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hold-him-down · 11 months

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Occam’s Razor

TW: medical torture, med whump, needles, drugs, noncon drugging, restraining, clinical setting, bone whump, spine whump, institutionalized slavery, whumper pov somewhere in there, etc.

Notes: it’s the future if you have questions you’re welcome to ask but I might not have answers (but I probably do for most of them?). This is 2 months into contract, sandwiched between this and this. It has no business being over 3k words but it is and I’m not one to argue with my word count so you get ‘em all. This has been in the works since the very beginning as a little med whump piece, and now ya have it.

✥ ✥ ✥

If Luke’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel is any indication, the calm exterior is not entirely indicative of his headspace. Leo regards him, only slightly comforted by the fact that, for the first time in so many years, someone will be waiting for him on the other side.

On the other side of what, it’s unclear. The director of one of the sites called Luke earlier in the week and said he needed to bring Leo in.

Luke pressed for information, and only after his lawyer got involved were they given any details. Something about his bone marrow being a likely match to a finance mogul’s teenage son, and they were invoking line seventy-six in the contract. No permanent harm would come to Leo, and the contract could be extended to the extent of his recovery time.

He was in the room when Luke found out. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he froze, watching Luke’s face go from red with anger to ghost white, and then Luke excused himself to his office, and Leo forced himself to take a bite of his dinner.

His hands shook, but that wasn’t new to him.

Luke did what he does best, which was make every threat he could, shout about some outdated laws that didn’t apply to workers, call in another high profile attorney to read through the contract, lose sleep, and eventually, have a serious conversation with him about the absence of any legal legs to stand on.

That day had been the first time Leo had seen Luke cry. Leo didn’t cry, though. He nodded, he said it was okay, and, in a particularly courageous moment, he asked if Luke thought it would hurt. Stupid question, and he knew that the moment the words hit his tongue. Of course it would hurt.

Luke promised then that he’d make sure it didn’t. And Leo smiled, nodded, and changed the subject. Because, at least he suspected, that Luke really didn’t know. But maybe, he convinced himself, maybe Luke could work a miracle.

✥ ✥ ✥

They let Luke come back with him, after a lengthy discussion that consisted mostly of thinly veiled threats. Leo keeps his eyes on the floor. He doesn’t think he’s had this specific procedure done before, but he knows it can’t be worse than some of the other things that have been done to him in the name of making wealthy men’s lives easier.

He made a mistake last night, though, and looked up the procedure on his phone. While he wasn’t certain exactly what he was looking for, he stumbled across more than a few resources for workers’ rights regarding medical ‘donation’, and a range of possibilities for what those procedures looked like.

None of them looked good.

He carried his phone into the living room and showed Luke; another mistake. Luke, solemnly, read it over.

“It won’t be like that,” Luke said, but his expression was tight.

“Are you sure?” Leo asked then, his third mistake.

Luke’s eyes rose from the phone to meet his. “I swear to you, Leo. I will do everything in my power to make sure you’re taken care of.”

And then, just as Leo was about to go back to bed, to try to get at least a few hours of sleep, he turned back. “Do you think–” he started, swallowing, his eyes digging into an invisible spot on the floor. He had learned, over the course of the last several years, that he was entitled to no support, no resources, no favors. But, if the last eight weeks had taught him anything, it was that Luke was, at least on some level, willing to help him. He took a breath. It was despiration that made him ask the question: “Do you think they’d let another doctor do the procedure? Maybe your brother, or you–”

Luke took a sharp breath and shook his head and Leo’s shoulders dropped, his arms wrapping around his belly, dread winding itself deeply inside of him. “I tried,” Luke said, and Leo nodded.

“Leo, you have to know I tried. They wouldn’t budge.” Luke stood, crossing the room, and Leo nodded again.

“It’s okay,” Leo said. It was a silly thing to request, and it didn’t matter if Luke tried or not. He had survived worse, and he would survive this.

He didn’t sleep, though.

Now, he pulls off his clothes and is changed into a hospital gown. Luke is outside of the room talking with the doctor. They are in a medical wing of one of the private sites, and Leo does all the things he’s supposed to do. He stands on the scale, he answers the questions, he submits to whatever they want him to submit to.

By the time Luke returns, with a woman in her forties with kind eyes that almost– almost– convince him he can get through this, Leo has an IV in his arm, a pillow to his chest, and a warm kind of zinging running through him. It feels weird, and he doesn’t like it, but if it helps him get through the next couple hours, he can accept it.

“How are you feeling?” the woman, who’s name tag reads Dr. Jennifer Benson, M.D., but who Leo will not address by name unless he’s told to, asks. She is flanked by two handlers, and Luke, looking pale but offering the warmest smile he can. Leo tries to approximate one in return, but knows it doesn’t land.

“I’m okay,” Leo says.

Distantly, he hears Luke talking to one of the handlers and he smiles. He knows he’s at least a little bit loopy, so he’s definitely been given something that will do something, and he hopes it’s good. He feels less anxious, at least.

“Edison Black assured me I could stay for the procedure,” Luke says, all official. He sounds like the Luke on the news, in a suit, yelling about rights and freedoms and America. He squints and scans the room slowly to find his Luke, in his sweater and jeans and yelling about local anesthetics. Leo’s finding it difficult to split his focus on the words they’re saying, on the feeling of the handler moving next to him, on the ringing in his ears.

Sometimes, if he asks, they let him close his eyes until the worst is over. If they allow Luke to stay, he won’t ask. And he won’t cry out when it hurts. And tomorrow can be a normal day.

Through the buzzing in his ears he hears the doctor, full of sympathy that he knows will dissolve once Luke leaves, saying, “Unfortunately, that isn’t possible. We will keep him safe. It’s a simple procedure, very low risk, he’ll be done within an hour.”

None of these words comfort him, but he finds Luke’s eyes across the room and tries to smile again. It’s going to be fine. He’s been through worse, and he’ll go through this, and then it’ll be over and he will go back to Luke’s house and sleep.

Luke makes his way over to him and kneels down, and Leo works to maintain focus. “They won’t let me stay,” he whispers. Leo nods.

“It’s okay,” he says. His eyes hold Luke’s, his expression conveying something that he thinks is reasonably close to I’ll be alright. He must have missed the mark, though, because Luke stands abruptly, and starts fighting with them again.

Leo wants to tell him to stop, that it’s pointless, that it’s futile, that it’s a waste of his effort and that he will, one way or another, make it out okay.

He opens his mouth to say it but the security guard comes in, and they shuffle Luke toward the door.

“I’ll be right in the waiting room,” Luke calls to him.

He swallows back the anxiety, and he tries to say, “It’s okay,” again, but nothing comes out.

“They said they’ll give you an anesthetic, Leo. It won’t hurt, okay?” Luke breaks past the guard and pushes toward him. As the handlers approach him, Luke snaps, “Just give me a second,” his tone sharp. At some signal that Leo can’t see, they back off.

“I’ll be in the waiting room, okay?” His eyes shut as Luke grips into the back of his neck, the pressure a familiar presence that does, if nothing else, offer some semblance of comfort.

“I promise, I will be right outside, and they’ve assured me they’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” A half-hearted smile.

“It won’t hurt.” A nod.

Leo isn’t sure if Luke believes his own words, but as the guard ushers him toward the door, the look that Luke casts on the room, on the doctor, and finally, on Leo, makes him think maybe he doesn’t.

And then he’s gone, and almost immediately, Leo feels his hands start to shake.

✥ ✥ ✥ [here’s the cut scene from what would land right here]

He is on his side, his body curled around a pillow, when the first of the needles goes into his spine. He flinches, but stills under the glare of the handlers. They watch him with a familiar hunger, not for pleasure, but for violence. Tears sting at his eyes, but the thoughts of disappointing them, of what they might do if they think he’s unlearned all the years of training, keep them from falling. Instead, he digs his fingers into the pillow while they take what they want from him. He isn’t even sure what it was.

He’s not naive enough to believe that’s it; they’d have let Luke stay for that. He knows without a doubt that it would be in vain, but still, he itches to ask them what’s going to happen next, if just so he can mentally prepare himself.

He doesn’t, though. He’s given a paper cup of water and his shaking hands give him away, but no one pays attention to that.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, from somewhere behind him. Suddenly, her hand is on his shoulder, the handler takes the cup and the pillow, and a chill runs through Leo’s body. She guides him onto his stomach and he complies, the loss of the pillow in his grip an immediate empty presence that makes the room even colder.

“Easy,” the doctor says, and he mutters an apology and adjusts his body to the closest thing to comfort he can find.

She gives him a quick run-down of what’s going to happen. It’ll hurt, she tells him, but it’s very important that he stays very still. If he tries to get up, if he tries to fight, the pain will be significantly worse. This needle is quite a bit bigger than the last, and if nothing else, he needs to hold still. A hospital stay is the last thing he wants, she tells him, and if he needed any convincing, that would have done it.

“You’ve been given muscle relaxers and a mild sedative to help take the edge off the pain,” she says, gloved hands manipulating him to adjust his positioning. He does.

She waits for his response, and he isn’t sure what’s expected of him, so he says softly, “Thank you.”

He hears her intake of breath and feels the cool air hit his skin as the blanket is removed. He grips the sides of the table as they get him ready for what he knows now, without a question, is going to be bad. One of the handlers pats the top of his hand and he peeks up at them. They nod, a kind of I’m-right-here-if-this-goes-bad gesture that is too vague for Leo to know if it’s meant to be comforting or threatening.

It turns out he doesn’t need to decide, because a moment later, he feels the familiar sting of a needle and gasps, and almost instantly, he realizes that it’s going to be so much worse–

The needle cuts into his bone and he howls on instinct, his fingers clutching almost painfully into metal, but he doesn’t feel that. He doesn’t feel anything beyond the needle making its way slowly into his bone. He only knows he’s screaming because of the rawness of his throat, from the vague ‘shhing’ coming from somewhere beyond his reach. He wails, grasping harder still onto the sides of the table, pressing his face into the pillow, muffling the sounds as much as he can. Luke can’t hear this, he thinks distantly, he can’t know, and so he tries–

His body jerks, and he tries to still himself but he’s on fire, an unbearable kind of pain that he can’t count through and he can’t think through. From next to him, one of the handlers pries his fingers off of the table, and the feeling of unyielding metal is replaced by warm skin and he knows someone is petting his hair and someone is holding his hand and maybe, somewhere lower, someone is holding him still against the table, but he can’t process anything beyond the pain.

✥ ✥ ✥

For a split second, they make eye contact. Handler Michael Lowell instantly realizes that he might not have the stomach for this job anymore; the boy has him in a bone-crushing death-grip, and all he can do is stare at him as the doctor pushes the needle the rest of the way in, and the screaming chokes off. Leo muffles his own cries against the thin pillow beneath his head. Beads of sweat drip down his neck, skin patched in red, veins and muscles straining against the intensity of his suffering.

“I know,” the doctor says, drawing the plunger up. It’s a slow process, and Michael isn’t positive if they’re intentionally torturing this kid or if it’s incidental. Sixteen years on the job and he’s seen a lot of shit, but as the doctor says, “Almost done,” he struggles to parse out what’s what.

Leo convulses on the table. Guttural sounds claw their way out from somewhere deep inside of him and honestly, you’d think they were fucking killing him, and it was entirely possible that they were.

“I know,” the doctor coos almost; it doesn’t help. His grip doesn’t let up, his shaking doesn’t let up, and his body’s taking on a kind of clammy-cold situation that doesn’t seem like it’s a good sign. Michael assumes the doc is aware of all three of these things, but none of them seem to be alarming to her.

It’s only a matter of minutes, but it feels like fucking hours. His free hand is on Leo’s neck, half-restraining, half-comforting. He’s gone soft in his age.

He can feel Leo trying to lift himself up, trying to pull his arm back to get it under him, but he keeps him pinned, and tells him, more gently than he’s used to, “Uh-uh. Hold still.”

If he were at one of the training sites, they’d just knock him out. He isn’t sure why they didn’t, but it probably has something to do with something. He’s not asking and no one’s telling him.

“Almost there,” the doctor says again, and then, without fucking fanfare, she pulls the needle out, and she’s pressing a bandage into the spot where the needle was, which immediately turns red. Michael looks away.

Almost instantly, though, Leo starts gagging, and this time, Michael lets him pull his hand free. He wedges it under him, leveraging his head and chest off the table. Leo retches in between cries, but with the worst over, his body’s losing steam. His breaths are ragged, the tension in his muscles begins to let up and Michael wonders if he’ll pass out. He hopes he does, and then berates himself for going soft again.

That’s when the shaking starts. Michael takes a washcloth, wiping first his face, then his neck and the parts of his chest that are visible, the spots of the table he has access to. The doc puts something into the IV, all the while Leo trying to catch his breath, tremors rolling through every inch of him. His weight has dropped back to the table, and he presses his forehead into his arm. His sobs are lighter now, his breaths deeper, but still patchy as hell.

“All done,” the doc says, like it was easy peasy. Michael’s certain Leo doesn’t hear her. And then, to Michael, she says, “Make sure he’s cleaned up and completely calm before you let Mr. Bennett see him. Try to get him to drink something when he’s ready.” Michael is pretty fucking sure being a nurse isn’t in his actual job description, and he doesn’t know exactly how to get Leo calm and clean in the next seven fucking minutes before his shift ends, but that’s someone else’s problem. He’s been traumatized enough for one day.

The doc bandages Leo’s back, then pulls off her gloves, giving Leo’s shoulder a squeeze as she leaves. It’s condescending as hell, but he thinks maybe Leo’s on someone’s bad side to begin with, because he’s no doctor, but that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Michael makes eye contact with the other handler, who’s been equally silent up until now, and gets to work.

✥ ✥ ✥

Luke is ushered back into the exam room two hours after he left. The handler walks him as far as the door, tells him to take his time, and to let them know if anything is needed. He shakes his head and bee-lines to Leo’s bedside.

Leo is curled up under a thin blanket; his skin’s pale, but he looks alright. The IV has been removed, there’s a cup of water on the tray table beside him.

“Hey, buddy,” Luke says, by way of greeting. Slowly, Leo’s eyes open to meet his, and he smiles, the sad tell-tale smile that exudes exhaustion and sadness and anxiety. He looks him over; nothing overtly ringing any alarm bells, but he doesn’t trust these people.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Luke whispers. Leo’s eyes are red but focused, and he moves to sit up as soon as Luke says the words. “Keep resting for a minute,” Luke says, but Leo pushes up anyway. “I need to go talk to the doctor, and then we’ll be out, okay?”

He waits for Leo to respond, searching his eyes for signs of clarity or understanding or acknowledgement. Just when he thinks he won’t get anything, that maybe the drugs haven’t worn off completely, Leo whispers, “Please don’t l-leave me.” And then, a moment later, he adds, “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

Luke swallows painfully and kneels next to him.

“No one’s going to touch you, buddy,” he whispers. “I need to get the discharge papers signed, and then we can go, okay?”

“Can I come with you?” Leo says then, looking up at him. Luke’s breath catches. Leo’s voice is hoarse, and as he sits, he winces. Luke looks around the exam room, empty now except for the two of them, cleared of all evidence of what happened. He feels rage bubbling up inside him, but he tries to talk himself down. They need to get out of here.

“Can you walk?” Luke asks, and Leo nods. He stands, slowly, and they make their way to the reception desk, where Leo finds a chair by the door.

Luke is ushered into a small room off to the side and Leo, once again alone, pulls his legs up and wraps his arms around them. He buries his face between his knees. Luke will be back for him. Luke will be quick. Luke knows he’s upset, and won’t make this long.

After a few minutes, Leo hears shouting, his eyes snapping up to the door that Luke disappeared behind. The receptionist exchanges a look with him and smiles, shaking her head. Leo’s gaze once more shifts to the window. He can see Luke’s car, and he wishes Luke trusted him enough to leave him the keys so he could wait outside. He feels the receptionist staring at him, and he turns away. Luke will be done soon, and he can go back to his bedroom and his books and his lion and he can crawl under the blankets and sleep, and when he wakes up, he will feel better.

He daydreams about it while he waits, and eventually, the door opens, and a stony-faced Luke emerges quickly.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready?” Luke asks, injecting the most casual-calm into his voice that he possibly can. Behind him, he hears the doctor close the door. In the window, he can see her reflection, arms crossed over her chest, leaning casually against the reception desk.

As they make their way to the door, in an act designed purely to spite him, the doctor calls to Leo, “Be good, Leo,” and Luke freezes, itching for violence but ever aware of at what cost that would come. Instead, he turns to her. He commits her face, her name, her voice, to his memory, so he can fuck up her life later.

He doesn’t know how he’ll do it, but when it comes time to try the guilty for crimes against humanity, her name will be among the top on his list.

FIGHTER TAG LIST: @whump-cravings, @afabulousmrtake, @crystalquartzwhump, @maracujatangerine, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @distinctlywhumpthing, @thecyrulik, @highwaywhump, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @finder-of-rings, @dont-touch-my-soup, @skyhawkwolf, @suspicious-whumping-egg, @also-finder-of-rings, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @prodigal-zoe, @peachy-panic, @melancholy-in-the-morning, @urban-dark, @nicolepascaline, @quietly-by-myself, @pigeonwhumps, @whump-blog, @seasaltandcopper, @angstyaches, @i-msonotcreative, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @anonintrovert, @whump-world, @squishablesunbeam, @considerablecolors, @whumpcereal, @whumperfully, @pirefyrelight, @whumpsday @whumplr-reader

#little light med whump to end your work week #med whump #spinal tap #forced bodily fluid donation #sure #that's a tag now #bone marrow stuff #needles #medical setting #questionably accurate med whump #noncon drugging #bodily restrained #institutionalized slavery #tada

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roseband · 2 years

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me on a reddit thread: hey it might not be a good idea to make estrogen combo pills OTC (even though progesterone would probably be fine) cause clotting disorder based strokes aren't in the numbers of side effects stats cuz america is dumb about things that are "preexisting"....and also my mom's stroke at 27 definitely isn't counted in the numbers (nor would hailey beibers btw....cuz she had the perfect storm of combo pill hormonal bc, covid, plane ride, and an undiagnosed heart issue so they can't pin it on the estrogen in a suit to a pharma company)

some twat: wellllllll if you donated blood twice monthly you'd neeeeeever have a clot

Like source please....cuz the lieden v thrombophillia foundation (which is my family's mutation I was lucky enough not to get (even though my rheum thinks that's the side my likely CTD comes from....great.....)) has NOTHING about it. I am SURE my aunt and mom would have preferred extra blood draws done to 3x daily self injectable heparin shots when having my cousins and i......when pregnant you can't take the pills, it's gotta be the shots (and this is with them both as single gene carriers lololol)

don't talk out of your ass about health conditions wtf....But only 1/300 women a year will develop a blood clot on OTC estrogen menopause meds.... ONLY 1/300.....ONLY.

