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peachesofteal · 4 months

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Simple Math / Part Six

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4k words - AO3 Warnings - tags: 18+ MDNI. No smut but this fic contains mature themes. Nurse reader, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies. Reference to past domestic violence. Angst. Alcohol. Crying, anxiety, panic. Johnny in distress. Johnny is still a menace. Soft dads. POV switches. Note: Safe sleep for infants always. I do not endorse sleeping with your baby in your bed. This is a fic not real life. Simon does some digging.

“Shhh now, ye’re alright.”

Johnny coos, Penny cradled up to his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt, eyes still half sealed shut with sleep, and she squalls in his arms, screaming as loud as her little lungs will allow. “What is it, mah wee lamb? Are ye hungry? Do ye need a change?” He checks her nappy, efficiently looking for a mess or something to clean up and is nearly disappointed when he finds her still dry. If it’s not her nappy, then maybe her stomach? Could she be hungry again? He thumbs through the notes on his phone to find Simon’s last entry: 23:20 – 50 ML.

That was only an hour ago.

He frowns, walking in a circle, bouncing her gently, trying to settle her back to sleep. She’s so tiny, and still has grown so much in just the short time since they brought her home. It amazes him. It terrifies him.

“What is it, sweet bairn? What’s got ye all upset?” He touches his lips to softest skin he’s ever felt, his thumb trying to swipe away the tracks of tears on her cheeks. “Please dinnae cry. I-“

“You okay?” Simon clears his throat behind him, and Johnny tenses.

“We’re fine. Ye’re supposed to be sleepin’.”

“Heard the two of you in here fussing. Thought I could help.” Simon’s trying to be supportive, trying to be a good partner, Johnny knows, but all he can feel is irritation, a defensive reaction making his hackles rise.

It’s not fair. He’s so good at it. He’s a natural. And Johnny… Johnny feels like he’s failing his own kid, when she’s not even a month old yet.

“I dinnae need-“

“Hey.” Simon touches his elbow, and then his chin, tilting his face upwards. “I know you don’t, love. You’re doing a great job. It’s not your fault she’s having a rough go.” He soothes him, fingers kneading into the top of his spine, squeezing the nape of his neck and pulling him into his arms. Penny is still crying, but softer now, a low-pitched tone of misery that makes his heart ache, and he feels so overwhelmed, so helpless, staring down at her as she tries desperately to tell him what's wrong, the only way she knows how. He rests his cheek against Simon’s chest, melting into his hold, letting him wrap his arms all way around his waist.

“She hates me.” Johnny grumbles, and Simon presses his mouth to Johnny’s temple in short, succinct kisses.

“She doesn’t. She’s brand new. She can’t hate anything, yet, and certainly not her Da.” He strokes her cheek. “Let’s bring her to bed, see if we can get her down and then one of us can put her back in the crib, alright?” Johnny sighs.

“Alright.”

“What’re you doing after this?”

“Going to bed?” What else would you be doing?

“I’m thinking about going to Jackie’s for a drink… wanna come?” Nia untucks her scrubs, pulling the top up over her head.

“Jackie’s, huh?” You chew on your lip. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But… Jackie’s is a dive. It’s dark, and dingy, with black walls, black floors, no window in sight. And... it’s a hospital haunt.

“It’s my birthday.” She whispers, casting a glance around the rest of the room. “I’m not… it’s not a thing, I just want to go, have a few to celebrate.” You take a deep breath. “Please?” She tacks on at the end, and your shoulders dip down in defeat.

“Okay. One. And then I gotta go.”

“Yes!” She cheers, excitement smashing her palms together.

Nothing like a seven am beer.

Jackie’s is a distinct place. It’s one of the only twenty-four-hour liquor licenses left in the city, or so you’ve been told, and has been frequented by hospital staff for decades. It’s dart boards and dark wood floors, cheap beer and rail vodka, a worn to hell pool table, and an old, disabled juke box that someone broke intentionally, years ago. It’s an institution, and reminds you of some old places you used to frequent, when you weren’t… who you are now. Years ago, before, you used to love a good dive bar. Didn’t mind the way the floor stuck to your feet, and you considered yourself nearly tactical at darts. It was a source of pride, the accuracy, the rate at which you could make a bullseye, even when you were a few sheets to the wind.

“Coulda been a surgeon.” You’d tease, a smirk growing across your boyfriend’s face.

“If you were a surgeon, sugar, who’d be at home waitin’ for me after work?” He’d push back, coating the warning in an adoration, giving whoever was undoubtedly watching a slick smile before snaking an arm around your waist and tugging you close. “You don’t need to be surgeon. You don’t even need to work. You have me.”

You thought you knew, then. Knew how to handle it, how to navigate the ever-present, ever-growing threat… but you were wrong.

You were so, so wrong.

“So, heard there’s a spot opening up on days.” Nia chucks her purse at the bar top, climbing onto the stool next to you. “You’ve got the seniority… you givin’ it any thought?” The bartender walks by with a hello, and you nod at him.

“Old Speck please. And no, I like nights.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know Americans liked Old Speck.”

“We have it in the states. I didn’t live under a rock.” You quip, and she laughs before ordering her own poison, a choice that makes your own eyebrows shoot up in question. “Vodka on the rocks?”

“I’m a straight to the point kind of girl.” She explains. “So, no days?”

“No days. You?”

“I might. Night shift is kicking my ass.” She complains. “Don’t even know what day it is half the time. My rhythm is off.”

“You need like, at least six months to fully adjust.” You put a note down in exchange for your beer, and then the bartender scuttles away, distracted by some insistent woman at the other end of the bar.

“Six months?!” You’re about to launch into your spiel about how it’s not that bad when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

>Make it home from work alright?

>It’s Johnny, by the way :)

The two texts are the start of a new group chat with your number, Johnny’s number and the number you put in your contacts just yesterday… Simon’s. Your head jerks back on instinct, confused.

“You okay?” Nia asks, and you nod.

“Yeah, fine just…uh-“ She peeks over your arm, and giggles.

“Is that your patient? Two sixty-eight?”

“What?”

“Your patient. The military hottie. The one that’s always lookin’ at your bum.” Your face burns, and she tsks. “Ah, don’t be embarrassed. He’s smokin’. Wish he looked at me the way he looks at you.” You’re surprised at the flare of irritation that starts up in your stomach at her, a hot streak of jealously simmering there, burning away indignantly. “Aren’t they… I mean… isn’t the scary mask guy his partner?” He’s not scary, you scowl inwardly. He’s just… protective. The butterflies in your stomach startle, and you drift back to last night, in the stairwell, in the car.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

“If you ever need anything, Johnny and I… we’re here.”

Nia says your name, dragging you back to earth, and you shrug. “Yes… they… they’re together. It’s just been hard on them, so I think there’s a bit of an attachment growing there. You know, it’s not unusual.” She bites her lip, mouth pushing up into a smile.

“They’re quite fit. Wouldn’t mind if they formed an attachment to me.” She pauses, delicately sucking her gasoline on ice up through a straw. “Gonna text him back?”

“Nia.” You hiss, and she barks out a laugh.

“Oh, come on, just a bit of fun. I don’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s not appropriate.” You remind her, and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a stick in the mud sometimes. Remember when Marshall was fucking his brain cancer girl? Now that, was not appropriate.” You do remember- Marshall’s sudden absence, the whispering, the HR investigation that spanned weeks, interviews with everyone on the floor.

Your beer goes sour in your stomach.

“I gotta get home.” You wrap an arm around her shoulder with a squeeze and a whisper. “Happy Birthday.” You feel bad for abandoning her, and maybe in another life you might even consider her a friend, but you’re already too exposed here as it is, and staying any longer would be too indulgent- not to mention, incredibly stupid.

You pass another nurse on the way out and him know that Nia’s at the bar, alleviating your guilt just a tad before you hike up your hood and make a beeline for the train.

By the time you get back to your hotel room, get showered, and collapse on top of the far too big bed, it’s nearly been an hour. You plug your phone in, unlocking the screen to flick on do not disturb, and realize the group message is still open, cursor blinking, waiting for your response.

It’s fine. You can tell you got home okay, that’s not crossing any lines.

>Yeah, just got settled for bed. See you later!

A text from Simon chimes back within a minute, and you squint at it, one eye open.

>Get some rest.

The floor is dead silent at the beginning of your shift.

Nothing beeps or whines or cries, no noise echoes around the corner to where you’re scrolling through Johnny’s chart, getting caught up on his day, triple checking that his levels and vitals are all within normal range. He passed his follow up for the liver procedure with flying colors, and the relief you feel is not unexpected, the weight of worry lifting free from your shoulders without another thought.

He’s fine, he’s better than fine, he’s… too healthy for the ICU.

Reality hits you like a truck, and you stop short, sneakers squeaking along the floor.

He won’t be your patient anymore.

He won’t… be your patient anymore.

The thought twists you into a mess of complicated emotions. A snarled, tangled viper's nest of unknowns, uncertainties, things you're desperately trying to tuck back behind your heart, hide them away so no one, not even yourself, can see them.

This is a good thing. This is what you want. Stable patients, on their way to recovery.

So, you’ll miss them, that’s okay. There’s a little bit attachment, that’s alright.

This is the best case scenario. You’re making a mess of things. You’re getting too involved with your patient and his family. You let Simon drive you home, for fucks sake.

They’re getting confused, because you’re the caretaker. It happens all the time. As soon as Johnny steps down, they’ll forget all about you.

You’re risking too much. You’re risking their safety, their child’s safety, your own.

It’s for the best.

You put your best work smile on when you approach his room, pulling as much air into your lungs as you can manage.

Focus on your job. Your patient. You’re a professional.

Johnny is alone. No Simon, no visitors, nobody keeping him company. It’s a strange sight, and he looks almost uncomfortable, creased brow lowered down over his eyes. That’s… odd. Worse, there’s a heaviness in his gaze, sadness pulling his mouth downwards, usual playful demeanor nowhere in sight. Even sad, he’s a marvel, and every day, he gets stronger, he gets healthier, he gets closer to leaving this room, amazing you with his tenacity, his will.

“Hey, you on your own tonight?” You casually knock on the door frame, and then pull it shut behind you, cocking your head.

“Aye.” He’s sullen, his despair tugging you closer to the bed, an urge to try to comfort him too strong to deny.

“How are you feeling?” You try the subtle question, hoping he'll be forthcoming, and you keep yourself composed as you wait for his answer.

“’m alright.” You tab through his chart, glancing it over once more, if only to assuage your own anxieties, and then tap into his vitals. Everything looks good, last labs look great… so what’s going on?

“Just alright?” His fingers flex in the blanket, tanned skin against white linen, picking at fibers and threads, unable to hold himself still. He looks like he’s going to burst open at the seams, explode inside this room, a ticking time bomb, just waiting for the end of the countdown.

A tear tracks down his cheek. “Johnny?” You step closer, close enough so your fingers graze his, trying to delicately let him know, you’re here. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. What’s going on?” The monitor beeps steadily in the silence, his chest depresses with a gust of air.

“It’s… it’s nothin’ bun. I’m jus’… I’m havin’ a bad day.”

“Want to talk about it? I hear I’m a pretty good listener.” You encourage, and his face twists.

“No, I- Ach. Aye, alright.” He shifts in the bed, and you hover in case he needs help, but he waves you away. “It’s… bein’ in here. I want to be wi’ my family. Penny turned one, before I left for this assignment. Was only supposed to be two weeks tops, but then it turned into a month, then two. And now, I’m home… but ’m not really home, and I-“ His voice cracks, raw thread of agonized emotion separating his words, and he swallows it, forcing it back. “I’m blown to bits and cannae even see my own daughter. I’m missin’ out on everything.” Oh, Johnny. Your heart is heavy, and it hurts for him, bleeds as he wipes his face.

“You’re not blown to bits, just a little banged up.” You give him a soft smile, and when he shakes his head, your fingers find his on instinct. You don’t even stop to second guess yourself, fully sinking into the contact with a gentle squeeze. “Hey, look at me.” His lashes are wet, sticky with tears, and he sniffles. “You’re making great progress, Johnny, going to be out of here in no time. You won’t even be in the ICU much longer, and then once you’re downstairs, Penny will be able to come visit all the time. After that, it won’t be too much longer until you’re back home with them.” He nods, and you stroke your thumb across his knuckles.

“Ye think so?”

“You’re the toughest patient I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a fair amount, you know. Traumatic injury recovery takes time, it takes patience, but you’re doing a great job of it so far. You just have to take it one day at a time. Before you know it, you’ll be at home on your own couch, bossin’ Simon around all day instead of me.” He laughs at that, a throaty chuckle capable of spreading heady warmth through your veins, and then gives you one of those stupidly stunning smiles.

“Shouldnae be cryin’ in front of ye.”

