#airway emergency

[anna-t-dote]

Only went to do dinner relief for 30 minutes and had to put another emergency call out for help *screams*. Anyway, everything was fine but fucking hell, I'm racking up emergencies lately. Third in 4 weeks.

[agueforts]

❓

[er-cryptid]

Common Causes of Airway Obstruction

-- relaxation of the tongue in an unresponsive patient

-- foreign object      -- food      -- small toys      -- dentures

-- blood clots

-- broken teeth

-- damaged tissues

-- airway swelling      -- infection      -- allergic reaction

-- aspirated vomit

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[stemlyns]

Noninvasive Ventilation for Preoxygenation during Emergency Intubation

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Introduction Anyone working in Emergency Medicine will have been present when a critically ill patient needs tracheal intubation in the Resuscitation Room. Depending on your local set-up, this may have been performed by the emergency medicine team or colleagues from anaesthetics or intensive care. It’s a high-stakes procedure where the patient’s physiology is already compromised, and we then…

[pcgamer]

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[auroradevis]

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[howdoesone]

How does one manage airway and breathing in critically ill or injured patients?

Managing the airway and ensuring adequate breathing is a critical aspect of caring for critically ill or injured patients. In emergency medical services (EMS), prompt and effective airway management can significantly impact patient outcomes. This article will discuss the essential steps and considerations in managing the airway and breathing in critically ill or injured patients. Continue reading…

[luveline]

I read the Derek and Spencer fainting bit and now I want to complete it with Hotch :)))

If that’s alright of course…

thank you for your request ♡ fem!reader

Aaron knows you harbour more affection for him than anyone else on the team, which is a true compliment to him, as you adore Spencer. He can never tell if you're friendly or loving, if you want some or all or nothing, the line between you blurred. 

When Morgan and Garcia first began their flirtatious friendship, Aaron thought they were seeing each other on the sly for a whole fortnight. He's a profiler, but he doesn't know everything. 

He does, however, know that something is wrong with you today. Hand held up over your eyes, you squint out over the crime scene with a wrinkled nose. The lakeside smells as bad as it looks with gore blackening the surrounding grass. He's been telling you for months to get some shades. You've been ignoring his advice. 

Your disapproval of the smell is normal. Your unsure footing is not. You take his forearm when he offers it and step across the muddy bank to the body without audible complaint, though you give him a 'this fucking sucks' narrowing of the eyes when he gives you the time. 

"Agent Hotchner," a deputy greets, "Agent L/N. We found the second body here. Bystanders pulled the first out thinking she was still alive, but that was unfortunately not the case." 

You shift unprofessionally close to Aaron. He doesn't really care. The sheriff barely looks at you both, his attention on the corpse hidden between overgrown cattails. 

Aaron hates to admit that he gives you more of his attention than is helpful. You seem odd. Call it intuition, call it plain old profiling, Aaron reads the next minute of events in the smallest twitch of your finger.

You put your hand on his back and he doesn't think, he just grabs you. The sheriff deputy startles as you fold over Aaron's arm like a marionette with strings sliced, exhaling hard as your body does its best to hit the grass beneath your feet. 

"Agent L/N!" The deputy yelps. 

"I got her," Aaron says, easing you down to the ground. He keeps a hand behind your head to lay you down flat, the other quick to leap from your side to your cheek. You'll likely have bruises in the shape of his hands at your waist. "Y/N?" 

He rubs his thumb under your eye. Quick, he leans down with an ear to your lips and relaxes at the sound of your shallow breathing. He pulls away, resting a hand atop your chest. 

"Can you hear me?" he asks, conscious of and ignoring the copious pairs of eyes watching over you. 

You don't respond. Aaron goes into emergency mode, flagging down a cop who races for a paramedic, hands at your throat unbuttoning the first button on your blouse, the second in an overabundance of caution. 

"Y/N, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that?" His tone wavers somewhere between demanding and desperate. "Come on. Come on." 

Fainting is one thing. Fainting with no signs of dehydration and little sun exposure is another, especially considering you hadn't moved from one position to another. You've passed out with no obvious cause. Any number of things could be wrong. 

He doesn't slap you —it works in the movies and not often elsewhere. In fact, Aaron finds himself at the opposite end of the spectrum. Patient outwardly and insanely panicked on the inside, he holds your face in his hand and waits for someone to tell him you're alright. 

Your breath catches, your head lolling into his palm. He straightens it, weary of your airways. "Y/N? Tell me you can hear me." 

The whirlwind of your fall and the eternity of your recovery has him holding his breath. 

"I can hear you," you mumble, again attempting to turn your head. He lets you this time. He's so relieved, he'd let you do anything. 

He fights the urge to shout, Where's the medic? instead following your face, tilting his head to the side. "Open your eyes, honey," he murmurs, for your ears alone. 

Your lashes twitch against his pinky index finger. You frown as though you're in pain and finally rouse to attention. 

"What hurts?" he asks, brows furrowed.

"Nothing hurts…" Your frown worsens. "You look really unhappy." 

"I'm not ecstatic about this," he says. He gives in, shouting, "Where's the medic?"

"Oh, no, please," you say, trying to sit up, "that is so embarrassing."

Aaron pushes you flat to the grass beneath you. "Stop, you need to stay flat. You passed out. This is the solution–" He puts his hand flat over your chest as you put in some effort. "Hey, this is what you need to do. Listen to me, agent." 

"What happened to honey?" you ask quietly. 

"That's when you were doing what I wanted." 

You close your eyes in a faux strop. "I guess I'll have to do what you want more often, sir." 

"That's enough." He sounds fond. Why does he sound so fond? 

The deputy clears his throat. "Paramedics are here." 

You groan. Aaron hides a smile. Through everything, his hand has stayed on your cheek. He doesn't pull it away until he absolutely has to, and even then, he holds some part of you. Your elbow, your wrist. He has the sense to be sheepish about it when the paramedic ushers him back, but even then, he's thinking about when he'll get to touch you next; he needs the assurance that you're okay. 

He gets it a half hour later when you're sipping on a gatorade in the back of an SUV. 

"Do I still get paid for today?" you ask, smiling playfully. "Or is this a write off?" 

He wants to joke about it with you, but there's work to be done. He sends you back to the hotel with a frankly unprofessional hug and a demand to take it easy. He's sure you'll be back stepping on his heels by late afternoon. 

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[arabellasleopardcoat]

Clad in sea (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: It is not Harrenhal, what drives Daemon to the Gods Eye. It’s the memories of you and your daughter.

Warnings: ANGST. Suicide. Canon levels of violence. The afterlife. Guilt, suicidal thoughts. Harenhal’s induced nightmares ™

A/N: It’s angst but with a happy ending (Sort of) Come with me into a deep dive into Daemon’s mental torture. You only need to know the reader really loves the sea, and watch closely. Pay attention, everything has a reason.

As a young girl, you had always dreamed of the sea. There had been nothing you loved more than walking to the docks, and looking at the waves crushing under you, extending into the horizon.

It made you feel small, in the good sense. As if you were insignificant in the great scheme of things. The sea had been there when you had been born, and it would be there when you died. It would go on.

At night, you could still feel the waves under you, rocking your body. Sundrunk and deliriously happy, you always fell asleep in peace after spending your days in the beach.

The memory soothes you as you place your baby in front of you, watching her small body be rocked by the waves. She had felt so cold in your arms, and you had not dared embrace her in her last seconds, only hold her hand. Her stomach had been pierced by a sword, and moving her too much felt cruel.

You had never wanted your daughter to know pain. You had known it was an inevitable fact of life, but you had hoped she had more time.

Daemon had left. He had done something horrible, the men had said. Killed a boy. So now, they would kill the two of you and present your heads to him.

It sickened you, to imagine your beautiful daughter wandering the earth without a head. Of these animals desecrating her body, perhaps doing unspeakable things to you because of a war you had no interest in.

So you had picked her up and ran to the only place you had ever felt safe. And as the ocean welcomed you into her arms, turning you as cold as your daughter was, you could finally embrace her again.

You did not regret it. Not even as saltwater crushed your airways, and your lungs filled with water. Not even when you emerged, voice raspy with salt, and your daughter held against your chest, full of righteous fury.

There had been a girl once, with hair as dark as ink, and eyes full of constellations. Her lips had always been chapped, for her land had suffered a drought so long, they didn’t have a word for water. Instead, they called it Life.

The girl had a gift. Somehow, she always managed to find Life, wherever she went. It was no causality, her mother told her. Their God was taken with her, and gazed at her every time he could. Through the small ponds, the droplets of dew, the very waves crashing on the shore. She had to be careful because no matter how useful her gift, if she looked too much into her reflection, he might pull her in.