#personal #to the tune of happy and you know it: *external factors dont change your genes* 👏👏*external factors dont change your genes* 👏 👏#*unless its in cancer and you raised the chancer* *external factors dont change your genes* 👏 👏#HIGH SCHOOL LEVEL BIOLOGY JESUS FUCKING CHRIST KILL ME #i cant live on a planet in a country with people this WILLINGLY stupid #your entire body genetic makeup isnt changed by a little NEEDLE pulling a few pints of blood out..............#(nor did a medication change your whole body's genetics...nor did a mRNA vax......nor did covid.......)#even fucking cancer is localized gene mutations in specific areas which is how they can tell where metastisized cancer starts #my moms on anastrozole as preventive care and like thats the one also used for metastisized BREAST cancer but its not for brain cancer or #blood cancer or bone marrow cancer or gallbladder cancer or.... or..... or...........#cause even CANCER isnt changing all your genes........which is why my aunt works on *gasp* gene therapy #where they isolate the genetic makeup of the tumor and use mRNA injections to have your immune system target the mutant parts of you #so it has YOU kill the tumor....so cool!!! isnt that cool!!! (her family is brca+ so she went into boobie cancer research)#((looks at my moms family like.....my aunt by marriage has two genetic disorders floating around in there...#and my moms blood relatives most likely also have two genetic disorders floating around in there oooooooof OOF))

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wickedzeevyln · 3 months

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Twilight Reverie

Tuck yourself in. In the twilight inside we roam,where phantoms rattle their bones,inscribed tales on marrows we read,of needles that lost their thread. Up in the attic, light and shadow play,offering wagers of whose soul to take,bewitched with hours forlornof muddied dusk and creeping dawn. Here, reality bends and shapes take flight,in the ever-shifting canvas of the night.portrait painted…

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chamfondbiotech · 1 year

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What Is The Difference Between Flip-Up Loupes And TTL?

What is the difference between flip-up Loupes and TTL?

On flip-up Loupes, telescopes are not attached to the lens. The loupes and the telescopes are generally connected by an “arm” mechanism that attaches to the frame. With the “arm” mechanism, wearers can adjust the telescopes when needed.

TTL is the abbreviation of “through the lens”. TTL loupes are different in that they are truly custom-made for each user with the telescopes (oculars/magnifiers) literally set inside the lens and not allowed to be removed or modified.

Although there are a few other factors, the key difference in functionality comes down to the ability to adjust the Loupes.

TTL loupes are customized for each individual face. The customization involves the accurate measurement of the inter-pupillary distance (IPD) and the declination angle, as these data vary from person to person depending on how tall they are, how far apart their eyes are and their working ergonomics. Nose pads and temple arms can be slightly adjusted but it nearly makes no difference for another person. Therefore, it’s normal that you feel uncomfortable and ineffective when you wear others’ TTL loupes.

But when you try and use others’ flip-up loupes, things can be different as you can adjust the position of the telescopes to reach the proper IPD and declination angle.

Flip-up Loupes can easily overcome these obstacles for each individual as they can be adjusted to meet these varying requirements. Flip-up Loupes are so adjustable that you can even share them with other people. This flexibility may save some trouble when your loupes suddenly get lost or broken. However, these adjustments put on the weight of flip-up loupes.

TTL loupes, without the burden of the “arm” mechanism, are less heavier than the flip-up loupes.

In conclusion, flip-up loupes are usually heavier but more adjustable and shareable.

TTL Loupes are custom made for each face and feature lightweight and limited adjustments.

Chamfond Biotech Co., Ltd The headquarter of Chamfond Group is located in Nanjing, China.After years of development, Chamfond Group has assembled a number of biotechnology high-tech subsidiary companies in the R&D and production of biopharmaceuticals, medical device R&D and production, promotion and distribution, and established a professional service platform covering the field of life and health. For more details about ring retractor manufacturer,bone marrow biopsy needle manufacture,flip up loupes manufacturer visit our website https://www.chamfondbiotech.com/

#Bone marrow biopsy needle manufacturer #Ring retractor manufacturer

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xjoonchildx · 4 months

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kanalia | jhs x reader | final chapter: because i couldn't stay away

banner by the amazing @kth1 💕

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes. smut warnings in effect.

⚜️word count: 10.2K

⚜️author's note: happy birthday month to my forever muse, jung hoseok. i hope that i did this poor, tortured version of you some justice. and yes, it did take me years to finish this story (😭) , but i did. thank you to every single who has ever taken an interest in this story and cared enough to stick with me through long delays and rough writing spells. once again, i have to shout out the OG @hobi-gif who lent her eyes to part of this story. i appreciate you all so much and if you enjoyed it, i would very much appreciate a reblog as well as your feedback.

thank you guys so, so much 💕

previous chapter masterlist

Love doesn't discriminate Between the sinners and the saints It takes and it takes and it takes And we keep loving anyway We laugh and we cry and we break And we make our mistakes And if there's a reason I'm by her side When so many have tried Then I'm willing to wait for it I'm willing to wait for it

– “Wait for It”

Hamilton, An American Musical

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

One perfect loop is followed by another. And another. And another.

You need not look back and check your work, not anymore. Now you know simply by the pull of the thread that each stitch you place is snug and uniform. You sit in your chair by the fire and repeat the motion over and over again, staring unseeing into the pattern in your lap.

“It’s a beautiful day, Your Grace.”

Hyeri’s voice taps at the edges of your consciousness, muffled as though she’s standing outside the chamber door instead of seated right beside you. You ignore it and push another loop through the fabric.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” she persists, gentle. “Perfect conditions for a walk, if you feel up to it. I could even accompany you, if you wish?”

There was a time, not long ago, when Hyeri’s prodding would have set your teeth on edge. But you do not have the energy to muster any such emotion. And so you give Hyeri the same answer you’d given her the day before. And the day before that one. The same hushed words, spoken in the same decisive tone.

“I’m content to stay in today, Hyeri. Thank you.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

She drops the matter with a quiet sigh.

It’s unlike her. The Hyeri you know would fret and fuss for as long as it took for you to relent; until you had no choice but to quit your chamber simply to enjoy a moment’s peace. The Hyeri you know would be shooing you away from the fire, prattling on about how one errant thread could catch and send your entire dress up in flames.

But the Hyeri seated beside you does none of those things.

So you sink deeper into the plush chair perched in front of the hearth and watch the flames dance. The embers at the base of the fire glow deep red, putting off a heat blistering enough to scorch your bare feet.

But you cannot feel it. You cannot feel anything.

You’ve surrendered to the weariness now; let it consume you. Allowed it to fuse itself to the very marrow of your bones. For days you’ve done little beyond sleep and spend your few waking hours seated by the fire, needle in hand.

Twice you’ve left your chamber and neither time by choice, but rather because the King had insisted on your presence at dinner. To what end you still cannot be sure seeing as you’d taken both meals in stilted, awkward silence. Apparently His Grace is far less bold without a bit of ale in him.

“The hunting party leaves in three days' time,” Hyeri says. “There’s been quite a fuss in the kitchens over it. They’re taking enough supplies to travel for months, by the looks of it.”

You make a non-committal sound under your breath. Hyeri forges on, undeterred.

“There will be a send-off in the courtyard, of course. Will you – “ she pauses to choose her words carefully. “ – Well, I assume that you’ll want to see the King off.”

You do not want to see the King off. Were it not for his pigheaded adamance that you keep up appearances for the sake of this sham marriage, you’d be content to never see him again. But you’ll not tell Hyeri that. Not when she’s made it clear where her loyalties lie and not when she still holds on to the delusion that one day you’ll decide to embrace your role as the placeholder by the King’s side.

So you say nothing at all. The fire pops as one of the logs crumbles in the hearth.

Hyeri clears her throat. “Your Grace, I only want what’s best for you. Surely you know that by now? And I don’t want people casting aspersions, which they most certainly will do if you’re not there to see the King off. The staff is already asking questions about why you’ve not been seen in days.”

“Has he asked for me?”

Hyeri blinks. “The King?”

“Yes, Hyeri,” you say slowly. “The King. Has His Grace requested my presence at this send-off ceremony?”

The color seems to drain from her soft face as she admits, “No, Your Grace. He hasn’t.”

“Then I see no point in worrying yourself over the matter.”

You return your attention to your needlework and place another yellow thread in the center of your Mugunghwa flower’s pistil. The flames crackle in perfect, undisturbed silence.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“It’s cold out there today,” Hyeri says. “But if you bundle up tight, it’s quite pleasant in the sunshine.”

“Thank you, Hyeri,” you reply evenly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it. You have no intention of leaving this chamber today and much to your relief, the King did not require your presence at his evening meal the night prior. Hyeri had ordered your dinner sent up and then proceeded to dine with you herself. An insidious voice inside your mind whispers she’s afraid to leave you alone.

You ignore it.

Instead you try to focus on your Mugunghwa flower. You study it, blinking until the riot of colors before you has clear, defined boundaries – fiery crimson at the center which slowly bleeds into a subdued pink which in turn dissipates into a milky white. You pull fresh white thread through your needle and set to work on the flower’s edges.

“Your needlework is much improved, Your Grace,” Hyeri notes. “You’ll be finished with that pattern by the end of the day, as I see it.”

You thumb over the fabric and consider her assessment. She’s right, you’ll be done with this pattern in a matter of hours. And the only thing that awaits on the other side is another pattern. And another. On and on and on.

“Perhaps when you’re done, you’ll consider mending this for me,” Hyeri says, gesturing towards her lap. “My eyesight is not what it used to be. I’m terrified of ruining the old man’s beautiful design.”

You set your embroidery down and turn to look at Hyeri, gaze falling to the opulent plum fabric in her hands. Slowly, the details sharpen into focus. The rich velvet trim. The gold threads glinting back at you in the firelight. The room begins to tilt.

“A footman found it in the woods last night,” Hyeri explains, her cadence slow and deliberate. “By the stables.”

You are keenly aware of the way she watches you in the weighty seconds that follow, one gray eyebrow lifted as she awaits a response. You do your best to appear calm despite the panic clawing its way up your throat.

You’d lost that shawl in your mad dash back to the castle. You’d been tearing through the dark, paying little heed to the branches that tugged at your dress and occasionally scraped at your hands and face. One of them had caught the shawl, but you’d been so desperate to reach the refuge of your chamber that you’d hardly noticed when it was wrenched away. You’d had, after all, your humiliation to keep you warm.

And you’d earned it, hadn’t you? With your drunkenness. With your recklessness. You’d let every one of your baser emotions take control. You’d risked every advantage of your carefully curated life just to throw yourself like a wanton at the feet of one of your husband’s closest confidantes. Like a fool.

When Lord Jung turned on his heels that night and abandoned you in the woods, he’d done far more than just rebuff your clumsy advances.

He’d finished you.

“Your Grace?” Hyeri’s curiosity is evident. “Are you alright?”

Hardly. Your mouth waters as your stomach threatens to cast up what little you’ve eaten today. One glimpse of that garment had been enough to bring a torrent of memories rushing back; vivid, awful memories that you’ve worked hard to banish to the deepest recesses of your mind. You grip the arm of your chair hard enough to make your knuckles go white.

“Your Grace?”

You don’t answer until you’re sure that you won’t retch the very moment you open your mouth. Hyeri studies you in the interminable silence, lips parted in an expression of concern. Your tongue is thick when you finally collect yourself enough to speak.

“Please do thank the footman for me, Hyeri. And I think it best to leave the more intricate needlework to you.”

Hyeri stares as you reach for your needle and thread with trembling hands, but you don’t dare look her way. You try to place a loop at the edge of your flower but the Mugunghwa’s colors have gone blurry again and you’re forced to back the needle out and start over.

Perhaps there was a time when the Mugunghwa was as vivid as a rose. With petals of rich orange-red, opaque from pistil to tip. But perhaps it was asked to weather too many storms. Too many droughts. Too many winters.

Perhaps the Mugunghwa looks the way it does today not because of how it was made, but rather what it’s had to endure.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The first snow of the season arrives early.

You stand at your window and watch it fall, noting how quickly the fields turn from green to white. You press your fingertips to the windowpane and the cold seeps through it, chilling you instantly.

In the courtyard below, the horses are draped in heavy blankets. Stablehands scurry around them; dusting snow off their muzzles and checking their shoes. Footmen work in teams, sharing the weight of the heavy trunks they load on to waiting carts.

“I’ll wear the blue walking dress today, Hyeri. The one with the white flowers on the bodice.”

“Your Grace?” Hyeri is on her feet at once to join you at the window. “You’ll see the king off, then?”

“I’ll need the matching cape too,” you direct, brushing her question aside as you watch the newly-packed trunks take on a layer of white snow. “If the conditions are as awful as they look.”

“Yes of course,” Hyeri breathes, hurriedly whirling about the chamber behind you as she gathers your things. In a matter of minutes she has you dressed and seated, fingers twisting your hair into a plait at the base of your neck. She loops the plait and pins it into an elegant bun, fingers smoothing the hairs into place before her hands come to rest on your shoulders. She squeezes them gently.

“I’ll not ask you why you’ve changed your mind, Your Grace,” she says softly. “But I’m so glad for it. It’s important that people see you. For them, of course, but for you most of all. And besides, you look so lovely.”

You don’t feel lovely. In fact, you don’t feel anything at all. And if Hyeri had pressed you as to why you’ve changed your mind, she’d not be satisfied with your answer. You’ve changed your mind because you cannot bear to cause more conflict with the King. Because you have no desire to create a scandal that you’ll somehow have to fix. You’ve changed your mind because you have no fight in you left. This is the path of least resistance.

You rise from your seat and Hyeri’s hands fall away. She clutches them to her chest, rheumy eyes soft with sadness as she watches you take your place at the window once again. Outside the snow falls harder, and you watch the footmen leave deep divots in it with their boots.

“Tell me when it’s time,” you say quietly.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

You can scarcely recognize anyone in the throng of well-wishers gathered outside the castle.

They’re all bundled tight in winter coats and pelts; some wear hats and scarves. The snow doesn’t help either, and from the moment you enter the courtyard you’re grateful for your cape. Not only for the warmth of its thick lining, but for its hood, too. It affords you a bit of privacy in this otherwise very public affair.

You weave your way through the crowd and do your best not to make eye contact with anyone. Surely Boram is among those gathered with sweet Yeona in tow, here to see Lord Min off on his adventure. But you cannot bring yourself to seek her out – not when she’s already called on you twice without so much as an explanation for your disappearance. At any rate, you don’t think you could bear to look at her right now. To see the worry and concern you know you’ll find written all over her face.

So you keep your hood pulled tight and your eyes down as you set off in search of the King. And you have no trouble finding him despite your reticence to make your presence known. It’s not just that he stands a head taller than most. It’s in his stature, in his stance – in that self-assured air that seems to come naturally to those born with power. He catches sight of you as he’s speaking to a footman and pauses, gaze locking on yours.

Your legs feel heavy. Your boots sink into the snow as you approach, each step more tiring than the last. When you are finally standing before the King you bow, dipping your head as you peer at him from beneath your hood.

“Your Grace,” he murmurs, lips twitching into a cautious half-smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d come down to say goodbye.”

“And yet I have,” you respond evenly. A snowflake lands on one of his long eyelashes and you resist the urge to reach out and sweep it away. “So I do very much hope that you are pleased.”

“I am pleased.”

The King reaches for your gloved hand. He waits a heartbeat before bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to your leather-clad fingers. Beneath your hood, your cheeks burn. You withdraw your hand quickly and let it fall to your side.

“Well. Then. I wish you a comfortable journey,” you say. “As well as a safe return.”

The two of you stand there for an awkward moment, the King’s expression expectant as though he’s waiting for you to say more. But you have no more to say. The words you’ve already offered him will do. They’re as empty as the vows you’d exchanged little more than a year ago.

“We ought to head out, Your Grace. We’re losing precious daylight and this weather will slow us as it is.”

The voice comes from somewhere in your periphery, but you need not see the man to know exactly who it is. Suddenly each breath you draw is painful, the frigid air pricking your lungs like a thousand tiny needles. You will yourself not to turn towards it, not to react in any way.

“You’re right.” The King acknowledges Lord Jung with a brusque nod. “Have the stablehands check over the horses one more time.”

You won’t look at him. You can’t look at him. Not when the sound of his voice reverberates through every wounded place inside of you. Not when you can close your eyes and still feel the hot trickle of embarrassment that slid down your spine that night in the woods. But then he leaves you with no other choice.

“Your Grace.”

The low timbre of Lord Jung’s greeting makes the fine hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end. You turn to him, slowly, and his dark eyes briefly connect with yours before he bends into a shallow bow. Your knees nearly give way when you return the gesture, along with a subdued, “My Lord.”

What must this man think of you now? What has he told the King? The nausea you’ve managed to stave off for days returns at once.

You startle when a gloved hand wraps around your forearm and the King beckons you to face him. You flick your eyes up to meet his and find that they – along with his countenance – have darkened. By now Lord Jung is yards away, tending to his horse as the hunting party readies to embark. Your lungs ache with each deep pull of cold air.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Not at all,” you insist, contriving a weak laugh. “I’m not accustomed to this kind of cold, is all. I’ll need to go back inside to get warm.”

The King’s brows furrow as he studies you. But you maintain your mild expression until his face relaxes and the disquiet subsides. He leans in to place a chaste kiss to your cheek.

“Hyeri assures me you’ll be well taken care of in my absence.”

You lift the corners of your mouth in a gesture that you hope will pass for a smile.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Be well.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Hyeri does not protest when you ask to undress upon your return to the chamber. Nor does she fuss when you climb into bed with the morning sun still high in the sky. She simply presses a soft kiss to your hair, draws the curtains tight and leaves you with a whispered rest well.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Your chamber is dark when you wake but for the soft glow of a fire.

As you come to, so does an ache in your temples, a quiet thud that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Your muscles protest as you roll onto your side to find Hyeri seated at the hearth.

She’s yet to realize that you’ve roused and so you lie there for a while, studying her. She has a strange, far-away look in her eyes as she stares into the flames, her grip tight on a book in her lap. After a few minutes she opens the book and begins to thumb through it and you watch, curious, as she pulls a worn piece of vellum from between its pages.

She unfolds the missive and reads over it, face crumpling as she fights back a sob.