“You can cry in front of me any time you want. That’s what I’m here for. Besides, it’s not the first time.” You tease and he rolls his eyes.

“Doesnae count. I was high.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” The untouched dinner tray on his side table catches your eye, and chilling worry reappears in the back of your mind. “You didn’t eat?”

“Didnae have an appetite until ye showed up, pretty girl.” Okay. You can remedy this easily, if he's interested in eating. Lack of appetite is alarming, but if you can get him to eat now...

“You hungry? I haven’t eaten yet. Want me to grab you something?” He brightens, indulging in a spectacular smile, and you take it as a yes with a small laugh. “Alright. Let me run down to the café, yeah?”

“What’s that saying, about how I hate to see ye go, but love to watch ye leav-“

“Okay!” you practically shout, cutting him off, fire racing across your skin, and he snickers, palm pressing against his heart like he’s wounded. “I’ll be right back.” You give him a serious look, and and he rubs his palm through his hair, mirth sparkling in his eyes. Holy hell. How is he so attractive? And how is it still so blinding, every time?

You get two of the only option left this late in the evening, chicken soup and some sourdough, balancing the bowls carefully on their trays until you’re placing them down in the room, swinging the little table over Johnny’s lap and settling in beside him, perched on Simon’s recliner. The soup is warm, spiced with herbs and thick with noodles, and you're pleased that it's better than you were expecting, happy that Johnny seems to like it as well.

"Wanted to take ye out properly for our first date, but this will have ta’ do. Simon’s gon’ be so bloody jealous.” He masterfully hums between your bites, and your eyes go wide, trying and failing to swallow your soup instead of choking on it.

“Johnny, we… this… I- this isn’t a date!” you squeak.

“Why not?” He asks, inflection innocent, and your brain rattles around inside your skull, splitting down the middle, falling apart in bewilderment. Why not? What does he mean?

“You… you have a partner. Simon? You know, your family that we were literally just talking about?” He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you with this look on his face, one you can’t interpret. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What did Simon tell ye, the other night. When he took ye home?”

“What? He… I don’t remember.” Does he know that Simon gave you his phone number?

Of course, he knows, he started that group text.

Does Simon know what Johnny said, about you coming into their lives? About-

“Didnae he tell ye, we’re here for ye?”

“Y-yeah.”

“We, bunny? We.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” He sighs. What is he trying to say? What is going on?

“We like ye. Like I said, we think ye’re really special. Simon, and I. Together, bun.”

“Wh-what?” Puzzle pieces snap together and then break apart, like a landscape jigsaw that you spent days completing once before it was promptly ruined. Does he... does he mean... Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no. You have to squash this. Now. Just explain it, he’ll get it. He’s smart. “No… no, Johnny it’s just… it’s this thing, that happens. Patients get attached to their nurses or doctors sometimes, it’s normal. You d-don’t like me, I promise. There’s nothing even to like.” He blinks, jaw grinding under stubble. If Simon’s stare feels like he’s reading your mind, then Johnny’s is like being pinned down in one place, unable to move. You’re paralyzed, and powerless, lost in the icy blue sea of his eyes, drowning with a hand sticking out above the crest of the surf, reaching for him.

“Why would ye say that? That there’s nothin’ about ye to like? Nothin’ could be farther from the truth.”

“I don’t… there’s not. It’s… I’m your nurse, Johnny. That’s all.” Sweat glosses the small of your back, slicking upwards to cover your spine, and your heart hammers, it beats, beats, beats- so loudly you’re sure the pulse point in your wrist is visible. “Johnny.” His name shakes from your lips, and he relaxes, gentle concern replacing the relentless intensity in his gaze.

“Shhh, hey. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didnae mean to upset ye.” You're still frozen, a statue, and he reaches for you, trying to grab onto your hand. The heat of his skin breaks you from the spell, and you force a robotic, bedside smile onto your face, scooping up your half empty bowl.

"It's okay." You need to get out of this room. Now. The walls feel too close, Johnny feels too close, everything is compounding on top of you, threatening to derail your entire life, ruin your plan. They cannot like you. They cannot care about you. They cannot show interest in you. You can’t let this happen. “I’ve gotta check on some other patients, okay? I’ll swing back your way in a bit.” You promise him, guilt eating you alive about running away, and when he gives you a sad smile, you almost lose your resolve.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ll see ye later, then.” He murmurs, and you try not to trip over feet during your hasty exit.

Fuck. You’re so fucked.

Simon and Johnny’s house is finally silent.

Penny is down, safely tucked into dream world, her grainy grey-scale image flickering on the video monitor at Simon as he pours two fingers worth of bourbon into a glass.

Poor baby girl. His stomach twists. She put up such a fight tonight, hollering at the top of her lungs, standing up in her crib, working herself into an absolute state. He hates leaving her alone to cry, and on nights like this one, the only way she’ll close her eyes is if she’s being held, snuggled in Johnny's arms, or against Simon's chest.

He’s a sucker, he knows. Doomed from the day she was born, but he can’t help it. Neither of them can. She’s their baby.

So, he doesn’t blame her for being so out of sorts. She always sleeps better when her Da is home. They both do.

His phone vibrates with a text, a short message from Johnny, and he scrolls through it, settling on the couch with his laptop, unopened email from Laswell blinking impatiently.

>She’s jumpy. Tired. Looks like she hasn’t gotten any sleep. Simon frowns.

> She manage to find a pair of panties for work today?

>Unfortunately. He can practically see the pout on Johnny’s lips, can hear the way he probably huffed and puffed when you first came into the room this evening, your hips swishing side to side, pretty smile on your face for him.

>I think I made her upset. Simon pinches the bridge of his nose. Johnny, love. Why can’t you listen? He takes a deep breath, trying to relax the worry that’s creeping up the back of his neck.

Disagreements aren’t for text messages. They’ve learned that the hard way.

>Take it easy for the rest of the night, then. She’s skittish. He shoots off the recommendation, and then pulls his laptop across his knee, clicking open the email from Kate.

Simon, Your girl is a ghost. This kind of wipe work is professional level… are you sure she’s a nurse? I’ve attached everything I could find, but it’s pretty scarce. The name you provided pulled a copy of her NHS nursing license, her taxes, an award she won at work last year, and a COVID vaccination record. No birth certificate, state identification, or public records of any kind, even after a global hand search. Nothing that even proves she exists or is an American except a sealed record from two years ago in the states. It’s not accessible, even for me, which means it could be WITSEC, or a court ordered name change in relation to a domestic violence case. There are 18 states that seal those records to protect the victim, so she could be from anywhere. My gut says it’s probably the latter, which is why she doesn’t exist prior to. You’ll notice on the vaccine record, she marked ‘unhoused’, and I couldn’t find any lease/rental agreements, sale records, or mortgages in her name. I wish I had more for you, but she really is a bit of a puzzle. I’ll keep digging. -K.L.

There’s an unsettling rattle going off in the front of Simon’s skull. It’s a siren, a smattering of warning bells, and he swallows the rest of the bourbon in one go, embracing the burn that slides down the back of his throat.

Who are you, little bunny? And who are you running from?

#peaches writes #simple math #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #ghost x reader x soap #soap x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader x ghost

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patheticdarling · 1 year

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A Whole New Beast

Summary: Reader and her husband Prince Aemond had, to one another’s knowledge, never given much thought to kids but what happens when Aemond sees how well his wife is with Aegon and Helaena’s new child but also, vice versa.

Warnings: (pretty soft &romantic) smut/breeding kink/mentions of pregnancy/described childbirth/unprotected sex/oral (f receiving)/fingering (f receiving)/kissing/exhibitionism? (public sex)/use of high valyrian (i just love the way it sounds especially in regards to aemond hehe)/parental insecurity/drinking (ofc w aegon, there always is)

Word Count: 3675

*NOT MY GIF*

“Lady Y/N, the Princess Helaena has requested your presence in her chambers immediately,” one of Helaena’s handmaidens had found you on your morning walk in the gardens.

Your face grew worrisome at the handmaiden’s words as you followed her out of the gardens. Helaena was due to give birth to her third child any day now and you feared something horrible might have happened.

Helaena’s handmaiden pushed open the doors, you saw Helaena on her bed with the Maester between her legs as she cried softly.

“Helaena!” you rushed to her side, grabbing her hand, “Are you alright?”

She moved to speak before, what you assumed, was another contraction passed as she winced, “I’m fine,” she sighed as it moved through her, “I just did not wish to be alone.”

“Where is Aegon?” you shouldn’t have expected him to be here, at least not by his own will. When Helaena had given birth to Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, Queen Alicent had forced him to be there and demanded that he be at his wife’s side as she brought his children into the world.

“Mother did not command him to be here this time around,” Helaena spoke through rugged breaths.

“Would you like me to order the guards to fetch your mother?” you moved to do so.

“No,” Helaena snatched you back by your hand, “I only wish for you to be here, good sister.”

You smiled at her kind words, pushing away some of the hair that stuck to her forehead, “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded, smiling tiredly. She readjusted her grip on your hand, tightening it as the Maester’s and midwives encouraged her to push.

“Once more, Princess. We can see the babe’s head,” one of her midwives spoke. Helaena’s nails dug into your hand as she screamed, pushing with what seemed to be all her might.

“AHHHHH!” you could’ve sworn her cries shook the walls of every chamber in the Red Keep.

Suddenly the air was filled with sweet cries and shrieks as the Maester pulled the baby from Helaena.

“A boy, Princess,” the midwife announced, quickly wiping away the birth matter before placing the squalling bundle into Helaena’s tired arms.

She smiled sweetly at the small boy, “Is he healthy?”

“As can be,” the Maester answered, “Congratulations, Princess.”

You kissed your sister-in-law’s head, “Well done, Helaena. He’s beautiful. Have you got a name for him yet?”

“Aegon wanted to name him Maelor,” she caressed the sleeping infant’s face, “Do you wish to hold him, Y/N?”

“I would be honoured,” you grinned softly before Helaena passed the baby into your arms, “Well, aren’t you a handsome one, Prince Maelor?” he stirred a bit as you rocked him before you cooed him back to sleep.

One of her handmaidens came through the doors, “Prince Aegon, the Queen, and Prince Aemond, my Princess.”

You assisted Helaena to sit up as the three entered the room. Queen Alicent smiled proudly as she moved to her daughter’s bedside.

“My sweet love,” she kissed her daughter’s cheek, Helaena giving a half-smile in return, “I do hope your labours were not too painful.”

Helaena shook her head, “Faster than the first time. But still excruciatingly painful.”

You laughed softly at her words, “Prince Aegon, don’t you wish to be introduced to your son?” you raised a brow.

Aegon sighed deeply before moving to his wife’s bedside, looking at the baby in your arms.

“Another son,” Aegon spoke. He merely watched as you passed the bundle to the Queen so that she might get a better look at her grandson.

“Yes, my Prince. Your wife has done an excellent job,” you spoke rather coarsely to him. Aegon wasn’t a good person, let alone a good husband, and Helaena wasn’t just your sister-in-law but your friend and you never cared for the way Aegon treated her.

“You might wish to hold your son, brother,” Aemond suggested.

Aegon cleared his throat, “Oh- of course,” you looked to Helaena first, she was reluctant at first before giving a nod of approval before you took the boy from the Queen and handed him over to Aegon.

The baby didn’t look right in his arms but there was nothing you could do about it. He was the father after all. You smiled again at Helaena before finally moving to your husband’s side.

“The boy’s name?” the Queen asked.

“Maelor,” Helaena answered.

Queen Alicent smiled at her daughter, “Excellent choice. I assume the two of you would like some privacy?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aegon answered, “I’ve got matters that need attending to.” He handed the baby back to Helaena in haste.

“Matters more important than the birth of your son?” you questioned.

Aegon’s jaw tensed at your comment, his fist curling as he tried to take a step towards you, “What was that, Y/N?”

You moved to speak before Aemond stepped in, “Careful, brother.”

Both brothers moved towards one another before Queen Alicent stepped in, “Not here. This is about Helaena and the babe.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Your Grace,” you spoke up, pulling Aemond back to your side.

Queen Alicent nodded at you before turning to Helaena, “My husband may do as he pleases. I only wish for Y/N and Aemond to be here.”

The Queen shifted uncomfortably at her daughter’s words, “As you wish, my love.” she stroked Helaena’s hair, “Come along, Aegon.”

Aegon did not hesitate to leave as fast as he could, not even waiting politely for his mother. Queen Alicent said her goodbyes before making her way out of Helaena’s chambers.

You took Aemond’s hand, leading him to Helaena’s bedside, “Their energy was bad for the baby. Aegon stunk of wine, he left it on Maelor’s blanket.”

“Shall we have one of the midwives change it?” Aemond asked his sister.