“Are you afraid?” Daemon had whispered, as the two of you laid in bed one night. The sheets were sticky with his spent and sweat, but both of you were too lazy to change them. Instead, you were carefully laid on your side, body curled against his, careful not to touch the pool of seed.

“Of what?” You had looked up at him, and Daemon had been distracted by your beauty. In the soft light of the eternal sunsets of Essos, you looked otherworldly. With your face shining with a light layer of sweat, and your neck and chest covered by his marks, you had to be a goddess.

You took pain like the best of his men. You looked much more beautiful than any of them had ever done.

“What?” You insisted, poking his ribs.

“Of dying?” He felt sick for even mentioning it. You were so alive, so vibrant in his arms, so full of life. As if aware of his thoughts, your hands went to cradle your stomach. Your pregnancy was still fairly new. It didn’t show yet, but his child was growing inside of you.

Daemon pressed his own hands over yours. You let him help cradle your child, and leaned back against him. The thought of you facing the birthing bed made him anxious, and he had to squeeze you to make sure you were still there.

His last memory of Westeros had been Aemma’s death. And while Essos had more advanced healing arts, and you were no Targaryen, he feared his seed might make the pregnancy harsher on you.

“I am of the sea, Daemon.” You had smiled at him, so happy it hurt to even recall it. “I was born from her, foam and blood. And to her, I shall return when I die. I do not fear death. There is no end in a circle.”

No end in a circle, you had said. But an Ouroboros died regardless. Daemon clutched the letter until it tore.

You had made truth of your promise. Somehow, while grievously wounded, you had managed to carry your daughter to the sea. In the soft sand, your footprints had never faltered. The two of you had made a path towards the foam, and disappeared into the water. Perhaps, sensing that if you left your bodies behind, they might have been desecrated. Or perhaps because you were a woman of your word.

The Gods knew what anguish you had suffered, watching your girl die. It was a pain no mother should have to withstand, and yet, you had had to because Daemon had inflicted it in Helaena to avenge the one inflicted on Rhaenyra.

A circle has no ending. He cursed the day he had thought stepping foot outside Essos was a good idea. Daemon should have never left you. The world was not a safe place, not with the reach of the Hightowers. You had not stood a chance.

They had come into the night, and made you watch as they murdered his daughter. Then, they tried to injure you. But somehow, you had managed to escape.

Broken. Bleeding. With a dead toddler in your arms, and perhaps a babe in your belly. Daemon could not recall the last time you were in your moonblood, before he left. Perhaps you had gotten it after. He would never get to know.

No one had been able to stop you. Not even the men who had hurt you so. They had been unable to find your bodies, lost in the waves. The sea had raged that night, mourning the loss of her daughters. No one could have survived that.

Still, hope blossomed inside his chest every time he thought of it. The feeling was paralyzing. It didn’t allow him to grief normally. He kept thinking the two of you may be alive somewhere, lost in the sea. That a fishing boat might have picked you up, and helped you hide.

Because if you were truly dead, Daemon would have felt it. He was certain of it. Caraxes, who had always been finely attuned to his sister, this other sea goddess, would have felt it too. He would have cried in the manner Syrax did, when Rhaenyra took to the birthing bed.

His dragon had a connection to you. He knew your touch, your voice from all others. Both of you had been born out of the sea. You had ridden him as many times as Daemon himself. At least he would have known.

But not a peep had been heard from Caraxes. Ever since they had arrived at Harrenhal, he seemed subdued, as if preparing to hibernate. Sedated. He no longer wanted to fly, no longer wanted Daemon near.

Daemon thought he would have known, but perhaps, he had been unworthy of it. And Caraxes sensed it. He knew it was all his fault.

Were you laying down, lulled to sleep by the songs of the seashells or alive somewhere mourning your daughter, it was all his fault. Daemon had not been aware that the price to pay for a son would be this steep. His two girls.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? They really thought women were worth less in Westeros.

The lack of Life had never been so intense. The drought had gotten worse, the crops withered, the few animals died. Desperation filled the girl. Her mother was getting old, and she was no longer able to partake in the long walks in search for a droplet of dew.

So one day, she walked to the shore and sat by, watching the waves. She breathed in, found her courage, and said: “I wish to speak to you.”

Daemon tosses and turns, fixing his pillows. The room is gloomy, no matter how many candles he has lit, and there is a strange draft that not even the brightest fire can fight.

He closes his eyes, feeling a sudden warmth behind them. If you were here, you would embrace him from behind, playfully pinning him into the bed. You would press your lips to his temple, and sing of lands long forgotten, a city underneath the sea. A city so great, the Gods had punished it by sinking it.

Your soft voice would soothe him into sleep, your arms holding him tight. Daemon can almost feel the weight of them against his waist, the warmth of your body against his. A sob gathers on his chest, but dies in his throat.

He has not cried since getting the news. Instead, he has been cursed with the easiest sleep of his life. Harrenhal is damp and gloomy, and Daemon doesn’t like at all the looks the witch gives him, but every time he closes his eyes, he is out like a light.

Your absence is not so acute, in a bed not his own. He can pretend you are home, safe. Or that you have gone out, siren that you are, for a midnight walk along the shore. In those nights, when the sea had been at its most violent, you had roused your daughter and took her to watch the sea.

“The sea gives and takes.” You had often said, standing in the docks with her, from enough distance that the harsh tides wouldn’t hurt you. “We must respect her. Remember that.”

You had taken her on other nights too. The two of you would roll around in the sand, play in the waves, until you exhausted yourself and both crawled into bed with him, hair still wet and smelling of salt.

Daemon swears he smells it — now. His daughter’s soap, and the sea, clinging to her hair and skin, her little toes cold, and pressing to his calves.

But when he opens his eyes, nothing is there. Just the lingering smell of saltwater.

These phantom touches both comfort and torture him. He can pretend both of you are there, or safe at home, but every time he opens his eyes, you are not.

Daemon dreams of the both of you every night. They are not nightmares. He is aware he is dreaming when he is in them, and getting to see your faces is bittersweet. He knows he will never see you anywhere else. The sea you had so loved has taken you, and he has nothing to mourn. Not a body, not a painting, not even your bones.

The dream is the same every night. It resembles a story you had once told him, and makes him wonder why his subconscious has chosen it, out of all the sea tales you had shared with him.

In the dream, you stand on the shore of Dragonstone. You are naked, with your hair loose over your shoulders. You hold your daughter, but she is not the age she had been when Daemon had left. Instead, she seems to be a baby again. Daemon cannot be sure because what you hold is a bundle of linens that you rock back and forth, and her face is never seen.

Your eyes are fixed on the horizon. You do not seem to notice him at first. The rocks that make up the beach dig on your bare feet, and the sea rages, hitting against your ankles with such strength you should fall over. You do not.

It makes Daemon nervous.

“What are you doing?” He always tries to convince you, not a night goes by where he doesn’t. “Come here, love. The sea is too dangerous tonight.”

There is a steel band around his chest, and it tightens when he sees you take a step further into the sea. He has this feeling something terrible is about to happen, that the next wave will hit you and drag you under, that it will drown you and his girl. That it will be the last.

But every night, you refuse to listen. You continue rocking the baby, eyes stubbornly set in the horizon. Your face gets the same pinched look it had gotten in life, when the two of you argued, and you refused to back down.

He had learnt to grovel by your side. He tries that, next.

“What are you doing? Please, love.” Daemon gets more desperate then because he tries to get closer to you and never quite manages. He had never been as fearless of the sea as you had been, and in the dream, the mere sight of the water caused him intense terror. “Please. What is it? We can talk about it, I can help. I can protect you.”

Daemon knows it is a lie. He has failed at that once, already. And you seem to know it too because it is to the promise of protection that you turn.

“I can’t.” And your voice sounds old, full of wind and salt. It shatters his soul. You are slipping through his fingers once more. The thought is unbearable. “Our daughter needs to eat.”

Your arms open, and a miracle occurs. The island, so dry and so infertile, the jagged rocks that make up the ground, the sulfuric smell, they all disappear. Suddenly, the world is brighter, there are trees and flourishing bushes, the crops are thriving. The air smells of fruit, and sun, sweet as the first days of summer.

It only serves to terrify him further.

“I’m afraid.” Daemon admits, voice pitched low. It’s not something he would ever say while awake, but he fears so much for your safety, it slips out. When it does, he finds the bravery to rush to your side. “I don’t want anything to happen to the two of you.”

“Don’t be scared, silly.” You laugh, and turn to face him. Daemon reaches forward, attempting to take the babe from you. The blanket opens in the process, but instead of a baby, a rush of seawater falls out.

