#crown-scab

[nouearth]

my favorite scent is you.

bruce wayne x male reader.

summary: bruce needs to be taken care of too (in which reader believes it's through the form of sex).

wc: 3.5k. genre: smut, angst (kinda?). warnings: top!bruce, consensual!somnophilia, blowjobs, slow mouth-fucking, fondling, reader is asleep, bruce and reader are the same age, reader also grew up with bruce, mentions of parental death, trauma-bonding.

notes: it's been a while since i've done a brucey smut (and also fulfilled a request), so here ya go! actually my first time writing about somnophilia, so be easy on me, lmao. it was harder than i thought! also i'm trying a new layout,,, kinda, don't mind me.

“Do you remember that night? When my parents… you know.”

It had been a little less than a decade, but the uneasiness you felt when mentioning your parents’ death was akin to hovering your palm above an open flame. The flicker of the heat frightened you. Though, you couldn’t help but feel magnetic towards it—closer and closer—until you felt a strike to your calloused hand.

Just a little more, and you’ll break free.

It was striking how your wounds maintained their novelty. Years of skin hardening, scabbing and layering over the memory of Bruce breaking the news to you on that night, and the slightest mention of your parents tore it open with little defiance.

“Yeah…” Bruce whispered, and a sudden impulse to hold you prevailed over him. He turned over on his side, slipping his arms over and under your frame, and pulled your back flushed to his chest. You eased with a melting squirm, a physical gratitude, and then another when you pressed a kiss to his forearm. “It was supposed to be Alfred telling you, but I insisted.”

“Really?” Your curiosity was piqued and you felt Bruce nod into the crown of your head, breathing you in deep like his favourite cologne. A scent he’d never wear himself because it matched you perfectly. “How come?”

“Well, I had no one other than Alfred when my parents died. He tried his best, but we barely had time to grieve. A bunch of responsibilities were bestowed upon him overnight; my parents’ estate, numerous paperworks, the press and media, not to mention the funeral service. It was… a lot for him.”

Bruce sighed, squeezing you tighter for support as he continued. “I remember reading—signing off things that I knew nothing about the very next day.” He then laughed, a bitterness surfing for air in the bass of his voice. “I didn’t even have a signature yet.”

“I’m sorry…” A heaviness sank you and Bruce deeper into the mattress. You latched onto Bruce’s arm for support, held him gently, and found levity through the brush of his lips, as if he was saying—consoling you through the black void: I’m here, I’m here. 

“Is that why you guys hired my parents?”

“Mm-hm, we needed help around the manor while Alfred had bigger duties to tend to. And I’m glad he suggested the idea as much as I was apprehensive about it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met such an incredible family. A year became two, then another two, then another, and…” Bruce recalled the sounds, the visions of red and blue flashing—blaring into the sky.  “Which was why I thought it would be best if it came from me. So I could be that someone that I desperately needed during my grieving.”

“You shouldn’t have been thinking about that though… I mean, what—we were only fifteen? Coming from your background, you should’ve been… cocky, annoying, emo, selfish, like every other teenager.

“I guess your personality kind of compensated for that—” He amused himself with some levity.

“Hey!” You choked out a laugh, then lightly elbowed his stomach behind you. “Ass.”

“Ow,” Bruce pressed a smile to the back of your head, inhaling your scent again. “I did have that emo phase though.”

“Oh yeah—” Within his hold, you turned your body to meet Bruce face-to-face as a flood of memories came rushing in. You greeted him with a smile that he was able to single out from within the dark. Then, he made sure your presence was acknowledged with a chaste kiss. 

“Your hair came down to your nose and stuff—oh! And you kept wearing the same hoodie too.” 

“Yeah, okay—we get it. Not my best look.” He groaned, tearing himself away from you as your descriptions of Bruce suddenly developed into powerfully cringe-inducing memories. As embarrassing as the past was, he was glad it brought you some kind of merriment. He’d been scolded multiple times by numerous people, though namely Alfred, to treat you better.

You and Bruce weren’t always close. In all honesty, it took your parents’ death that empowered you two to stick together more than ever. Where darkness used to storm over the roof of the manor, you and Bruce managed to conjure a light that illuminated a path to find sanctuary within each other.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” The moonlight reflecting through the bedroom window casted shadows across Bruce’s profile. Wrinkles you’ve never noticed before were accentuated; eye-bags that you’ve been nagging at him to take care of deepened; glimpses of a boy who was forced to grow up. 

He turned when you reached over to trace over the spotlighted features. A single digit caressed the bumpy bridge of his nose; the stubble that tickled you whenever you kissed; the cut over his broad chin that was your favorite spot to kiss,; the scar over his left cheek that had been healing for months, only to restart the process again after Bruce’s late night endeavors.

“Let me take care of you now.”

You weren’t sure how Bruce took your proposal. Recalling the moment had you adding unnecessary details that all-the-more exploded the situation into a narrative you couldn’t exactly trust.

Wait… he made a weird face when I told him. I remember a face! No, idiot—he just had an itch on his cheek. Oh.