Helaena shook her head, “I don’t want anyone else touching him beside you or Y/N.”

You could see how tired the poor girl was, “Helaena,” you took her hand, “Maybe you should find some sleep. You’ve exhausted yourself heroically this morning.”

Helaena took a deep breath before nodding, “Will you two be alright looking after him while I do?”

“Of course,” you nodded, “We’ll just be over in the nursery. The minute you wake, we’ll bring Maelor back.”

“Thank you,” she smiled as she handed the baby over to you.

You scooped him into your arms. Helaena attempted to make herself comfortable, “Here, let me help,” you offered before turning to give Aemond the baby, “Take him.”

Aemond had never given off the fatherly type but he knew his sister had only entrusted him and his wife. So he nodded before awkwardly taking the baby into his arms. While you adjusted Helaena’s pillows and settled her into bed.

“Sleep well, sister,” Aemond spoke softly as Helaena waved us goodbye. You and Aemond left her chambers quietly so as to not wake the sleeping infant. “Shouldn’t you take him?”

“You that scared of him?” you giggled as you took the baby from Aemond’s arms, “Rides the biggest dragon in the world and is scared of his infant nephew.”

Aemond scoffed, “I am not scared. He’s just too delicate.”

“You won’t hurt him,” you smiled at your husband as you entered the nursery.

“Seems as though the handmaidens already fastened a cradle in here,” Aemond nodded over to the bassinet in the corner.

“Let’s see if he likes it then,” you walked over and placed your newborn nephew into the crib. He was still fast asleep after you tucked him in. “Seems he does,” you kissed his head as he slept soundly.

You and Aemond stood over the sleeping boy for a while, just listening to his soft little breaths and snores.

“How could your brother bare to be away from him by choice?” you finally spoke, breaking the silence.

“Aegon has never been built for responsibility,” Aemond answered, “I mean, the only reason he was there when the twins were born was because Mother forced him to be.”

You shook your head at the thought, “Hopefully all three are more like Helaena than they are like him.”

Aemond sighed, “Gods be good.”

“They’re such beautiful things. Babies that is. Not a bad thing about them. Just pure innocence and joy.”

“Born into such a corrupt world. Makes you think twice about having them.”

“And you have?” Aemond raised his brow at your question, “Thought about having them?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“Really? Why have you never said anything?”

Aemond tensed a bit before clearing his throat, “Has the thought ever crossed your mind?”

“Of course, it has, Aemond. From the moment a girl comes of age and even before that, they are told about the so-called miracle of childbirth. Though after seeing what Helaena went through, definitely a load of sheep shit.”

Aemond chuckled lightly, “And what are your thoughts exactly?”

You let out a deep breath, “The idea of having one or two seems nice. What about you?”

He paused before saying anything, “I don’t think I’m fit to be a father.” Aemond moved away from the crib, towards the windows of the nursery that faced the horizon over Blackwater Bay.

“What in Seven Hells are you talking about?” you followed him over.

Aemond shook his head, “Look at me. A one-eyed man whom everyone in all of the Seven Kingdoms is terrified to look at. A monster.”

You sighed before resting your hand on the scarred side of his face and pushing it to face you, “You are not a monster. You are my husband. A Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. A fine warrior. A dragon rider. A poet and a scholar. All of this and more. But most importantly, Aemond, you’re a good man.”

“Do you wish to have children with me, Y/N?”

“More than anything, Aemond,” you smiled proudly.

Aemond finally exchanged a similar one, “Then children we shall have. Though we may need some more practice first.”

Aemond took a step towards you, one of his hands falling to your waist while the other cupped your face. He leaned forward, both of your eyes fluttering shut. Until the soft whimpering that came from the cradle pulled you both away.

You moved to comfort Maelor before Aemond stopped you, stepping towards the crib himself and picking up the softly crying baby.

“Shhh,” Aemond cooed, “It’s alright little one.” You smiled softly as he began to rock himself and the baby, continuously cooing to him.

There was a knock at the nursery door, “Come in. Quietly please,” you instructed.

Helaena’s handmaiden entered, “My lady, my prince,” she curtsied, “The princess is awake and wishes for her child to be returned to her.”

“Of course,” you nodded. You walked to Aemond, “Want me to take him?”

“I’ve got him,” he answered, his eye still fixated on the sleeping boy.

You kissed Maelor’s head then Aemond’s cheek, “Let’s get him back then.”

The three of you returned to Helaena’s chambers. She appeared to have bathed and rested from her current looks.

She looked at you questioningly as you were the first to enter the room, “Where’s Maelor?”

Aemond had finally entered the room, the sweet bundle still fast asleep in his arms, “No need to fret, sister.”

Helaena smiled softly as Aemond handed her son back to her, “Thank you both for looking after him.”

“We’d be happy to do it whenever you’d like, Helaena. He’s a sweet boy,” you grinned, “Sweet enough that he even wooed your brother over.”

She nodded at her brother, “A dragon of spring.”

You and Aemond exchanged glances, Helaena had always been known to say peculiar things. You thought it must be related to her labours so you both just smiled at her.

“We’ll let you two have some alone time,” you smiled, “Come, husband. Let’s go for a walk in the gardens.”

Aemond nodded as the two of you exchanged goodbyes with his sister and the new prince before heading off toward the gardens.

The sun was still shining as you took your stroll, stopping to sniff and observe the different flowers and plants. Aemond plucked one, placing it behind your ear as you started to walk toward the more secluded areas of the gardens.

Aemond’s hand stayed on your face, seeming to admire you, “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered softly.

You caressed the scar on his face again, “As are you, my love.”

Aemond wasted no time in pulling your lips to his, both of you moaning softly at the combined softness and neediness that filled the kiss. It seemed after your earlier conversation Aemond was now making haste as his lips trailed down your face and neck.

“Aemond,” you panted softly as he began to undo the lacing on the back of your dress, “We could be seen.”

“Then let them. I don’t plan to let you out of this garden before I’ve filled you with my seed.”

Your body trembled at his words as he managed to pull your dress down. Before he continued, he pulled off his coat, laying it onto the floor and throwing his belt off as well before pushing you down softly to rest on the softer material.

“Gods,” you moaned quietly as Aemond wrapped his lips around one of your hardening nipples while his hand toyed with the other.

He groaned around it before pulling off and switching his attention to the other, mimicking his earlier motions. While your hands slid between the two of you, untucking his tunic from his trousers. Your fingers then undoing the clasp before nudging them down.

“Seems you’re not too worried about being caught now, are you?” Aemond teased.

“Please, just fuck me.”

“In time, my darling,” Aemond smirked before moving in between your legs, bunching your dress in the middle while he removed your stockings and knickers, “Gods be good,” he moaned as he began kissing up your thighs.

“A-Aemond,” your voice quivered a bit as he licked, bit, and kissed up and down your legs.

Getting as close as he could to your pussy, which had to have been dripping by now from all of Aemond’s teasing. He finally locked his lips around your sensitive clit, sucking it as two of his fingers teased your entrance. Your fingers made their way into his hair, attempting to tug on it but the band of his eye patch continued to get in the way. So you began to undo the leather, Aemond made no effort to stop you as you did so. He was only focused on pleasuring you as much as he could.

Once the eye patch was removed, your fingers could now properly grip his hair which only encouraged Aemond in his assault. You bucked and twitched at his touch. Your back arching as your orgasm continued to build in your stomach. Aemond could feel you clench around his fingers, knowing you’d be finishing sooner than later.

“F-Fucking hells,” you moaned louder as he sped up his movements, “Gods- fuck- Aemond!” Your climax ripped through you as you coated Aemond’s porcelain face with your juices. You were attempting to catch your breath before Aemond rose from between your legs and laid a hard kiss on you.

“I love the way you taste,” he sighed as he pulled away, his now exposed sapphire eye gleaming beautifully along with the dampened part of his face. You smiled, still coming out of your post-orgasmic haze, “I read somewhere that a woman is more likely to conceive after an orgasm.”

“Thank the Gods you like to read,” you panted. Aemond chuckled before kissing you again, this time one of his hands fell between you, pulling his trousers down and finally exposing his completely hardened and leaking cock.

He teased your hole a bit with the tip, not pushing in all the way on account of you recovering, “Whenever you’re ready, my love.”

You took in another deep breath before nodding, “Please, Aemond.”

You didn’t have to beg much before Aemond began pushing his cock in. The wetness provided by your first orgasm made it all that much easier. You let out synchronized groans as he bottomed out, the tip of his cock pressing your cervix.

“Gods-fucking hell,” Aemond moaned in your ear as you both adjusted to the feeling of one another.

“Aemond, m-move,” you whimpered in his ear.

Aemond heeded your pathetic-sounding demands and began to thrust over and over. He started slow at first but after hearing the noises you emitted and the way your body reacted every time he sped up, his pace became relentless. The visceral sounds of skin slapping, heavy breathing, and combined moans filled the gardens that surrounded the two of you.

The tightening sensation in your stomach was back, “G-Gonna cum again,” you panted.

“Fuck, I’m nearly there,” Aemond groaned. His pace continuously sped up as you both now chased your orgasms. He leaned his head down, pressing your foreheads together as your climaxes neared.

“I love you,” you whimpered as Aemond pounded into you.

Aemond grunted, your sweet words only encouraging him, “I love you. Can’t wait to put a fucking baby in you. Watch you swell with my child. Let everyone in the Seven Kingdoms know you belong to me.”

And just like that both of you erupted into a string of moans and vile words. If no one had heard the two of you yet, there was no chance they could’ve denied that. Aemond’s cum completely filled your cunt, dripping out around his cock as he was still inside you.

Aemond panted as he thrust his last few times before kissing your forehead and slowly pulling out. You both winced at the absence of one another as Aemond lay next to you on the coat.

He pulled you to him, both of you relaxing in the others’ grasp, “Think this one will take?”

Aemond sighed, “Gods, I hope so. Still,” he leaned on his arm so he could look down at you, “If it doesn’t, that means I can still fuck you like this,” you both smiled before kissing softly, “And if it does, I’ll still fuck you like this.”

NEARLY A YEAR LATER...

“Push, my lady, push!” one of your midwives encouraged.

“I am pushing, you stupid cunt!” you yelled as the pain surged through your body.

“Was I this violent during my labours?” Helaena asked as she continued to grip your hand.

Aemond smirked from the other side of you, your other hand in his grip, “That’s my child inside her. A true dragon.”

“Both of you, shut the- AHHHHH!”

“I can see the head,” the Maester spoke from between your legs, “One last push, my lady.”

You practically roared as you pushed with every last bit you had left in you. The relief overcame you as you felt your child come out and their soft wails fill the room.

“A boy,” the midwife spoke as she quickly wiped off your baby before placing him in your arms, “As healthy as can be. Praise the Mother.”

You sobbed softly as you tiredly rocked the infant, “Shh, it’s alright, my little love.”

“You have a son, my prince. Congratulations to the both of you,” the Maester smiled as he and the midwives cleaned up.

Aemond’s gaze could not be taken away from his son or his wife, pure adoration for the both of them.

“He’s beautiful,” Helaena commented, “A dragon of spring,” she wiped the sweat-clad hair from your forehead.

Your handmaiden returned, “The Queen and Prince Aegon,” she introduced. Aemond’s family joined the room. The Queen moved to the bed. Aegon preferring to stay by the table, coincidentally where the wine was kept.

“Boy or girl?” she asked.

“A healthy boy, Your Grace,” you smiled tiredly. Your son had small wisps of the signature Targaryen silver hair decorating the top of his head.

Queen Alicent grinned proudly, “Congratulations.” She kissed Aemond’s head, then yours, then the babe’s. “Does he have a name yet?”

“Daeron,” Aemond answered, “It means the great little one which is exactly what he is.”

“He’s perfect,” the Queen spoke softly, “Reminds me of Aemond. Such a small thing.”

Helaena rose, “We should give them their time.”

The Queen nodded, “I agree, sweet girl. Come along.” Aegon tossed back his goblet of wine before moving to follow his wife and mother out of the chambers.

“Brother,” Aemond called after him, his gaze still not moving from his new family.

“What is it?” Aegon groaned.

“I shall let it pass this once but if I ever see you drinking or drunk around my son, I will cut your tongue out so that you cannot taste the ale anymore.”

No one said a word as Aegon just nodded quickly before practically running after Helaena and the Queen.

“I will not allow drunken idiots around him,” Aemond explained, “Even if he is my brother.”

You chucked lightly, “Fair enough, my prince.”

Aemond continued to admire your son, “Might I?”

“Of course,” Aemond helped you to sit up to make the hand-off easier, “Though,” you reached your hand towards his head, pulling off the eye patch, “you should meet your son as you truly are.”

Aemond gave a light smile before you handed him Daeron, “It’s scary how perfect he is.”