When he lifts his gaze to meet yours, horrified, you disappear under his hands in the exact same manner.

And Daemon screams, but no sound comes out. Tries to hold on, but water slips through his fingers every time.

Her mother sees it all. Her girl leans in, as if to kiss her reflection, and tips over. The water swallows her whole.

She runs, then. But when she reaches the pond, her fingers only grasp water.

No one in the village believes her. They forget the girl easily, busy with their newfound prosperity. The place blooms with new life.

There has to be something in this place. Perhaps it’s the witch. Perhaps it’s the curse. Daemon had never believed in ghost stories, and he had once mocked Rhaenyra’s concerns over Harrenhal, but now he has the same doubts.

His grip on reality feels flimsy at best. He had spent an entire afternoon chasing his daughter through the halls, convinced he could hear her laughter and footsteps in the corridors.

Simon Strong had jerked him out of that one, asking him to hear the inane disputes of the rest of the Riverlands. His perplexed face at Daemon’s insistence he could hear a child running around had vexed him to no end.

Another day, Daemon had been in a meeting with the lords when he had heard you singing. It was that damn story again, about the girl, and the ponds… He had been lost into his own thoughts, and ended up insulting them because he couldn’t focus.

The witch has taken to looking at him with pity. Does she walk through dreams, too? Can she see you, haunting every body of water near?

It’s late at night, and Daemon cannot sleep. He keeps hearing footsteps, and laughter. Water runs near, an intolerable murmur. He gets up, without bothering to put on his robes, and decides to investigate.

Harrenhal’s corridors are dark and empty. His footsteps echo, explaining the noise. Someone must be walking somewhere. But the water? There is nothing beyond a leak in the roof.

Daemon has a terrible headache. The infernal noise water makes is constantly in his ears, even when he plugs them. It chases him, flowing and ebbing, but never disappears.

Perhaps some fresh air might do him good. He doesn’t dare ask Alys for any further concoction, less she is the one poisoning him. He walks to the courtyard, instead.

As he crosses the dilapidated training grounds, Daemon sees you. His heart lurches. You are as beautiful as the day he married you. You wear your Valyrian robes, and hold your daughter’s hand. She is clad in a miniature set of the same robes.

Daemon rubs his eyes. It cannot be. You are not supposed to be here. Why would you be here, dressed like that? There are runes traced in blood in your forehead, and in your lips. You are fresh out of a wedding.

A flash of jealousy makes him clench his fists. Have you betrayed him? Faked your death to marry another lover? You have come to taunt him, surely. You had survived the attack, and so had your daughter, and this was a way to punish him for leaving you unprotected.

Burning with rage, he walks after the two of you. You seem calm, talking to your daughter in a low voice, and making her giggle. The two of you walk, carefree, through the Godswood.

You look so normal. Like you always did. Solid. There is nothing in you of the vengeful sea goddess that haunts his dreams and disappears under his hands. He doesn’t dare call out either of your names, for fear of alerting you he is on your tail. Daemon wants to see the bastard that you are meeting.

He has suffered all these nights, thinking you dead, and here you are, alive! You dare flaunt yourself, after taking his daughter and causing him immense pain.

“You bitch.” Daemon mumbles under his breath. He follows you outside the castle’s walls, noticing you seem familiar with the terrain. You do not pause even once, while he has to stumble over branches and dried leaves that cover deadly holes made by horse’s hooves.

Once you reach the hill overlooking the Gods Eye, you pick up your daughter, and do not hesitate to make your way down to the lake. Daemon curses under his breath. He doesn't’t dare do the same. His footsteps are nowhere near as secure as yours are while carrying a toddler down a hill.

Instead, he hides behind some trees and watches. Will your lover meet you here?

But no man steps out of the shadows. You set your daughter down and undress her, tenderly. You fold her robes, and remove yours. Then both of you walk into the Gods Eye, until the water swallows you whole.

Daemon rushes to the shore then, nearly twisting his ankle in the process. There are no robes and no footsteps in the mud. There is only the pale moon, winking at him from the surface of the water.

The girl is now a woman. She walks out of the sea one day, carrying her daughter in her arms, and hugs her own mother tight.

“I have come to visit. I wish to meet my friends too, but she is too little to take with me. Would you mind staying with her?”

Her mother, enchanted by the return of her daughter, cannot help but agree. She imagines the afternoon, spent coddling the new granddaughter.

“You have to promise me something.” The woman begs of her. “No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you must never unwrap her.”

Daemon waits for thirteen days in Harrenhal before his nephew comes face him. He marks the passing of each day through carving a mark into the heart tree at sunset.

You loved sunsets, when alive. You loved to feel the warmth on your skin, and the light reflecting on your face. Your mood had always improved when spring began, and Daemon had fond memories of days spent rolling in the sand, kissing each other until it was difficult to tell if you were flushed because of the sun or the kisses.

Aemond shows up on the fourteen day, after a moon spent terrorizing the Riverlands. His nephew had turned into a petty King, using fire and blood against anyone who stood on his path.

How plebeian. To think he had in his grasp the last beast that had seen the conquest, and he used her to burn fields and peasants. It showed the boy was still green, drunk in his newfound power.

His behavior was unbecoming of a Targaryen Prince. He treated Vhagar as if she were a mere weapon, and not the source of their power. Dragons deserved more respect than that.

Aemond doesn’t come alone. Behind him rides Alys, the witch of Harrenhal herself. The witch’s belly is swollen with child. Daemon wonders if she is fulfilling her own prophecy. Why else the fierce woman he had met during his first stay at the castle remain by his nephew’s side?

Perhaps, she knows she has to be his so the Prince who was promised is born after the extinction of the dragons. It shall not come from his line, but maybe from the one that starts with the babe in her belly.

Daemon has come to understand that he has his own destiny to fulfill too. He was never meant to have you, he realizes. You were a daughter of the sea, made from blood and foam. Daemon, instead, had been born out of fire and blood. Water and fire never mixed, and in another lifetime, they might have never had.

He had been meant for Rhaenyra, Alys had told him once. Made of flames, to burn together. But his love for you had been so strong it had allowed to defy his fate.

Aemond circled twice around Harrenhal, and then brought Vhagar down in the outer ward. Caraxes, as if sensing his rider’s unease, hissed a few flames. Daemon patted his flank, trying to soothe him. It wasn’t time yet. It couldn’t happen here.

Alys got down from Vhagar’s back, aided by her lover. When she was safely away, Aemond turned to face him.

“Nuncle, I hear you have been seeking us.”

“Only you.” Daemon had never been seeking Alys. He liked the witch enough to spare her, despite the rotten seed that had taken residence in her womb. A bastard babe was no threat to him. “Who told you where to find me?”

“My lady,” Aemond said, proudly. “She saw you in a storm cloud, in a mountain pool at dusk, in the fire we lit to cook our suppers. She sees much and more, my Alys. You were a fool to come alone.”

The witch had probably come to see if he fulfilled his destiny. It was important to her, to keep balance between the threads of fate. Daemon doubted that Aemond knew the witch was weaving with his thread too. In bringing him here, Alys had doomed him. She knew as Daemon did that both of them would die today.

“Were I not alone, you would have not come.” If Aemond was anything, it was a Hightower rat. A coward. He would face his death scared, unlike Daemon. He had made his peace with it a long time ago. You were dead. His daughter was dead. He had no further reason to live.

“Yet you are, and here I am. You have lived too long, nuncle.” Aemond tells him. Does he see, too? This twisted mirror of himself, thirty years his younger, and yet, he knows it. Men that defy fate never live too long afterward.

“On that much we agree.” Daemon smiles, wryly. He had led a good life. Nine and forty years, and he had known it all. Even love. Especially love.

Grief never took it away. It only made the tendrils wrapped around his heart into spears, that dug in deep, and never let go.

Daemon purposefully didn’t chain himself to his saddle, so it would be easy to jump. He took the higher ground, pushing Caraxes upwards. His beloved beast. He hoped that this gave Caraxes a fighting chance.

Vhagar was much slower, due to her size. She flew wide, taking her rider over the waters of the Gods Eye.

It was a perfect summer day. The sun was setting, in the manner you had so loved in life. It tinged the water a soft gold. The usual violent currents were calm. Everything around Daemon looked warm, and inviting. The golden hour, as you called it, was upon them.

Vhagar didn’t see them, but she was rapidly approaching. Daemon ordered Caraxes to dive by Aemond’s blind side, slamming against Vhagar with such force he feared he might fall. His dragon let out a piercing shriek, and the old whore answered him with her own.

The two dragons battled against each other, throwing flames and bites. The heat was unbearable, and Daemon had to duck nearly parallel to Caraxes so he was not burnt by Vhagar’s flames.