“Hyeri?”

The older woman nearly jumps out of her skin when you call out to her. She hastily folds the vellum and slips it back into her book, smoothing down her dress as she stands at attention. “Your Grace,” she says, voice huskier than usual, “I hadn’t realized you were awake.”

“It’s alright,” you say absently, voice rough with sleep. You steal a look at the book left lying in Hyeri’s chair as she hurries over to bring you some water. Her countenance is that of someone who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. You stare at the glass she offers you, watching the water slosh back and forth.

Is she trembling?

“You ought to eat something,” she admonishes gently, waving a hand towards the food waiting on the table nearby. “You slept through the evening meal. I had my mind made up to wake you if you’d gone much longer, but thankfully I didn’t have to. So come,” she beckons, “Eat something. It will do you some good.”

Your stomach twinges at the mention of food. It’s been in upheaval for days now, and as such it’s been far too long since you had a proper meal. But whatever awaits in the dishes nearby smells enticing enough, so you allow Hyeri to help you out of bed. Your muscles are stiff with disuse and you grimace as you make your way to the table. Your eagle-eyed handmaid takes note.

“A long, hot bath will do you some good, too,” Hyeri remarks as you spoon lukewarm bulgogi onto your plate. You eat slowly as she busies herself with lighting the torches and stripping the linens from your bed. “I’ll have the maids bring up the water after you’ve had a chance to eat.”

You’ve only managed a few bites of the bulgogi before there’s an army of maids filing into the chamber, flitting about the room like a swarm of bees. You watch the entire affair in a daze as the maids make quick work of the tasks set before them: tidying and sweeping the chamber, draping your bed in fresh linens, filling the tub with steaming hot water. And when all the commotion is finally done, Hyeri dismisses them with strict orders not to return unless they are sent for.

You are grateful at once for the silence that immediately falls over the chamber. Even Hyeri leaves you for a while, disappearing into the antechamber to prepare your toilette. But when you glance over at her chair, Hyeri’s book is gone. Along with whatever was written on the vellum inside.

“Come now, Your Grace,” Hyeri says, at last. “I’m ready for you.”

She leads you into the bathing chamber, where the air is humid and sweet. Then she helps you out of your rumpled nightgown and holds out her hand. You accept it, leaning into her as you step over the tub’s steep rim. Slowly you ease yourself down, sucking in a breath as the heat blazes a path up your feet to your legs and thighs. The water is hot almost to the point of pain but you withstand it, sinking until it laps at your shoulders.

“I used rose oil tonight,” Hyeri says, kneeling behind you and cupping your head in her hands. “I thought you could do with a bit of pampering.”

The delicate fragrance envelopes you, carried on the curls of steam that rise just above the water. You breathe in the soft, floral scent and close your eyes; try to clear your mind. Hyeri presses her thumbs to your temples and starts making firm, soothing circles.

“I remember the very first moment I saw you,” Hyeri muses softly. “I’d been so impressed by your poise.” Her hands move to the column of your neck and she kneads at the tight muscles there, pulling the tension from them with each pass. “You were little more than a girl then, but I could still see that you were lovely, inside and out.”

Were you? You’re not sure that you would even recognize the girl that stepped out of that carriage so long ago. You’d been so idealistic – so certain of the comfortable life that you would find here. Of the affluence and status and yes, perhaps, even love that you’d enjoy once you’d ascended to the throne. But that girl had been a nitwit. The woman you are now will never entertain such foolish notions again.

“I know that so much of this has not been easy for you,” Hyeri continues, setting to work on your shoulders. “I know that there have been days when you’ve struggled to put one foot in front of the other. But you have. And that means something.”

It does mean something. It means that your mother’s great work is finally complete. She’d spent her entire life molding you into the polished, empty creature you are today. If only she could see you now; see how biddable and pathetic you’ve become. It would fill her to overflowing with joy.

“Anyhow, when you’ve lived as long as I have you realize that nothing is forever,” Hyeri says thoughtfully. “Same as what you’re going through right now, Your Grace. It won’t be forever.”

Nonsense. Hyeri cannot change the King’s heart. She cannot save you from a lifetime of awkward exchanges and forced smiles simply because she believes things can change. And she cannot will a child into your womb simply by decreeing that it should be so. The swell of emotion that surges inside you is more powerful than anything you’ve felt in days. And it’s anger.

“Hyeri, stop,” you order tersely. “No more.”

Her face falls at that, features going slack with dismay. But she heeds you, holding back whatever she’d meant to say next. Then she reaches for the soap and begins to wash your hair in silence. You chase the beads of oil that float along the surface of the water with a fingertip, cheeks hot with embarrassment. You hadn’t meant to be ugly to Hyeri.

But then you’ve done many things of late that you hadn’t meant to.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s alright, Your Grace. I know you meant no harm by it.” Hyeri dries her hands off and then rises to her feet, looking down at you with a kindness you do not deserve. “I’ll leave you to soak for a bit. You can have a few minutes of peace before I return.”

You’ve been unfair to her, haven’t you? The realization cuts you deep as you watch her retreat from the antechamber. She’s served you in so many ways since your arrival here: as caretaker and as advisor and as confidante. And how have you thanked her? By being cold and distant. By unleashing all the frustration and resentment you feel towards the King on her. And what of the tears you’d seen her hold back while she’d been sitting by the fire? Have you been so mired in your own anguish that you’ve neglected to see hers?

The water has begun to cool and your skin has begun to pebble by the time Hyeri returns.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she says upon her return, helping you out of the water. “The time got away from me. You must be freezing.”

“Only a little,” you lie, teeth chattering. Hyeri sets to drying you, throwing the damp linens on the floor to catch the rivulets of water that fall from your hair. Her dark eyes dart from your shoulders to your neck to your ears, but they do not meet yours.

“Is something wrong, Hyeri?”

“No, no. Not at all,” she answers quickly, “Just a bit tired.” Her reassurance rings hollow because she keeps her eyes trained on the floor as she bends to reach for the rose oil. When she straightens, you catch her hand with yours, stilling her.

“What were you reading tonight?”

Hyeri’s mouth opens in surprise and then quickly closes.

“I saw you sitting by the fire,” you admit. “You were reading something that looked to upset you.”

“And here I thought you were sleeping,” Hyeri grumbles, taking her hand back. She pours the oil into one palm and then warms it before pressing it to your neck, letting a long moment pass before she speaks.

“It didn’t upset me,” she explains. “Not in a sad way. Those were happy tears, I suppose.” She pours oil into your hands and begins to gently massage it into your fingers. “It was a letter from my Sanghun, back when he’d been courting me so many years ago. You might find this hard to believe, but I wasn’t always the old woman you see now. I had more than my fair share of suitors.”

It’s not hard to believe. Time has been kind to Hyeri. Her features, though soft with age, are still striking. She must have been quite fetching as a young woman.

“What made you choose Sanghun?” you ask.

“I don’t know that I had a choice in the matter at all,” she laughs as she helps you slip into a nightgown. “The moment I saw Sanghun, no other man existed for me. It was him or no one.” Her eyes go soft with a faraway look as she recounts the memory. “The other girls thought him too practical, too serious. But I saw a side of him that no one else saw. A part of him that was just for me.”

“You must miss him,” you say gently.

“Every day,” Hyeri admits. “Ten years he’s been gone and I think of him every day. Those letters remind me of what it’s like to be young and so in love that you’ll not see rhyme or reason. But –” she trails off and waves a hand as if fending off fresh tears. “Never mind that. Come sit.”

It’s unclear which of you she’s sparing from the memory. But as Hyeri begins working her comb through the lengths of your hair, you’re struck by how shortsighted you’ve been. There is suffering in never having the chance to love and be loved, certainly. But there is a different kind of suffering that comes with having that kind of love and then losing it. The thought humbles you.

Hyeri comes to stand behind you and begins working your wet hair into a loose plait.

“I’m sorry, Hyeri,” you say softly, gaze dropping to your hands. “I’m sorry that I haven’t thought to ask you about Sanghun. I haven’t been myself and I’ve just – “

Hyeri silences you with a soft hush. She secures your braid with a piece of linen and then drops to her knees to look her in the eye. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says softly, stroking a hand down the side of your face. “Nor do you owe anyone an explanation for feeling the things you feel.”

Her warmth thaws the frozen places inside you. It causes tears to spring to your eyes. And when she takes your hand in hers, you squeeze it gently — hoping that the gesture can convey the feelings you can’t put into words.

“Now put all of that behind you,” she says, smiling through her own unshed tears. “And come sit with me for a while.”

Hyeri leads the way into the chamber and you follow, only to stop short when the hearth comes into view.

When your gaze falls on the silhouetted figure near the fire, you nearly scream. You try to scream. But fear seizes your body, inch by inch – rooting your feet to the floor and closing around your throat like a shackle. You have no choice but stand there, staring in horrified silence as the figure begins to emerge from the shadows. In the span of one frantic heartbeat, the figure has a shape. In the next, it has a face.

And in the next, it has a name.

“H-Hyeri?” you stammer, swaying on your feet as your legs threaten to give way. Your handmaid doesn’t answer and so you call out again, voice quivering. “Hyeri?”

You cannot take your eyes off the man standing before you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and so you stare as the firelight flickers over his stark, beautiful features. Shadows dance across his clenched jaw and knit brow. And his eyes – those dark eyes you know so well are fathomless, inscrutable – smoldering coal set in unblemished, unforgiving stone.

“Hyeri!“ you call out to her again, desperate – reluctantly tearing your gaze from the man to look for her. And when your eyes finally land on Hyeri, you find your handmaid standing near the chamber door, hands clasped together tightly. Streaks of color running up the thin skin of her neck and into her soft cheeks.

But she’s not surprised, is she? Not flummoxed in any way by finding Lord Jung lying in wait inside your private rooms. The realization comes over you slowly, wholly, until a strangle tingle runs from your scalp to the tips of your fingers. She’s arranged this, hasn’t she?

“W-What is this?” The words leave you as more air than sound, but they ring out clear enough in the silence of your chamber. Lord Jung and Hyeri exchange a long look, but neither utters a sound.

“Someone speak!” you cry, wincing at the hysteria in your voice.

Hyeri finally clears her throat, her face now fully aflame. “I believe the two of you – “ she pauses, swallowing hard. “Well, I believe the two of you have some things you need to discuss.”

Discuss? You and Lord Jung? Suddenly the panic you feel metastasizes, growing into something much darker. Has he come to admonish you, then? To punish you for your disloyalty? Has he come to lay bare every humiliating detail of that horrible night at the stables for Hyeri to hear?

“No,” you whisper. You do your best to appear composed, despite the way your knees tremble. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Hyeri. I have nothing to discuss with Lord Jung.”

“Yes, you do.” The man in question speaks for the first time, his voice little more than a low rasp. “And we will.”

“No,” you repeat your refusal, shaking your head as though the movement will help sort your jumbled thoughts. “No. You have no right to turn up here and say what I will and will not do. And where did you come from? I saw you leave. I saw you mount your horse and ride off with – “

You stop yourself before you can finish the thought, flushing fiercely at the unspoken mention of the King. Your tedious, disinterested husband would be anything but if he had any inkling of this clandestine encounter.

“I was called back to the castle,” Lord Jung explains evenly. “A palace rider came bearing a missive bidding that I return at once to address an issue at the stables. I was but an hour’s ride away at the time.” Once again, he looks to Hyeri and they exchange another one of those maddening looks.

“But there was no issue at the stables,” you deduce quietly, the pieces falling into place, one by one. “Was there, Hyeri?” Your handmaid seems to shrink beneath the weight of the accusation in your eyes.

“No, Your Grace,” she confesses weakly, “There was not.”

Oh, but your head is truly spinning now – each new revelation more disorienting than the last. How long have these two been conspiring together? What does Hyeri know about what’s transpired between you and Lord Jung? What does he know about the many private things you’ve shared with Hyeri? Both thoughts cause the bile in your stomach to rise.

“You can leave us now, Hyeri,” Lord Jung says. “Thank you.”

Leave you? Has the man lost all good sense? You open your mouth to protest, but when met with the intensity in his glittering dark eyes, words fail you. You just stand there, mouth agape, rendered mute and immobile with shock. You look over at Hyeri, who has fixed her pleading eyes to your wide ones, her expression urging you to comply. And though you cannot make sense of a single thing that you’ve witnessed tonight, you do.

“Very well, My Lord,” she says quietly. “Rest well, Your Grace. The staff rouses at dawn.”

And with that Hyeri takes her leave, the chamber door closing behind her with a heavy thud that echoes the one in your chest.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Once you are alone with Lord Jung, you realize how truly vulnerable you are.

With little more than a thin nightgown to cover you, he can see far more of you than would ever be considered proper. All it would take was one shout from the man to bring the guards running, to compromise you both to the point of expulsion. Perhaps worse.

But the situation is far weightier than that.

You’ve been vulnerable to this man from nearly the first moment you saw him. You’d been weak to his attention and charms. You’d allowed him to see you in ways that no one else has: not Chaehee, not Hyeri and certainly not the King. And the only time in your life that you’d thrown caution to the wind – and acted with abandon, not restraint – he’d mortified you. The memory of that night is a wound that’s just barely begun to heal, and now here Lord Jung stands, poised to pour salt on it.

You’ll not allow him to devastate you again.

“Go on then,” you say, lifting your chin and speaking with feigned bravado. “You’ve gone to great lengths to speak to me, so speak. I assume you’ll enlighten me as to which matter is so pressing that you felt the need to steal into my chamber and risk ruin for us both.”

“I know what I’m risking,” he growls. Then he stops to collect himself, exhaling deeply as he shoves a hand through his hair. “I know what we both stand to lose. But I could not come to you any other way.”

“Why have you come to me at all?” you demand. “You made your feelings quite clear the night of the festival, did you not?” You can no longer contain your bitterness and it drips from your every word. “You should go back to your sovereign, My Lord. Back to your King.”

Lord Jung looks stricken when you use his own words against him. There is a despair in his dark eyes that might have pained you once, but not now. Not anymore.

“You have every right to be angry with me, Your Grace,” he acknowledges. “And if you bid me to leave, then I will do so. But not without telling you the truth. You deserve to hear the truth.”

“Everything here is a lie. Perhaps you, most of all.”

He looks at you for a long moment before turning towards the hearth to gaze into the fire. Orange-red light illuminates his profile, sweeping across his smooth brow, over the elegant slope of his nose and down to his strong jaw. He is still the most beautiful – and most terrible man you’ve ever known.

“The King said he would give her up,” he says woodenly, staring into the flames. “When your marriage was announced, he swore it. And I believed him.”

Every muscle in your body pulls tight.

“I knew that he loved her. We all did. But he vowed that he would respect his father’s wishes and I’ve never known him to be a duplicitous man. I’ve never known him to say one thing and do another. And when I realized that he’d been deceiving you, deceiving us all, I – “ he stops and shakes his head at the memory. “ – I wasn’t thinking clearly. I confronted him at once and demanded that he explain himself.”

The argument in the courtyard. The memories come back to you in an instant. The way they’d both looked so irate, the way their voices would rise and then fall. Lord Jung turning his back on the King and stalking away into the dark.

The tightness in your chest is unbearable now, viselike.

“I was so damned angry,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “Never once in my life have I imagined putting my hands on the King, but in that moment – I don’t know. I don’t know what I might have done had I not walked away. But I confronted him because I had to know why.”

He rips his gaze from the fire and turns to you, eyes flashing.

“And do you know what he told me? Do you know what he said when I asked him why he would insult you by keeping a lover? He told me that he couldn’t stay away. That he’d tried to do the honorable thing but he couldn’t stay away.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The tremor in your voice belies your pathetic attempt at composure. “If you mean to cause me pain, it’s too late. I’ve known about the King’s lover since the early days of this marriage, and I’ve accepted it. Just as I’ve accepted that I’ll never amount to more than a trinket he dusts off to show to his people.”

Lord Jung takes a step towards you, his beautiful face hard in the firelight. There’s a maelstrom behind his eyes, a polite violence that sets you to shiver.

“I’m telling you this because I need you to understand,” he says. “I want to hate him. I have tried to hate him. But I cannot. I have no position of honor to stand on. No rightful claim to virtue. I have no right to condemn the King for his sins when I have so many of my own to account for.”

“I – I don’t understand,” you say weakly.

“I have no right – “ his voice breaks, thick with emotion, “-- I have no right to denounce the King for coveting another woman.” He drags a hand down his face, distraught. “Not when I have spent every single day since you stepped out of that carriage coveting you.”

You stop breathing entirely.

“So no,” he continues, voice graveled. “I cannot bring myself to hate the King. And you were right to think me a liar. I’ve pretended that my nearness to you was benign, nothing more than an act of service. I’ve tried to make myself look honorable to you, when I have been anything but. I’ve been a liar since the moment I met you.”

You are trembling now, head to toe. Rendered speechless by Lord Jung’s confession. Slowly, the maelstrom in his eyes starts to recede. He looks as vulnerable now as you feel.

“You deserved to know the truth,” he says quietly. “If from no one else, than from me.”

There is a heavy silence in the seconds it takes you to find your voice.

“My Lord, I – “

“Don’t call me that,” he pleads. “Please. Not now. Not when I’ve come to you like this.”

“Very well, Hoseok. But you sent me away. In the woods that night, I’d asked you to – “ you stop, not wanting to say the words aloud. “What’s changed? Why are you telling me this now?”

“I have tried to leave you alone.” His voice is ragged now, anguished. “I thought if I could just put some distance between us – if I rose earlier and worked harder and retired later – that I could exhaust this need out of me. But I can’t.” Torment is etched into every line of his beautiful face. It makes you want to reach out and touch him but you resist, uncertainty keeping your hands pinned to your sides.

“I cannot war with myself any longer,” he says hoarsely. “I cannot continue to lie to you or myself. And if he is not willing to give you the things you desire, then I will.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, your neck. It gathers in your belly, too.

“So if you’re asking me why now?” he says, taking another step towards you, closing what little distance remains. “It’s because I couldn’t stay away.”

He touches you then, takes your face into one warm hand and strokes his fingers down your temple, smooths the pad of his thumb over your lips. The featherlight touch raises goosebumps all over your skin. It’s more intimate than anything you’ve ever experienced with the King.

“Do you still want me to kiss you?” he murmurs.

“No,” you breathe. “I want so much more than that.”

He looks at you with such heat that the warmth in your belly goes molten. Then he presses his mouth to yours and slowly coaxes it open with gentle strokes of his tongue. He tastes of whiskey and smells of fine, heady soap and he does not relent until you are panting. Moisture gathers at the juncture of your thighs, beneath your thin nightgown.