“I know,” you sighed, “Takes after his father.”

“Not in the slightest,” Aemond kissed the side of your cheek, “Well done, my brave girl.”

“Ao'll emagon naejot bodmagho zirȳla Valyrīha. Sepār hae ao gōntan syt aōha ābrazȳrys.” You'll have to teach him Valyrian. Just as you did for your wife.

Aemond nodded, “Indeed, ñuha jorrāelagon. Issa iā Targārien Dārilaros tolī mirre.” Indeed, my love. He is a Targaryen Prince after all.

“I love you, Aemond.”

His eye finally moved to meet yours, “I love you.”

“And you,” you pulled the swaddle away from your son’s face and kissed it softly, “I love you too.”

“Īlon both gaomagon. Tolī than mirros, ñuha tresy.” We both do. More than anything, my son.

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

Text

ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 11: Visitors

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

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

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

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

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

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture.

You are startled awake by the sound of crying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhaenar’s whimpers begin anew below you.

“Oh, kepus…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you have—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanna see.”

“Luke—”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t call me that!”

“Get off me,” Jace grumbles.

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

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

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

Your gut twists low at the reminder of Laena.

Lying abed in a pool of blood—

“I thought I was going to die—”

Face ashen and bloodless, frozen forevermore—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, dear. Not now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As long as needs be. Give it time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brow raises. “Now?”

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

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

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

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

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

Daemon appears to think so, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffs. “Hardly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Highness! Your Highness!”

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

Daemon scowls. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Read it on AO3:

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

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

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I really love you aemond fics!! The angst always on point, so I have a request you can reject it.

After the birth of thier child who doesn't hold targaryen features, aemond doubts his wife, and his mother doesn't help ease his doubts. He refuses to see her or even be in the same room, which makes the reader falls into depression it wasn't until the babe was few months old and able to open their eyes probably that the violet targaryen eyes are shown. He hears it from her personal maid and then tries to redeem himself after seeing the state she has fallen into, feeling great guilt because of his mistrust to her.

Sorry if it's too long and thank you!

Woof, nonnie, you're going straight for the jugular with this request.

I hope you don't mind, but I've altered this slightly to fit with the headcanons I have for Aemond. Drabble below the gif and cut. This is SFW, but still 18+.

You cried, tears of relief and exhaustion rolling down your cheeks as you fell back into the pillows. Finally able to relax, hours of painful and intensive labour were at an end as the nursemaids worked to remove the afterbirth and wrap your squalling bundle.

Aemond ceased his anxious pacing as the babe was placed into your waiting arms. Striding towards the bed and seating himself on the edge of it, he placed his arms around you protectively, kissing the crown of your head. "You did so well, my love, I'm proud of you."

"Congratulations, Prince and Princess, you have a healthy baby girl." smiled the nursemaid.

You beamed up at your husband, as you cradled your newborn daughter to your chest.

The look of adoration and wonder shone bright in Aemond's violet eye as he gazed down at the infant. "We will call her Alysanne" he whispered.

You smiled, offering a tired "hmmm" in agreement. You eyes were heavy with impending sleep.

"I will let you rest, my love", Aemond said softly, placing a delicate kiss to your temple, "I must tell my mother the wonderful news. Avy jorrāelan." I love you.

Aemond had a spring in his step as he walked the corridors of the Red Keep towards his mother's apartments. He was a father, surely there was nothing that could sully this happy feeling?

Chatter from the courtyard below caused his ears to prickle, and he stopped in his tracks, lingering behind a pillar to mask his presence as he eavesdropped.

"I just can't imagine wanting to couple with...him..." a lady's voice said, full of disgust.

"I know!" the other assented, "Imagine having to look upon that marred face. It would make me sick."

"I shouldn't imagine that princess does look upon him much. Who would want to?"

"Yes, it's highly unlikely the babe is his. A bastard, I reckon."

Aemond had heard enough. Bile rose in his throat, as his heart hammered wildly in his chest. The search for his mother forgotten, he found his legs carrying him back towards your bed chambers.

Insecurity fuelled his actions. You'd never given Aemond any reason to doubt your love or devotion for him. If anything, you were slightly over eager to perform your marital duties and Aemond basked in the attention you rained down upon him.

There was always a niggling doubt in the back of his mind though. "She can do better. She deserves someone whole."

He swept back into the room, regarding you coldly, as he stood at the foot of the bed.

You paused your rocking of your fussing infant and looked up questioningly at your husband.

"Is she mine?" he demanded.

Aemond regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, seeing the hurt expression that crumpled your soft features.

"How can you ask such a thing?!" you gasped, holding Alysanne protectively to your chest, as if to shield her from the insinuation his question carried.

He felt his heart twist urgently in his chest as he struggled to find the words to placate you. "I..."

"Leave us!" you snapped, hot tears scalded the rims of your tired eyes.

Aemond felt as though his very soul was being torn from his body, he reached forward, desperate to comfort you in your fragile state.

"I said leave us!" you all but screamed, tears now flowing hotly down your cheeks. Your daughter wailed in your arms.

Aemond turned, downtrodden, and walked away. "What the fuck have I just done?" he thought to himself.

After a few hours riding on Vhagar, Aemond returned to the Red Keep with a sense of clarity and deep regret.

He slipped quietly into your bedchambers. You were asleep, unsurprisingly. The hour was late and your labours had left you exhausted.

Baby Alysanne lay gurgling in her cradle beside you. As he gazed down at the babe, the pale moonlight reflected the vibrant lilac hue of her doubtless Targaryen eyes. He hated himself for ever questioning her parentage. For questioning your loyalty.

He gingerly reached into the cradle, stroking a gentle hand over his baby daughter. A lone tear tracked its way down his cheek as she grasped his index finger in her little fist.

"ñuha byka zaldrīzes, iksan sīr vaoreznuni", he whispered. My tiny dragon, I am so sorry.

You awoke as the sun was rising, bleary eyed and waiting for the room to swim back into focus. Confused as to why you hadn't been awoken by the cries of your daughter.

The sight that finally met your eyes when you eventually sat up immediately melted your heart, all anger you'd felt for Aemond the previous day dissipated.

He sat slumped in an armchair beside the bed, dozing as Alysanne lay sleeping soundly on his chest. One of his large hands was splayed protectively across her back as she nuzzled into his neck.

You were unable to stop the happy tears that flowed freely and your sniffles startled Aemond from his light slumber.

Slowly and with much care he lifted baby Alysanne from him, placing her back in her cradle and moving to sit beside you on the bed.

"I am so sorry", he whispered, his voice mere moments from cracking, as he pulled you into his arms.

"All is forgiven, my love," you stroked his hair to soothe him, "I know you did not mean it, but why ever did you say it?"

He inhaled a shuddering breath, before pulling away from you and cupping your face as he looked earnestly into your eyes. "I overheard some common folk yesterday saying how awful it must be for you to have to lay with me and I am ashamed to say I let my own thoughts get the better of me."

"Oh, Aemond", you whimpered, "How can you let anyone make you think that? You know there is no one I would rather have as my husband than you. No one I love more."

"I know", he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead, "And I will never doubt you again."

"Good", you quipped, pressing forward to capture his lips with yours. When you finally broke apart you whispered, "And if you tell me who these common folk were, I will have them fed to Vhagar."

He chuckled drily. "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha nēdenka zaldrīzes." I love you, my fierce dragon.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen x reader

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threadbaresweater · 1 year

Text

lullaby

Having a baby takes a toll on any relationship, even if you’re married to the Satoru Gojo. When your sex life starts to suffer, you have to take advantage of any moment you may have to be intimate, no matter how fleeting.

The details: 1.2k words. Gojo x female reader; reader is insecure about her body after having a baby; mentions of breastfeeding, stretch marks; vaginal fingering, intercourse. Minors please don't interact.

Nearly four months ago, you gave birth to a daughter. You and Gojo had managed to have sex successfully three times since then– successful meaning both of you were able to get off. Other attempts were made, but rarely found due to the demands of new parenthood. You had resorted to heavy petting in the kitchen while he attempted to made breakfast, dry humping in the laundry room when you bent to pick up a basket of clothes, or quick blowjobs behind the bathroom door in a rare moment of peace.

Satoru was suffering. And you were too, if you were being honest with yourself. Breasts that were either painfully swollen and leaking with milk or frumpy and deflated after a feeding; a flabby abdomen that was taking longer than you would have liked to tone back to its normal appearance. Lack of proper sleep. Mood swings. Exhaustion. Of course, you had little time to work out these days, and your appetite had doubled.

Breastfeeding made you hungry.

But time and time again– while stealing playful kisses in the hall as you swayed with a squalling infant in your arms at two in the morning, or sneaking into the shower to help your wash your hair while the baby snoozed in her bassinet– he reminded and reassured you that you were sexy, you were beautiful, and most importantly, you had given him a daughter. And if your body never fully recovered, he would love you just the same. And in these intimate, quiet moments when it was just the two of you, bodies pressed together beneath cool, cotton sheets, he wanted to show you how much he still wanted you, body and soul.

You'd barely fallen asleep when you felt Satoru’s languid kisses pressed upon the warm, soft skin of your neck. Deft fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt to splay across your breast, twisting a nipple beneath your milk-stained nursing bra to hear his favorite, low whine from your as you shifted away from him.

"I need you so bad," he whispered, inching closer to pull you back to him.

"Be careful, I might have a letdown," you warned.

He froze in a moment of panic, then altered his plan of attack. Down the expanse of your belly he ventured, where the skin was still a little loose, tracing over the subtle, silvery indents of your stretch marks. Lazy circles around your navel, then further down where the heat radiated from between your thighs. He stroked you through the pastel fabric of your panties and you opened yourself to allow him easier access, humming a moan as you fisted fingers in your own hair, your body buzzing to life.

You rolled to your side and found his mouth, hot and wanting, tongue lacing with his in a familiar dance. Your kisses were practiced and well-executed, especially when you knew the urgency of the situation at hand. you could have anywhere from five minutes to an hour before the baby would wake, and there was no time to waste.

“I wish we could take our time,” Satoru whispered, pulling your panties away so he could sink two fingers inside you. “God, you’re already so wet,” he groaned. you reached down to grasp his cock through his shorts, squeezing once to watch with satisfaction the way his eyes rolled back before he closed them. He huffed out a long, staggered breath before deciding he couldn’t wait any longer.

In the blink of an eye, he stripped his shorts and pushed himself into you with as much self control as he could muster– which wasn’t a lot. You cried out, your body still a bit sensitive, and your nails dug into his shoulders. “Slow, baby...please,” you whimpered. It hurt so good for the first couple of thrusts, and he controlled the slow roll of his hips so deliciously sensual it nearly sent you over the edge. You felt warm and full beneath him, ankles hooked at the base of his spine, hands fisted in his silvery-white hair. Your kisses were long and sloppy, one melding into another until it was one long, unbroken kiss, shared breath passing between hungry mouths that were set to devour one another.

How long had it been? To feel him so close without the swell of your pregnant belly to kill the mood, to have him fully inside you, hot and wanting, skin to skin, mouth to mouth. You lost yourself, dizzy and desperate for him. Lost yourself in the sensations he created with his fingers dancing across your face, your neck, down the graceful length of your arm until he laced his hand with yours, pressing it firmly into the pillow beside your head.

He did the same with the other hand, pinning you beneath him as he drove into you, his kisses trailing down your jaw to the column of your neck where he claimed the soft flesh there with his teeth before soothing it with a flick of his tongue. Your quiet whimpers of his name blended with the soft creak of the bed beneath you and his own staggered breathing.

When he felt your body tense and quiver beneath him, he released one of your hands to press a finger against your clit; barely aware in your haze of pleasure, you felt him smile against your shoulder.

“Fuck...Satoru…!” was your cry of release, and he chuckled into your ruffled hair just before his own climb caused his rhythm to stutter and falter.

You had a grand total of five seconds to recover before it happened– a tiny, thin wail, lighting up the green indicator on the baby monitor on the bedside table. you shared a breathless laugh before Gojo slipped himself out from between your legs and out of bed, pulling his shorts on. You stretched and yawned, rolling to your side and drawing the blanket up over your head.

“She can’t possibly be hungry. I just fed her,” you mumbled, trying to ignore the tingle in your breasts that signaled otherwise.

Satoru yawned as well and scratched the back of his neck, shuffling to the door. “I’ll check her diaper. If that doesn’t do the trick, I’ll bring her to you.”

You grunted in response and lay in silence. Satoru’s voice was a quiet, soothing whisper over the baby monitor while the indicator light signaled his presence in the baby’s room.

“Hey, pretty girl, what’s the matter? Huh? ….Hey, hey, no more of that. Daddy’s here. Let’s check that diaper, yeah?”