It was as he leaned in that he saw it. The water. It showed both of the dragons grappling against each other, falling while locked on a deadly embrace. It showed the fire, and the abundant blood falling from them. But it also showed you.

You, radiant in your wedding robes, swimming lazy circles. You, with your arms extended, as if hoping to catch something. Catch him, Daemon realized.

He looked up. Alys was a small figure in the highest tower of Harrenhal. It should have been impossible to see anything from this distance, yet Daemon could swear he saw her smile.

At that moment, he understood. All of it. A circle.

Daemon jumped from his saddle.

As soon as the mother opened the wrapped bundle, a rush of seawater came out. If there was once a baby, she was now gone.

Yet, miraculously, a young woman appears from the sea, fully grown. She is naked, covered only by her hair, and of a beauty so exquisite not a single mortal would dare gaze upon her.

“Fear not, grandmother.” She says, kindly. Her hands against the woman’s cheeks feel wet. Salt from the sea, and the old woman’s tears. “I am not a child any longer, that’s all. But you will never lack for drink as long I live.”

And the young woman faces the setting sun. And slowly, she begins to dance.

Lady Shella walked the halls of Harrenhal, in silence. It had been a long time since there was anyone here she could talk to. Her husband was dead, and her daughter long married. She hardly ever visited anymore, busy with running her own household.

The servants never made for good company. They rotated far too often for her to grow attached to any of them. They always complained of footstep and laughter in the hallways, and mysterious pools of water that no one knew where they came from.

Shella knew. She wasn’t about to tell them, of course. What was the point of owning a haunted castle if you couldn’t use it to scare others?

She made her way to the highest tower in Harrenhal. Her liege lords, the Tullys, had declared for the King in the North. They were kin to him. Shella remembered little Catelyn Tully, with her copperish hair. In her youth, she had been stunning, but Shella knew she must have lost all her luster by now.

If not from having five children, from widowhood. It had sucked all the beauty from Shella, after all. She deeply missed her Walter. They hadn’t been a match of love, but of convenience. She had grown to love him regardless. Years do that, she supposed.

Shella didn’t want to lose Harrenhal. It was the last tie she had to her husband. Inside this castle, they had made their home. They had raised children. They had been deliriously happy.

But Shella had little choice. Her scouts had seen Lannister banners less than half a day away. If she didn’t surrender the castle, they would take it by force. She didn’t have enough men, or time to ask her liege for help. Resisting would only mean death.

She wanted to see it one last time, though. One last sunset. One last trip with her ghosts.

Shella made her way to the window, and waited for the sun to start lowering. As the Gods Eye turned gold, laughter began to be heard in the hallways. Rushed footsteps turning corners, little bells ringing.

“… Daemon! Don’t!” The woman laughed.

“Higher, Daddy, higher!” A girl shrieked, voice pitched high with happiness. It made Shella’s heart ache. She reminded her of her girl.

“Come on, the two of you. We are late.” The voice was deeper, more commanding. And they were. A bit late, perhaps because spring was just starting, and the days were turning longer.

Nothing could be seen, beyond slight depressions on the grass. The marks of boots running alongside bare feet.

But for a second, as the sun turned the Gods Eye an angry orange, Shella saw them. A family of three, their little girl held between the parents, jumping into the lake. All shrieking in laughter.

Prince Daemon Targaryen, his lady wife and his daughter, reunited in death like they weren’t able to be in life. Yes, Shella thought, she could not wait to see what Tywin Lannister made of these ghosts.

.

.

.

A/N: Hello! If you are chilean like me (I really should shift to spanish for this, and I will) Si son chilenos como yo, la historia que usé para dividir el fic es una que reconocen. O al menos ligeramente. Es la historia de la Huenchula y el Millalobo, papás de la Pincoya, con un poco de adaptación para que sea fácil de entender y calce con lo que estaba escribiendo.

[johnbrand]

Recycling

I watched as the next employee entered the chamber. He appeared a bit confused, probably having expected a conference room rather than the dark space with mirrored walls. By the look of it, he had no idea that any one of the panes were one-sided, hesitantly fidgeting with his tie as he announced his presence with a timid “Hello?”

I leaned into the microphone, “Good afternoon.” The nervous boy’s eyes dashed around the room, trying to identify the person speaking to him. His physical characteristics and mannerisms resembled a mouse, small and skittish.

“Am I supposed to be here?” he eventually replied, choosing the speaker above my viewpoint as his receptor.

“Yes, this is the meeting to discuss your annual review.” I replied. “You're in the right place, Mr. Donson. Would you like for me to refer to you by your given name?”

The boy shuffled anxiously, “Drayton is fine.”

Habitually, I continued. “I’m sure you're wondering why your annual review this year is different from those in the past. Don’t worry Drayton, you are still one of our top performers, and your review reflects your incredible performance.”

Feeling a delicate surge of confidence, Drayton let a smile sneak up onto his lips. Being clean shaven and still holding some baby fat, it frankly was quite endearing. Cute even.

“As you are already aware, our company has been having some financial issues recently. And as a high-ranking official in our accounting department, I am sure that you are more than knowledgeable on the details of this subject.”

Drayton’s youthful glee faltered for a moment.

“Unfortunately, we do not have the funds available to keep you on board and give you a raise,” I started. “The company would like to offer you a deal: in exchange for accepting a substandard review and a 19% decrease in pay, we will offer you external benefits.”

Shock emerged from Drayton’s face, “What benefits would be worth a fifth of my paycheck?”

“Unfortunately I am liable to disclose that information,” I robotically replied. “You can either accept or tender a resignation.” 

Drayton took a moment to decide, just like all the other employees typically did. But eventually, they all convinced themselves that losing employment at the company was the worse of the two options.

“I’ll accept.”

“Stand by.” I followed procedure, locking the exits and airways into the chamber. Once that was done, I began flipping the switches. Steam mechanisms, followed by audio machines, followed by visual projectors. I did not even pay attention to the squabbling accountant, panicking as his chamber was bombarded with smoke, abrasive phonics, and commands that flashed against the walls and reflected into every corner of the room. 

Thanks to the padding in my control room, I absorbed none of it. I simply ignored Drayton’s screams and opened my laptop, getting back to my own duties as the process did its work. With all the vapors, I typically could not witness any of the changes that happened anyway–which also meant I could never attest to possible allegations if our company did ever come under some sort of legal fire in the future. But sometimes I did spot little things, flashes of commands that were being ingrained into the employee. MASCULINE, TRADITIONAL, ATTENTIVE. The small letters would pulse by an instant, although they were meaningless to me within my enclosed accommodations.

Eventually, my timer went off, and I closed out of the procedure. I exited the program and flipped the switches back over, shutting off all stimulatory mechanisms. It took a moment for the smoke to clear, presenting me with a new version of the employee. More muscular, more masculine, and more virile.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Donovan?”

"It’s Donson, boss." The man stood tall, stoic. His voice now held much more depth and presence.

"It’s Donovan, Drake Donovan,” I affirmed. “That's what's in our system."

I watched the man process this, the command’s installation literally visible behind his now less-intelligent eyes. 

“I see you were able to find part of your new uniform already.” I was referring to the briefs and sweatshorts that were covering the lower half of Drake’s much larger body. The remnants of the former business casual outfit were scattered across his large feet. “The closet behind you will contain the rest of your attire. Company fitness uniforms and approved footwear that will better fit your size and new position.”

“New position?” Drake inquired, his question curious rather than interrogative.

“The company has decided to reassign you as a security liaison, seeing as that will be a better fit for your paygrade.” I typed away at my reviewal report, adding in details of Drake’s benefits package. Increase in height, dramatic increase in musculature, increase in hair, increase in virility…

To save money, the company liked to recycle its employees. We would bring in fresh graduates to run our corporate operations, and then once they hit their pay ceiling, recycled them into more manual, less intellectually-driven roles. Naturally, no one ever filed any complaints about this procedure as no one realized it existed. And even if they did, they would no longer have the brains capable to file such a complaint.

“Sounds good, boss,” Drake replied, even though I had already known what his answer was going to be. With his dominating size and brutish stature, Drake had been remodeled into the standard male form that we needed for our team. And with this mind simplified to only focusing on traditional objectives (upholding masculinity, working out, fulfilling his role), Drake was now bound to solely focus on the company’s objectives. Thanks to the recycling process, our company would keep the profits high and the employee turnover low. And now, Drake would remain entertained without the extra money by merely following orders and enjoying the simpler things in life, like flexing his muscles.

[peppermintquartz]

Title Card fade out

Fade in on a familiar screen

VOICEOVER

911 what's your emergency?

MALE VOICE

Uh, my boyfriend and I need some assistance.