I don’t remember his phone ringing… You think he was trying to get out of the conversation? Maybe? He usually has his phone set on the loudest volume possible…

Oh god, he probably thinks I’m some kind of sex-crazed addict. Well, aren’t you— No?! I just—wanted to take care of him… We rarely see each other these days and I doubt the lunches I’d make for him add much to that narrative. I needed something more. Wow, I’ve been talking to myself for this long?

You probably look crazed, especially if someone were to walk in the bedroom at this moment, but you’d be too deep into your thoughts to hardly notice. If you did notice, you’d probably go on a tangent about how Bruce was probably disgusted by how you could even suggest a thing like that.

Your toes and fingers curled at the recollection you were certain happened.

“So… I know you’ve been out late at night—” “(M/N), it’s not what you—” “Shh, I’m too good of a catch for you to cheat on me.” “I mean, keep that cockiness up and maybe—” “Excuse me?!” “I’m joking.” “Uh-huh, well, keep joking and I might have to rescind my offer.” “Your offer?” “Look, I haven’t seen you much lately. It’s not your fault. You’re busy.” “I know—I just need to deal with this…” “Bruce, you look—you are tired. You’re overworked and whenever we do spend time together, you’re asleep!” “I’m trying my b—” “You’re trying your best, I know! And I don’t know what you do at night, not sure if I do want to know, but… two-three hours of sleep is not enough. You’re killing your body.” “Hm…” “And one day, you’re going to crack and I just…” “Just..?” “I’m not sure how to… put it.” “What is it?” “If you want to… and it’s entirely up to you, but…” “Jesus, spit it out—” “I— if I’m still asleep, and you want to somehow… relieve your stress..?” “Oh—” “I’m all yours.”

The second hand on the clock cycled slower, almost as if it was mocking you for being so desperate, impatient, and doubting. Yet, at the same time—if clocks could have a personality—there was a dormant kindness in the rhythm of the minute hand striking every corner of the wheel. Gentle and soothing, the lids of your eyes grew heavier with every passing second as the sound of the clock counted sheeps for you.

Forty, forty-one… fourty-two… Forty… three…

The floor creaked despite Bruce’s best efforts to remain light on his feet. You’ve always been a light sleeper, even at the sound of wind whistling you’d jolt up to, but surprisingly—nothing. 

As he approached his side of the bed, his eyes settled on you like always. To Bruce, it was a sweet sigh of relief to come back home to you again. Sometimes, a miracle depending on the crimes of that night. Nightly patrols have taken a toll on him; on his body, on his mentality; but being in your presence always—no matter what—brought him back to the solitude his life was at before being laboured by vengeance.

Coldly, he sat on the edge, careful to not wake you, as he dried off the damp strands of his washed hair with a towel. Then, he chased after the tremors off his bare body with several rubs of the coarse towel, gathering water molecules into the material until he was somewhat dry. It was the typical nightly routine of Bruce Wayne, in which he was guilty of vacating you of.

Bruce witnessed—took part in—how you ended your night. A late night snack, a book, a tv show—and he’d stroke your hair to the sound of his heartbeat until you were out like a light. He’d never forget to kiss your forehead as if it was an enchantment that would guard him for the rest of the night. Naively, Bruce was apprehensive of the subtle chance of reducing his survival rate if he were to miss a night of seeing you—touching you. Even if you had the biggest argument with him, even if you were in the wrong, he’d make sure to see you one last time before escaping into the shadows, saving the city—saving you.

After dressing himself in a fresh set of briefs, the soft cushions of his bed and pillows enticed him back into sanctuary. He crawled back into bed and instinctively found his arms around your body, warm and full against the recovering bruises against his own flesh. Skipping dinner was a norm, but he felt satiated when he could hear you breathe, feel your pulse, and watch you writhe within his doting affection.

“Goodnight.” Bruce muttered as he nestled his nose into your hair, another deep inhale of your scent to ground him that you were still present in his life. And then another as his head turned towards your neck, a familiar smell that taunted him to lean closer until his nose pressed softly into the crook of your skin.

White musk.

The top note of his favourite cologne on you. It lingered delightfully in Bruce’s nostrils, and there was a reason why he always urged you to spray it on date nights. It was intoxicating.

Come to think of it, Bruce’s night routine hadn’t completely checked off all of his tasks for the night. After he would come home, it was a no-brainer to shower off the sweat, dirt, and sometimes blood, from his patrols. He would scrape his hair clean with the shampoo suds, mint and cooling on his scalp. Then he’d move onto his body. The suds would trickle down his torso, gather in his muscles, and he’d add onto the bubbles with his body wash, lathering himself from head to toe. And almost always, the slightest brush of his length would break the restraints the night had locked his sanity behind. It was always you that managed to free him. As he would squeeze himself, fondle his sack while the suds dribbled down his leg and feet, he’d think of you—miss you in ways he wouldn’t dare to ignore, ways in which he was ashamed to desert you of.

“I’m all yours.” Your proclamation echoed, ran marathons in Bruce’s mind as the white musk led him astray. The simple thought of him taking advantage of you guilted him, churned his stomach until it was bundled into thick knots, but it made his heart race.