But suddenly you are apprehensive. You’ve no idea how to kiss a man properly, much less satisfy him as a lover. And you’re not sure that you could ever live down the shame of disappointing him. When he finally pulls away to look down at you with heavy-lidded eyes, you have no choice but to confess.

“There’s something you should know, Hoseok,” you say, the sound of his given name still foreign in your mouth. “It’s just that – well, I am by no means a maiden but in some respects, I might as well be. I know almost nothing about how to please you.”

Anger flashes in his eyes, and for one terrifying moment you fear it’s for you.

“That is through no fault of your own,” he says darkly. “And if he’s been too much of a fool to see to your needs, then so be it.” He dips his head to press a kiss to your ear, then whispers, “Your pleasure will be mine and mine alone.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Hoseok spends an inordinate amount of time tending to the fire.

You sit on the edge of your bed and watch him, feverish with anticipation as he moves the weakest logs and adds fresh ones. Once he’s satisfied, once the chamber is glowing with fresh flames and warmth, he cleans his hands and comes to you.

Your heart rattles harder with each step he takes towards your bed.

When he’s finally standing at the foot of your bed, he takes off his belt. And then reaches behind his head to pull his tunic away. The sight of his bare chest is enough to make your mouth go dry. His body is lithe and sleek and strong, his muscles rippling as he puts his hands down on either side of you and lowers his mouth to yours for a kiss.

“Tonight is about you, pretty bird,” he murmurs, trailing more kisses across your cheek, down your neck. “So I want you to tell me everything you want.”

“I want to see you.” The words leave you in a rush an account of the way his mouth moves from the juncture of your neck and to the hollow of your collarbone. “All of you.”

Hoseok wastes no time in straightening to his full height to remove his breeches, and then his smallclothes. And try as you might not to stare, it cannot be helped. You’ve never been able to study a man like this. Not even the King.

“Can I touch you?”

“Please,” he groans.

And then you are cautiously reaching for him, wrapping a hand around the length of him, marveling at the way he pulses in your palm. You run your fingertips down the skin of his shaft, awestruck by how silky and warm he is. But when your fingers reach the blunt head of him, he flinches.

“I don’t – I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “Did I hurt you?

“No, no. You didn’t hurt me,” he assures you, his voice sounding a bit strangled. “I’m just sensitive there, is all.”

“Will you show me, then?” you ask, curiosity far stronger than any self-consciousness you might feel. “Show me how to touch you.”

“Of course.”

He sits down on the bed beside you, taking hold of your hand. And then you watch with a heady mix of confusion and excitement as he takes your fingers into his mouth one, by one. He finishes the unfamiliar preparation by licking a long stripe up the palm of your hand. The stroke of his tongue sends a bolt of desire racing through you.

“It’s easier like this,” he explains, guiding your hand back to his length. You take hold of him again and this time he wraps his hand around yours. He moves your hand for you, up and down the length of him, until you can feel him growing hotter and harder in your hand. You’re fascinated by it all – by how firmly he wants to be touched, by how labored his breathing becomes, by the way the muscle and sinew in his legs seem to twitch at your command.

He leans over to capture your mouth as he begins to buck into your hand in earnest. And after a while his own hand falls away, leaving you to take control of his pleasure. And what an intoxicating power he’s given you – taut muscles in his abdomen flexing with each of his strained breaths.

“That feels so good, pretty bird,” he groans, taking your bottom lip between his teeth. “Just right. Your hand feels so good around me like this.”

The wetness you’d felt between your thighs when he’d kissed you the first time returns, and each sound of pleasure he rewards you with makes you wetter and warmer. He is rock hard in your hand now, the dusky head of his manhood shiny with moisture. You watch a bead of it appear at the tip and you slide your fingertips over it, transfixed by how smooth it feels. Beside you, Hoseok shudders.

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says, breathless. “I’ll be of no use to you if you keep that up for much longer.”

You have half a mind to protest, but then his hands are sliding over the thin material of your nightgown, cupping your breasts through the gauzy fabric. He takes one of your nipples between his fingers and teases it until it’s standing at attention. You sigh.

“Can I take this off?” he whispers, pulling at the nightgown.

You hesitate. Not even the King has seen you nude. Not once has he ever asked you to remove your nightgown and so for a long time, that is what you’d assumed he preferred. That is, until you’d caught him in bed with his lover.

“Look at me,” Hoseok says, sensing your anxiety. He tips your chin up until your gaze meets his own. “I’ll not ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t want to use my mouth and hands on you. On all of you.”

You inhale deeply, flustered by the way he speaks so plainly about his desires. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve longed for all this time. And that’s what he’s promised you, isn’t it? Pleasure. Pleasure that will be his and his alone.

You draw your nightgown up to your thighs and then raise up to pull it even higher. When you’ve finally discarded it, when there is nothing left between you and Hoseok you flush, looking away.

“You have nothing to hide,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful. Believe me, pretty bird – you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Emboldened by the praise, you draw nearer to him and trace the outline of his heart-shaped mouth with one finger. And then it is your lips that find his; your tongue that moves past the seam of his lips and your teeth that find the shell of his ear. You thread your fingers in his hair, and he groans, gathering you close.

“You can’t imagine how many nights I’ve dreamed of you like this,” he says, gently laying you back on the bed. “You can’t imagine how many nights I’ve taken myself in hand to these fantasies.”

Oh, but you can imagine, can’t you? The few times you’d dared to try and seek your own pleasure, it had been him in your mind’s eye as your hand was between your legs. It had always been him.

Hoseok’s mouth leaves yours and when it finds the tip of one aching breast, you gasp.

“Do you like that?” he goads, laving your nipple with his tongue, taking it between his teeth. The pang of pleasure he incites in you is so sharp, you cry out. “Your body is so responsive,” he murmurs. “So damned responsive.”

There is only so much of that particular torture you can take, and so when his mouth finally leaves your breasts you exhale a sigh of relief. But then his mouth is on your sternum, and then your stomach, and then –

You freeze.

“I want to kiss you here,” Hoseok explains, cupping your mound with one large hand. “I promised you pleasure and this is the surest way to it. Will you let me?”

He looks up at you from the edge of the bed, his dark hair wild and his dark eyes glossy with desire, his mouth hovering over your most secret place. Your pulse skitters, heart pounding erratically at the thought of him kissing you there.

“Is it – is it proper?” you ask, chiding yourself at once for asking such a stupid question. Your face flames when Hoseok raises a brow. “I don’t know that I’ve ever thought to consider the … propriety of such an act,” he says slowly. “But I know that you’ll enjoy it if you allow me to show you. And if you don’t enjoy it, I’ll stop.”

In the seconds that follow, you think about the way he’d let you take him in hand. How he’d showed you how to bring him pleasure, without reserve. How powerful you’d felt when he’d been shuddering under your touch. He’d trusted you, hadn’t he? Just as you now must trust him.

“Alright,” you whisper, nodding your assent. “I trust you.”

He grins at you then, wickedly, before lowering his mouth to your mons. And then he is kissing you there, softly, each brush of his lips moving lower and lower still. Until you feel the heat of his breath at your entrance. You tense.

“Relax for me,” he instructs, licking a long, wet stripe up the length of you. The touch sends a frisson of sensation shooting through your limbs. “Close your eyes and try to think of nothing but this.”

And then he sets his tongue to the tiny pearl at your entrance.

And at once, you see stars.

“H-Hoseok!” you gasp, your hips flying off the bed at the contact. The urge to snap your legs shut is almost as strong as the urge to push deeper into the pleasing press of his tongue. Almost.

But he pins your legs down with his arms and continues the onslaught, stroking and licking at you with his tongue, nipping at you with his teeth. You grab fistfulls of the duvet as though it might ground you somehow, keep you from bursting into flame.

And then he slides one long finger into you.

You are incoherent now, moaning and begging in broken sentences that do not make sense. But your body is responding in ways that your words cannot, hips moving in time with his mouth. Each pass of his tongue sends sharp spikes of pleasure to your core. You’d thought you’d known what this pleasure felt like, that perhaps you’d be able to reach it on your own someday, but never once had it been like this.

And then you can feel it – the coil turning inside you, the desperate ascent to the one place you’ve never been able to reach. And it’s so close, so so close – the promise of whatever awaits on the other side strong enough to sate this nameless craving that you’ve felt for so long. It’s within your reach now, if only you can just hold on.

And then it stops.

He takes his mouth and tongue away and the pleasure vanishes. “Hoseok, no,” you cry, sapped of all energy, robbed once again of the relief you so desperately seek. “Please,” you beg weakly, “please.”

But he’s at your side now, the length of his body resting against yours, his manhood hard and hot against your leg. “Come now, pretty bird,” he soothes, “I didn’t bring you this high just to let you fall.”

He presses his lips to your ear at the same time he presses his fingers back to the aching bud between your thighs. “Go on then,” he whispers. “Fly.”

He brings every sensation he’d wrought from you rushing back with his fingers. His mouth hovers at your ear, whispering his encouragement until the coil inside you snaps. He must have known that you’d not be able to contain yourself when you came apart because he covers your mouth with his own, swallowing the sobs he wrenches from you, bringing you down slowly as you come apart.

And when you finally come to your senses again, when your breathing has evened and your heart has slowed and every part of you feels liquid and languid, he smiles.

“I couldn’t risk you waking the entire castle,” he explains apologetically, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you shudder through your quiet laughter, aftershocks of sensation rippling through you. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve never – never experienced anything like that.”

“That’s mine,” he murmurs, going up on one elbow. “Just as I told you it would be.”

Indeed. But what about his pleasure? The firm reminder of it remains pressed against you, the rigid length of it leaking onto your duvet. You reach for it and he draws a sharp breath through his clenched teeth.

“I want to feel you inside me,” you say softly, noting the way a muscle tics in his jaw. You wrap your hand around him and squeeze, astounded by how feverishly hot he feels. “Please.”

Hoseok nods, climbing over you and settling his hips between your thighs. He takes himself in hand and when you feel the blunt head of him at your entrance, you tense again. But he doesn’t enter you right away. Instead he looks down at you, his dark eyes brimming with emotion.

“Are you certain,” he breathes, his brow dotted with a fine sheen of sweat. “I need to hear you say it.”

You lift up to kiss him, pressing your lips to his. “Take me, Hoseok,” you whisper. “Now.”

And in one sure stroke, he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

Bodies sealed, fates sealed.

The force of his entry steals the breath from your lungs. And though you’ve been breached before, it’s never felt like this. You’re still sensitive from the pleasure he’d given you only moments before and each of his thrusts only heightens the sensation.

You cling to him as he rocks against you, closing your eyes to revel in the fullness. He buries his head in your neck and thrusts harder, the sound of his skin meeting yours just as gratifying as it is lurid. And when he reaches between you to press his fingers to your pearl once again, impossibly you feel fresh pleasure begin to bloom.

Broken phrases fall from his lips, a string of curses and blessings and everything in between. And his coarse language doesn’t scandalize you; in fact it only causes you to hurtle towards the peak faster. And then you’re flying again – flying apart, scattering into a million pieces. Crying into his mouth as your release explodes into color and tiny wisps of fire slowly drift back to the earth.

But you come back to yourself just as his rhythm has started to falter, just as the steady cant of his hips becomes so frenetic that you know his own release is near. You have only a moment to mourn the loss of his weight and his warmth before he’s on his knees before you.

You’ve never seen anything more erotic. Firelight flickers over him as he throws his head back, the cords in his neck clenching as he takes himself in hand. And then he is groaning, long and low, as his release spills on to the duvet.

Then he collapses onto you, wrapping you up in his arms, turning you both until he’s on his back and your head rests upon his chest. And then you both lie there for a while, skin to skin, watching the flames cast shadows on the stone.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Neither one of you sleep, the threat of dawn too near to indulge in any such luxury.

“What happens now, Hoseok?”

You ask the question after he’s made love to you a second time, both of you too exhausted to move. Hoseok inhales and exhales deeply. “I don’t know. I have no control over the world outside of that chamber door, pretty bird.”

You map the lines of his chest with one finger, thoughtful.

“You told me earlier that if the King would not give me the things I desire, you would. Did you mean that?”

“I did,” Hoseok says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “If it’s within my power, then I will. I will give you anything I can.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, closing your eyes and breathing deeply. “Thank you.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

You sit by the window and take in the afternoon sunlight, eyes drooping as you fight to stay awake.

You cannot ever remember being so tired. You sleep in fits and starts now, two or three hours at a time. And your body is too fatigued to talk up walking again, though the fresh air and exercise would do you some good. But you will walk again, soon. It won’t be long before you’re sitting with your birds and reading in the gentle Spring breeze.

Hyeri charges into the room like a bull, the tea tray in her hand clattering loudly. You narrow her eyes at her as she approaches and she fixes you with a sardonic look.“Oh, hush you,” she grumbles, setting the tray down on the table and walking over to you. “I wasn’t that loud.”

But her scowl falls away as her gaze locks on the baby at your breast, her muted eyes glowing with admiration.

“That’s a fine Prince you have there, Your Grace,” she says softly. Then she looks up at you and her scowl returns. “Though at the rate you’re going, I’ll never get to hold him, will I? You’ve an entire staff to help you with him, and still you refuse. You’re going to make that boy rotten.”

You chuckle under your breath as you stroke your hand over the tuft of downy hair at your son’s crown. He blinks up at you with his huge dark eyes, and your heart is filled to overflowing with a love that you once you thought you’d never know.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

y,all i finished it! hahah okay so listen. if you'd like to talk to me, i'd love to hear from you. please consider reblogging and dropping me an ask 💕

#hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #j-hope smut #j-hope x reader #bts smut #bts fic #bts x reader

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gallyg · 5 months

Text

John's traps before Amanda and Lawrence:

Cut your face

Run through a razor wire maze (3 hour time limit)

Walk over broken glass without burning yourself

Inject yourself with a needle

Pull a lever without touching a spiral blade

Solve a word game without shooting a gun

Now maybe I'm wrong, but I think the average person could do any of these on a good day without too much issue. But nobody did.

Then, Amanda managed to cut a guy open in just one minute, which I honestly don't know if I could do. Then, Lawrence cut off his whole-ass foot after a few hours of procrastination. Don't think I'd be able to do that either, but good on Lawrence for putting his whole pussy into that one.

That said, Amanda and Lawrence raised the bar way too high. John definitely walked away from Saw 1 thinking "one minute is a totally reasonable amount of time, and cutting off entire body parts is a totally reasonable request".

And that's how we got Valentina being asked to cut off an entire leg and suck out her bone marrow in just 3 minutes. Amanda and Lawrence ruined Jigsaw traps for the rest of us.

#saw #john kramer #lawrence gordon #amanda young #valentina cortez

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artists-ally · 5 months

Note

Hi! I love your writing and I just wanted to ask if you could make a fic about Azriel and a chronically ill reader? I have Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, and it can be really difficult sometimes. I’m currently in a flare-up and I would love to see what Azriel would be like if he had a partner with a chronic illness 🩵 please and thank you!

{The Fixer} Reader x Azriel

Hi my love!!! While I myself do not know what it's like to live with a chronic illness, my mom has chronic migraines and I was always the one taking care of her. I hope you enjoy and are taking as best care of yourself as you can through this flare-up my love <3 Title and story inspired by this song.

Word Count: 2,193

Warnings: struggles of chronic illness, headaches, vomiting, fluff

Tagging: @cyrygher @thelov3lybookworm @librafairy @blessthepizzaman @needylilgal022 @bubybubsters @harrystylesfan2686 @justdreamstars