DIFFERENT MALE VOICE

Who's on the line? Tell me it's not Maddie.

FIRST MALE VOICE

... really, Evan? That's your first priority?

Cut to:

HOSPITAL

MADDIE BUCKLEY looking intense as she strides down the HALLWAY until she gets to the WAITING ROOM, where she sees:

TOMMY KINARD sitting on a chair, dressed in sweatpants and a familiar blue hoodie that's just a little tight on him. He sees MADDIE and stands up, almost to attention, and takes the teensiest step back when she approaches.

TOMMY

Please don't kill me.

MADDIE

Depends. Where is he and how is he?

A nurse wheels EVAN "BUCK" BUCKLEY into view. BUCK is wearing a neck brace and a proud if glassy-eyed expression

NURSE

There you go, Mr Kinard. It's gonna be a few weeks before he's up to anything challenging. And, Buck?

BUCK

Yes?

BUCK'S voice is strangely hoarse.

NURSE

Behave yourself. And know your limits.

BUCK grins up at MADDIE and TOMMY. He's definitely on the good drugs.

BUCK

My two favorite persons! Help me up. I wanna go home.

TOMMY

Uh, no. You stay in that wheelchair with your sister, and I'll get the car.

MADDIE grabs TOMMY'S elbow.

MADDIE

You're not going until I hear a full explanation.

BUCK

(very happily and proudly) He nearly ruptured my airway!

TOMMY and MADDIE react in unison (but very differently)

TOMMY/MADDIE

Evan!

BUCK (stage whispers)

It was during really hot sex. And because I handcuffed him, he couldn't get free to drive me here. So we had to call 9-1-1 and we told the dispatcher not to tell you.

BUCK pauses. His face falls.

BUCK

They told you.

BUCK looks sad. TOMMY looks like he wants to be swallowed by the ground.

MADDIE sighs.

MADDIE

Let's get you home.

[skbeaumont]

Texas Heat | Joel x Reader

Chapter 1 - Worst Decision, Best Decision

Series masterlist

Chapter Summary: You've just finished a Masters back home in England, and, with little idea of what you want to do next, decide to spend the summer in Texas, staying with your mum's cousins, the Adlers. But its not the Adlers who pick you up from the airport: it's their handsome neighbour, Joel. Rating: Teen (for now) Tags/warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, age difference (reader is 25, Joel is 37), AU! no outbreak, porn with plot. Word Count: 1.7k

The Texas heat is something else. You’ve hardly been stateside more than two hours and already it feels overwhelming, cloying and claustrophobic. It doesn’t help that the air-conditioning in the airport is sporadic and patchy. By the time you make it through security, into the dry heat of arrivals, your shirt is sticking to your back, hair plastered to your forehead and you’re wondering why you ever let your mother persuade you this was a good idea.

“Go to Texas,” she’d suggested, when you arrived home from your last university term, unsure of what to do or where to begin with starting a life for yourself, “stay with the Adlers – they’re family and god knows Connie would love to see you. Spend the summer there – see what happens.”

And so here you are, too old for a gap year, really, at twenty-five, too young to commit to anything for more than a summer, dragging your suitcase – one broken wheel courtesy of British Airways – through arrivals, wondering if you’ve just made the worst decision of your life. Danny and Connie are strangers but for the fact that they’re your mum’s cousins, though you’ve seen enough photos of them to know who you’re looking for. You look out over the crowded lounge, trying to spot them.

The man your eyes fall on definitely isn’t Mr or Mrs Adler, but he’s holding a sign that bears your name (along with an assortment of hearts and two poorly drawn butterflies). He’s younger than Danny and Connie, maybe late thirties, dark hair curling around his ears, a patchy beard that only accentuates the strong line of his jaw and nose. His eyes – dark, hooded – are searching the crowd of passengers emerging from arrivals. You slow, watching the man, wondering who he is, wracking your brains to remember if the Adlers have a son or brother they haven’t mentioned before in their letters and Christmas cards, but you come up blank.

Eventually, while you’re still wondering who this man is and why he’s got a board bearing your name, your eyes lock with his. He raises his eyebrows – a question – and you sigh, start off towards him, the broken suitcase bumping against your ankles. When you reach him he holds out a hand for you to shake.

“’m Joel,” he says, voice deep, a smooth Southern drawl that you thought only existed in movies, “I’m Danny’s neighbour. They’re sorry they couldn’t be here, they had to take Mrs Adler – Nana – to a hospital appointment. I’m gonna drive you back to theirs, if that’s alright?”

“Of course,” You take the offered hand, shake it, trying not to think about how large it feels compared to your own, how much strength seems to rest in the callused palms and thick fingers. “I’m guessing you didn’t make that sign?”

Joel looks at the name card in his other hand, colour rising on his cheeks as he takes in the love hearts and butterflies that have been painted onto it.

“I can’t say I did.” He replies, “You’ve got Connie to thank for that.”

You laugh and he smirks too, mouth curving up with amusement, eyes crinkling as he does.

“I’m parked right outside,” he says, “I can take that, if you want?”

You hand him the suitcase, about to warn him about the broken wheel but he lifts it easily by the handle, the weight nothing to the shifting muscles that stretch the sleeves of his t-shirt.

His truck is huge, obscenely large compared to the cars you’re used to seeing back home in England. You clamber in, take in the toolboxes in the bed, a hard hat strewn on the back seat, large work boots in the footwell that dwarf your own battered Converse.

“‘scuse the mess.” Joel says, getting into the driver’s seat. “Been a busy week.”

“You’re a builder?” You ask.

“Contractor. Me ‘n my brother, though mostly me, if I’m being honest. You?” He asks the question without looking at you, already starting the engine, something grating in the ignition as he does so.

“Nothing, yet.” You reply, pulling your seatbelt on, “I just finished university – college – and I’m still kind of figuring it out.”

“What did you study?”

“Maths, then a Masters in Theoretical Physics.”

“Shit, smart girl.”

Something about the way he says this, his eyes lingering perhaps a little longer than they need to on your face as he does so, makes your stomach flip.

“Know what you’re going to do with it, now you’re done?”

“Not a clue,” You reply, looking out of the window as the city opens out around the truck.

“Well, don’t rush into anything. Nothing like your twenties to spend messing around trying things out.”

“That what you did?”

He scoffs out a laugh at this, gives you a sideways look. “Not exactly. I had a kid at twenty-two and spent the rest of my twenties figuring that out. Still am, really.” He pauses, flicks his sun visor down and taps a small polaroid that’s slid into the back of the mirror. “She’s thirteen now. Sarah.”

The girl in the photograph is pretty, all bright eyes and curly hair. She’s leaning back in a chair, giggling at something the photographer has just said.

“She’s beautiful,” You say, and you can see the pride bubbling up in him as he flips the visor back up.

“Smart, too. Struggles a bit with math, now they’ve started bringing in algebra. I’m not much help, either. Once you get past adding and minusing, I’m lost.”

You laugh at this, grin at him. “I’d be happy to help out. God knows I’ll have plenty of free time, and I like teaching.”

“Might just take you up on that.” He replies, giving you a soft smile in return.

There’s a dimple in his cheek as he does so, visible only through the patchiness of his beard. He seems to get more and more handsome the longer you look at him. Leaning back in the truck, you can’t help but let your eyes trace his profile, the strong curve of his nose, plushness of his lips. It’s more fascinating than the concrete jungle that’s passing by the windows of the truck.

He’s a good driver: steady, reassuringly confident. He lets one arm rest across the back of the truck’s long seat, the other gently holding the steering wheel, guiding the truck down the freeway. If you laid your head back against the seat it would rest in the curve of his wrist. You don’t, but you can feel the heat rolling off of his arm anyway on the back of your neck, warm in contrast to the cool air blowing through the AC unit. You let your eyes gently close, jetlag starting to creep up on you. Your limbs are stiff and sore from the long plane journey. The hot sun beats down through the windscreen, casting patterns on your closed eyelids. It’s peaceful, here, in the truck with this handsome stranger, and before you know it you’ve fallen asleep, head lolling back on the seat.

Next thing you know Joel’s gently saying your name, one large hand on your shoulder, rousing you from sleep. You open your eyes, squint against the bright sun. He’s parked up in the driveway of a large, brick built house on a suburban street. The garage door is open: tools are stacked up inside, ladders and racks of scaffolding. The drive and lawn are neat, a little scrubby from the heat. You turn, look over at a house you recognise as the Adler’s, the one you’ve seen in it family photographs sent with the yearly Christmas card. Your new home, for the next three months.

Joel holds the door of the truck open for you and your climb out, get your feet down on the solid concrete driveway. He moves round to the back, tugs out your suitcase like it weighs nothing, even though your arms are still aching from dragging it through security hours earlier.