“(M/N)?” He whispered. The bed creaked when Bruce peered over you, and he was met by silence. A few soft snores joined the ticking of the clock, but for the most part, silence.

I shouldn’t… Bruce convinced himself. It was… shameful to even think of taking advantage of you like that—in your unconscious state, in your vulnerability. You looked peaceful in your slumber and knowing how hard you worked, he wouldn’t dare to ruin it because of his own selfish desires.

He sighed, rolling flat onto his back again, hoping the uncomfortable ache in his briefs would settle down in a minute or so. When it didn’t, Bruce tended to it with a brief re-adjustment of the way his length stood. Then again as he twitched in defiance.

Again, as he throbbed.

And again, when his briefs couldn’t support his throbbing erection anymore. 

Bruce turned his head to the side, scanning your unconscious state. His eyes traced the languid form of your body as it sank deep into the mattress, hugging the air to your body while he slowly pulled the blanket off of you.

The bed creaked as inch by inch, Bruce scooted closer to you, turning back to lie on his side and nearly spooning you again. His movements were sluggish, apprehensive to wake you, but at the same time, there was an adrenaline rush surging through him knowing he could be caught any second (despite your permission).

His hand felt it as it caressed your arm in singular, docile strokes. Then his breath, as he leaned closer, pressing himself against you again, and slipped a hand under your shirt. Your bare stomach rested warmly against his calloused palm, and he felt your breath hitch, your stomach tensed, every evidence of your presence, as Bruce ran a palm upwards to touch your chest once, then back down to bravely slither under the waistband of your boxers.

“Fuck…” Bruce’s breath unevened, struggling to keep a steady rhythm, when his palm gently groped a handful of your flaccid cock, a complete opposite of the shameful erection he was prodding near your bottom. You writhed once, and he quickly paused with a shudder as you suddenly turned to lie on your back, smacking the dryness in your throat away as you drove yourself into deeper slumber.

He found it unusual how you haven’t awakened by now, but the cynical part of him pleaded for you to remain asleep—until he had his way with you.

Gently, Bruce lifted your hips to pull down the remainder of your boxers off until you were bare in all of your glory before him. Your balls lay briefly in between your legs before they were back to being fondled in his warm palms. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this…”

Droplets of sweat formed over Bruce’s hairline as he sluggishly maneuvered himself to kneel over your unconscious state. His thighs hardened, flexed as he maintained his balance over you. He stroked his cock with his free-hand; to the gentle snores you poured out, to your slightly parted lips that he could easily spread open with his girth, and to his surprise, to the stiffness of your cock as it stirred awake from his constant fondling.

What are you dreaming about? Are you dreaming of me? Are you dreaming of being fucked by me? Bruce groaned as he witnessed the once softened features of your face stiffened into diffident lust. Your breath unknowingly quickened when Bruce began stroking your cock together with his in one grasp. Your body writhed with uncomfortable pleasure as if you wanted whatever was happening to you to stop, yet the throbbing veins of your cock begged Bruce for more—to hold you for longer, to keep doing as he pleased.

Bruce forgot what it was like to have you like this; to have you squirming beautifully beneath him, dripping in heavy pre-cum while simultaneously having your cock lathered in his own fluid. He was enticed by your every movement, squirming and writhing confined by the state of slumber as you couldn’t stop him. You couldn’t stop the uncomfortable pleasure that was happening to you because you were dreaming a dream that refrained you from resisting your boyfriend.

I know you want it. Fuck… I know you want my cum, (M/N). He paused briefly to press his forehead into yours, sweat dripping off his face and onto your body in his maneuver, and breathed languidly against your lips to find the parting in order to breathe his lewd thoughts into you. Bruce was careless, dangerously brave as he slipped a tongue inside of you to spread your mouth open further. You made a sound, but he muted it with a swallow as he ravished you like honey on a spoon. Remnants of mint lingered on his tongue, and as much as he wanted to continue tasting you, he needed to relieve himself.

He was close.

Carefully, he dragged himself over your chest and kneeled over your chest. Bruce’s cock hung heavy above your slumber, dripping in thick strings of pre-cum from the plump tip—a shameful exhibit of how much this had turned him on, how much he had been deprived of this act for so long.

Open wide. It was morbid. Bruce never thought himself of ever once doing this obscene act, but the guilt that had been the cause of his apprehension was only fleeting the moment he pushed his cock into your sleeping mouth. 

“Oh, fuck…” He was careful with you. Careful enough to not stir you awake, but courageous enough to fulfill his sense of greed. Bruce pushed deeper, and deeper until he couldn’t anymore. His thick cock steadied your breathing and in favor, your saliva warmed him with complete gratitude.

Come on, I know you can take it… His eyes darkened at your inability to take his girth. As much as it sounded like a threat, it drove him delirious knowing you couldn’t. Even in your waking moments, it fueled a sense of pride when you gagged on his cock, covered him in bubbly thick spittle, and looked like an absolute mess while attempting to swallow him again.