Summary: Azriel notices. Even when you try to hide it from him. There is nothing he hates more than seeing you in pain, and it's his mission to make you feel as comfortable as possible.

~~~~~~~~~~

Whether it was the dots spreading across my vision or the ache set deep in every bone in my body, I knew I was off. Short of the normal dizziness and weakness I had, I felt like shit.

I rolled over in bed to find Az gone, and I sighed. Getting to the bathroom was going to be tough. Half an hour went by before I could fully open my eyes and not see the world spinning before.

The snow was blinding across Velaris, burning my eyes and making me jerk my neck too hard in the opposite direction. Much like my hips and ankles, the joints in my neck screamed for relief. Just a few steps away was the bathroom. If I could get there, to the cabinet above the sink I could get my-

My sweater pocket caught the post on the bed and I got yanked to the floor. Landing shoulders first, pins and needles raced up and down my left arm. Fingers numb. With more than a groan, I rolled off of it and found a new ache in… well, everywhere.

It took a long time to roll on my hands and knees, but I did it, and now I was on the cold tile. It did wonders for the radiating heat in my freshly injured palms, but it chilled it to the marrow of my bones.

As much as I wanted to, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand. The pounding of my head and the rolling of my stomach was enough to force me to sit against the wall opposite the toilet.

I pulled my head back and tried to breathe.

Those life changing blue pills that Madja gave me would be useless now. They could only prevent a flare-up if caught at the earliest signs. I’ve been able to catch the past few, but I wasn’t expecting this one.

Azriel was right when he told me to take it easy during training yesterday. All I wanted to do was prove to him that I could keep up. I knew I couldn't, and so did he, but that wasn’t the point. He shouldn’t just assume I can’t because I’m sick.

Yet here I am, paying for it on the bathroom floor.

I could feel the circulatory pattern of my pulse. A never ending cycle of pain. Starting in my head, down my neck and in my teeth. To my shoulder, numbness down my arm and tingling in my finger. The surge of agony in my hip, through my leg and in my knee. Gods my ankle, what did I do to my ankle?

A quick check under my sock and I could see the culprit. A huge bruise accompanied by an abundance of swelling. I must’ve kicked the post in the night again. Or it could’ve been from sparring, or our sprint up the stairs.

I gave up trying to keep tabs on all my possible reasons and focused on the fact that I was all alone in the House of Wind. Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta were all away in Illyria for the day to train a group of new recruits. Nuala and Cerridwen were here, but I always feel weird asking them for help.

I can make it to the evening. I’ll get up and I’ll take that pill, even if it will only decrease the length not the strength of this flare-up. Anything. I’ll do anything to get it over quicker so I’ll be back to normal.

On the count of three, I’ll get up. I’ll push with the strength I’ve built up from training with Az. I’ll push myself up and grab the pill and go back to bed.

One.

Two.

Three.

My arms do nothing but scream in pain, and my legs lose feeling. I go nowhere but back on my ass. I try again, after another count of three. Nothing. Holding my breath while doing it only makes the dizziness worse. And the nausea.

I drag myself over to the toilet and empty whatever is left in my stomach. It’s not much, and it burns on the way up. Tears fill my eyes and mucus fills my nose and throat. I know when pain and headaches get so bad you vomit, the episode is going to be particularly brutal.

My skin is damp and I start to shake. Water. I need water.

I flush and manage to make it on the toilet. I turn on the sink with some blind movement and I’m greeted with the lovely sound of water. I can’t lift my left arm any more and I think it might be out of socket. I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. I scoop some water into my mouth, but most of it makes it down my shirt instead.

I let it run and run and run, letting the cool liquid calm my swimming head.

At some point I laid my head down and didn’t pick it back up. I stayed in this awful state of micro sleep, sometimes drifting off, sometimes thinking I’m dreaming but I’m just letting my mind wander. The bright morning sun turned into the dull brightness of the afternoon. I think.

My heart beat loudly in my ears. Then it would stop, and then it would start again. My pulse was taunting me. It must be. It sounded like Azriel’s wings which only made me miss him more. The memory of his scent blasted through me and the tears started.

I want him so bad. I need him.

“Shhh, it’s okay, just breathe, Yn.”

My eyes snapped open, and through a blurry mess of tears, Azriel kneeled in front of me. “W-What are you doing here?”

“The second you woke up I could feel your pain,” his thumb slid across my cheek. “I turned around when I realized why. You need help.”

I shook my head, or tried to. It just sorta rolled back and forth.

“Squeeze my fingers, Yn.” Azriel placed two of his digits in my palms and I squeezed as hard as I could. Not even the tips of his fingers turned red from the pressure. “Are you going to let me help you or are you going to be difficult?”

“I don't want to be difficult. I’m in so much pain.”

“I know, my shadow. I know.”

As gently as he could, he sat me up and carried me to the bed. He took off his armor somewhere along the way, the bony ridges of the scales not digging into me like they normally do. I was eternally grateful for the small detail he remembered.

Even our mattress hurt just as much as the floor.

“I need to take a look at you. Where are you hurting the most? Did you fall?”

I nodded deliriously, “My ankle’s a mess. And so is my shoulder. M’arms numb.”

As carefully as he could, he propped me against him and peaked around. I didn’t hear him make any gasps, but I could feel that pull on the bond that meant he didn’t like what he saw.

“How bad?”

“Bad enough for me to call Madja. She’s on her way. I told you to take it easy-”

“Don’t.”

Azriel completely disregarded whatever he was going to say next. “I’m sorry.”

“Just get me the pill, please,” I faulty gestured to the bathroom. He didn’t even move, but then a pill and a cup of water was pressed into my lips. Those shadows of his are so helpful.

“I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I just don’t like seeing you in pain. It makes me… it makes me wild.”

“I appreciate it, I do Az, but you can’t protect me from everything. And I don’t want you to. There's a reason why I wanted to train with you in the first place.”

“I know, but there's no need to exert yourself to this just to prove a point. I know how tough you are, Yn. You are the strongest, most resilient soul I’ve ever met. But making yourself like this in spite of me is something I never want you doing.”

I smiled, cheeks heating up as I leaned against his chest. His body radiated heat like a roaring fire, and I soaked up every morsel of it.

With enough pillows and heat packs, I was propped up against the headboard. Soon after, Madja and Nuala came in. I could smell the fresh bread and juice from across the room and my stomach growled.

“It’s cheese bread with a nice tomato and herb soup. Azriel requested the sweet tea just for you.”

I smiled up at him, my eyes suddenly heavy with love and adoration for my Shadowsinger.

I ate as Madja poked and prodded. Az held my hand and kissed the tears away when she had to reset my shoulder. By this point, my body was in so much pain that I couldn’t think of anything else. The healer was kind enough to give a sedative and an injection that did something.

“She’ll be asleep soon,” Madja said across the room to Azriel. “When she wakes, send for me again and I will bring one that doesn’t make her drowsy. Do not let her out of that bed unless she is in your arms, Shadowsinger.”

“Thank you, Madja.” And the door shut. Once again, the bed dipped and he trailed a gentle hand up my legs. “Just go to sleep, my shadow.”

“I hope you know that shot will do nothing, Az.”

“I thought they were working?” He asked, puzzled.

I shook my head, “I thought so too, but they’re not. There isn't anything you can do to ease the pain, Az. No amount of pills or injections or stimulation therapy will do the trick. I just have to wait it out.”

“So you rest until it passes,” Az climbed in beside me. “I will be here when you wake up.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” I hissed, frustrated tears spilling down my face. “I want to train and go to dinner and drink red wine and dance like the rest of you.”

I couldn't bear to look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the sadness in his eyes. After a long silent moment, he took a deep breath.

“It’s okay if you need rest. You’re not expected to work or thrive in the condition you’re in. I could tell last night you weren’t feeling good.”

That made me perk up. “How?”

“You get this hazy, far away look. That's how I know you’re in pain.” Azriel muttered, snuggling in close so I could latch on for warmth. “Let me take care of you. Don’t focus on anything other than healing and my warmth. I will be here when you wake up.”

I didn’t care to read into how much he read into me. My heart blazed with thoughts, all of him and those offhanded looks and questions he always asks. He is such an observer.

“I’m the spy for the Night Court, my shadow. Of course I’m observant. I notice everything about you. What makes you smile, what doesn’t. The foods and drinks that give you headaches and swelling. When your flare-ups are coming and when they’re finally withdrawing. I make it my mission to make sure you are as safe and comfortable as possible. I am sorry I wasn't there to help you this morning, love.”

“I felt fine last night, no need to say sorry.” I kissed his cheek, then he kissed my lips. “Thank you for turning around.”

“Cassian thought I had been shot with an arrow with how hard I dove down to the ground to turn around. I felt this rush of pain from you and I thought for a second it was my own. But don’t feel bad. I want to be here anyway. You’re much better than any of those awful camps.”

“I’m a lot better,” I smiled, nuzzling into his chest.

The glint in his voice was enough to make me swoon, “Yes, my shadow. Everything about you is better than those camps.”

-------

Through the rest of the day, Az laid with me, running hands through my hair, massaging my legs when they cramped up. He got me water, food and snacks. Kept the entertainment up when I was in too much pain to nap. All through the night, Azriel held me steady so I wouldn’t accidentally roll around.

Madja came in the morning with more useless injections, Nuala with a stack of chocolate chip pancakes and fresh bacon.

I made Az eat some because I didn’t see him steal a crumb earlier.

Later, he took me into the bath where he scrubbed my scalp, massaging my temples. I tried to do the same for his back and wings, but he refused to let me move. Just sat me in his lap, chest pressed against my back and let us soak for hours.

As we got out, he sat me on the bed while he gathered clothes for us. Per my request, he kept his shirt off and just through on a set of lounging sweats.

One foot at a time, he put me in the comfiest pair of pants I had. The fleece lined inside keeping out the cold. He put thick socks on my feet and found something to wrap around my top half so I didn't have to move my arm.

We laid back down, me tucked in his arms. I absently stroked the back of his scarred hand.

I was calm. The ache is still present, but ignorable with a few of his stories. I drifted to sleep, in the safest place in Prythian.

"Thank you, Az," I murmured, sleep evident now

He kissed me softly, "Anything for you, my shadow."

~~~~~~

#acotar #azriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel imagine #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader

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kdlmedtech · 4 months

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7 Things to Consider Before Buying a Bone Marrow Biopsy Needle

If you’re in the market for a bone marrow biopsy needle, you’ve come to the right place. In this comprehensive guide, we’ll explore the seven key factors you should consider before making a purchase. So, buckle up and let’s dive into the world of bone marrow biopsy needles!

Investing in medical equipment requires careful consideration, especially when it comes to devices like bone marrow biopsy needles. These tools play a vital role in diagnosing various hematological disorders and cancers, making their selection critical for healthcare providers. To ensure optimal patient care and procedural success

What is bone marrow biopsy needle

A bone marrow biopsy needle is a specialized medical instrument used to extract a small sample of bone marrow from a patient’s bone for diagnostic purposes. The procedure, called a bone marrow biopsy, is typically performed to evaluate the health of the bone marrow and to diagnose various blood disorders, such as leukemia, lymphoma, anemia, and other hematologic conditions.

Key factors Consider Before Buying a Bone Marrow Biopsy Needle

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Time is of the essence in any medical procedure. Consider the design and usability of the bone marrow biopsy needle you’re eyeing. Look for features such as ergonomic handles, clear markings, and smooth maneuverability. A user-friendly needle will not only streamline your workflow but also reduce the chances of errors during the procedure.

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When it comes to medical supplies, reliability is key. Research and choose a reputable supplier known for their quality products and excellent customer service. A reliable Bone marrow biopsy needles supplier will ensure prompt delivery, offer warranties, and provide ongoing support, giving you peace of mind with your purchase.

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While budget constraints are important, remember that quality and reliability should never be compromised for a lower price tag. Look for a needle that offers the best value for your investment, taking into account all the aforementioned factors.

Conclusion

By considering these seven essential factors, you’ll be equipped to make an informed decision when purchasing this vital medical tool. Remember, the right needle can make all the difference in ensuring accurate diagnoses and optimal patient care. So, go forth and choose wisely!

Read More : 7 Things to Consider Before Buying a Bone Marrow Biopsy Needle

#Bone Marrow Biopsy Needle #Biopsy Needle #Bone Marrow Needle #Needle Manufacturers #Needle Suppliers #Medication #Health Industry

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rookthorne · 2 months

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⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤

Isolation and fear were all you knew, and it was all you experienced in the iron holding of that dank cell — you never knew any different.

There were even fewer things you knew for certain, but one thing you ascertained, in that dark, dreary, murderous reality you were thrust into, was that there was one other soul who suffered the same as you did.

That same soul became your salvation and saving grace; a place to call safe.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ◈ Alpha!Winter Soldier x Omega!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ◈ 2.9k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ◈ Angst, DARK THEMES, light whump, captivity, descriptions of blood, cleaning away said blood, implied torture, isolation, fluff, hurt/comfort, alpha/omega dynamics, nesting, scenting, Aggressively Protective!Winter Soldier ჻჻჻ TROPES: Touch her and you die

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ◈ This is the fic that brought me out of a few months long slump.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ◈ Last Glimmer by Lorne Balfe ◈ Northern Light by Penelope Trappes ◈ Still Numbers by Ekin Fil

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ◈ @anyfandomdarkbingo 𝗕𝟮 — Chained to a Wall — Masterlist ◈ @buckybarnesevents Alternate June-iverse 𝗖𝟮 — Omegaverse AU — Masterlist ◈ @buckybarnesevents Alpha Bucky April ჻჻჻ Nesting ჻჻჻ Purring / Affection ჻჻჻ Beta Character ჻჻჻ Overachiever (Double Minimum Requirements) — Masterlist

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The bitter cold of the cell stung all of what it could touch, as did the tears that fell down your cheeks, but they gave no reprieve against the burning over your feverish skin — the prickling heat that gnawed at the marrow of your bones the longer you lay there without your alpha.

Men clad in tactical gear — one of the types your alpha taught you to recognise the difference between: the men with guns, to those with needles and concoctions — burst into the cell to haul him away, all while he growled and snarled behind his mask.

They paid no mind to his protests. Even when the creak and grinding of metal plates grew louder and louder the more your alpha thrashed.

It was then another visitor appeared in the shrouded doorway of the shared cell, beady eyed and weasel-like in appearance with a white coat to match.

You watched your alpha turn eerily still at the sight of him, then he stood straight-backed and tall, bowing his head in submission — a response you could not understand no matter how you turned it over in your mind.

Never had you seen your alpha fall compliant to another so easily. He was the epitome of strength, of determined, cold steel that was immovable, and that man twisted him easily enough he could have been made of dough.

For all of the time you were trapped behind the same bars, from the same moment you were thrown into a cell with a rabid, feral alpha, you kept your head by some miracle. You remembered being taken off of the streets as an unmated, unbound omega, the details vivid and omnipotent over you — it made your stomach knot and turn viciously.

It was only when the cloud of sour terror dissipated from your now mate, that you realised he was just as much of a victim, as you, yourself, were.

You remembered the times you were alone with the alpha, too. The gentleness and care for which he handled you was unmatched by anyone before, whether it be by civilised alphas in the outside world, to those in tactical gear or white coats.

Soldiers treated you as a disposal pit for their desires; Soldat treated you as though you were made of the finest silks and were to be treasured, worshipped.

The thrill of tension in the air made you shiver while you whimpered quietly, clutching at the blanket that lined the cot you shared with Soldat — the threadbare, torn stretch of fabric held the only comforting scent that could pull you from fear and into a calm, serene stupor.

As the man in the white coat spoke, the hand not holding the blanket of which was manacled to the wall, twitched. The chains rattled, and Soldat could not even spare you a glance — not if he didn’t want to incur your captor’s wrath.

You watched, with the feeling of ice crawling through your veins, while the man in the white coat gestured for your alpha to walk onwards and out of the cell; away from you and into horrors unknown.

Soft boot falls echoed off of the walls, and he was gone, as well as the men that flanked his imposing, intimidating form.

The blanket you held offered no comfort as you lay there alone — not even a slither of peace to quieten the rushing, harassed thoughts that whirled in your mind, and fear gripped your chest and squeezed tighter than a vice the longer your alpha was gone.

“Move it!”

You sat bolt upright, scenting the air. There was no discerning scent that gave you pause until you heard footsteps nearing, followed by the acrid, putrid stench of pained terror.

Those same footsteps stumbled, then a heavy body hit the wall close to the cell door with a grunt.

“Fucking useless,” a deep voice swore. “They’ve only just done it and he’s– How the fuck is he meant to be the–”

Another clang, this time, metal on metal — it screeched and groaned, and through the slit in the door, you could see a dark silhouette with ragged hair.

“Just open the door. The faster we put him in, the faster we can get out of here.”

The creak of groaning metal rang in your ears louder than a gunshot, and the door swung open to reveal a party of three men. One of them held the haggard, stumbling figure up by the elbow, and the other man on the opposite side held the back of the struggling man’s neck in a tight grip.

“Oh, she’s awake,” one said, brows raised in surprise. “Your problem now, girl.”

You realised they were guards, higher up superior commanders if their uniforms and badges were of any telling, and they threw the struggling figure into the cell.

They tumbled onto the floor with a guttural growl of pain.

That same stench of agonised fear permeated the air, and you recognised upon closer inspection that this haggard, snarling figure was your alpha — mussed and bloodied around the face, while his tactical canvas pants were torn and streaked with ichor. He whirled to face the guards with narrowed eyes, and the mask on his face caught the light.

“Alpha,” you whispered, reaching for him hesitantly. “Alpha—alpha, come– Please.”

The guards snickered as their quarry raised himself from his knees, though they didn’t linger. The door slammed closed, followed by the sound of the lock securely fastening it shut.

A low groan of pain fell through gritted teeth, and you watched with wide eyes as your alpha rose to his feet, hunched in on himself while he scented the air.

“Please,” you whispered, reaching a trembling hand towards him.

The heavy chain around your other wrist clanked against the cement while you tried to shuffle forwards and capture his attention — the low thrum of restlessness in your blood compelling you to nest but the lack of anything in the dank cell to use sent a pang of sombre longing through your chest.

Leather creaked as your alpha turned, and clouded, grey eyes met yours.

Instantaneously, they cleared to a silver-blue shade and he hastened forwards. “Malen’kiy, mne zhal'–”

Your palm grabbed his taut bicep and gripped it for dear life. “No– No, don’t, I missed you.” Cold, chilled metal gathered you up so you came to rest on his thighs and curled into his chest. Both of his arms held you fast around your front and back, while his chin rested on top of your head.

“You came back, like you promised you would,” you whispered to his collar. Fistfuls of leather squeaked and rustled in your grip. “You came back to me.”

“I always have. I always will,” he rasped. The hand that cupped the back of your neck moved down grip the sides of your thighs, encouraging you to move closer and sit comfortably. “They said you were to not be unchained.”

“I hate it,” you mumbled back, pulling on the chain that clanged and rattled, again. “Alpha, I need–” The cuff of the chain clunked and fell to the floor with a rattle, where it lay still. You loosed a breath of relief.

“They do not know how to care for you as I do.”

It was silent for a moment, then, “You smell sweet, Malen’kiy.”

“Nest…” You squirmed until you were face to face with your alpha — his eyes searched yours curiously. “I need to nest, please, it–”

“Here.” The leather straps and buckles that spanned his chest came away with a conscious effort, and his chest was bare to you, scars and all. “I only wish I had more to give you,” he growled, the anger in his tone not directed towards you, though it made you frown.

“Wait,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. The hard, shining mask that covered the lower half of his identity came loose with a quiet click, and it tumbled to the floor, revealing his bowed lips and clean shaven cheeks and jaw. “There you are.”

“Omega,” he rasped quietly, looking down at his lap.

“No,” you replied, and you stretched towards the head of your shared cot to retrieve an old washcloth to wipe the blood from his face. He sat still as you tilted his chin upwards, patiently waiting for you to be done with grooming him. “My handsome alpha,” you cooed.

A small dusting of pink coloured his sharp cheekbones, and he smiled softly at you.

With the freedom he gave you from the chain, you rose onto your knees and shuffled further up his lap, and you reached over his arms to place his leather vest over the cot — the strong scent of him enveloped your senses, and you couldn’t help but purr quietly in contentment.

You placed the outside of the leather against the cot, exposing the seams and lining of the inside, where his scent was strongest. The gaze of his intrigue made goosebumps rise over your arms, but you paid him no mind as you worked — the space needed to be fit for a nest, and you needed it to be perfect to house you and your alpha.

A nudge from something soft against your arm broke you from your focus, and you looked up. The pillow that normally laid at the head of the cot was outstretched in quiet offering, your alpha smiling encouragingly.

It warmed your heart — for what little you had, he still was your world. “Thank you,” you whispered, taking the offered pillow. Soldat rumbled quietly in reply, and sat back on his haunches to watch you work. The leather of his vest tucked neatly into the corners of the cot.

“I think this is… enough.” You glanced around at him, and he nodded. With his encouragement, you crawled and shuffled to sit on top of the leather, feeling the warmth of his residual body heat through the material, though it didn’t feel right.

“What is it?” Soldat asked, his voice strained. The nest itself was the best of what you could make, but it was empty — the void of comfort and a certain touch made a sadness permeate your scent. “Malen’kiy, what is it?”

“I want you,” you whispered, fidgeting with the rough marks over your scarred knuckles from when you fought valiantly to escape your prison. “I just–”

“Nyet, stop.”