“Connie left me the key,” Joel says, reaching a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a brass key on a flowery keyring. “I’ll help you get your stuff in, then leave you to settle in. Connie and Danny should be back in an hour or so.”

The Adler’s house is nice. Quaint, a little dated, décor straight from the 1980s, but it’s homely. You feel settled immediately. There’s a photograph of your mum on the bookshelf, from back when she was a kid, long before she moved from Texas to London.

Joel puts your suitcase at the foot of the stairs, asks if you want him to take it up for you, but you’re not sure which room you’re staying in so you tell him to leave it, that you can sort it out later. There’s a whining from the back room and you look at Joel, questioningly.

“That’ll be Mercy,” He says, moving through the hall to the kitchen, swinging open the door.

A bundle of fur throws itself down the hallway towards you, tail wagging. Joel watches, grin on his face as you bury your face in the dog’s soft coat and wrap your arms around him.

“I’d better head off,” He says when you stand up, brushing fur from your clothes. “You need anything, just give me a shout. You know where I am.”

“Thanks, Joel.” You say, watching him pull open the door, t-shirt bunching up around his shoulders revealing a tanned strip of skin just above the waistband of his faded jeans. “And I meant what I said about helping Sarah with that maths homework.” You add as he steps out onto the porch.

He turns back, shields his eyes from the sun to look at you, mouth turned up in a grin. “And I might just take you up on that, darlin’.”

And then he’s gone, long strides taking him back across the lawn and towards his own house. You lean back against the closed door and shut your eyes, basking in the imprint of Joel’s handsome face etched on the back of your eyelids, wondering if you’ve just made the best decision of your life.

[demonicbaby666]

Corruption

Kinktober 2023 | Marvel Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Scarlet witch x fem!reader

Genre: smut & angst

Words: 3.6k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, kidnapping, gagging, degradation, biting, spanking, slapping, fingering, overstimulation, g!p (conjured), face fucking, oral (bj), anal play, restraints, orgasm denial, sub/dom dynamic, dubcon

Summary: When Wanda seeks out your comfort one late night, you willingly oblige. However unbeknownst to you, the older woman has been changed by her recent shortcomings and has plans for your new role in her life.

A/n: I want to preface this by saying that THIS IS A DARK FIC, meaning the themes of it can be triggering and will not appeal to some. Read at your own risk, and please avoid if you believe anything in the warnings will negatively affect you.

In the darkness of the room you were being kept in, time was hard to keep track of and left ample room for crazed thoughts to run rampant. You'd been here for what you could only assume had been a couple of days. The shackles - attached to the ceiling, forcing your body to remain upright - dug painfully into your wrists' sore, tender flesh. Nothing could have prepared you for this. For what you'd endured in the last days, and who the one causing it would be.

When Wanda approached your doorstep late at night, you hadn't known her intentions. You'd been ignorant to think the loss of her children would have had little effect on her, so you let her in and offered comfort in the one way you always had with her - using your body. When you woke up the following morning, you'd expected to be greeted by an empty, dishevelled bed and aching muscles. However, the moment your eyes opened, your muscles were strained, not just from the excursions that took place but from the effort it took to hold up your body.

There was a dim red light glowing in the corner of the room. When your sleep-addled vision cleared and adjusted to the dark setting, you saw the shrouded figure emerge. It was Wanda, but now her stance vastly differed from the night prior. She stood tall, her strides purposeful and her gaze predatory.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," the redhead's lips lifted at the sides, forming an alluring yet daunting smirk.

"What's going on?" you hurried to ask, "Why am I here, Wanda?"

There was nothing behind her eyes resembling the softness you used to see. The witch was cold and callus, walking around you, her nose pointed upwards, inspecting your nakedness and dismantling you under her gaze.

"You're here to listen and obey," she mused, her tone bored and unbothered.

The chains rattled as you fought against them, almost losing your unsteady footing, "I don't understand. Wanda, let me go. This isn't you."

The redhead appeared in front of you in an instant. Though she wore a faint smile, it was not mirrored in her eyes - that remained displeased.

"You don't know what I am anymore." There was anger behind her words, as though this new persona was something she was forced into becoming. Her inky fingers sought out your jaw, etching fine scarlet lines down your throat until she stopped and wrapped her hand around your neck, "You will listen, and you will obey." She repeated.

"I-"

Before you could get another appeal out, your airways were forcefully closed, and your nipple was roughly pinched. The silent whimper you let out seemed to intrigue Wanda, and she repeated the action on your other nipple, extracting the same response.

When she lowered her head and soothed your swollen tit, running her tongue in circles, you couldn't help the small appreciative moan you let out. The sensation was welcome, overshadowing the dull ache in your legs and arms, planting the seeds of satisfaction and desire, so much so that you closed your eyes and momentarily forgot where you were.

The air filtered back into your lungs as Wanda eased her grasp on your neck, and you let it circulate through your body with each shaky inhale and subjugated to the fleeting euphoria running through your veins.

"Stop!" you shrieked abruptly, eyes flinging open, wrists wrestling against your restraints once more.

The witch surged up, and her hand collided with the side of your face. The harsh slap left your cheek stinging, tears blossoming in your eyes. The pain was barely registered and loomed behind the initial shock of what had just happened. You wanted to touch where she had hit you, soothe the reddening spot, but the chains above you were unrelenting and echoed what Wanda had said, 'obey.'

Burning fury painted emerald eyes red, and now, you were terrified. With a jerk of her wrist, material was wrapped around your mouth, stopping you from making any other unsanctioned demands.

The fear that danced in your eyes extinguished some of the anger in Wanda's. With an eyebrow raised, she waited a few seconds for you to stop fighting against your gag before raking one hand through your hair and craning your head back. With your neck fully exposed, the older woman drew her head down and bit.

The mix of pain and pleasure licked every nerve ending in your body and cleverly distracted you from the hand wandering south until it was too late. Two slender fingers thrust inside you, and instantly, your hips bucked with a keening cry. A small fire bubbled inside you, starting in your chest, working its way down to your stomach, and finally settling scorching blue between your legs.

"You're so wet," Wanda whispered hotly into your neck, starting to pump lazily into your tight channel, "Are you sure you want me to stop?"

Staring up at the ceiling, you watched the metal chains sway in time with your grinding hips. This was wrong, you knew it. However, your body did not. The older woman was right; you were dripping. You'd felt the treacherous arousal pool in your sex the moment Wanda walked in, sizing you up like her next meal.

She was dressed in red, tight trousers and a form-fitting body piece that actuated her curves in all the right places. This combination of her new style and the intoxicating power she wielded had damned you from the get-go. You just hadn't wanted to admit it.

Now, with her fingers prying soft whimpers and mewls from you, there was nothing left in you to deny yourself further from what you wanted. Wrapping a leg around Wanda's leather-clad hips, you held tightly to loops of cold metal, leaving outlines of o's along your palms. Hungry teeth continued to gnaw at your neck between intervals of sucking and pinching nibbles.

The pressure on your arched spine dissipated when the hand in your hair moved to your raised thigh. It pulled you closer, and you let out a mangled cry when the palm of Wanda's hand touched your neglected clit. Hardened nipples brushed against rugged leather, and the delicious friction sent another wave of arousal to gush from your filled cunt.

Then, all movement stopped.

You thrashed against unmoving fingers, seeking out the orgasm that was near in sight, but the pleasure paled compared to the overpowering stimulation you received moments ago.

"So desperate." Wanda sniggered, emerging from your bruised neck, "So greedy."

She watched as you tried to get yourself off on her stubborn fingers, face screwed together in frustration. Watched as your eyes silently begged her for more. Smirked when tears burned in your eyes, and you let out choked sobs from behind your gag.

"You want to come so badly, don't you?" she taunted smugly, pulling her fingers out and ignoring your sobbed-out whine, "Open. I want you to taste your filthy cunt." she pulled down the saliva-coated material and held her wet fingers to your closed lips.

The heady smell filled your nostrils, and saliva gathered in your mouth. You wanted so badly to lick her fingers clean, to hear Wanda moan again much like she did the night prior, but the realisation that doing as you were told would be giving up the one bit of power and control you had left made you turn your head away in disdain.

A wicked cackle bellowed through the dark room, making you cringe and attempt to scarper away. The sight was most likely pathetic. You, naked, dripping down your legs and aimlessly kicking your feet off the ground with limited space to go. It only made Wanda laugh harder.

"Pitiful," she muttered, looking you up and down, "I'll be back tomorrow."

She turned, took a few steps, and suddenly, you felt like you could breathe again. That was until the older woman doubled back, shoved her fingers into your mouth and used her other hand to open your jaw. The force with which she had thrust her fingers into your mouth left you gagging and coughing, and still, Wanda refused to remove her fingers.