Fuck, (M/N)... You’d pull him out when you had enough of gagging on his cock and jerk him off instead, catching your breath in the midst of it all. He never told you, but it was Bruce’s favourite part whenever you two did this together. The pure lust in your eyes, craving for a fill that you and him both know that he would deliver upon greatly. And somehow, as lewd as the act was, you both knew it was more than sex. You and Bruce were making love, fucking with a craving that you only have for each other because it was only you two that could bring this type of pleasure to one another. 

“Fuck—” Bruce paced himself, biting back an adamant moan, thrusting slow yet filling into your mouth as he held onto the headboard. The scrape of your teeth made him hiss, but the pleasure of your warm mouth was so fulfilling that it overwhelmed any painful feeling you’ve prescribed him to.

I’m close, (M/N)... Fuck, let me cum on you… On your body, on your face, I want it everywhere on you.

He released his cock from your mouth and took the heavy girth into his own palm, pumping the muscle with a sudden vigor that had been motivated to see you covered in his fluids. Bruce’s eyes rolled back into his lids, panting heavy and harder because he was so close—so fucking close. He could see you sticking your tongue out for him, on your knees, playing with your cum-covered cock as you would wait patiently for his reward. You would begin begging for it—his cum, his cock, him. You’d worship his body, mouthing at his toned thighs, then his abdominal muscles, licking the sweat off the gutters to briefly satiate your appetite for Bruce.

Until you were gifted with his indulgent desire for you and only you in the form of thick and creamy white ropes. “I’m comin—” Bruce’s stomach sucked in hard, his abs contracting while his thighs vibrated with tremors, then with a guttural push, he released himself with a strong grunt. His grasp directed his thick and heavy loads towards your chest and stomach, stroking his throbbing cock through the glorious sprays. He sucked in his teeth to control the sounds that were threatening to burst out of his throat and whimpered with a shudder when it was unmanageable, continuing to empty his balls until he could smell the heavy sex and musk off your body.

Scanning you from head to toe, Bruce was breathless. Despite his delirious stint, it was impressive to see you drifting off to sleep like nothing had happened. Or rather, it was impressive that he had a certain amount of control to not completely make love to you like a wild mammal, rousing you from sleep.

Nonetheless, he powered through the overwhelming need to sleep to clean you up, even if you hadn’t mind the mess. And like always, he never forgot to end his night with a kiss, pressing a chaste yet breathless pant to your lips.

“Think your way of ‘taking care of me’ needs more time in the workshop , but we’ll talk about it later.” 

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. andif you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[ozarkthedog]

𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

summary: it's been years since Dieter last saw you, his childhood friend and the unrequited love of his life. still, he doesn’t blame you for leaving.

pairing: Dieter Bravo x gn!childhood friend!reader

warnings: angst but with a happy ending! mentions of drug use and alcohol but nothing graphic. w.c: 1.0k

an: for @punkshort AU August writing challenge, I was given the prompt, “childhood friend with Dieter Bravo” thank you so much for hosting! huge thanks to @ghotifishreads for letting me talk your ear off about this little idea that took on a life of it's own and for reading this over. ilu!

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⋅ 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Dieter rubs a hand over his face as he steps from the SUV into a throng of flashing lights and frantic screaming. It was the premiere of his first directorial and writing debut; a lot was riding on this.

Sure, he'd won an Oscar and various other award nominations, but this was an entirely different beast. This movie was special to him. It was the first script he wrote after getting "clean." He always scoffed at that word. Clean. Was he pure and holy now simply because he kicked hard drugs to the curb?

He takes a deep, slow breath, adjusts his velvet purple suitcoat, and moves down the red carpet. He autographs cards and pictures, takes selfies, and banters with a few fans before moving on to the press.

It doesn't feel right being here alone, he thinks, his left side feeling raw and exposed like a wound that never healed. 

After rewriting the script several times, he has his assistant mail it to a few studio execs before having them print out one last copy. He wrote down your name and told them to send you the script. He wanted to deliver it to you in person; it felt like the right thing to do, but he couldn't be sure you ever wanted to see him again after what he put you through.

He's stronger these days. Mentally and physically healthier. He's lost a bit of weight now that he's no longer downing pills and chasing them with alcohol. It took him a while to get used to feeling again. Sitting with the uncomfortable thoughts and not letting them take control. He's proud of himself. He thinks you would be, too. 

You.

Seeing a large open field littered with red flowers while driving home from rehab for the second time kicked him square in the gut. Flashes of his youth came back in vivid, blinding colors.

Chasing his dog, Dali, around the yard. Playing with you in the field of wildflowers behind your house. His throat tightens.

You.

You were his reason. The sun he revolved around—inseparable childhood friends.

When you first met Dieter, he was covered in chalk dust, drawing funky, green aliens with big eyes on the sidewalk in front of his childhood home. You'd just moved in next door, and your Mother told you to go make friends. He looked at you in awe as you stood before him, the sun creating a golden crown around your head. "Wanna be friends?" you blurted before kneeling and pestering him about his chalk alien.

From that moment on, you were forever linked. Dieter never wanted anyone else.