The crying subsided into tiny hiccups, then gentle coos. Your eyes filled with tears and you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle your throaty sounds, a strange combination of laughing and crying. Pure joy. Pure love. It filled your heart to overflowing hearing your husband talk to his daughter with such honest ease. He talked her through the diaper change, through the frustration of trying to snap the little buttons on her onesie without pinching her delicate skin. “Whose bright idea was it to put these tiny…little...torture devices on baby clothes, huh?” He chuckled. “We’re going to have to talk with mommy about her choice of pajamas for you.”

Your laugh turned into heavy sobs when he began singing. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer, crooning a lullaby in a raspy, tired tenor, swaying his daughter to sleep in the dim light of her nursery.

He found you sleeping when he tiptoed back to your bedroom and slid in behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you close and drift off to sleep while humming the song he’d been singing to his daughter just moments before.

#jjk x reader #gojo x you #satoru gojo smut

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makethatelevenrings · 1 year

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Hi can I request it hurts with Rooster? Thanks

TW: f!reader, pregnancy, labor

Your hand curled tightly around Bradley’s as another agonized scream poured from your lungs. The nurses were doing an incredible job and your doctor was coaching you through contractions, but nothing could stop the pure agonizing pain that labor wreaked on your body. With a heaving sob, you laid your head back and met your husband’s gaze. You saw him shift from your golden retriever Bradley into the calm, cool, and collected Lieutenant Bradshaw right before your eyes and your relief was immeasurable.

“You’re doing so good, baby. You’re the strongest fucking woman I know,” he said softly.

“It hurts,” you whispered and he glanced at you, his warm eyes softening. Your husband might be a big, scary naval aviator when he was in the field or facing down some drunken asshole at the Hard Deck who wouldn’t leave Penny or the other bartenders alone, but he was really just a big softie. Once, when you were sick and he thought that the medicine had finally allowed you to sleep, he murmured a confession that you kept close to your heart.

He hated seeing you in pain, especially when there was nothing he could do about it, because it was as if he were feeling the pain too.

“I know. I’m sorry.” You knew that telling him he shouldn’t apologize would get you nowhere. As excited he was about being a father, Bradley had fretted over the various pregnancy and parenting books he had amassed. The closer you got to going into labor, the more he tried to stay home and help you out with basic tasks. Bradley knew it would hurt. He knew you would be in indescribable pain and all he could do was hold your hand and whisper encouragement. It was breaking his heart to see the tears trail down your cheeks.

“I need just two more big pushes, Mrs. Bradshaw,” your doctor called. You glanced up at Bradley once more and he cupped your cheek, tilting your chin up and pressing his forehead against yours. Your fingers curled around his hand once more and he nodded.

“You’ve got this, baby. You are going to push this baby out and then I’m going to make Phoenix get you the biggest fucking burger you’ve ever seen in your life. You are the smartest, strongest, and most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and I know you can do this. I know it hurts, but you’re going to fucking rock this.”

“If there isn’t bacon on that burger, I will personally castrate you.”

He grinned and kissed you sweetly just in time for the next contraction to hit. Your grip on his hand was as tight as a vice and he would let you break every bone in his body and kill his career as a pilot if it gave you the tiniest hint of relief.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Look at me. Keep your eyes on me. Breathe, baby. Just one more push,” he coached.

You kept your eyes locked with him as you grit your teeth and bared down. Another yell ripped out of your throat, but it was eclipsed by a higher pitched cry. With a gasping sob, you let your head fall back onto the pillows and looked over at Bradley. His eyes were fixed firmly on the squalling baby in the doctor’s hands, tears building in his eyes as he took in the sight of his daughter.

“She’s so small,” you whispered as the nurse lowered your daughter onto your chest before covering her with a towel and wiping off the amniotic fluid. A tiny hand curled around your finger and you smiled, all the pain seemingly forgotten.

“Thank you,” Bradley said, his voice thick with tears.

“For what?” you laughed. He leaned over the bed, his head next to yours as you both took in the sight of the wailing infant.

“For giving me this opportunity.” He kissed your temple. “My brave girl.”

“I still want that burger.”

“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely, ma’am.”

#bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw x reader #top gun maverick imagine #honey's 3k celebration

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altocat · 1 month

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lets play a game

The firsts get to experience a trippy spiritual journey via a Lifestream vision. There they see an image of their true self. Kind of like a spirit vision, but it's just a reflection of what they really are deep inside

What are they?

Ooh, very abstract. I like it! And potentially VERY Angsty 😈😈😈

Angeal sees the weary shadow of a man, conflicted and twisted, his morals clashing, a hidden sorrow festering deep inside. A man beaten down by fear and self-doubt, too imperfect to truly stand tall against his foes, hypocritical and deeply flawed.

Horrified and excessively humbled, Angeal decides he will do better to follow his code of dreams and honor, to the point where he actively questions Shinra's authority and breaks away to do real good in the world.

Genesis sees a sulking teenager, nearly translucent, hunched and shriveling at the slightest touch. Terrified of rejection. Terrified of being forgotten, abandoned, ignored. When Genesis tries to reach for him, the boy quivers and apologizes profusely, declaring that he is unworthy, unwanted, undesirable beyond all comprehension. A lowly, humiliated, WORTHLESS creature. Lower than filth, lower than dirt.

Genesis finds himself breaking down quickly, spurred forward to take the fragile shape in his arms. They're all wrong. Every last one of them. He MATTERS. He EXISTS. His life has meaning, MUST have meaning. Damn the whole world, he will prove it no matter what it takes.

Sephiroth is perplexed, looking around, growing more and more agitated. He expected the image of a great warrior. That's what he is, is he not? An invincible killer. A titan among men. But it's the cries that alert him, his roaming gaze finally fixating on the small, whimpering bundle. An increasing wave of anxiety claims him as he leans closer, brushing hesitant fingers against the swaddling blankets. His stomach turns, his face hot, throat dry as the image slowly sharpens before him. A squirming infant, crying forlornly alone in its cradle. It whines and kicks, squalling, calling for sustenance, for warm hands in the dark.

Calling for its mother.

#ff7 #asks #final fantasy 7 #ffvii #sephcanons #crisis core #sephiroth #angeal hewley #genesis rhapsodos

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mishasminion360 · 3 months

Text

How Do You Do It?

Jack Daniels x fem!reader

Warnings: Mild language; words said in anger; stress-induced anxiety; mild angst; self-doubt; but lots of fluff, I swear.

Summary: Being a new mother and a homemaker are two difficult jobs to juggle at the same time, and even more of a challenge when your husband is constantly away. When Jack returns from his latest assignment to find you overtaxed and irritable, he decides to make it up to you by spending a day in your shoes.

A/N: What a busy summer/early fall. So much has changed in such a short time. Change is weird sometimes and brings a lot of stress. Had my first-ever panic attack. Zero stars; do not recommend. But even the stressful, scary parts of our lives can be inspiring. This fic is proof of that 😝

P.S. As you can see I began this fic in the fall of 2023 and look how late I’m posting it! I’m sorry for the long hiatus, folks, but believe me when I say it was necessary.

How is it that your husband is the secret agent, but the weight of the world always feels like it’s been thrust upon your shoulders?

The day you found out you were expecting was one of the happiest of your life. You and Jack had been over the moon and spent the entire adventure of pregnancy fantasizing about all the joys of parenthood that would arrive along with your bundle of joy. You weren’t kidding yourselves; you knew that a baby brought big changes and more than a few challenges. You just weren’t aware of just how high those hurdles would be until you were thrown into the race.

The roles of wife, homemaker, and now mother all seem to merge into one monstrous, never-ending task; and your duties seemed all the more daunting when you were left to fulfill them alone.

Jack is nothing short of attentive and dedicated when he’s at home. The problem is that “home” is usually the last place one will find him. As of late, his job with the Statesmen pulls and pushes him this way and that into parts unknown where he’s embroiled in espionage for some indeterminate period, leaving you with a house to maintain, meals to prepare, clothes to launder, and a colicky infant to soothe.

You’re trapped inside a pressure cooker and the temperature is nearing critical.

***

“Baby Shark” is on its 25th iteration, every “doo doo doo” is like a bat to the back of your head. You dance topless in the living room with your wailing son clutched to your naked chest. You’d tossed your t-shirt into the wash twenty minutes ago, covered—like the two before it—in your baby boy’s milky vomit.

Your sanity is a mere thread, frayed, delicate, and seconds away from completely unraveling. Your head is pounding and back aching, and you’re trying to convince yourself that the flush of heat you feel just beneath your skin is not a fever. You can’t afford to be sick now. Not when you are all your son has; when you are all you have.

“Daddy’s home, darlin’!”

The sound of his voice, the familiar clip-clop of his boots on the hardwood floor, should fill you with after hardly having heard it for a solid week. Instead, it has your already tepid body simmering with frustration.

“Hey there, Mama Mare.” The affectionate term oozes from between his grinning lips with all the smooth, sweet ease of honey. “Give this ol’ cowboy some sugar. He missed you.”

His lips are on yours and then detaching themselves before your mouth can even register it’d just been in contact with another; far quicker and more careless than the long overdue reunion kiss you’d been anticipating. The brief little smooch held about as much passion as a handshake.

“There’s my little cowpoke!”

Jack lifts his squalling son from your arms and little John’s cries instantly cease. Of course they do. Of freaking course.

“Well, now, you didn’t have to get all dressed up on my account, honeybee.”

You snap to attention after possibly having fallen asleep on your feet for a split second to see that Jack’s devilish gaze has zeroed in on your bared tits.

“You certainly know how to welcome a fella home.”

While he’s busy ogling your non-seductive nudity, your own eyes have locked onto the trail of muddy prints stretching from the front door, each filthy footfall a perfect imprint of the sole of Jack’s boots. Yet another mess you’ll have to clean up; another chore added to the already heavy burden you’re shouldering.

“How’s about after dinner we mosey on upstairs, put this little buckaroo to bed, then I show you just how much I missed you?”

You don’t even know how to respond to him right now, so you don’t. You simply turn your back and walk away, seething in a silent rage as you stomp your way upstairs to put on the thickest, ugliest sweatshirt you can find that leaves everything up to the imagination.

John starts to wail once again, but that’s Jack’s problem now. You have about a million other tasks to accomplish—make that a million and one, thanks to his filthy freaking boots.

You slip into the master bath and toss back a couple of Advil for your pounding headache and by the time you re-emerge, Jack is pacing around your bed, hands on his hips and a pensive scowl on his face.

You take a deep breath through your nose and the words tumble from your lips in a sigh. “I haven’t started dinner yet. Give me just a few minutes and I can—“

“Did I say somethin’ wrong?” he blurts. “‘Cause you gave me a look back there that reminded me of an angry steer about to trample a rodeo clown.”

“Just forget it,” you mutter, brushing past him toward the door. His hand wraps around your wrist before you can cross the threshold.

“I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’,” he drawls as he turns you to face him. “Sugar, what’s wrong? No use lyin’ because I can tell somethin’s stuck in your craw.”

Oh, it’s stuck alright. Like a bug in a windshield.

“Jesus, Jack,” you sigh. “Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve had a total of five non-consecutive hours of sleep this week. Or it could be the fact that the house is a mess or that I’m down to my last pair of clean underwear. All the chores have been put on hold so I could tend to our son while you’ve been off playing ‘secret agent man’ in God only knows where.”

His mustache twitches and his jaw ticks.

“Honeybee, why didn’t you tell me you’ve been strugglin’? I would have—“

“Because I shouldn’t have to tell you!” you snap. “You should know me well enough by now to tell when I’m not okay! You should already have some inkling of how hard it is to raise a child and that the process usually goes much smoother when both parents are involved. But I guess I’m just a fool for assuming. Getting shot at is far less hazardous to your health than changing a dirty diaper after all.”

When the red finally clears from your vision you see that Jack’s has become clouded with a look you’d only bore witness to once and concluded that you never wanted to see again. His mirthful brown eyes dulled by a deeply rooted pain planted long ago by a cruel twist of fate. He’d been robbed of his first chance to be a husband and father and you’d just accused him of squandering his second.

“Sugar, I’m….I’m sorry.”

Shit. It’s not fair. You have been miserable for an entire week and you can’t stand to see him miserable for even a millisecond.

“No, I’m sorry,” you insist, voice and legs quivering. You lower yourself to the bed before exhaustion and gravity get the better of you. “I’m just so tired. Tired and frustrated.”

He drops to the bed beside you and pulls you into one of his signature hugs you’ve missed so much. The tightest of embraces that only he can give.

“I know you’re working hard to provide for our family,” you sob. “I know that but still I….I feel so alone, Jack.”

Before even a single southern-drenched syllable can leave his mouth, a sharp wail blasts from the baby monitor and your body reacts instinctively and urgently. You shoot up and out of Jack’s arms like a rocket.