"Suck," she growled.

And only after feeling bile rise in your throat did you relent and obey.

Every night, Wanda would visit, cast warm rays of red over the room, offer food and water and ask the same question.

"Are you ready to behave?"

Regardless of your answer, she would do as she wished, much like the first night. You wanted to hate it, to hate her, hate yourself for the pleased sounds you let out, for enjoying something you know you shouldn't, for slipping up and becoming pliant one too many times. You needed it. You needed her. Though she was the one who would, time and time again, rip away your release, she was also the only person who could give it to you.

Over the span of the following days, your willpower lessened and lessened. The idea of giving yourself to the witch to end this torment became more and more attractive. She'd made it clear that surrendering to her would have its reward but never made apparent what that reward would entail. But to your weak mind, your fighting legs and swollen wrists, anything seemed better than what you were enduring.

So after one too many nights of being denied, when asked the question, you conceded and gave your capture what she wanted, whatever that may have been.

You met her gaze as she walked in and made your decision known, "I'm ready."

Without batting an eyelid, Wanda undid the restraints. The metal clicked, your arms slid out of the cuffs and with nothing holding you upright, your body crumpled to the floor. Tingles ran through your legs as the sensations returned to them. It was near orgasmic, feeling the assuaging tension dissipate.

When you could curl and uncurl your toes without pain, you gradually gravitated back upright until a pressure pushed down on your worn-out shoulder, forcing you to the floor again. Your knees smacked the hard concrete with a shattering thud, and you let out a pained groan.

"I want you on your knees," Wanda commanded, menacingly looking at you like a speck of dirt on her shoe.

Wanda dug the sole of her shoe harder into your shoulder, blanketing your muscles in searing pain. Fighting against your body and the redheads to remain steady in your position, you steeled your spine and secured your tongue between your teeth. Seething in pain seemed a better option than curling up into a little ball, which would only antagonise your delicate situation. Glancing up, it was hard to ignore the change. Between her legs, poorly hidden by tight leather trousers, was a prominent bulge.

"You're going to suck my cock like a good little bitch." Wanda announced, raising a brow and waiting for a complaint.

Of course, you knew this was another test to determine whether you had taken heed to what she had demanded of you. The role of being submissive surprisingly came easy to you. So far, all it entailed was remaining quiet and complacent, something that wasn't exceptionally difficult. A slanted smirk and the yielding weight off your shoulder was confirmation enough that your submission was taken gratuitously.

In the blink of an eye, Wanda - towered over you still - was fully undressed. As always, you found yourself exploring the plains of her glorious figure with your eyes, taking count of all the scattered freckles and beauty marks, travelling up and down creamy thighs and finally honing in on the generous peaks jutting from her chest. The contours of her body were beyond breathtaking. She was the image of perfection.

It was odd to feel such fondness towards your capture, but with a history of joyous nights wrapped in one another, complications arose and left you stranded far beyond the borders of confusion.

Reading you like a book, Wanda's face lit up. The faint colouring on her cheeks reminded you of the lost woman who was haunted by her past and yet still held so much love in her heart, the woman who was a hero, who, without question, would sacrifice herself for the greater good. She was still there, lurking in the depth of this new hardened exterior. But trying to reach her was a mission for another day because as quickly as her old self was there, she was gone.

Her foot finally met the ground alongside its twin, and now, directly in your eye line was Wanda's erect cock. It was far bigger than any you had seen or taken, standing proudly, nothing short of eight inches. A step forward had the end of her brushing against your lips, pre-come wetting the textured skin salty. Your whole body stiffened, and your jaw tensed.

"Uh-uh," she took her hardness into her hands and eased it between your lips until muscle memory took over and your mouth opened.

In an instant, the tip of her cock repeatedly hit the back of your throat. You were being forced to devour her full length at record speed, causing tears to sprout with each passing gag. Filthy moans and sucking sounds filtered through the room, and soon, Wanda was fucking your face harder and faster, not caring about the death grip she had on your hair or the bruising she was causing to your throat.

"Such a good little slut." she praised.

Tongue flattened on the underside of your mouth, you traced ridged veins and treasured the snap of Wanda's neck, which was thrown back blissfully. Hard as it was to admit, you got lost in it. In the feeling of pleasuring this divine woman. Fell into the electric rhythm of her stiff cock and the sound of her low groans.

Ribbons of warm sticky come filled your mouth as Wanda let out a feral howl. She pulled out and finished unloading herself all over your face. The taste wasn't unpleasant. It was salty and bitter, faintly familiar yet entirely new. Nevertheless, with the witch's seed smeared all over your face and present in your mouth, you felt dirty and wanted to rid yourself of the feeling entirely.

"Don't even think about it," Wanda warned, clamping your jaw shut with one hand and pinching your nostrils shut with the other, "Swallow."

Nails cut deep into your nostrils, etching moon crescent outlines into sweat-clad skin. If you didn't choke, you'd surely run out of air trying to fight an unwinnable battle. You admitted defeat, tasting the saltiness trickle along your throat and feeling the last bit of pride you were clinging onto shrivel and melt away. Then came the tears. Fat, burning, free-flowing tears.

"You're only making this more fun for me," the older woman sneered, releasing your nose and using the hand on your jaw to harshly cast your head aside, "Bend over, ass in the air."

There was no time to recover, no time for thinking twice. You'd have barked, performed tricks, and eaten out of a bowl if asked. So, you bent over and let the cold air lick your exposed cunt, whimpering as fingers teased through your sensitive folds.

Faint shuffling sounds were heard from behind you, and then, with no prior warning, metal slipped between your legs. Whilst it slid through fluids, clear insight into what was about to happen struck. The plug skimmed rearwards, teasing your back entrance. It was cold, sending shivers up your back and eliciting a whimper from you.

"Relax," Wanda ordered. Her voice softened before she spoke again, "If you don't, it will hurt."

With a steady hand, Wanda pushed the plug inside you, twisting to ease the intrusion. As quickly as the gentleness in her actions came, it vanished. The plug thrust into you, and a crackling cry left your lips. Soft lips drowned out your sob, and a demanding tongue plunged into the depth of your warm mouth.

A steady heartbeat thrummed over your back, and pointed nipples grazed your shoulder blades, replacing the uncomfortable pressure with bubbling exhilaration. In this position, the slick tip of the redhead was felt against your sex, and it took all your might not to lean back into the tantalising contact.

Slowly rolling her hips, Wanda pulled soft moans and whimpers from you as she toyed with the plug, twisting and turning it, and began marking your neck with blotches of red. You endured this teasing for endless minutes, listening to steady breaths intensify, feeling hips circle faster and more uncontrolled and eventually letting your moans and whimpers grow in volume.

Behind you, Wanda was coming apart, and you were being made to remain still and serve your purpose. Except, you didn't want to. The ache between your legs throbbed. Over gruelling days, you were brought to the edge multiple times and hauled back before you could reach your well-needed peak. The searing need to come was too much, and all you could do was throw a silent pity party, blow out your candles, cry salty tears of exhaustion onto tooth-rotting icing and hope that your complacency would earn you your heart's desire.

"Please," you whispered, pushing back to alleviate the mounting yearning in your core.

The plea earned you a swift spanking, and the privilege of using your hands was removed. Your hands flung behind your back, and rope secured them together. Without anything holding you up, the side of your face collided with the cold floor, and seething pain crept all over your face.

The dull ache in your needy pussy multiplied ten folds, and something told you it was not only your body's doing but a different force entirely.

"You feel that?" Wanda remarked with a laugh, "That's what it will feel like if you try and take matters into your own hands again."

The limit to your submissiveness ceased to exist. You were putty in Wanda's hands; you'd do anything for her, to her, let her do anything to you because you needed this, whatever was about to take place, you knew you wanted.

Though you'd adjusted the darkroom long ago, picking apart all the various scattered objects, a chair in the corner, the door to the side, chains hanging from above, you sought comfort in not seeing anything. Eyes closed, the irreparable desire halted, embers danced with stars painting a night sky, and inner turmoil transmuted into a calming yet eager readiness. Wanda traced your entrance, never entering, only prodding and then sliding up and applying almost-there pressure to your clit.

Your mind's eyes closed, settled back into the present seconds passing by, and homed in on every sensation. The cold air licking your hardened nipples, the concrete floor hard and pressing against your flushed cheek, the warm body hovering above you, the puffs of air tickling your upper back.