From scabbed knees and hide & seek to strange body changes and long school days. Consoling Dieter after he's pushed into a locker, copying each other's homework, watching Dieter shine on the theater stage, and spending almost every minute together that you could.

He wondered if you ever felt the love he held for you—the love that surpassed sibling bonds and grew stronger every time he laid eyes on you. The love that made him self-conscious and shy away from speaking his truth despite years of yearning. He couldn't convince himself to jeopardize the friendship or that you might possibly feel the same.

Cut to Dieter asking you to move to LA with him to be his assistant once his star power steadily rose. 

To the elaborate movie sets and lavish premieres, to the long nights and unspoken feelings. 

To find Dieter on the floor with vomit spilling from his lips to the empty bottles of pills and booze splayed around his Hollywood Hills home. 

The bickering, the raging parties, and the friendship that was slowly dying. 

The shell of a man he used to be. 

You were never around when he needed you the most after he drowned himself in booze and pills. He never blamed you. He was often inebriated, covered in a mess of sweat and other fluids. You could only stand to see him self-medicate for so long. 

"I can't keep doing this," he remembers you saying as tears welled in your eyes and your bottom lip trembled while he sat in a crumpled heap at the foot of his unmade bed with that usual glazed look. "I can't keep trying to save you."

He remembers wanting to argue, to save whatever piece was left. He tried to chase after you, but his brain and body were still under the haze from the night before, limbs heavy as lead weights, and they no longer listened to his commands. 

How your face twisted with a devastating sadness made his heart shatter. He never meant this to happen, for it to get this bad.

Had Dieter known the repercussions, that the last image he'd have of you would be wiping fallen tears that he caused from your cheeks, he would've gotten clean eons before. He would've let this version of himself die without a second thought. He wanted to be the man you counted on, with your best interests at heart. 

The man you knew him to be.

—

Just as he's about to step into the theater, he hears a voice call his name—a voice that would wake him from the dead. 

You.

His heart aches; it bursts with unnerving energy as he watches you approach. His gaze never leaves you as you glide across the room to where he stands, frozen. Could he be hallucinating?

"Hi D," his nickname sounds like heaven as it leaves your lips. He never wants it to end; he wants to hear it forever. "I'm sorry I didn't reach out sooner. I needed to make sure I was in a good headspace to see you again." You nervously wring your fingers, and Dieter can't stop himself from reaching out and locking your hands together, calming your combined anxious energy.

"It's okay," he whispers, throat tight, holding back elated tears, "I'm glad you're here."

A smile tugs at your lips, eyes shiny with your own tears. "Me too."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[cadaverousdecay]

Hi my name is Stigmata Divine Suffering Crucifixion Christ and I have bloody stigmata wounds (that’s how I got my name) with fresh blood and a deep gash on my side that reaches my mid-back and pain-filled blue eyes like Our Lady of Sorrows’ tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Mary Magdalene (AN: if you don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Jesus Christ but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a saint but I haven’t been canonized. I have scabbed up skin. I’m also a priest, and I go to an abbey called Montecassino in Italy where I’m a newly ordained priest (I’m seventeen). I’m a catholic (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly vestments. I love the Vatican and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black alb with a matching black cassock, and a black linen surplice, a red stole, and episcopal sandals. I had crimson blood dripping from the crown of thorns wounds in my head, the four nail wounds in both my hands and feet, and the spear wound in my side. I was walking outside Montecassino Abbey. It was storming and raining which made me think about Isaiah 4:6, which I was very happy about. A lot of protestants stared at me. I put up my crucifix at them.

“Hey Stigmata!” shouted a voice. I looked up. It was... Pope Francis!

“What’s up Pope?” I asked.

“Nothing.” he said shyly.

But then, I heard the archbishops call me and I had to go away.

✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟✟

AN: IS it good? PLZ tell me thanks be 2 god! amen

[neocitycafe]

Nightwatch (Mark)

♡ genre: ginger tea - sageuk/historical; a little bit of everything--romantic fluff, soft smut, light angst

✎ words: 7.5k

✓ summary/notes: Mark Lee, loyal guard to the crown prince, unexpectedly meets court nurse!reader in a palace where everyone has dreams a little bigger than their roles seem to allow. Featuring small appearances by other NCT members: prince Jaemin, illustrator Renjun, royal physician Doyoung, and more. Inspired in part by Neo Zone’s “Kick It” concept.... (a few extended thoughts here) Enjoy!!

P.S. I realize that the name “Mark” is out of place for a historical Korean setting… Please imagine that there’s some sort of inside joke or creative story where Lee Minhyung’s nickname became Mark :P @nctsworld tagging you, cee! thank you for the endless fun chatter and fangirling every day, and for the real encouragement too, through the years.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　One: Medicine at Midnight　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

When you sneak into the herbal pantry room at half past midnight, the last thing you expect is someone else already there, rummaging through the musty drawers. A lone candle casts strange shadows dancing between the herb sachets hanging from the ceiling.