“Let me check on him and then I’ll start dinner,” you say with a sniffle.

“I’ll get him, darlin’,” Jack insists, gently grasping you by the wrist and halting your minimal progress toward the door.

“But he probably needs—“

“I will get him.”

His hands are on your shoulders now—firm yet gentle—and grounding, comforting.

“Please, let me take care of my boy so you can take care of you, honeybee. And then, later, I’d like to take care of you, too. If you’ll let me.”

You can only muster a nod before he’s striding out of the room. Taking advantage of the first minute you’ve had to yourself in a week, you slip into the shower and let the warm spray unclench every muscle coiled tight with stress.

By the time you emerge, John is sleeping peacefully and a pizza’s been ordered. Jack dotes on you the entire evening, giving your aching feet a rub down with his skillful hands and cuddling you close as you both zone out to some ridiculous reality TV. His mere presence is a balm to your weary soul.

Whenever the baby cries in the middle of the night and your body moves on instinct Jack stills you, urges you back to the mattress, and takes on the challenge himself. It’s the best night’s sleep you’ve had in you can’t remember how long.

***

And surprisingly enough, you don’t manage to sleep any later than 9 a.m. The smell of extra greasy bacon lures you from bed, a siren’s call to your stomach.

John bounces in his high chair, babbling around a mouthful of mashed banana, most of which appears to have ended up on his face, shirt, and chubby little fists. Jack is an even more astonishing sight than your messy son, strutting about the kitchen in your frilly apron topping his off-white Henley and faded Wranglers.

“Well, good mornin’, sugar,” he cries, grabbing your hips to tug you in for a kiss. “Though I wasn’t expectin’ to see you up so soon.”

“How did you expect me to stay asleep when something smells incredible?”

“That would be my famous chocolate chip, peanut butter, and banana flapjacks.”

In true Southern gentlemanly fashion, he pulls out a chair and eases you into it before setting a towering stack of syrup-soaked pancakes before you, coffee and bacon following suit.

“Better eat quick now, darlin’,” Jack urges as he takes a seat with his plate. “You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.”

As if you could forget. That laundry is begging for attention, the house hasn’t had a good dusting in you can’t recall how long, and Johnny already needs a bath—

“I made you an appointment for noon.”

Your train of thought instantly stalls on the tracks.

“Appointment?”

Jack grins over the brim of his steaming mug.

“Honey, you need a break. Figured you might enjoy yourself a little spa day.”

You can hardly believe your ears.

“Spa day?”

“Yes, ma’am. Massage, mud baths, whatever the heck they do with seaweed, the whole nine yards,” he explains proudly. “I even called up your buddy from work and asked if she’d like to join you. And it’s all on me.”

“But Jack, what about John? And the house, the laundry, the cooking?”

“Gimme some credit, sugar,” he chuckles. “I think I can keep the homestead standin’ and our baby boy breathin’ for a day. Besides, it’s high time I start puttin’ in my fair share of help around here, isn’t it?”

You’re not sure if you want to thank him or burst into tears. Maybe both.

“You do so much, honeybee,” he says warmly, voice as smooth, rich, and sweet as the syrup sluiced atop your pancakes. “You move mountains every day to make this house a home. How’s about lettin’ someone do somethin’ for you for a change?”

You scarf down the rest of your pancakes before kissing him with sticky lips and racing up the stairs to get ready for your big day out.

***

You feel rejuvenated and refreshed. Brand fucking new. A far cry from the husk of a woman who’d left the house this morning. Wrapped in seaweed and slathered with mud you’d been returned to the earth and reborn at full strength, like a phoenix risen from the ash.

You'd been reunited with an inner strength and power you'd all but forgotten. And thank God for that, because you're going to need every bit of it to face the chaos you come walking back into upon your return home.

You can hear John’s piercing wails before you’ve cut the engine and opened the driver’s side door. You can smell the smoke before you've even reached the front steps.

Inside all hell has broken loose. Gray tendrils of smoke slither through the air, teasing the detector into screaming its warning. Your baby boy is giving it some stiff competition with his own cries as Jack struggles to bounce him on one arm while he tries to fan away the smoke with the other. Both gestures prove futile.

“It’s okay, buckeroo. You’re okay. Don’t cry. Please, please don’t cry.”

Jack looks so frazzled. The situation is far from funny so the last thing you should do is laugh at his expense. But dammit if you don’t anyway.

“Do you need some help there, cowboy?”

His frantic eyes find you through the haze and pierce you with a desperate, wordless plea. You take the inconsolable infant from your husband’s arm and soothe him into silence as Jack does the same to the smoke alarm.

“There now, Johnny. See? Everything’s okay. Daddy made the bad sound stop.”

“He just stopped cryin’ for you. Just like that.”

Something in his eyes burns. Something in his voice cracks.

“I couldn't bring him any kind of comfort. He didn't….want nothin’ to do with me.”

Your weary cowpoke sags into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands with an exasperated sigh.

“You were right, darlin’. I'm useless.”

You settle John into his high chair with a teething ring to distract him before turning your attention to your distressed husband.

“To be fair, I never said you were useless.”

“You may as well have,” he sighs. “And if you weren’t thinkin’ it before you’ll be thinkin’ it now.”

You smirk. “Rough day?”

“Oh darlin’, you don’t even know the half of it.”

He begins to recount the day’s challenges, his voice raising in pitch as goes from describing one hurdle to the next. He almost seems on the verge of tears.

“And I got so distracted while tryin’ to get our fussy boy to eat his dinner that I failed to hear the timer and let ours burn. Hence the fiasco you came home to. And when John started bellowing for his supper I was in the middle of the laundry and I forgot to separate the colorful items from the rest, so my new red jockeys turned our bathroom towels pink and….and I just failed so miserably today, sugar. I’m so sorry.”

You laugh, unable to help it. It’s all you can do at this point. “Welcome to my world, sweetheart.”

“How on Earth do you do it, sugar?”

If you’re being honest, you ask yourself that question at least once a day, and not always with the same emotional connotation behind it.

“There’s just something inside of me that encourages me to power through the difficulties. A force, a reminder.”

“An iron will for damn sure,” he scoffs.

“No, that’s not it,” you chuckle. “It’s love, Jack. For you and our boy. That’s what keeps me going.”

He looks at your have cradling his own, a gesture of both dominance and comfort. In this moment he believes that he is made of inferiority.

“I love you both to the moon and back, yet I can’t even do a load of laundry.”

“Jack you do enough. I have not, do not, and never will doubt your love for me and John,” you reassure him. “Acts of service just happen to be my particular love language, not yours.”

“Then what is mine?”

You lift his hands and kiss both sets of his knuckles. “Words of affirmation.”

His acts of service are for the world, but his words are just for you.

“But ain’t actions supposed to speak louder?”

“For others, maybe,” you shrug. “But that’s only because no one else speaks as loudly as you.”

@grimeylady @rav3n-pascal22 @mamacitapascal @insomniamama1 @pedrosbisch @emmaispunk @lv7867 @reonlouw @hawaiianmelodies @heythere-mel @healingstardust @delorena @pedropasxal @caesaryoulater @fangirling-alert @fromthedeskoftheraven @axshadows @dragon-scales88 @spacepastel-blog @spideysimpossiblegirl @hauntedmama @mswarriorbabe80 @horton-hears-a-honk @wild-at-heart-kept-in-cage @a-trial-run-on-paper @oonajaeadira @dhadiirah @felicisimor @practicalghost @luz-introvertida @amneris21 @hb8301 @tanzthompson @littlemisspascal @dobbyjen @supernaturalgirl20 @alexxavicry @harriedandharassed @trickstersp8 @neganwifey25-blog @twistedboxy @emiemiemiii @energeticspookyshark @thevoiceinyourheadx @pedr0swh0r3 @anamiad00msday @secretwriterpp @wannab-urs @pedrostories

#pedro pascal #jack whiskey daniels #kingsman the golden circle #fluff #fem!reader #domestic fluff #Jack trying his best #stress #adulting #parenthood

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 months

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Unexpected 39

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, pegging, Lloyd being the worst, post partum, csection, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The doors of the operating room fade behind you as the anesthetic takes you under. The splitting pain dulls as you sink beneath the veil of artificial sleep. Laced within the clouds of your unconscious you hear the beeping of machines, the clinks of metal tools in the tray, and the deep voice of your unshakeable pest; Lloyd Hansen.

The dread and horror are equally muddled by the intravenous flow. You feel a distant tugging, a plucking deep within, and somewhere beyond, you hear squalling. You’re vaguely aware of the sudden weight taken from you, and that new one that settles in its place. Tight and tender.

You float back to the surface slowly. Wading up above the layers of oblivion until you hear that steady rhythm, feeling it in your chest. That incessant tempo of your pulse mirrored by a digital beep. You groan and suck back a dribble of drool along your lip.

A longer, louder noise rolls from your throat. The pain nips its way through and your lashes flutter lightly, giving short glimpses of the world that awaits you. You hear fussing, low whispers and the soft murmur that responds. Hushing and humming that draws you in.

“Grhhhhsh,” the gibberish slips from your lips and your hand bounces off the rail clumsily.

You open your eyes, vision fuzzy and ears thrumming. A shadow approaches as you turn your head, blinking as you try to see past the sheen of sleep. You smile dopily as your head swims. Your other hand lingers on your thigh and you cautiously feel higher; you’re now doughy where the flesh was once taught.

“Bay-bee,” you pronounce, “girl.”

“Ah, sweet cakes, yes, you have a beautiful daughter,” Dottie’s voice drips into your ears, comforting you as it pools in your chest, “she was just lookin’ for ya.”

“Dot,” you utter weakly.

“Yes’m,” she touches your arm gently, “you want the precious bean?”

“Dot,” you open and close your hand, reaching for her without finding her, “where… Lllllll.” you swallow and lean back heavily, “tired.”

“Here,” Dottie leaves you, returning in an orb of red and pink. She takes your arm and hooks it around the warm bundle she eases onto your chest, “there, there. Look at that cute little peach.”

You look down. You feel the tiny form squirm and your eyes pinpoint on her face. A baby. Your baby? Yes, your daughter. The girl without a name.

“Harlan’s just gone to get the nurse,” she comforts as she stays close, “we’re just waiting to get the paperwork done. She needs a name and all that.”

You stare at the infant. Your heart feels like iron. Still and cold. You curl your lip and turn your chin up.

“Take her,” you murmur.

“You okay, darling?” She rubs your shoulder.

“I said take it. Now,” you demand harshly, “I don’t… I can’t.”

“It’s alright,” Dottie lifts the child from your arm, “you been through a lot, we’ll just give you some time to get your bearings.”

You scowl and don’t say how you don’t think you’ll ever want to hold that thing again. The way it wriggles and whimpers, so quietly. It’s so light and small, it may as well be nothing.

“Well, whatcha wanna call her?”

“I don’t care,” you sniff, “ask him.”

“Well, we had some ideas but Marion didn’t say which he liked,” she explains as she lays the baby back in the small rolling crib.

“How about Marion? After the father?” You snap dryly.

“Hmm, I dunno,” Dottie hums, “you want some water, I got some here–”

“I don’t want to be here,” you retort and immediately cringe, “I’m… sorry, I’m just…”

There’s no way that baby is yours. You can’t remember anything more than the gripping agony in your gut. And now, the pain persists. All that and for what?

“I’m tired. Hurting,” you lie, only in that it’s not the reason you lashed out.

“Right, honey, that’s okay,” she assures once more.

“Just going to doing a check,” The nurse enters.

You glance up and see Harlan dip in behind her. You smile at him and search behind him, expecting another to follow. Nothing but an empty doorway.

“How’s the pain, scale of one to ten?” The nurse asks as she fiddles with your IV.

“Ten,” you grit out.

“Mmm, we’ll see what we can get you for that,” she says, “gotta make sure you’re able to feed your daughter.”

You frown. Feed? You look down at your swollen chest and moan at the fullness that throbs in your tits. Fuck.

“We can have an advisor come to help you with latching,” the nurse offers, “you should feed soon.”

“Fine,” you shrug. “When can I leave?”

“It’ll be a couple of days so we can keep an eye on your recovery. We’ll make sure you know the proper aftercare before you’re discharged.”

“Days?” You grumble.

“Yes, you have a new incision so you can’t be moving too much. Once you’re home, you’re going to be limited, no lifting, no strenuous activity…”

“Great,” you shake your head.

You stare at your body, deformed beneath the flannel blanket. You can feel it. You're totally ruined. You weren't ever a supermodel but the damage is done. Worn and loose and gross.

“Baby’s getting hungry,” Dottie says softly, “please send in the therapist so we can get her fed.”

You stay silent. The nurse leaves as you glare at the door. He has to show up any minute now.