Your jaw clicked shut and you blinked, willing the sudden burn over your waterline to disappear.

“May I enter your nest, omega?”

The question was soft, and you knew that if you were to refuse, that he would not grudge you of it — you couldn’t imagine refusing him of that sanctuary. “Please.”

His torn, canvas pants rustled as he moved over the floor, and he shuffled on his knees over towards the nest. “Why don’t you sit on my lap—you can rest your head on my shoulder that way,” he offered quietly.

You nodded, and he sat down with his back against the wall, his thighs together while his boots pointed outwards. It wasn’t a typical position for him, though you could imagine he was trying to appear calm and nonplussed by the sound of footsteps outside the cell door. “Come here.”

“Okay,” you breathed, moving closer.

The brush from the rough fabric of his pants against the underside of your thighs made you shiver, but you sidled closer, curling up into his lap until the crook of his left elbow was wrapped around your back, and his right arm carefully moved over your body until the warmth of his palm settled on your jaw.

Slowly and ever so carefully, he guided your face into his neck, then he held you there while you breathed in the soothing scent of him.

It was quiet — bar the slow, soft sounds of your deep inhales, and the steady beat of his heart. The only noise outside of the sanctuary of his arms were the passerby soldiers and guards, scientists as well, no doubt. You paid no mind to the sounds, content to be held while you purred quietly, willing Soldat to be as calm as you felt in his embrace.

There was no use.

Moments later, a set of small, almost silent footsteps kept pacing back and forth in front of the cell door. The source was undoubtedly nervous, and you figured it was a new guard fidgeting on his watch while waiting for one of the men in black tactical gear.

Muscled, corded thighs stiffened under you, and the arm around your back whirred while the plates clicked and calibrated. “Tikho, ne dvigaysya,” Soldat whispered lowly.

You blinked in surprise and remained still.

The footsteps stopped right outside the door, and through the small gap between the cell door and the floor, you could see a shadow.

Soldat’s arms tightened painfully around you, and a low, deep growl built in his chest. The sound of it made you tremble with fear, and you made yourself small in his hold — the drag of fabric against your skin the only way you noticed that he was manipulating your body to sit beside him and out of harm's way.

The cell door clunked from the outside, and you heard the ground of metal on metal as the lock disengaged. A flash of silver in the right hand of your alpha drew your attention, and you realised he held a blade — the very same one he kept tucked into the lining of his boot.

His growl grew in volume until it was all you could hear, when the door slowly swung open to reveal a slight figure in white. You stared in shock at the silhouette while the distinct, mellow scent of a beta revealed their designation.

It was a woman, no taller than you were, dressed in the clinical whites of the medical team you were so inclined to recognise, but she did not come wheeling in a seat or table to typically restrain Soldat or you. Instead, she held in her arms a few blankets and an overly large pillow.

“I am sorry,” she said, her accented tone hesitant at the sight of Soldat crouching in preparation to attack, to defend you. “I knew your omega was nesting, I could not bear knowing she was without something soft–”

Soldat eased, his head tilted slightly while his narrowed gaze bore into the nurse. “You…”

“Yes,” she replied. “I am there when you are– Well, I care for you, and I care for your omega.”

Her soft eyes landed upon you, a small smile on her blood red lips. “Hello,” she greeted quietly, and she offered the blankets and pillow in her arms to you.

Your alpha snarled when the nurse took a step closer, entering the cell, and she froze. The knife flashed in the dimmed light, but he holstered it back into his boot while watching the nurse. “Spasibio, medsestra. Dlya neye.”

The nurse smiled sadly and gave the blankets and pillow to your alpha, while you watched on with wide eyes — entirely unused to seeing a medical personnel so close without a reason to harm you.

The click of her shoes sounded and echoed off of the cell floor and walls, but when she stood in the doorway once more, she turned around to look at you, then Soldat, and said, “YA tol'ko khotel by dat' vam oboikh bol'she.”

Darkness filled the dank interior when the locks clicked shut, leaving you dumbfounded and speechless as you looked to your alpha for reassurance. He was looking down at his hands and what lay in them — soft blues and greens in patches and squares on one blanket, while the other a light yellow and off white.

They were beautiful, unlike anything you had seen before behind the bars that held you, and your alpha looked to you with astonishment. “Malen’kiy, it is so soft.”

You reached out immediately, and he placed the blankets in your grip. His knees rushed over the floor of the cell to get back into the nest with you. “Oh, oh–” You choked back a sob once you felt the fluffy, plush blankets.

The first instinct you could not deny demanded you to rub your face against the material, to make sure they were real, and the material was even softer against the plains of your cheeks, jaw, and neck.

Next to you, Soldat rumbled quietly and waited for you to indulge yourself. The smile on his lips lit up his features unlike anything you had seen before. It made him seem younger, more human; less of a monster that they made of him.

Eventually, you curled up again in his lap, bringing the blankets and pillow with you. The pillow lay tucked against your middle, your elbow resting on the dip of it so your hand could rest over your alpha’s collarbone. Your ear rested against the plates of his left shoulder, the cool metal soothing against the warmth that bloomed over your skin from the desperate need to nest.

You both assumed the position you had before — Soldat’s left arm wrapped around your back, and his right around your front, his hand on your jaw to guide you close.

Only, this time, the soft, plush material of the two blankets covered you both, cocooning you in their warmth.

Never before had you felt so at ease, so safe in the cell that held you, even with your alpha present.

That nurse, whoever she may have been, was an angel, you were sure.

And as you stared at the taut, scarred skin of Soldat’s chest, you breathed a heavy sigh of relief at the feel of his own muscles finally relaxing with contentment.

Malen’kiy, mne zhal'– = Little One, I'm so sorry– Malen’kiy = Little One nyet = no tikho, ne dvigaysya = quiet, don't move spasibio, medsestra. dlya neye = thank you, nurse. for her ya tol'ko khotel by dat' vam oboikh bol'she = I only wish I could give you both more

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

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kenshiluvr · 8 months

Note

Heeeey could I ask for Kenshi with an reader where on a mission reader gets badly injured please?

aaa of course!! i love writing hurt/comfort :3

shooting star

kenshi takahashi/reader

summary: you get injured protecting him.

tags: major injuries, both reader and kenshi are protective of each other, they’re in love your honour, angst, hurt/comfort, good bf! kenshi, stargazing

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽.* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Haha, very funny.” Kenshi chuckles sarcastically after you made another bad joke. You’d been reading them to him for a whole hour, because you want to learn how to ‘out-dad-joke’ Johnny, even if neither of you had kids. You giggle, lay on his chest, scrolling through your phone. “How about this one. Two fish are in a tank. One of them turns to the other and says: ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” You giggle softly at the ridiculousness of the joke. “Little bit of army humour.” You muse, listening to Kenshi hum briefly. “Very little.” He notes, listening to your soft laugh.

Kenshi runs his fingers over your back, rubbing up and down gently. “Baby… surely we’ve gone through enough jokes by now.” He chuckles, shaking his head with amusement. “Aww, c’mon… just a few more?” You look from your phone to his, letting him kiss the bridge of your nose. “Nope. I’m not letting this continue. Unlike you, I cherish my sanity.” Kenshi laughs, carefully taking your phone from you. “Fine, fine. Spoilsport.” You shake your head, laughing a little. You and Kenshi had been dating for a little over a year now, always sticking together, everywhere he went you followed… even with his troubled past.

Kenshi appreciates you, and your bad jokes, you bring a light to his days that he was struggling to find. With the gruelling task of bringing his family’s name out of the Yakuza, of tracking down Sento… he felt any sense of normalcy slipping through his fingers like sand… but you kept him sane. You made him feel loved. “Get some sleep. I’m sure Johnny can listen to your jokes tomorrow.” He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Alright, alright.” You smile, stealing a quick kiss.

Trudging through harsh conditions, you follow Kenshi as he leads the way, being guided by the item that Liu Kang had given him to help find Shang Tsung. “Do you think we’re getting close?” You ask softly, glancing at the little compass in his palm. “I believe so…” Kenshi murmurs, glancing down at it as well. “Good… I think someone’s getting restless.” You chuckle softly, glancing back at Johnny, who had been whining the whole time. Kenshi hums softly, continuing on the path the compass was guiding him on.

Finally, you all arrive at a ledge, overlooking a grizzly fight between a group of human people and Tarkatan people. “What’s going on here..?” you murmur, brows furrowing. Kenshi hums, uncertain as well. Spotting Shang Tsung, you nudge your boyfriend, pointing the man out. Shang Tsung has a Tarkatan brought over, plunging a needle into his neck, drawing bone marrow. You grimace at the sight, turning away briefly. “This is… disgusting…” you murmur, eyes moving back to see the Tarkatan break free of his restraints, ready to harm the man your group had been searching for. “Come on. We can’t let him get killed.” Kenshi doesn’t hesitate, moving down to help. “Ken, wait-“ your eyes widen, scrambling to follow.

With a scrambled fight, you, Johnny and Kung Lao manage to disperse a few Tarkatans and humans alike, with you focusing on helping the imprisoned Tarkatans out of their shackles, giving them their freedom to escape this cruelty. Most give you wary looks, but a few nod thankfully and leave. Turning around, you see Kenshi in a strong fight with the Tarkatan that Shang Tsung had recently drawn bone marrow from, immediately moving over to try and help. Kung Lao grasps your arm, stopping you from jumping in, not wanting you to get harmed. “He can handle this.” He tells you calmly, bringing you back a little. “But-“ you glance from your friend to your boyfriend, eyes full of worry. “Relax. Kenshi’s a strong fighter.”

Sighing, you focus on finding out where Shang Tsung had escaped to. A pained grunt catches your attention, and your gaze immediately snaps back to Kenshi. “Ken!” breaking free from Kung Lao’s grasp, you run to his side. The Tarkatan he’s fighting scowls at the sight of you, drawing his Tarkatan blade from his forearm. You steel yourself, more focused on Kenshi’s safety than your own. With a hard slash, the blade slices into your side as if you’re made of paper. Kenshi’s breath hitches, watching the blood spill. Your name utters from his lips as he grasps you tight, feeling you crumple onto him. Johnny jumps in, finishing the fight for the two of you as Kenshi sits up, holding you tight to his body. “Baby… shh-shhh… i’ve got you.” Your boyfriend stresses, hand pressing to your deep wound. “What the hell were you thinking?!” Kenshi scolds, eyes full of worry as he holds you tight.

“Sorry- I-I didn’t think.” You chuckle weakly, resting your head to his shoulder. You feel dizzy, a lot of blood pouring from your wound. “C’mon, doll… stay with me.” He whispers, grimacing as your blood covers his tattooed hands. “Mhh… m’sorry.” You mutter, slumped to him. “Shh… it’s okay. Save your strength.” Kenshi’s other hand strokes your back, trying to keep you awake. “Stay with me baby,” he murmurs, voice cracking a little. “I need you.” Kenshi stresses, squeezing you close. If he lost you… he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

“Hey…” a soft voice whispers to you, two warm palms grasping one of yours gently as you stir awake. A pained groan leaves your lips, sighing softly. “Kenshi?” You mutter, blinking blearily. “Shhh… I’m here.” Your boyfriend moves one of his hands, pressing his knuckles to your forehead. “I thought I lost you. You fainted right there, in my arms…” Kenshi whispers, leaning down to gently kiss your cheek. “Scared me, baby…” he mutters, closing his eyes as his head rests against yours. “Sorry…” you whisper, voice hoarse, fingers weakly squeezing his.

“Don’t apologise. If it weren’t for you, I probably would of been killed by that Tarkatan.” He sighs, squeezing your hand in return. You hum weakly, leaning her head to his. “How long has it been?” You mumble, noting that you’re both back at the Wu Shi academy. “Shang Tsung, is he-“ you go to sit up, but your boyfriend eases you back down onto the bed. “Shh. Don’t push yourself. It’s been dealt with.” Kenshi murmurs, stroking your cheek gently. You sigh softly through your nose, closing your eyes in pain.

“Do you need anything?” Kenshi asks softly. “Painkillers… please..?” you whisper, fingers moving up to grasp his. “Of course.” Standing up, he kisses your fingers briefly before gently putting your hand down onto the bed for you. “I’ll be right back.” Kenshi assures you, stepping out of the room. He rushes right back, pills and water in hand, carefully sitting beside you on the bed. “Here, sweetheart.” Kenshi murmurs, helping you take the painkillers; he even feeds you the water, not wanting you to strain yourself.

“Thank you,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his. With a soft sigh, you press your head to his thigh. “Ken, baby… can we go outside? I wanna get some fresh air.” You mumble, looking up at him. Kenshi smiles softly. “Of course, sunshine.” He responds, stroking your cheek lovingly. Helping you up out of bed, he’s careful of the stitches on your side, supporting you as you walk. “Nice and slow… just take it easy.” He murmurs, holding your hands gently as he helps you outside.

Finding a bench, he sits you down carefully to give your side a rest, sitting beside you. It’s late, stars out overhead. Leaning to his side, you feel Kenshi’s arm circle around your waist. “Better?” He mutters, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you rest on his shoulder. “Yeah…” you smile, eyes turning up to watch the stars that dot the inky, dark sky. Spotting a shooting star, you nudge your boyfriend, pointing it out. “Hm. Would you look at that?” Kenshi muses, smiling a little. “Did you make a wish?” He asks, looking back at you. “Yeah. But I can’t tell you now, can I? Or it won’t come true,” you giggle softly, watching it disappear from sight. “Aw, c’mon… you can trust me with that secret.” Kenshi teases, laughing softly. “Mhm. Well, I guess I can tell you.” You respond, smiling softly. “I wished that, no matter what, we stay together.” You admit. Kenshi feels his heart flutter. “Baby, you don’t even have to wish for that.” Kenshi tells you, kissing your temple lovingly. “It’s already true. I’m not going anywhere.” He smiles, pulling you a little closer.

#kenshi takahashi #kenshi takahashi x reader #kenshi takahashi x you #kenshi x reader #kenshi x you #mk1 2023 #mk1 x reader #| kenshiluvr

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 month

Text

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Four

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Apologies for the wait. Life hasn't slowed down for me at all. As soon as I was finally in a good place physically and mentally, I got into a car accident. I'm okay. I didn't get hurt, and neither did the other person, but my car was totaled. I've been dealing with the insurance, and the head of household on the insurance could have been better in assisting me. It has not been fun. As always, thank you for your patience, and happy reading!

Chapter Warnings: drugging, mentions of miscarriage, Ser Criston Cole, we have an unhealthy relationship w/ our father.

The world around you was peaceful as you sank further into the throes of poppy milk. Candles softly hummed with the drafts that swept through the Keep, wood settled, and the fire within the hearth cracked. You did not have to think or feel anything other than the tincture slowly seeping into your marrow. Everything was calm and serene as your eyelids hung low, the orange glow of the flames blurry in your eyesight.

Jeyne sat on one of the lavish armchairs, a needle, and thread in her fist as she hemmed one of the summer dresses she had been putting off. You watched as her wrinkled hands worked, following the pattern of a blind hem stitch as she pulled the thread up and down in a hypnotic, steady rhythm. The shadows danced across her fingers with each tug, pulling you further and further into a deep trance.

Your cramps became a dull thudding in your back due to the milk, but the bleeding hadn't stopped, soaking through layers of fabric and onto your fresh bed sheets. Maester Orwyle warned that you would continue passing clots in the coming days and recommended that, along with wearing thicker, small clothes, you apply heat to your back and abdomen until the pain is gone. You chuckled at the thought, finding it ironic that the only remedies a man of medicine had were things your mother taught you, but followed them nevertheless.

Hours passed into the night, the wolf's hour gradually approaching, yet you never slept a wink. It was as if you were in a realm between the unconscious and conscious mind, awake yet unaware simultaneously. Jeyne had fallen victim to her body despite being ordered to keep watch. Her head hung low, and her chin tucked into her rising chest as she snored.

It was uncertain when your body came back to life. Your eyes opened as you scanned the dim room around you. The wind whistled into the night as you gazed out an iron-paned window, mouth thick. It felt like a thousand tiny insects crawled within your skin, tickling your muscles and sending shivers up your spine. The sensation is unwelcomed but not unpleasant, causing you to rise from your warm blankets and pace across your chambers.

You stumbled at first, knees crashing into the stone floor with a dull thud. Quickly, your head snapped to Jeyne, ears rushing with blood at the abrupt movement. Thank the Seven, the maid was still fast asleep, undisturbed by your grunts and hisses as you rose to unsteady feet again.

The floor ebbed and waved in your vision, your bones feeling like marble, vibrating with every step you took as you searched the plethora of the Maester's supplies for water, downing it in one greedy gulp. The world around you was still calm, a hue of yellow blanketing across your chambers as you listened to your audible breaths.

Longing pulled at your soul as your eyes fell upon your rumpled sheets. It reminded you of times not so long ago when you shared unbridled intimacy with the one you loved, a wistful smile on your chapped lips as you replayed the moments in your mind's eye. You couldn't understand why Alicent chose now to tear Aegon away from you. Could she not see the good you brought with him? Why did she not stop it sooner if she did not want you to grow as close to him as you had? Was the Queen indeed so cruel that she would tear away her son's only source of happiness simply because it no longer benefited her?

Alicent had created an impenetrable bond between two souls and now sought to destroy it, but oaths made of loyalty and love were hard to sever.

You were sure guards were posted outside your doors to stop you or Aegon from seeking one another, and the thought caused you to grimace. There were other ways to see each other, and you prayed that the Queen had not been wise enough to bar both. You did not desire to cause fuss or quarrels.

You needed to see him. That's all it was.

Gradually, you made your way to one of the numerous secret passages in the Keep, unbothered with the state of your being. No shoes nor gown covering was worn as your bare feet pattered over the dank passages. Though you did not emit your goal aloud, your muscles understood where to go as if the string of fate connecting two lovers' souls, bound together like the hands of marriage, pulled you toward one another. Shuffling your naked soles across the dirt-ridden path, you knew the way to Aegon's wing like the skills of the sword, not requiring a light as you advanced.

There was not a pathway directly to his chamber, or at least not one he or you had found, but thankfully, a small portion of the trek was a less traveled corridor until you reached Aegon's room.

Your sanity retreated, imagining joyful days filled with the sun's blinding rays atop Cannibal, the wind caressing your cheeks. The sticky, viscous sensation of blood running down your thighs was not a thought as those memories replayed, your limbs moving on their own.

The tender, yellow glow of torchlight came into view, reeling your body back into consciousness as the silhouette of a guard appeared. Ser Erryk caught you before you did him, rooted into his post, as he observed your shuffled gait with a curious expression. The smeared blood trail behind you caused his brows to arch in concern as you approached, the scent of smoke and something floral wafting in the air around you.