Holding your breath, you map out the fastest path back to where you slept. You had waited until your fellow court nurses were sound asleep, tiptoed past Doyoung’s quarters and his light snoring, and followed slivers of moonlight on the familiar floorboards.

You turn to make your escape, but it’s too late. The person in the room spins around and blows out the candle lighting the room. He pins you against the wall and sends the surrounding room into dizzying darkness.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is low and commanding, and his body is held like a string strung taut, ready to meet its target. As your eyes adjust to the dimness, you find that he’s wearing all black. Gold threads swirl into the figure of a dragon, glimmering softly across his chest. He must be a royal guard. You’d never spoken to one before. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” He repeats himself and tightens his hold around your wrist.

You whisper your name, keeping your head bowed. “I- I work here, sir. Nurse under royal physician Kim Doyoung.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. Lee Mark. Eastern Palace.” You look up to meet shining eyes and a face softer than the voice it held. For a moment, you’re mesmerized. In his eyes, stars twinkle with a youthful wonder that you didn’t expect to discover there. You realize your position and cast your gaze downwards again.

Mark takes in your lashes, the quiver in your lip, the loose white cotton wrapped around your shoulders. He draws a quick breath. You must be the one. The court nurse Prince Jaemin keeps talking about. The one who brews seemingly magical healing drafts and whose laugh is like a breeze on a hot summer’s day. Noticing your proximity and your lack of proper attire, he backs away and the warmth of his hands leaves you.

You’re grateful the palace guard doesn’t question further about why you are here for medicine in the middle of the night. But to direct attention elsewhere… “And may I ask what brings you at this hour, naeuri?”

He smiles sheepishly before pushing back his right sleeve, revealing several cuts and a scabbing elbow. “It hurts just a bit.” His voice is sweeter now, almost innocent. “Doyoung said I could let myself in and put something on to help with this. As long as I tell him what exactly I took. I didn’t know we’d finish training so late after hours.”

It looks like it hurts more than a bit. You wonder if they are battle scars, but you save the questions. You find a small bowl of water, the correct ingredients for a salve, and fresh linen to clean and dress the wounds. Mark expects to wince when you press down on his arm but instead, a feeling of cool spreads through his elbow.

Maybe it’s the quiet of the night and tight space that makes Mark feel like he can let down his guard and trust you with anything. “Actually, I got like this tripping on my own feet this morning. Nothing heroic. But don’t tell anyone. I’ll never hear the end of it if Donghyuck finds out.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” You laugh softly, and it does seem like a breeze on a warm day, Mark can’t help but think to himself. It reminds him of the lightness of his younger years, before palace life, duties, and always being on watch.

You almost share your secret too, with the way he smiles and asks about the cooling ointment, intrigued by how you made it. But after he leaves, you creep back to the medicine drawers. You take a fistful of what you were looking for and hide it in a pocket you’d sewn inside your skirts.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Two: Night Watch Walks　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

You try to drop a silver coin into Renjun’s palm, but he pushes your hand away.

“Please, no need! I promise I’ll get it to your mother.”

“It’s the home closest to the lake. My father’s usually fishing before dawn, but by midday he’ll stop by with lunch.” You keep rambling, and Renjun tsks impatiently but good-naturedly.

“I know how important this is to you.”

It’s not the first time Renjun is doing a delivery for you. He has also transcribed, illustrated, and read letters for you. He did this all under the guise of selling parchment pouches and bags needed for drying herbs, of course. He slips away with the setting sun.

Most of the nurses had wrapped up for the evening and withdrawn to their quarters early, glad for the extra rest. But your mind is a storm cloud. You’d seen firsthand how the queen barely recovered in time from her ailments last spring. You hope your father described your mother’s condition with accuracy and that the combination of herbs is correct. It was always dark when you picked them out of Doyoung’s drawers, relying on your muscle memory for where everything was stored. One ingredient is very rare and expensive, and you pray Renjun doesn’t get delayed, or worse, found out.

“Are you following me?” A voice shakes you, and you’re surprised to see Mark a few steps away across the courtyard. You had wandered with no destination and found yourself with the guard you met last week.

“No… Just taking a walk because I couldn’t sleep.” He nods in response. His eyes scan the surroundings and he keeps walking, but you feel him slow his gait for you.

“Well, I’m on night watch duty.”

“Then I’m on night watch duty too,” you reply.

“Oh, you are?”

“Yes, making sure you don’t trip over your own feet again.”

Mark stops and laughs. “It was a one time thing!”

“How’s the elbow?”

It has healed up nicely and the rest of your path around the Eastern Palace is spent getting to know Mark. You stay one step behind him, landing your foot where his shadow would’ve been in the day. There’s something comfortable about being together, and you almost forget about your worries. Mark’s voice is like gentle rain, a pitter-patter, interspersed with an occasional giggle, and you could listen to it forever.

Mark doesn’t trip once following the familiar route around the palace grounds. But he notices the beating of his heart, faster than usual for the pace he was walking.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You find yourself walking with Mark the next night, and the one after the next. It’s like your feet are naturally pointed towards him. You learn that Mark enjoys writing and poetry. He sometimes gets lost in his thoughts. His nose gets scrunched up in an endearing way when he’s too focused on something. He is skilled with his hands, especially with shooting arrows, but a bit clumsy with everything else. You are impressed that Mark is part of multiple units in the palace, and you admire how upright and hardworking he is. He makes you want to strive to be a better person yourself. You understand why he was selected as one of the crown prince’s closest guards.