“Where’s Ll–”

“Now we were just talking about names,” Dottie interjects, “Harley, why don’t you tell her the one you liked.”

“Oh, uh, hope I’m not to forward sayin’ so,” he says.

You look at him. Just say it. At this point, they can choose.

“I liked Luna,” Harlan says, “cause that little moonlight in her nursery, ya see… always liked the looka the moon.”

You nod. It’s pretty. You can’t think of much else and they definitely wouldn’t want you calling her the leech.

“I like Luna,” you agree flatly, “fine with me.”

“Well, that’s a nice name,” Dottie chimes, “yeah, Luna, it suits her. Shining and all.”

“Where is Lloyd?” You ask curtly.

Dottie smiles and looks at Harlan. His lips are straight and set. He swallows tightly.

“Now, hon, he… just went out to deal with some stuff, to make sure you can go home,” she explains, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“Oh.” You accept bluntly. “Right.”

“Too bad you didn’t see him,” she takes out her phone, “but I got a picture.” She holds up the screen to show you the image of Lloyd holding the bundle child. His eyes are wide as he stares at her. “Baby looks just like you, sweetheart.”

“Does i– she?” You ask.

“Well, I think so,” Dottie says, “but you know, babies always take after their daddies early on.”

You nod and play with the string of the linen gown. You watch the door. Waiting. This isn’t your mistake, it’s his.

#unexpected #lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #drabble #series #au #sequel #the gray man

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boldstarks · 2 months

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The Unwanted Wife Blurb #1: First Son

word count: 1K pairing: young!Robert Baratheon x wife!reader, oc x reader (mentioned) warnings: pregnancy, brief mentions of sex and childbirth, emotional neglect of a spouse

Despite you being nine moons gone with a child, your husband, the king, had very little issue leaving with an entourage of his most favored cronies on a hunting trip in the Kingswood. You didn't even protest when he announced the trip to you. You simply went back to your reading. A few months earlier, you would have raged at his callousness, but you are too tired now. You didn't know if it was from the pregnancy or maybe you were finally numb to Robert's poor treatment.

You simply told him to behave sensibly and turned back to your reading. When he set out a day later, you watched him leave from the balcony of your chambers. Many ladies gathered in the courtyard to send off their husbands in the king's hunting entourage. You made the excuse of being much too heavy with the child to make it in a timely manner.

You watched the group of men atop their horses ride away, your husband at the head.

"Your Grace, I'm sure everything will be alright," one of your ladies' maids said.

She means to be comforting, but her words fill you with bitter contempt.

"I am not the only woman with a thoughtless boar for a husband, and I won't be the last," you say, watching the riding party disappear outside the Red Keep's walls.

The maid said nothing and began gathering the soiled sheets from your bed; they were tainted by sweat and Robert's seed. Your coupling the prior night had been angry, tinged with a foreign tenderness that Robert had only developed when your pregnancy had started to show.

You figured Robert's surrogate father and Hand, Jon Arryn, would keep you company. This was both a good and a bad thing, in your opinion. You were fond of the man himself, but not of his wife, Lysa Tully. It was a struggle to get along with the woman despite trying to be kind to her.

You tried to tell yourself that this was just like any other time. Robert was away and left you by yourself for days on end. But you knew deep down that you would give birth alone. The King had barely been gone a day when your labors began.

You spent nearly a full day in the birthing bed, writhing with agony, without a word from the hunting party or Robert. You cried nearly the entire time. You cried for home, for your mother, for your father, and mostly for your first love, Alyn, who had died fighting during Robert's Rebellion. Then, at dusk on the third day of his absence, your child was born.

"It's a boy, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle said, holding the newborn child aloft after he had slipped free from the birth canal.

The squalling infant is quickly cleaned by some septas before being swaddled and brought back to you.

The boy is small and red-faced, and he entered the world howling furiously. He only stops wailing when he is put on your chest. You find yourself smiling when you gently cradle his small head of damp black curls as his Baratheon blue eyes stare up at you. Look at your little boy and feel that spark of happiness in your chest that you hadn't felt since you received news of Alyn's death.

"His name shall be Alaric," you tell the Maester without looking away from your baby.

You knew Robert wanted to name his first son, Stefan, after his father, and he would most likely throw a fit because of it. But he forfeited his vote in the matter when he decided to run around the Kingswood rather than be there for the birth of his heir.

_____________

A day after you gave birth, the hunting party arrived back at the Red Keep. Robert found that you had not come to greet him, just as you could not be bothered by seeing him off either.

He stormed into the castle, rather annoyed at this perceived abandonment. He entered your chambers without bothering to knock and found you sleeping in bed.

Right as Robert is going to start yelling, you turn in your sleep, and it becomes obvious to him that you are no longer with the child. A pang of fear echoes through him until he hears a soft coo and finds a child beside your bed in a cradle. The baby had a head of black curls and blue eyes and was rather large. The child had wiggled out of his swaddle while you slept soundly and was waving his small fists about.

"Hello," Robert says. He's utterly captivated by the little life that he played a part in creating.

He reaches a large hand out to the child and softly pets the head of black curls. The child gurgles contently at the touch of its father.

"His name is Alaric," you said, breaking the king's trance.

"I should have been here," Robert says.

The man had the decency to look ashamed of himself. You nearly tell him it's okay, but you know it's far from okay for a father to miss the birth of his first trueborn child.

"Moving forward, things will need to change," you reply and sit up.

Robert finally looks you in the eye. He seems hesitant about your remark.

"I cannot live a life where my husband and I are constantly at each other's throats. I don't want our son to be raised by parents who can't stand each other," you say.

You look at your son in his cradle and can't help but smile at him.

"What are we to do about it?" Robert asks, still skeptical.

"We shall dine together three times a week, and I would like to share our chambers. In the North, it is custom that a husband and wife share bedchambers, and I believe it will bring us closer," you said.

Robert looks at your face; your eyes are shining with optimism. You truly were willing to learn how to love him. Why couldn't he grant you this one thing?

"Okay," he said.

You're silent for a moment, somewhat shocked that Robert didn't try to put up any sort of fight. Not knowing what else to say, you nod quickly.

You change the subject smoothly: "Would you like to hold your son?"

It's Robert's turn to nod like a fool now.

#asoiaf #game of thrones #Robert Baratheon x reader #oc x reader #game of thrones fanfiction #the unwanted wife #ryswell!reader #stark!reader #northern!reader #queen!reader #young Robert Baratheon x reader

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peachesofteal · 8 months

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omg I know I need a therapist probably- but the baby trap au where darling died-- my heart is broken. it was so well written. Imagine Simon and Johnny going home with the Bee and struggling to take care of her without darling. They're grieving and dealing with guilt because they essentially were the cause of her death. the guilt would be consuming. I can imagine them getting into arguments because of the stress and breaking down because they can't care for bee the way darling could. 😭

- 🧀

Cheese anon, you sweet medieval torturer. We all need therapy, clearly, don't worry you're not alone. I live for angst like this. So much love to you. Cheese anon is referencing this ask. (I'm pretty sure)

18+ MDNI / baby trap au / mature themes

"Shhh, shhh." Johnny paces back and forth from the living room, trying to get Bee to close her eyes, go back to sleep so he can also, try to get some rest.

"Is it her stomach?" Simon grumbles from the bedroom door, rubbing his face sleepily, and Johnny tries to take a long deep breath through his nose. "Well?" His partner prompts.

"NO, is not her stomach." He bites out before he can stop himself, anger and sadness and everything else bleeding into his tone. Simon's brow shutters low, irritated.

"I'm just tryin' to help."

"Well, you're doing a shite job of it. Just go back to bed." He huffs, not bothering to hide his frustration, his irritation. He's been up with Bee for hours now, because it's his night, and Simon's supposed to be sleeping.

Bee wails louder in his arms, and he grimaces.

"'m sorry, sweet lass. I'm sorry."

"Johnny." He ignores him. "Johnny. Do you need a break?"

"No, Simon. I need her mum. She needs her mum." He snaps, and Simon tenses, entire body stringing live like a wire. Bee's still crying, and Simon is standing here, shirtless, staring at him, and it's all enough to drive him a little mad.

He doesn't even realize he's crying, until there's warmth pressing across his back, Simon's chest against him, big arms coming around to support Bee's weight in the crook of his elbow.

"Let me take over for a bit." He coaxes, and Johnny shakes his head furiously, but the tears are clouding his vision, and he can't shake the cry that's building in his throat.

"This is our fault." He sobs. "She hates us, and it's our fault. We took her mum away." He can't stop the overflow of feelings now, and barely registers that Simon is lowering him to the couch, Bee still crying in his arms. “How’re we supposed to take care of her, we couldn’t even take care of her mum.” He cries, and Simon doesn’t respond, just sits next to him, still as a statue.

“I don’t know… we have to try.”

“We are trying!” He snaps through his tears, and Bee cries louder in response. “She hates us.” And why shouldn’t she? They did this, to you. To Bee. He doesn’t even fight it when Simon pulls the squalling infant from his grasp, rocking her into his embrace, trying to quiet her.

It’s too much. All of it. Everything. The baby crying. The vase sitting on the mantle. The collection of things they brought from your apartment, everything for Bee’s room that you so clearly picked out with love and care. The baby book, that has a handwritten note on the front page, telling your daughter how much you love her, no matter what. The quilt, that you had made yourself, sweetly pieced together painstakingly over nine long months. A framed photograph, of you at the beach, before you knew them, smiling and carefree. It’s signed with your name on the back, and then ‘your mum’ in quotations with a smiley face.

“Johnny-“ Simon calls to him, and he jerks to his feet.

“I need a break.” He mumbles, not bothering to turn and look back as he pushes through the bedroom door.

#🧀 anon #peaches asks #peaches writes #baby trap au #ghost x soap x reader #soap x ghost x reader #ghoap x reader

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the-strength-of-the-wolffe · 7 months

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The first thing that belonged to Wolffe was his name.

He was six years old and everything else belonged to the Kaminoans. The bunk he slept in, the blasters he practiced with, the table he sat at to eat, the scratchy uniforms he had to wear. Every clone, from the tiny squalling infants to the commanders-in-training like himself. Even the number that identified him, 3636, was theirs.

But not his name. That was his own.

The next thing that belonged to him was his armor. He was ten. He served the Republic, part of its Grand Army fighting its war, and technically it owned everything, including him. But that armor was his, no question. He sweated and bled to earn it. He had chosen the somber color. He had designed and painted the markings himself. It meant so much more to him than functionality. Each time he strapped it on, he remembered why.

Yet it wasn’t his most valuable belonging.

With his command had come a battalion. Six hundred troopers, property of the Republic all, bred for victory and death in battle. Or so the official line went. He saw it differently. These men belonged to him, but not because of jurisdiction. Clad in gray, a brotherhood working as one, they were his pack—his family—and it was his job to keep them alive. Fine was the line between serving the cause and protecting those who served. It took everything he had. But he didn’t walk it alone. He had the General.

Jedi don’t belong to clone troopers.

That had been an accepted fact for the longest time. The General belonged to the Jedi Order; everything about him stood out. His brown robes, his cryptic sayings, his steady faith, his counterintuitive thinking, his powers both innate and bestowed. He couldn’t be more different. Or so Wolffe had thought. Until the Citadel mission, when the General’s heart became known, when the two of them were on the same page for the first time. That’s when it clicked.

The General belonged to him, to all of them, and it was time everyone knew.

#the clone wars #commander wolffe #plo koon #wolffe's story #wolfpack #jedi #clones #season 3

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ramsayxme · 4 months

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Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / AO3 Link

TW - violence, murder, flaying, murder (of a child), physical abuse, emotional abuse, sex, smut, full blown stockholm syndrome, gaslighting yourself, ramsay bolton. I hope you enjoyed my 10 chapters! Thank you so much for reading x

Chapter Ten: And Full Of Terrors

You both awoke to a servant knocking on your door and your infant crying in his bed. You rolled out of bed to grab your squalling baby and Ramsay pulled on trousers to answer the knocking. Ramses quickly latched to your breast, ready for breakfast. You laid back in bed, pulling the blankets high to shield your body from the servant. Ramsay opened the door and a very nervous young man stood on the other side. "My Lord. I am sorry if I woke you, but there is something happening in the courtyard you need to attend to." His voice broke multiple times through the sentence.

Ramsay huffed. "Alright. Let me get dressed... and this better be important." He shook his finger at the servant. "I'll be out in a minute." He shut the door, allow privacy once again. Ramsay looked at you and rolled his eyes regarding the servant. "Sorry, My Lady. I have to go handle this." He pulled a dusty grey waffle-knit over his head before donning his leathers. "Wait a moment and let me come with you. The Little Lord can start his lessons early." You smiled. Ramsay chuckled. "Fine, but bundle him up." Of course you would. Ramsay held his son as you got yourself ready to leave as well and swaddled baby Ramses in the finest furs. You tied him to your chest so the three of you could head down to the courtyard.