"Princess," Ser Erryk exclaimed, allowing himself to move a few paces forward. "You mustn't be here. The Queen said you were abed."

Giggling, you stopped before him, amused at the notion that the same person who forced milk of the poppy down your throat was concerned for your health. "Is that what she said?" you jeered halfheartedly. "I am confident that is not the only thing she expressed, as you are not immediately allowing me past those doors."

Your tongue felt like lead as you spoke, forcing your clouded mind to think twice as hard to get the words out.

Erryk stiffened, armor clanking in anxiety as he threw swift glances to the sides. His lips scrunched with indecision, battling an internal war with duty and compassion as you sway to the rhythm of your slowly beating heart.

"You are not permitted to see Prince Aegon, by her majesty's order, and he you," he admitted with a noiseless sigh as if this was as difficult for him as it was for you. You flashed the knight a countenance of pity, understanding the humanity within him conflicted with the soldier, fighting to be free.

"Did she tell you what happened, Ser Erryk?" you questioned airily, your eyelids suddenly becoming increasingly heavy. With all your might, you hoped that your words would sway him, quickly sparing a glance down the path of your essence.

"His Highness explained to me the attack on your life and that my brother was sent to the Black Cells for failure of duty," he admitted. You could feel the pointed way his words meant, angered at what he felt was an injustice for Ser Arryk.

"He's imprisoned?" you asked, face wrinkled with worry. "I will see at once that he is back in his bed. Your brother was upset with me, but he did nothing wrong."

You could not feel the concern that you indeed should in a situation like this—an innocent man punished for someone else's sins. You could not feel anything except for the serenity that blanketed your being. You wished you could always be like this. Eternally calm, incapable of anxiety, anger, or sadness, and in the back of your mind, it worried you.

"Thank you, Princess," Erryk bowed, his back ramrod straight. "Prince Aegon confided the attempt on your life and the consequences of it. The death of a child is something more profound than any knight could endure. You have my condolences."

Your breath hitched, lashes fluttering. The memory of your agony, the cramping, the blood, the screams of a babe torn from their mother's womb echoed in your skull like an agonizing symphony. You focused on your steady pulse, pulling yourself back under the comforting spell of the poppy.

For just a while longer, you did not want to feel.

"Then you understand why I must see Aegon." Your declarations were too sober for one under the influence, and your nose began to itch, disarming Erryk as his internal war raged. "I have yet to experience the comfort of grief in the company of a loved one, Ser. The Queen took that from me," you voiced, your words becoming unsteady and rambled. "I am alone in this place. I do not have a mother or father from whom I can seek guidance. I have no true friends. Only political allies surround themselves with me because of obligation. I have Aegon, and that is it."

The confession slipped past your lips before you realized your voice was speaking, mouth thick with unobstructed emotion. "So, please, Ser. I pray you. Allow me to see him."

The battle between warrior and compassion ended, the goodness within Ser Erryk prevailing over duty as he pursed his lips, a sheen in his eye. You realized that was the difference between the two brothers, and perhaps you aligned yourself with the wrong choice. One was bound to serve the realm with a blind eye, not questioning commands no matter their inhumane contents under the guise of duty. The other was as much a devout servant to those he followed, yet he allowed his conscience to guide him in his actions instead of unseeing obedience.

You could feel the blood collecting at your feet, seeping into the cracks of the flagstone floor and staining the hem of your nightdress. It was as if Erryk could sense it too, blue orbs flicking down to the small crimson puddle on the ground, swallowing audibly as the groaning walls creaked in the silence. He opened the stalwart oak doors to Aegon's chamber, wordlessly bidding you in. You sent him a grateful look as you entered, promising to yourself that you would not let the milk of the poppy make you forget his kindness.

Aegon's bed chamber was unlit except for a handful of half-melted candles scattered haphazardly about the area, emitting a subtle yellow glow to the miscellaneous items discarded on the floor. Your lover was not in his usual spot, draped lazily on his sheets like a stretched cat, nor was he at the lavish furniture in front of the crackling fire. It wasn't until you heard the telltale sounds of hiccuping breath, a loud sniff, and a bone-shuddering sob that you turned.

Aegon stood in the same attire you recalled at the farthest corner of his room on the full-length windowsill. His back faced you, still unaware of another person in his chambers. A decorative glass wine decanter was within his grasp, taking large swigs of the reddish liquid as his body swayed on the ledge.

Though your reason clouded with a thick mist, muscles heavy with each movement, a rush of panic went through you as a harsh draft of the frigid night air nearly threw Aegon off balance before he righted himself.

"Raqnon?" (love), you called out into the darkness, toes catching on a rumpled pile of clothes as you stumbled towards him.

Aegon's cropped hair spun with him as he fell to his knees on the stone floor with a yelp, the glass decanter shattering. He mumbled something you couldn't decipher as you approached him with tentative movements, careful not to pierce yourself on any scattered pieces. You attempted to kneel before Aegon, but he stopped you with the wave of his hand.

"You-" he stuttered breathlessly, attempting to stand on drunk legs, "you should be resting. Get on the bed."

You could not deny the rush his command inspired and did not protest as you went, sitting on the edge and observing how Aegon stumbled over pieces of crystal with a concern scrunch to your brow. "You've been drinking," you stated rather than asked. You knew the answer, the clues evident that even the most inept of individuals could see. You wanted to hear him admit it aloud. "I thought you were limiting your consumption?"

Aegon's eyes met yours, a shimmering pool of amethyst within exhausted, sunken holes of indigo. You were sure you looked no better with a sallow hue due to the blood loss. They were both mirror reflections of each other's internal emotions.

"I think," he began, limbs tangled and gait like a newborn colt, "this situation allows me to have a little drink."

Your nose itched. A pesky little sign that tears were about to flow as you lowered your gaze to the small crimson stain on your nightdress. There was no reply to the prince, no words that would convince Aegon to take this situation more seriously than his mind would allow, and so you let the briny rivers flow, timidly nodding in acquiescence.

The profound feeling of failure mixed with dread crept its claws up your back, its fingers like knives as an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and lassitude tugged at your heart until it could no longer beat.

All that work and what did it get you... All the sacrifices you made, prioritizing the future of a realm that will not remember you two hundred years from now when the Targaryen legacy no longer has its hold over the land. What have you done but give your life— your body in service of your House? And what did you have to show for it? An immature prince who does not know how to cope without the aid of firewater. The overwhelming fear of the hereafter pulled you into an abyss you could not escape.

How would your father react to this? Your mother? Both would be distraught beyond comprehension, each showing it in varying ways. Daemon was always quick to anger and thirsted for bloodshed, acting with sharp words and swift blows with the sword rather than Rhaenyra, who had a matching fury but whose wrath and memory knew no bounds. You fretted for those who would fall victim.

Abruptly, Aegon's moonlight hair came into view. His arms trapped your lower legs in an iron embrace, and his forehead burrowed between your thighs.

"This is my doing. I left you alone after I vowed never to leave your side... to protect you," Aegon sobbed, tears staining the white fabric of your skirt.

"Do not be foolish," you retorted more harshly than intended as your hand instinctively went to his crown. "You seek to make it your fault within the confines of your own mind because you cannot fathom anything bad would happen unless it was influenced by you–because you think so lowly of yourself–because you have been told every waking moment of your life that something was not good enough because of you."

You could no longer retain your inner thoughts of Aegon's psyche and who helped influence him to be in such a way. You almost died, and you did not want to spend another moment keeping them within.

"The figures in your life that were supposed to guide you, shape you, nurture you failed tremendously, and yet they blame you for their shortcomings." You took Aegon by the sides of his head, forcing his bleary eyes to meet your focused ones, trying to impress the seriousness of your words. "It is not your fault."

The prince choked, mouth thick with excess saliva and mucus as he tried to speak. "I know it's not."

He did not know what you meant. Was it for something specific? Was it your poisoning and losing your child? Was it because of the heartache and shame he caused people? His actions and coping mechanisms? Or was it for anything and everything he forced himself to bear the conscience of?

You did not believe him, and the confession came too quickly to have entirely made an impact. "No, Aegon. It is not your fault."

"I know." He stared, lips tucked into a stiff pout, and attempted to pull away and gaze anywhere but you.

"Look at me, issa raqnon," (my love) you softly commanded, your voice tender and kinder than he had ever heard. His mouth twitched, glassy, and ametrine slowly dragged up your arm, chest, shoulder, neck, and face. "It is not your fault."

Aegon balked, light-colored lashes blinking as your words finally struck through the two decades of mental fortresses created by harsh words, unrealistic expectations, and emotionless love like a battering ram to the sturdy oak doors of the mud gate.

"Please," he whispered, for what he did not know. Perhaps a last-moment plea to halt the forthcoming emotions and memories he kept numbed and buried deep within wine, women, and gambling.

Nevertheless, Aegon's effort proved fruitless as a cry akin to a howl tore through his vocal cords, ripping his marred soul bare for you to finally see. He pressed his cheek into your stomach, ignoring the pang of discomfort that rolled through you as he wept as if he were a babe. You cradled him to you, stroking his matted silver strands as you rocked him with the other, your self-gratifying way to help ease your nerves.

It reminded you of your time in the Godswood underneath the heart tree, where Aegon laid his soul unyielding to allow you both to become one finally. Those stolen moments seemed like a lifetime ago, but much happened between then and now to lead you to this moment.

You were grateful that your love was finally actualized and did not regret a single moment spent together from when Ser Arryk discovered your affair to the present attempt on your life and the successful one of another. You had no choice but to feel again, despite your best efforts, nails scraping Aegon's scalp as the milk of the poppy waned, replacing the hollow loss with unfelt grief.

It was almost as if the pregnancy did not exist, and to those not within your chambers at that time, it didn't. There were no signs, cravings, missed moon blood, or weight gain in areas typical to term. To all who did not see you pass the blood clots with their own eyes, you had no reason to mourn. You could not get the image of your child torn from your womb, your skin, muscle, and innards tossed aside in search of something you did not know you carried out of your head, the screams of you and your child melding into one.

"Here I am, crying in a puddle of my own self pity when you are bleeding from your womb," Aegon sniveled, pulling away and rising onto one knee.

He placed a sticky palm over the affected area, your face crumpling with emotion. "That is not you speaking, dōnus taobus," (sweet boy). "We both hurt immeasurably today and in the past. We must mourn for what happened and what could have been," you replied, placing your hand over his.

Aegon's fingers dragged from your stomach, over your breasts, and onto your jaw, gingerly stroking your lower lip, brows scrunched in thought. He did not speak, letting an already wandering mind fester as his gaze studied the moist area.

"Do you believe in the tales of Old Valyria?" Aegon asked unprompted. "About the dragon gods bestowing dreams on people they deemed worthy?"

You nodded noiselessly, confused yet eager to know what he had to say as Aegon kept his gaze fixed on your mouth, slowly stroking the area. "I believe all cultures have their own belief systems, and one can be as valid as any. After all, it was Daenys the Dreamer who allowed us to live here today."

"Always the diplomat," the prince chortled, eyes crinkling with bittersweet mirth. "I believe Helaena is one of them," he said thoughtfully. "She has always said peculiar things–things I never paid much attention to until now."

You stared at Aegon in befuddlement, raising a brow as he continued his thoughts. "She said that you will grow old in love with me, that our union will be of love, and that the children will adore you as if you are their mother. That the dragon has three heads and that Aegon spent ten nights with Rhaenys for every one he spent with Visenya, but I will spend every night with you," he rambled, desperate to get the sentences plaguing his mind out.

It was a pleasant idea that sent heat to your ears to imagine that one day you would wed Aegon and no longer have to hide your love, but you knew it to be untrue. You were a bastard, and he was a married, true-born son of the king. Not only would it be against the law, but sin in the eyes of the Faith for one man to take two wives. It could fracture the relationship between the crown and the Citadel, and you did not wish for history to repeat itself.

Suddenly, a distant memory, one you had not thought of since it happened, appeared in your mind's eye. The confession took you back in time to the moment of Aegon's nameday feast, where you recalled bathed in glittering gold, loud, upbeat orchestral music, and the words, a sacrifice of her blood, peace reborn, chanting over and over in your head.

Aegon could see your thoughts etched into the worried wrinkles of your face, standing to his full height as he gave one final swipe across your moist lip. He ordered you wordlessly with the brush of your loose strands of hair out of your face to lay back onto his mountain of throw pillows. Swallowing tears, you turned onto your side with a groan, sudden lower body movements still debilitating as Aegon dutifully assisted you under the blankets.

The prince crawled beside you, placing one arm securely around your waist, careful not to cause any pressure, and the other underneath your body. He nuzzled his nose into your neck, releasing a sigh that held all his worries. He kissed your sweat-dampened skin, relieved to be within your comforting warmth. Your muscles relaxed your mind at ease and protected within the embrace of your fair-haired boy. Silence sat until your mind could finally form a response to his prior confession.

"I desire for her words to be true," you expressed, a longing for a life free of secrets and anxiety causing more tears to spring. A life you feared was not your future.

A screech broke throughout the orange and gray sky of King's Landing, rumbling the sleeping inhabitants' thatched roofs and glass windows. It was not unusual to hear the roars of dragons in the skies, and most paid no mind, simply falling back into slumber to hopefully catch what little bit of rest they had before the day.

The wings of Caraxes sliced through the late winter air as his rider descended at the mouth of the Dragonpit. Keepers scrambled on the packed dirt like disturbed ants from their hill, abruptly stolen from sleep. They could sense that much like his rider, the Blood Wyrm was in a state, snorting, stomping, and snapping at each of the Dragonkeepers as they attempted with difficulty to leash the winged beast.

Daemon did not wait until the handlers could properly restrain Caraxes as he dismounted from his ornate leather saddle. Jumping down the ropes on the side of his crimson scales, the Rogue Prince landed with dust under his feet, adjusting Dark Sister at his waist.

"Your Highness, we were not anticipating your arrival. Please forgive us," the headkeeper bowed, struggling to hold the agitated Caraxes at bay.

Daemon sniffed at the man and fixed his riding tunic unbothered. He had no time for people's false pleasantries and proper arrivals, nor did he want to.

"I need a horse," he cooly commanded, disregarding the Keepers' shouts in High Valyrian.

He paced along the edge of the Dragonpit like one of the beasts held within the cave, aching to fly, aching to be free. Gods knew if you were alive or not, whether those Green cunts had done away with you and framed it as a simple accident. The only thing that kept Daemon at bay was the letter. Though that piece of parchment was a harbinger of agony and worry, it meant that there was someone within those pale red stone walls who was an ally.

Daemon would tear those fucking vipers piece by piece until all that left of them were ash and bone. You were his daughter. An attempt on your life was just as good as his.

At times, he felt you were the only one within his family who understood him, the only one with whom he could fully be his true self. With his wife and other children, it was not to say that Daemon could not act honestly; he knew they loved him for who he was, yet the Rogue Prince did not want to scare them with things he felt inside. With you, his eldest daughter, he felt free. Your father could confide all his darkest thoughts, the anxieties that kept him awake at night that would send Rhaenyra into a panic. It was why he chose you to be the one who ensured a future with him beside the Iron Throne.

You were the only one who could tolerate his antics and give as good as you could receive. You knew when to put Daemon in his place and when to allow him to reign free. While Rhaenyra made him a good man, you made him a better one.

People saw that, and it was no doubt one of the reasons you were in this situation. The Rogue Prince was weak with his favorite daughter out of the way. He would not allow them to feel accomplished. If you died, House Hightower and all who swore to protect you would be eradicated by the morrow.

The whiny of a horse stole Daemon from his trance, halting his prowling as an unnamed knight strode on his steed.

"Your Highness," the Gold Cloak called, halting the chestnut horse with a pull of the reins. "Her Majesty, the Queen was not expecting you. Please forgive us for the lack of preparation. A wheelhouse is being prepared to take you to the castle."

The knight seemed out of breath as if he was the one who ran from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit as Daemon approached him. He was calm with his strides, leather boots thumping on packed dirt as he peered up at the man, the orange hue of the sunrise burning his eyes. He did not speak at first, seeming to size up the man before he lunged, grabbing the Gold Cloak by his weighted breastplate and throwing him off the startled horse. Daemon did not look to see if the aghast soldier was unharmed, clicking with the side of his cheek as he turned the animal toward Aegon's Hill.

"Where is she?" Alicent shouted at your eldest maid, tears of frustration and fear welling in her round brown eyes.

The screech of Caraxes woke every inhabitant of the palace, a sound the Queen believed to be in her nightmares until it boomed again. She understood it was only a matter of time until Daemon or Rhaenyra discovered what happened to their daughter, and now, it was about controlling the damage that would be left in the Rogue Prince's wake.

"I am not sure, your Majesty," Jeyne answered with a lowered head. She honestly did not know. Sleep had overcome her no matter how hard she tried to fight it.

"I entrusted you with the Princess's protection, and you failed. Now, for all we know, the assassin could have completed his mission. It will be your fault if that is the case," Alicent scolded the older maid, speaking down to the woman as if she were merely a child.

It angered Jeyne beyond measure. She had grown too comfortable with the respect you gave her and Fiora. Before she realized it, she was biting back, barely containing ire that would ruin her chances at a smooth life in the Keep.

"It will not be on my conscience if that is the case, my Queen."

Alicent balked. Plush lips agape with shock, digits twitching as if she wished to strike the insolent servant for her remark. Inhaling a calming breath, the Queen folded her hand across her abdomen, shoulders upright and chin held high as she spoke.

"You are dismissed from your duties henceforth," she declared with a furled lip as if the mere presence of someone close to you nauseated her.

Alicent could not hurt you in a way that would not arouse suspicion; she had tried that once before and failed, so she believed the next best thing would be to hurt those dear in your presence.

A woman from her station could not speak as freely as you did to Alicent. Her father was not the Rogue Prince, nor was she the lover of a crowned prince. The eldest maid was comforted that once you got wind of her reassignment, you would no doubt rain fire from the Seven Hells to get her back. Jeyne bowed humbly before the Queen, her chin held too high for the Queen's liking, and said nothing more as she exited the room toward the servant quarters, passing the guard stationed at your door.

The Queen sighed deeply, releasing tension she had not realized the conversation had created. She put her nimble fingers to the bridge of her nose. Her ramrod-straight posture slouched in her typical forest green dress, the ever-looming presence of the future shadowing her mind.