“If you enjoy language and writing, maybe you can become an author and publish some poems?”

Mark shakes his head. “I have one job for life. Protect the prince, the palace, the city.”

“But what if you could?”

Mark wants to tell you he has started writing more in the past few weeks. Late at night, when he can’t stop thinking about you. Instead, what he says is, “But you know I can’t.”

“Alright then…” You would come back to this but you change the subject for now. “I was wondering, is Prince Na as handsome as the court ladies say he is?” Mark’s eyes become comically round at your question.

“I hope you were about to say he’s even more handsome than they say he is?”

It’s dark out, but the sweeping royal blue of the crown prince’s clothing is hard to miss. You freeze and hold a deep bow, but Jaemin waves it away, as if dismissing the formalities. His smile is swoonworthy, if you’ve ever seen one that fits that description. The corners of his eyes crinkle in mischief.

“I need a word with you,” the prince nods towards Mark, and you bow three more times, backing away.

Mark waits until you are out of earshot, the anxieties surfacing unbidden. Did Jaemin have his eyes set on you? Mark pictures you with lavish gifts that only a crown prince could afford. Or better yet, the prince could grant you status and freedom, he could support a large, happy, growing family—

“What is she like?” Jaemin’s question breaks his thoughts. And then all the things that Mark loves about you come rushing to his mind.

“Yes, well, she is very bright. And genuine. Kind of daring. Creative. So funny sometimes, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Carefree, beautiful… very beautiful.” Mark gushes almost reverently before realizing he may have misspoke. Prince Jaemin liked to keep it casual, but Mark wanted to show his due respect. “Um, she is a loyal servant to the kingdom,” he tacks on lamely at the end, trying to sound more professional.

“Be happy.” Jaemin’s words are loaded with meaning, and he grins at Mark’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “It’s a royal command.”

Mark isn’t sure, but he thinks his long-time friend sounds resigned beneath it all. Despite Jaemin’s smile, he could tell that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You see, Na Jaemin had many things: a seal that dictated the law of the land, fine teas from the east, sweet tangerines from Jeju island, the smoothest of silk robes, and more. But the privilege to love? Not something he could place a stamp on, taste, or touch.

He wants to ask you, the miracle court nurse, is there not a draught that makes the heart a little lighter? A concoction to soothe the soul? But for now, it satisfies him to make the romance of those around him blossom. He smiles at Mark’s giddy expression, the image of one of the sharpest palace guards now bashful, shy, and in love.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Three: Holiday　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

You’re shaking while staring at the letter in your hands. You can’t read your father’s script, but Renjun assures you the message says your mother is now feeling much better. They followed your exact directions and her fever broke the next day. Renjun smiles as you tuck the paper away. He had always loved painting. As a child, he found scraps of parchment and spent hours recreating the world with strokes of ink. But his family’s paper-making business needed his support, and he put his passion aside as a hobby. Being able to illustrate your instructions and messages feels like a dream come true he never knew he could achieve. He has a chance to paint the fine lines of sesame leaves, the mixed white and yellow blossoms of crown daisies, and the rough texture of milkwort root. You thank Renjun profusely, telling him he’s a lifesaver with his artwork, and you exchange the next secret package and note. A neighbor’s baby has been colicky and you recommend a tummy-friendly catmint and fennel tea.

You know it is wrong to take from the royal physician’s storage, but these things aren’t being used. You can’t help the elation bubbling up in your chest knowing that people were feeling better because of what you were trying.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” You look up at the familiar voice. You want to gush all about it. It’s not that you don’t want to share with him. But Mark is so good, so honest. He waits until you finish your duties to invite you on night time walks now. With him, it’s always responsibilities first. You make sure the fire’s out, the lid covering the stone pot completely, before following him towards the Eastern Palace pond.

“Well, it’s my holiday tomorrow! I’m visiting my home, the fishing village by Resonance Lake!” While not the exact reason, this is true, and it is cause for your joy. It’s one of your few days off for the year, granted in exchange for your service to the kingdom.

“Ah, I see.” You notice that wistfulness tinges his voice. “Taeil said that there’s supposed to be a full moon tomorrow night. I was hoping to see it with you. But of course, you can see it from where you’ll be too!”

You feel your cheeks heat up at the comment. You want to tell him that seeing the full moon together sounds lovely, and you’ll be sure to return to the palace before the Western Gate closes for the night. But he’s being called away by another guard, ending your walk abruptly. He gives you a small nod and then you watch as Mark speeds away like an arrow, silent and unswerving.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Home is running into open arms, tearing up when your father tells you you’re his pride, and holding your mother’s weak hand. Her health has improved dramatically, but she still needs rest, so she sends you out to the market to enjoy the sunshine on her behalf. Your father kept one of his best catches from the morning instead of selling it, and you promise to fetch the freshest vegetables to complement it for dinner.

