched as they fought against the motel floor, Jax on top of him, repeatedly smashing his head into the carpet with all his strength. The bangs against the upstairs floor rocked the supports beneath it, thudding as Jax gasped from the repeated exertion. The President heaved his elbow into Jax’s stomach, and he fell backwards sitting upright, his back slamming against the side table. The table lamp crashed to the floor as Jax launched himself back into the President, crumbling him again. Jax was on top of the President, pounding his fists into his face repeatedly. He smiled at Jax, showing his bloody teeth as he took the beating.

But he didn’t let up, he continued to crush into him, his elbow dropping against his flesh, further forcing his face further into the carpet. Jax’s fists rammed into his face, for what felt like eternity, as blood poured from The President’s nose and mouth.

The President reached beneath him, grabbing a knife from the sheath that hung from his jeans. He sliced into Jax’s leg, and he screamed out in agony, making you flinch. Jax dropped his knee onto The President’s hand, crushing the knife out of his grasp.

His leg was bleeding through his jeans, but he didn’t stop. You watched as he endlessly beat the President into nothing, pure rage fueling his hands forward. Blood sprayed from the open wounds of his face onto the wall beside the bed frame, covering the floor and Jax too. Only once The President stopped moving, the groans from his mouth silencing, did Jax stop.

He was on top of him when he glanced at you, hiding in the corner of the room, your dress tore to shreds and tears streaming down your face.

He crawled off of The President’s lifeless body, crouching towards you. He wrapped you in his arms, and the relief of feeling Jax holding you again turned your tears into sobs.

“You okay?”

“I’m so- sorry-”

“Shhh. Darlin’ you got nothing to be sorry for.”

He cupped your face in his bloody hands, his rings glistening red from the liquid. His eyes matched yours, water pooling at the lids.

“Did he hurt you?”

You shook your head. “A few minutes later and he-”, you couldn’t continue as the sobs poured from your chest. He didn’t need you to say anymore. He hugged you tight against him as he stroked your hair, soothing your wimpers into submission. You looked up at him as he wiped the tears from your face.

“I had no choice- he was going to rat- he had proof-”

“I know, darlin’. Nero told me everything.”

“He did? But how did you find me?”

“Your car was still at the diner but you weren’t there. I didn’t know what to think-” he flinched at the memory. “I just kept riding, then I saw the bike parked outside the motel. I was checking rooms and then I heard you scream-” You kissed him before he could continue. His hands stroked the back of your head, “I’m here now, darlin. It’s okay.”

“He’s the President of another club.” You wanted to look at the carnage but you couldn’t bring yourself away from Jax’s face.

He took a deep breath, looking up from you to the body laying in a pool of blood across the motel floor. His body tensed as anger filled him again, his tongue pressing against the bottom of his mouth as it straightened into a hard line. “He’s nothing now.”

You sat up from Jax’s arms, watching him as he stared at The President, his eyes shifting from care and sorrow and morphing into pure rage once again. “They’re all done. Nobody is ever gonna hurt you again. You’re mine and anyone who touches you- they’re as dead as that guy and everyone that’s ever associated with him.”

He shifted onto his knee as he stood up, taking off his cutte. He removed the black SAMCRO t-shirt he had on and handed it to you, before putting his hoodie and cutte back on himself again. You placed the t-shirt over your ripped dress, and stood up alongside him. Jax walked over towards The President’s body, collecting the printed photographs that surrounded him on the floor. He flicked through the pictures, scoffing at the evidence.

“This prick’s been trailing us for weeks. These are from a run two months ago.” He carried the stack into the bathroom as he examined the images, before igniting the corners with his lighter, leaving them to burn in the sink. He watched as the flames turned the paper into ash. “Are there more of these?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “he said this was all he had.”

Jax picked your jacket off the bathroom floor. He walked back to you, draping it over your shoulders. “Doesn’t even matter. His crew is good as dust.”

You kneeled to the ground, reaching under the bed for the jammed gun. Jax looked at the weapon in your hands, “Did you try to use it?”

You handed the metal piece to him, “piece of shit jammed.”

He hugged you again, wrapping his arms around you. “That’s my girl. Least I got to pummel the cunt to death myself.” He placed the gun into his holder. “Let’s get you home.” Jax held your waist as you both headed for the door.

“Jax?”

He looked down at you, “you okay darlin’?”

Your eyes peered back at the bloodied mess that had unfolded on the motel room floor.

“Maybe we should call that cleanup guy you know.”

Jax smiled, kissing you reassuringly on the side of your head as you walked together. “I’m on it.”

———

find my masterlist here

#jax teller #jax teller x reader #jax teller fiction #sons of anarchy #jax teller morrow #sons of anarchy fic #reads writes #soa #jax teller smut #sons of anarchy series #jax teller series #jax teller imagine #sons of anarchy imagine #nero padilla #jackson teller

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