"My Queen!" An unknown guard barreled into your greeting room, his armor clanking and causing his limbs to throw all his weight. "Prince Daemon was spotted flying atop Caraxes over King's Landing," he breathlessly declared as if he had run across the castle.

"I know. I came to inform the Princess that her father had come to pay her a visit, but she is not here. Have the guards search for her in my son's quarters. Discretion is of utmost importance," Alicent commanded, her voice rich like velvet. She knew where you would go. You were still a girl in her eyes, desperate for a morsel of companionship in times of need. Alicent understood the feeling and recalled many times in her past when she had no one but herself.

She had not felt nor sounded like the Queen she claimed to be within your presence until now. Her posture returned to its regal stiffness, her shoulders rolled back, and her scowl pulled her plump lips. How Daemon got word of your well-being was unknown, but she knew there was a traitor in the Red Keep. Someone or possibly more had deliberately gone against the orders of the Hand and Queen Consort. There was no telling what they would do should the untimely death of the King strike.

Paranoia wound into Alicent's gut, tying her insides into knots as the unnamed knight bowed to fulfill his duty.

The control the Queen grappled with her entire service was falling from her grasp like sand between one's fingers. Everything had gotten out of hand so quickly that she could not comprehend what to do next. The most heinous scenarios ran through her head at what Daemon would do with no one to steady the reigns. She recalled the stories of the Rogue Prince in the Stepstones—the betrayal, the horror, the bloodshed of returning to court with a crown made of his enemy's bones. He was an army of his own, and the death of one of his soldiers would not deter him from his purpose; it would only further his wrath.

Alicent could no longer be complacent in her terror. Her legs carried a twitching and trembling form across the silent halls of the Keep until she saw a streak of red. It appeared out of nowhere, trailing behind the culprit's path like footprints in freshly fallen snow. She knew it could only belong to one person, and a shuddering breath racked her at the realization.

Your dreams were pleasant, though you could not recall them, only the feeling they gave. The laughter of those you sensed were your loved ones, their smiles, the warmth of the sun, basking in its eternal yellow warmth, and the sturdy touch of what you believed was the ground beneath you. You longed to stay in this moment forever, realizing in your mind that it was a dream, but you didn't care. You just wanted to feel the joy that always seemed a finger-width away, even if it was under the falsehood of sleep.

Your dreams did not last long enough, suddenly ripped away from your blissful world to a searing pain to your scalp. Your eyes shot open as you released a scream, your sore body dragging across the Myrish rug on Aegon's floor, the fibers burning your flesh raw. You struggled within your assailant's vice-like grip to no avail, your prince startling awake as he tried to see through the eyes of sleep.

Fear gripped your heart, thoughts racing as to who would do this to you, your previous assailant coming to mind. You felt the slice of skin before you saw it, hissing in hurt as the shattered pieces of the wine decanter appeared next to you, a trail of blood leading from your foot. Without hesitation, you snatched the nearest piece, slashing the skin of your abductor's hand. They released you with a wince, your head thumping against the floor as you scrambled away.

The armor of a kingsguard glinted in the candlelight as a grunting Ser Criston cradled his bleeding hand. Fearful confusion etched your features as Aegon came rushing to your side, throwing himself between you and the enraged knight.

"You cunt!" Ser Criston cursed, clutching his fist to his breastplate.

"Criston!" Aegon shouted, running a soothing hand through your hair. "I'll cut your fucking tongue out for that! How dare you put your hands on her?"

Tears welled in your eyes, and an overwhelming sensation of helplessness that was akin to your childhood overcame you as you hid your face within Aegon's soft torso. You could not care about the shameless way you cried, sniffling and hiccuping as you did in your girlhood in your lover's embrace.

"Her father is on his way here as we speak. Do you want to be discovered with her in your bed?" Criston admonished, his words filled with an ire you always knew simmered below the surface.

Aegon growled an animalistic noise that rattled you to your core as he stood, your arms reaching out in search of his comfort. "You will leave us and never put your hands on her again or I shall tell the King of what you have done here."

Criston knew it was not an empty threat. He did not doubt the prince would run to his half-dead father about what he did. While the knight didn't have faith that Viserys would be lucid enough to enact anything, the memory of his frail body walking across the Great Hall during the hearing of Driftmark made him hesitant. But it did not matter. The Queen and the Hand ruled the kingdom in Viserys' sickness. To Criston, he was only king in name.

"I am on orders of your Queen Mother to bring the Princess back to her chambers. She was not supposed to leave on the Maester's command," he declared confidently, the pain from his cut dwindling as the blood began to clot.

"The Maester's command," you repeated with a sneer as you stood. Anger replaced any fear that made its home in your chest, coming to be beside Aegon. "You were not there as I was forced to drink milk of the poppy despite Maester Orwyle's protests. It was your Queen who wishes to keep us separated."

The revelation did not phase Ser Cole. He had no conscience when it came to the likes of a bastard whore. His dark brow was stern as he disregarded you. "Move, my prince, or you will be moved."

Rage burned hot in your bones, roaring into a flaming inferno that felt like it would scorch your insides if you did not let it out. Ser Criston had no right to the aggression he displayed with you. You had not done anything to him. You had barely spoken except for brief conversations of forced politeness when given no other choice, yet he still held hatred for you that you could never understand.

"You fucking celibate, craven, son of a-"

An abrupt smack across your temple cut off your words, ringing your ears momentarily as your vision swiftly faded.

"Criston!" a new voice shouted as your unconscious body toppled to the floor, a weeping Aegon following soon after. "What have you done?"

Alicent stood in the doorway, a shocked Erryk Cargyll standing stock-still beside her. Criston heaved, his shoulders rapidly falling up and down as his brown eyes drifted to your listless expression. He thought he preferred you that way, briefly imagining someone else in your place.

"Apologies, your majesty," he bowed modestly, returning to the humble White Cloak everyone knew him as. "In my efforts to return her highness to her rooms, I struck her in anger. Please, forgive me."

The Queen balked, doe eyes nearly bulging out of her skull as she saw the whisper of blood trickle from your scalp onto your cheek. She swallowed, head reeling with the thought of another consequence she would face when you came to.

Suddenly, an idea came to mind, something so conniving and wicked that it reminded her of her father. It sent a chill down Alicent's spine, sending a brief prayer of forgiveness to the Seven before clearing her throat as she spoke. "All is forgiven, Ser Cole. You've served my House steadfastly all these years, and for that you have my many thanks. Please, take her to her quarters and summon the Maester."

Her sworn shield bowed, ordering a silently begrudging Ser Erryk to restrain Aegon as he threw you over his shoulder with a grunt as if you were no more than a grain sack. Aegon shrieked in response, attempting to chase after you, but ran into the wall of Ser Erryk. He tried to push past, but it was no use. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, and no longer had the facilities to thrash against others.

"Please, my prince," Erryk pleaded, a sturdy fist placed against Aegon's chest. "You will see her again."

Her solution was temporary, that much Alicent knew, and would require the fear your father instilled in others to work. However, if she were as intelligent and cunning as her father, time and patience would be on her side. She just hoped that the Gods were, too.

Alicent understood you would only listen with great struggle. Now that you knew your father was here, you had another soul to cling to—one she could not control or manipulate. Those who served you would be tested on how much their loyalties ran when met with the highest order of the kingdom, and the Queen prayed fear flowed deeper than any bond did as she ordered the Maester for another tincture.

Leather footfalls echoed throughout the red rock walls of the Keep, intimidating those who were unsuspecting in the Rogue Prince's path. Stunned maids and manservants gasped and bowed in Daemon's presence as he passed. Each whispered words to one another behind glancing eyes and covered mouths. It should not be unusual for the king's brother to arrive unannounced, yet the years of tense relations with the Queen Consort and the Heir made his entrance something to gossip about.

He paid no mind to the common folk chatter. He was the victim of it all of Daemon's life. First with the uncertainty of Viserys' heir, then with his concubine Lady Misery when he gifted her and their unborn child a dragon egg, the next with rumors of him and Rhaenyra's uncouth relationship of uncle and niece, the suspicious death of his first wife, Rhea Royce, his marriage to his niece, and the legitimization of a bastard.

No amount of courtly yapping would affect Daemon. Not anymore. Especially not now when said daughter's life was in the grasp of those who openly despised his family.

He did not know where those traitors held you, how the Greens treated you, or if you were still alive, and that uncertainty shook Daemon to his core, though you could not see it. He was confident of one thing: where to find Otto. High atop the tower of the Hand would be where the snake resided, no doubt thinking of more ways to scheme himself into positions he was undeserving of.

Surprisingly, no guards stopped the Rogue Prince as he ascended the winding steps to the tower. Perhaps they knew not to mess with a sleeping dragon, ready to spit flames at anyone who dared wake it. Damon entered the Hand's chambers, giving no opportunity to properly announce a guest's arrival.

Ser Otto Hightower raised a wirey, unamused brow at the prince, unbothered by his lack of manners. He knew that Daemon was on his way and had prepared everything and everyone accordingly. He ordered your maids and Maester Orwyle into silence, and should they speak, incomprehensible outcomes would befall them. Alicent, Otto's ever-dutiful daughter, his favorite daughter,and his only daughter took care of her son's and your matters.

"Prince Daemon," the hand greeted him, yet he did not stand. "It is an unexpected pleasure to have you return home unannounced."

The prince ignored the covert jab at his lack of manners, his lips twitching into a scowl as his palm rested on the hilt of Dark Sister. "I do not share the same sentiment," he sneered. "I know what you have done to my daughter and it is treason. I demand to see her at once."

"It is unfortunate what has befallen you, daughter, but you must understand my discretion. She has had an attempt on her life, and we certainly do not need other members of the royal family fearing for theirs." Otto sighed, seeming like the conversation was with a petulant child, not a war-hardened machine.

"That is what you call ceasing communications with Dragonstone?" Daemon shook his head, rolling his violet eyes with a scoff. "It seems to everyone but you what exactly you were trying to do. A guilty conscience I presume?"

Otto paused, his dark orbs sizing up the enraged prince in his usual fashion. He was a man of patience and perseverance, proven over the decades. The Hand was indeed capable of action but not overtly like the Rogue Prince. He took time to understand his allies and even more so with his enemies, ensuring he knew things they did not know themselves. Inhaling a sharp breath, Ser Otto returned his gaze to the uninvited guest and spoke barbs disguised as silk.

"I understand your feelings on the matter, but you must understand that it is not only her that is in danger. If one member of the court were to catch wind of an attempted assassination on someone of her stature chaos would erupt," Otto expressed pragmatically. Daemon scoffed, intertwining his hands over his waist as he leaned a foot out in exasperation. "People would feel unsafe and have doubts in the king's capabilities to ensure his subjects are safe, let alone his kin. There would be a mass exodus within the Keep, notable Houses would pull their investments. It would tear the establishment down simply because of one girl's mistake."

Anger lit inside Daemon's chest at his words, spine straightening to his full height as he strode to the Hand's desk with menacing strides. How dare he speak about you as if you were just an animal? That you were nothing but one of the many pieces of parchment sat upon the wood for him to briefly read and discard. Dark Sister swung at the prince's waist, beating to his movements, the coattails of his riding gear flowing behind as he stood tall over the Lord's Hand.

Before Daemon could think better of it, rearing his arm back and connected his fist into the scruff of Otto's nearly trimmed beard, knocking the pompous man from his seat. The prince had longed to do this for decades, and now, with no one to rein him in, he could. It was a cathartic feeling filled with pent-up rage and jealousy for all the years Otto filled the seat he desired, whispering in his brother's ear to influence decisions in ways that benefited the Hightowers.

This was personal.

Daemon circled the spruce davenport and kneeled. The prince gripped his midnight-colored tunic, readying his dominant hand to bash the Hand's face as the door to the office opened. The Queen stood in the entryway, a horrified look on her visage as she screeched for the guards to separate them.

"No need," Daemon answered coolly as the Gold Cloaks entered, righting himself. He rolled his shoulders unbothered as if he were caught wrestling with a sibling rather than one of the highest Lords of Westeros.

Alicent swiftly went to her father, kneeling beside him as tears glimmered in her wide amber eyes. Otto gently brushed her dotting efforts away, refusing his fragile masculine pride to be further insulted with the aid of a woman. She opened her plump lips to order the guards to escort Daemon away, but he held his palm, halting the frightened Queen with what he might intend to do next.

"Where is my daughter?" he questioned, the smooth timbre of his domineering tone replaced with something almost... soft.

Alicent swallowed the excess saliva that accumulated inside her mouth with the threat of tears. Her gaze returned to her father, noticing the trickle of blood on his lip, no doubt split from the force of Daemon's strike. She waited for her father to speak, still thrown to the ground as he said to her in expressions only she could comprehend. When he assured her and himself that everything was in place without words, he nodded, Daemon's suspicious gaze examining them.

"She is in Maegor's Holdfast. I am sure you know how to conduct yourself in those halls," Alicent snipped, her voice velvety and moist, as she helped her pride-wounded father stand.

The prince gave her no more words, no looks that said he heard her before he was off, leaving a trail of destruction behind him, gait determined with only one goal in mind, and Seven help any poor, unfortunate soul who stood in his path.

Prickling anxiety stirred within Daemon's gut as he followed a young servant with bright, fiery hair. The nervous thing rang her hands together until her knuckles cracked, sparing fleeting glances behind her to ensure he had not abruptly decided to live up to his name.

Daemon imagined your fear and knew you must have felt betrayed, terrified, and distraught. He thought about how you needed him in your most vulnerable moment, only to find that there was no one. He was the one who set the foundations for your assault. He should have never forced you into this position. Your father should have kept you close and tucked away in his heart as he did everything dear to him.

Now, he would never let you go for as long as the blood of the dragon flowed through his veins.

Each realization strung him up further into his anxiety, feeling his heart beating at every point of his body. The moment's walk felt like decades of agony to him, as if Daemon was forced to fight a legion of soldiers alone with an arm tied behind his back. The servant, whom he did not care to know, stopped at a great wooden door, curtsying to him with her chin tucked into her chest and gaze lowered. Daemon stared at her dully, waiting for any further response or courtesy, but gave none, answering his question wordlessly as he opened the portal.

A thick blanket of invisible smoke covered your chambers, stinging his pale, violet eyes as he struggled to breathe. It blinded his senses, unable to think of anything other than the overpowering scent of incense. His vision did not immediately travel to you but to a dark-skinned man with modest gray robes. The Maester's back was turned to Daemon as he hunched over a table with supplies, mixing dried herbs to make what he assumed was a pot of medicinal tea.

He left the man at work, looking around the heavy room until he saw you. Daemon stared at you in disbelief at the heart-wrenching sight before him, feeling only the frantic pounding of his unsteady pulse.

His daughter lay under thick sheets of Hightower green, your face sallow and sunken rings of indigo under your eyes.

"They told me they found her within a puddle of gore. No attacker in sight," Orwyle said in a trembling voice, clearly afraid of his wrath. Daemon didn't listen to him, staring blankly at your listless expression.

He approached you slowly on trembling legs, feeling complete emptiness in his head. He breathed heavily through his mouth as Daemon kneeled beside a bed that did not belong to you, gently grasping your cheeks in his fingers and turning your face towards him. Your body was limp, your mouth slightly parted, your eyelids half open, and your gaze distant and misty. It was as if you were not here, not in spirit, wetting your lips as he heard your labored breathing.

"What happened?" your father asked in a whisper, terrified of how his voice and body were shaking. His heart threatened to burst from his ribs, his throat and stomach squeezed so tightly that he had trouble filling his lungs with air.

He heard your quiet sigh as you struggled to train your gaze on him, looking at your father as if you were thinking about something and unsure if what was happening was a dream or true. It has been so long since you last saw him that you wondered if you had truly gone mad after everything.

Relief did not flood Daemon at discovering you were alive, and it was when he looked at you closely that he noticed your right temple was swollen, a tiny sliver of broken pink flesh decorating the top. The wound was fresh, blood still glistening, and he understood it must have happened within the last few hours. He felt tears of shame under his eyelids and overwhelming rage at the thought that someone had dared to hit you.

His daughter—his flesh.

"Father," you whispered so quietly that he barely heard you, stroking the soft skin of your face. Daemon felt an unbearable squeeze in his throat at your voice, his eyebrows arched in pain, eyes burning from the tears that wanted so desperately to run down his visage.

"I am here." The Rogue Prince whimpered with difficulty in a tone breaking with pain and grief, pressing his nose against your hair. He cried out loudly, never feeling so helpless before in his life, for his dearest daughter, his favorite daughter, was dying in his arms because of him, betrayed and abandoned.

"Who did this to you?" he questioned thickly, words echoing in the cavernous expanse of your guest chambers. This place has been your home for two years.

You spent two years with only written correspondence. A father's duty was to protect his kin and make the proper decisions that ensured their success and safety in life, but he was ill-fated. Daemon was your guardian, the only person in this forsaken world in whom you should place your unwavering trust, and he failed—not only as a father but also as a man.

"The Stranger," you muttered in response with great effort, eyes rolling back into your head and lids closing as you released a profound sigh.

He knew that your mind was not in its proper place, nor did he expect it to be. You escaped the clutches of death within a house that prayed at every chance for your downfall. Your father put you in a cage inhabited by rabid wolves seeking to devour every morsel of prey that walked within the halls of the Red Keep, but you were not an easy meal. You were lined with scars and teeth marks of the past, hardening your hide from each predator who attempted to sink their claws into you.

Daemon turned a young lamb into a dragon, and they would soon feel your fire's scorching heat.

"Talus mandus ñuhus. Jorilagon sesīr," (My gentle daughter. Rest now.) he muttered, feeling the warm tears run down his cheeks. He looked only at you, stroking your crown as if you were a small child.

Daemon considered the Hightowers, Alicent, and Otto conniving snakes in the grass bound by piousness, servitude, and duty for their wealth. This was what upholding the realm was—death and destruction for their betterment.

He stroked your cold skin with his thumb, confident that no force would tear him away from his child. No force would make him leave you, and if anyone tried to do so, he would kill every fucking one of them.

Masterlist of Series

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How did you all like the reunion, even though it wasn't much of one? I'm glad we got more of a look into Daemon and the reader's very unhealthy relationship. Don't we all want a daddy like him, though?

I always like to remind people that Alicent's relationship with the reader is a mirror reflecting on her. This raises the philosophical question: If you were faced with your actions of the past and present, would you like them? Would you still support and commit to them again? Or would you hate them, hate what you've done, hate that it's you that you're seeing, and refuse to accept it?

Well, anyway, thank you for reading and your unwavering devotion. I hope you will stick with me through my literary journey, even when I finish this story and move on to the next.

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