It was then you were rewarded with the delicious stretching of your tight canal. Inch by inch, Wanda filled you, taking her time, savouring how you clenched and tightened around her. Clinging to the rope secured over your wrists, you wedged your bottom lip between your teeth and held back from screaming out in unadulterated bliss. It felt so right, despite being so wrong, to be filled entirely, to be used for one single purpose, to have to earn what felt like the one thing you needed, would ever need.

And that was how it happened. As Wanda launched into a full assault, pounding into you, fucking you hard and deep, you decided this was your fate, to be hers wholeheartedly, to listen and obey for however long she would have it that way.

Wanda seized a handful of your hair and tugged you up. Using her new anchor, she pushed deeper into you, each thrust ending in her thighs slapping against the back of yours. Thrashing and seizing, you could feel your orgasm rapidly approaching with each hit of her cock sliding against your g-spot and hadn't the slightest hesitance in what to do.

"Can I come?" you pleadingly asked, each word broken by a forced jerk of Wanda's hips.

"Look who's learning," she tweaked the plug between her fingers, pulling it in and out, and you felt it everywhere. Your whole body shook and burned alight. All your brain could comprehend was pleasure, "Do it."

The floodgates crashed open, and you let out a keening cry. Days. It had been days of being denied this. This glorious, unparalleled utopia of endorphins running rife, heart beating so hard your chest feels as though it may collapse. It was the light at the end of the tunnel, heaven after hell. It was all you ever wanted to know.

Your climax seemingly never came to an end as Wanda continued driving into you, her speed the same, vigour growing more and more bestial. Nothing was tangible anymore; only the repeat slaps tenderising your ass that jerked you back to consciousness. You heard your screams accompany the witch's grunts and felt molten tears stream down your face, but the last thing you remembered was the final push that had you falling over the edge with your eyes rolling back into your head and Wanda unloading herself inside your tight walls.

When you woke up, you were in a familiar position, arms held up, legs barely holding your weight. A body pressed to your back, and instantly, you calmed and fell into the welcoming presence. Wanda's sultry voice spoke from behind you, asking only one thing: "Are you ready to behave?"

And with no hesitation came your answer, "Always."

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[soft-girl-musings]

Cry (MK Spring Bingo #1)

Marc Spector x Reader

cross-posted to ao3

tags: panic/anxiety attacks, possibly inaccurate description of an emergency room visit (i don't remember the exact process i borrowed from my own experience bc i was sick… in the ER…), no use of y/n

wc: 1,356

fic summary: Three times Marc told you it was okay to cry, and one time you returned the favor.

A/N: Finally got around to writing something for someone besides jake lockley, bless. once again this is self-indulgent, but if anything hits home for you i'm glad <3 (based on Adam Melchor's "Cry" , which is the most marc-coded piece of music i've ever heard. in this essay i will)

_____________________

The first time came out of nowhere.

Nothing was wrong per se; no major injury or crisis had come up. All you knew was that you were frozen in the corner of your room, hot tears streaming down your face as your mind raced between a million different things.

“Sweetheart, have you seen my–” Marc’s request stopped the moment he saw you frozen in the darkened room, gripping the sleeves of your shirt as you bit your lip so hard you risked giving yourself another reason to cry.

“I just need a minute,” your voice came out trembling and heavy, as if too many syllables would cause the tears to fall with greater force. Not that you knew how to stop them, or how they even started.

Quick strides across the room brought Marc to your side. His warm hands wrapped around yours, cold and losing color from digging into your arms. 

Words were never his strong suit; Marc’s a man of few, usually letting his presence and actions suffice. So when faced with consoling you against some invisible threat, he could almost hear the sound of his own heart breaking in tandem with your staggered breath.

So he stood there. Until your fingers relaxed and entwined with his, he stood there until he could guide you to the floor. Arms wrapped around your shoulders, he cradled you as you continued to cry.

“This is so stupid,” you groaned as you wiped your face with your sleeve. “So fucking… ugh.”

“Hey,” he shushed you. “Not stupid. You’re feeling what you’re feeling.”

“But I don’t know why,” you choked out. It was hard enough being so distraught; not having a valid reason for it made everything hurt more.

“You don't have to justify it. Don't have to do anything but just… be here.” A hand to your temple eased your head against his chest. “I'm here, as long as you need me to be.”

This was all the permission you needed to let another rush of tears spill down your cheeks, soaking his shirt. He didn't mind.

___________________

The second time was in the emergency room.

You'd never struggled to catch your breath like this before; a common cold turned south and triggered long-dormant childhood asthma, making your lungs betray the rest of your body. Marc drove you to the ER when your hollow coughing didn't let up for the third day in a row. Head spinning and chest aflame, you were rushed to the back as soon as Marc told them you couldn't breathe.

“You've got to breathe steady, honey.”

“I'm trying,” you muttered around the medicated tube in your mouth. It had to be almost 3 in the morning; your body ached like crazy and you didn't catch a word of what the nurse told you to do with your medication. All you knew was that you were cold, exhausted, and grateful to have Marc there to time your breathing.

But even with his hand holding yours, you still felt tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Every inhalation brought medicine to your airways, but the ragged sensation resonated through your chest and made your body ache more.

“I'm so tired,” you finally said around the device. With that, your tears fell faster than you could swipe at them. Your frown pushed the device from your mouth, but you didn't care.

Marc sprang up, catching the equipment when your grip faltered. He said nothing; instead, he climbed onto the bed with you, leaning your back against his chest and taking your hand in his once more, bringing the medication back to your lips. You let him bear your weight, immediate relief washing over you as he took over keeping the device steady with one hand and gently dabbing a tissue at your cheek with the other. 

“Nothing wrong with a few tears, honey. Means you’re alive.”

When you finally went home, the fire in your lungs extinguished, he held you again until you fell asleep.

_____________________

“.....The movie just started.”

(The third time was on the living room couch.)

You had finally talked Marc into watching La La Land with you (with the promise of his getting to choose the next movie night film, of course). You were barely 30 seconds into the opening number when you'd started crying, eyes glued to the screen as dozens of up-and-comers danced and sang about their dreams to make it in the industry.

“They haven't said anything.”

“They're saying everything.”

“He's dancing on a car.”

“Because he's excited!”

“Why did they stop traffic to dance?”

You didn't hear the rest of his quips, too engrossed in the scene. The colors, the music, and the highly impractical interstate  choreography had a way of getting to you ever since you first saw this movie. Meanwhile, Marc sat with his arms crossed and eyebrows knit together as he tried to follow along.

When you noticed his body language, you reached for the remote and paused the movie. “Do you… want to watch something else?”

Marc's face fell when he realized this new batch of tears wasn’t because of the movie, but because of him. The thought of making your cry hit like a punch to the gut.

He took the remote from you, moving closer to your side. “Nice try, but you're not getting out of it that easily. I need your commentary if I'm gonna keep up.” He hit play and choked down every criticism as he saw your face light up, tears of joy brimming during the remaining 2 hours of the film.

The next morning, while making breakfast, you could have sworn you heard Marc humming Another Day of Sun under his breath.

_____________________

As you'd grown closer, you began to know Marc as your rock, your steady landing place when you had thoughts and feelings too big to deal with on your own. He never had to say much to be there for you. He kept you tethered and together, happy to be of service no matter how ugly your hardships felt. 

It was only a matter of time before you saw a crack in his foundation.

You got home late one night, a thunderstorm hot on your heels. You had shrugged off your coat and shoes, calling out to Marc to see if he was home. No response.

You checked each room diligently, until you found him sitting on the corner of the bed.

“Marc?” You asked softly, walking toward him. You knelt in front of him, and the sight of his face twisted into an unfamiliar expression, a steady stream of tears spilling from his reddened eyes, was more than you could bear.

The first time came out of nowhere.

“Can you give me your hands, Marc?” He complied, his breath short and his eyes fixed on the storm pelting the window with sheet after sheet of rain. His vision darted between drops of water and streaks of lightning. The room shook with the echoes of thunder as the worst of the storm hit.

“Hey,” you urged him. “Just be here. With me.” Your thumb traced his wrist as you tried to stay calm.  “Can you breathe with me, Marc?” You sat up on your knees. He nodded, slowly but surely matching the pace of your breath. 

You didn't know what was on his mind, only that it was racing. You couldn't tell what had him so worked up, only that his breath escaped him even as you counted to ten again, and again, unrelenting in your focus on him. You had no idea what made your rock, your anchor, cry like this.

Maybe he'd tell you later; maybe it'd remain a mystery. None of that mattered in the moment. All that mattered was the rhythm of your breath as the rain let up; the way his tears drenched your sleeves when you dabbed at his flushed cheeks; the steady thrum of his heart as his body relaxed beside yours. All that mattered was how, with your chest pressed to his back as you lay on top of the bedspread, he let you hold him for a change.

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