You closely followed your husband, his cloak draped over his powerful shoulders and swaying with his steps. With each swing of the cloak, you caught a glimpse of the handful of knives and daggers that he kept on his waistband. You loved how powerful he was. His curls coiled together on the back of his neck and his ears peered out from the dark waves. He walked with confidence, each step oozing of power and purpose. You felt like the most powerful woman to exist as you floated behind him, his heir cooing at your breast.

You exited the stone walls and were met with icy air hitting your face, your hands instinctively covering your baby with your cloak, wrapping it around his tiny body. Ramsay wasn't affected by the cold, his hair blowing softly as it began collecting snowflakes. There was a small group of men, their metal helmets reflecting the snow and making them gleam. "What is it?" Ramsay barked as you approached the men. Without speaking, they began leading Ramsay to the large entrance of the Dreadfort. The wooden doors were towering over you as they pushed them open. On the other side stood a shivering woman, frail and afraid. She held hands with a small boy who looked to be around 4 years old.

Ramsay stood still as a statue, staring at the woman. He turned his head towards the men, and put his hands up, his leather gloves squeaking as he pointed to the woman. "And how is this my concern?" The men nodded and looked at the woman. She had tattered clothes and long blonde hair that was matted in knots. The small boy had black hair and piercing blue eyes. His jaw was prominent and he wasn't shivering. You stared at your husband as he took in the sight.

"Ramsay..." the woman practically whispered. "You don't remember me?" You felt your heart jump, the jealousy and anger bubbling up in your chest. You tensed your body and wished you had brought your knives with you. "No." Your husband said, "Why would I?" She took a step closer, causing all of the men to tense up into attack mode. Ramsay chuckled. "I don't think she will be attacking me. Let her speak." The men relaxed, stepping back to their previous spots. "Ramsay... years ago we lay together. I woke up and you had fled, but..." her voice trailed off as she turned to the boy. Ramsay stared at the child. You were unable to read his expression.

"This is your son." She put her hand on the boys back and gently pushed him forward. He took a few small steps closer to Ramsay and stared up at him. Ramsay gazed at the boy intently. "No, no... if he is mine, he is a bastard, not my son. This is my son, my true heir." He turned to point to you and Ramses. Your eyes were locked on the woman, hatred boiling in your chest and heat pouring into your cheeks. She met your eyes and curtsied with her rags. "My Lady, I mean no disrespect, I mean no trouble-" You interrupted her. "If you meant no trouble, you should have stayed far away. Shut the gates." You demanded the men.

Ramsay held his hand up. "Bring them to the guest chambers. My wife and I will need to discuss a few things but until then, they can rest." Your jaw dropped, your fury now directed at your husband. Ramsay turned on his heels and grabbed your arm. You followed him to the kennels where it was quiet. "Ramsay! I will not-" He interrupted you with his hand on your throat, pushing you backwards into a stone wall. "Let me speak!" He hissed, spitting on your face. "I do not want a bastard son and I do not want this whore woman. I am simply allowing them to come inside until I decide what I want to do with them. Do not question my power again, do you understand?" You stared at your husband, teeth grinding together as you nodded.

"Wonderful. Now, for all we know, this woman is lying. I don't recognize her." You rolled your eyes. "The boy looks like you." You muttered, jealousy oozing from your lips. Ramsay's face twisted into a grin. "Why, you're jealous aren't you? Does it bother you to think about me fucking her before I even knew you?" You growl as you shove Ramsay. Your shove barely moves your sturdy husband. He chuckles. "You're angry. I like when you're angry. My wild wife." He coos, nuzzling into your neck. Ramses is asleep at your chest, so Ramsay can't press his body against you. He kisses your neck, sucking hard and leaving a mark.

While he kisses your neck, he whispers into your ear. "We can get rid of them. Shall we feed them to the dogs? Burn them? Flay them? I'll let you pick, my love... my gift to you." You purr when you hear him say this. You press your lips against his, moaning with passion as your tongue slithers into his mouth. You bite his lower lip hard and twist it between your teeth, making him gasp and pull away. "My feisty bitch!" He grins, blood dripping down his chin. You smile. "Let me take care of the woman. You do whatever you want with the bastard."

Ramsay agreed to this fairly quickly. You had a strong inkling that he found your possessiveness over him quite attractive. Nobody was going to interrupt your life, touch your husband, or push your child to the side. "I think I will tell the bastard that I accept him as mine and want to show him around his new home. When we come in here," Ramsay pointed around the kennels. "I will put him in my biggest girl's kennel and let her get a nice treat." He grinned wickedly at you. "And what will you do?" He kissed your cheek before kissing the black hair on your son's head.

"I want to flay her." You whispered. Ramsay's eyebrows raised. "You've never flayed anyone before, love." You nodded. "I know. I want to flay her, though. I want it to be slow and painful, so she will regret that she ever left her home. And just before she dies, I will tell her what happened to her bastard son!" You chuckled as you watched Ramsay's eyes grow wide with lust. He lets out a snarl as he leans into your neck and bites down, his hot mouth leaving another mark on you. "I'll fetch the boy. You head inside and I'll send the woman in." He whispered before he vanished behind the stone walls.

You ran to your chambers to grab your flaying knife, bow, and some arrows before heading to the torture room. You lay Ramses down for a nap, kissing him on his little forehead. Once you reached the room with the large wooden X, you snuck into a dark corner hidden from view. You remembered Reek in that moment, his frail body dangling from the large wooden cross. More importantly, you remembered the sex that you and Ramsay had on the floor, a wave of fluttering rose in your core as you remembered how it felt. Shortly after you arrived in the room, a few men of the Dreadfort brought the woman into the room, kicking and shrieking. You bit your lip in anticipation, excited to flay this whore that wanted to ruin your life.

She was left on the X, crying and wailing. "Please! My son and I will leave right away! I just thought Lord Bolton would want to meet his son!" She was flailing wildly, the chains clanging on her wrists and ankles. You felt furious at that statement and decided that now was the time to walk out from the shadows. "He does know his son." You said, rising from the darkness of the corner. She trembled as she looked at you. "I gave him his son, his true born heir. Not some bastard he had with a whore. He doesn't love you!" Your voice was gruff, anger settling in your throat.

"Please... We will leave right now. Forgive us." She begged, her eyes dark and wide with fear. You smirked as you got closer to her. "I think it's too late for that." You pulled your knife from behind your back and pointed it at her. "You walked in here like you would take my place. Did you really think that would work?" You pressed the point of your knife to her throat. "No, My Lady, I don't want to take your place. I wouldn't want to be with that monster!" She cried out as you pressed the metal against her skin.

"He is NOT a monster." You growled through your gritted teeth. "Take it back." She shook her head, tears falling from her eyes. "He is a monster, and so are you if you don't see it!" You laughed at her ignorance. "Stupid whore." You muttered as you pressed the knife even harder against her skin, nearly piercing it. You heard the faint sound of barking from the window. You gasped theatrically and leaned in to the woman. "Do you hear that? Shh, listen..."

She started blubbering when she heard a scream when the dogs began barking even louder. "Terrible. I am sorry you had to hear that... but, the dogs have to eat." You grinned, staring at her as she cried out for her bastard son. "Where should I start peeling first?" You asked the woman between her sobs. "Please!" She blubbered. You rolled your eyes as you leaned down, slicing the skin open across her kneecaps. She howled in pain as your knife slipped through her skin easily. You grabbed the flap of skin that hung over her fresh wound and began slowly but steadily pulling it up towards yourself. Her screams were deafening.

Suddenly, you felt hands on your hips. It startled you, since you couldn't hear anyone coming on account of the woman's whining. You spun around to see Ramsay smiling at you proudly. He had blood on his arms and hands, his leathers were off and he was only wearing the grey loose-fitting shirt. You pressed into his body with yours, leaning fully into his arms as you kissed him. You felt warmth immediately between your thighs as he gripped your waist. "Well done, well done!" He chuckled, admiring what you'd done to the woman so far. You felt a tingling sensation in your stomach when you knew Ramsay was impressed by you. "Shall we finish the job together, my love?" Ramsay asked, releasing his own flaying knife from its sheath.

The woman was completely flayed and the bastard was no longer existing. Ramsay was breathing heavy as he stepped back from the wooden X and draped his arm around your shoulders, you both had bloody hands and arms. You stared at your husband, watching him breathe through his grinding teeth. He peered over at you and flashed a smile. "I'm very proud of you." He raised his eyebrows and turned to you, placing a hand on your cheek. You felt your cheeks flush pink as you looked deeply into his pale eyes. You slammed your lips against his, moaning in his mouth.

You both dropped your knives with a loud clatter on the stone floor, desperately wrapping your arms around each other. He lifted you by your thighs and you wrapped your legs around his waist. You wanted him. You knew it would be wildly painful but you wanted him regardless. You wrapped your fingers in his hair and yanked, desire was taking over your body. He groaned into your mouth as he felt the dull pain at his skull. He walked with you over to a chair that was in the corner of the room, next to a small table which you promptly shoved over. He sat down with you on his lap.

You hiked up your skirt around your hips as he undid his trousers, just opening the front enough to release his hard cock that was begging to be touched by you. You wrapped your hands around his throat and squeezed mercilessly. His eyes bulged as you slowly slid down on his cock, the pain was intense but you wanted to please him no matter what it took. He groaned loudly when your cunt was around him, squeezing it tightly in your walls. You continued to choke him with one hand, the other hand grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of his neck and you yanked.

His neck was fully exposed to you and you leaned forward to suck and bite the soft skin. He moaned as you rode him with desperation. You moaned with a mixture of intense pain and pleasure as you bounced on his lap, his cock pounding in and out of you. He held onto your skirt, pulling and pushing with your body. You pulled the hand back that was in his hair and you slapped him hard, his skin immediately flushing red where your hand landed. He growled with pleasure as you choked him harder.

You reached behind his waist and pulled one of his knives from his waistband. You pointed it at his neck, barely pressing the tip against his skin. A low moan crept out of his lips as you nicked his collarbone, blood began trickling out. You sliced down his shirt, freeing his pale chest to the air. You began dragging the knife across his chest, leaving scratches and small gashes across his muscular body. He was staring at you with obsessive eyes, obviously loving what you were doing. You finished with a large and somewhat deep cut across his sternum, digging a little deeper than before.

You threw the knife to the ground as you leaned forward, licking up the blood that was trickling down his chest. Your mouth filled with the warm iron and you continued grinding your screaming body against his. He was panting hard, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips spread apart to let the moans escape effortlessly. You knew he was close to his orgasm and you didn't slow down as you slid your tongue into his largest wound before kissing him, your mouth leaking his own blood into his mouth.

His thighs tensed and his breathing caught in his throat as he pulled your skirt, desperate for you to slam down on him harder. You obliged, riding him hard as he came. Your poor body was bleeding too, your cunt sore and abused but you couldn't care. You only wanted to please Ramsay. You rode him through his wave until his cock softened inside you. You slowly lifted yourself, nearly collapsing on his lap once you pulled him out. The pain was excruciating. He held you on his lap as his cum dripped out of you onto his trousers.

You were out of breath as well, and tears finally began to fall down your cheeks. Ramsay smiled as he pulled you close, pressing your chest against his. You could feel his heart beating strongly as he held you. He caught his breath and whispered to you, "You're mine forever, My Lady."

You thought back to a time when those words would have terrified you. You used to be so weak and scared of Ramsay. You almost chuckled at your past self, she had no idea what was ahead of her. You remembered the first time you saw a flayed man from a distance and how it made your stomach churn, threatening your lunch to come back up your throat. You thought about now, the act of flaying someone caused you and Ramsay to bond so deeply and even arouse both of you. You remembered the first time you felt pain at the hands of Ramsay, lying on the pelts in the woods when he revealed his identity to you. You laughed at how foolish and simple you were. Now, pain was just another weapon that you were able to harness to turn into pleasure. You learned so much from your lover, you almost wanted to thank him.

You were confident that nobody else would understand your relationship with Ramsay, the relationship that you battled with in your head for so long. You knew that people would assume that you were evil just like him, and perhaps they were right. All you knew is that you loved Ramsay, and he loved you. It had to be love. It had to be. You were too horrified to think of what it was if it wasn’t love. You swallowed the thoughts and settled with the comfortable words you were able to tell yourself. This was love. It had to be...

The End.

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmȳs (my heart) │ Chapter 11 PREVIEW

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

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

You are startled awake by the sound of crying.

Daemon groans beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhaenar’s whimpers begin anew below you.

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

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

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

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

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

“But you have–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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