While the town market does not carry the fine ingredients for a king’s many side dishes, it does have the goods that local commoners scrounge up to barter and trade. Seasonal wild greens, mushrooms and roots of all kinds, fresh and dried. Just thinking of the colors and scents has your mind drawing connections. Bean sprouts for soup, maybe some bellflower root to boost immunity...

Someone steps in front of you, and you almost knock into their chest. Instead of his black guard’s outfit, it’s a jewel-toned hanbok he’s dressed in and a commoner’s hat shielding his shining eyes from the sun. With high cheekbones ready to rise with his laughter, he looks so dashing you think you may be daydreaming.

“Mark!” He breaks into the hugest grin. “How are you here... Are you following me?”

“Nope. Just taking a walk because I couldn’t sleep.” He gives you the most dramatic wink, and you laugh because it’s midday and you’ve never seen him like this. “Actually, I took a holiday today too.” Prince Jaemin was more than happy to authorize it, as long as Mark helped him sneak out for a day of fun too. (He took off with another guard, Lee Jeno.)

Mark lets you pull him along through the merchant stalls and he claps along to the beat of traveling pansori performers, happy to shed his usual role and responsibilities. He becomes just a young man with the lovely one he wants to pursue.

The youthful wonder in his eyes is back, and when he sees the way your eyes light up too, his heart wants nothing more than to be the reason. He plays point-and-learn encyclopedia with you and all that you see.

“What are those funny things?”

“Ginger, silly. But I like to get them from another lady. And these are eggs, you know. The thing you have for breakfast sometimes.”

“I know what eggs look like! I can cook them!”

“Debatable.”

He pouts and points at some whole grains. “What about those?”

“These are good for your digestion.” You place a hand on your stomach as if to demonstrate. He points to the next row, curious about the bottles of dark liquid kept in the shade. “Ah, eel extract. That’s good for…” You gesture a bit lower and he gawks.

“What?!”

“At least that's what I heard. Want to try?” He shakes his head quickly and you think you hear him mutter, “Don’t need that…”

The ginger seller is chatting with another customer about unrest in the east, and Mark tilts his head in interest. His visit to town in regular garb is not without a mission after all. He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. His eyes have dimmed to something more serious, but with the softness of an apology. “Hey, can I find you after dinner?”

You nod, understanding his signals. “Okay, the lake. By the last house, around the corner of the village.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Mark is true to his word. You’ve only made yourself comfortable in the grass looking out to the lake for a few minutes when he joins you, plopping himself down.

You can tell he doesn’t want to talk about his work, so you don’t pry. Instead, you let him ask all the questions. You share memories of swimming in the lake when you were young, the first time you gathered berries from the forest outside of the palace and almost got lost, how you wish to sneak out to see the cosmos flowers next autumn. You conclude that it seems like your penchant for trying new things always gets you into trouble. Mark reassures you that they do make for marvelous stories though.

“Remember when we talked about how I’d be a writer if I had the chance to do anything? How about you?”

“Me?” You pause, eyes following the ringed patterns left by dragonflies touching the still water. “I’d become the best physician. Even better than Kim Doyoung.” It’s exhilarating to say it out loud.

“You want to take his place as head royal physician?”

“Oh. No, not in the palace.”

“Then where?”

“I don’t know.” You’d never allowed yourself to dream what you wanted any further. You turn back to gaze in the direction of the town, thoughts drifting towards the bustle of the market earlier in the day.

“I think you’d be amazing.” Mark’s voice brings you back.

“I’m not amazing now?”

“That you are too.” He transforms your joke into sincerity, just like that. It’s his turn to pause this time, and you move to face him. His breath warms your cheek with how close you are, and his eyes are brimming with something that you can’t name. “I… I’ve come to care for you,” he confesses. He takes your hand in his.

It’s love. It’s adoration. It’s a little fear for what may come. It’s hope. It’s desire.

You lace your fingers together and Mark feels that his heart may burst. “I care for you too, Mark.”

The full moon rises, but both of you are too busy to notice tonight.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Four: The Space Above the Library　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

“Where are we going?” Mark’s tugging you off course from the path you usually walk.

“A secret!”

“What about your duties?”

“It’s Yeongho’s turn for the night watch. He’s the One Two Seven squad captain, and he says we need to rethink the security. Something about northeastern borders. This way.”

One moment you’re outside, at the back of the palace library, and the next Mark has leapt on top of the roof. He reaches down and lifts you with surprising ease. You hang on, letting out a squeak and hooking your arms around his neck as he holds you snug against his chest. He carries you further upwards and you close your eyes tight, trusting him. After a few more minutes of lurching and movement, you feel Mark settle down. Could you be on the rooftop? He places you in his lap, your back against his chest.

“Whoa, where’d you learn to scale buildings like that--?” The question dies on your lips as you open your eyes to look out to the view spanning before you. Mark tightens his arms around you.

From this vantage point above the library, your eyes follow the path of a crane as it takes flight from the palace pond. It glides upwards towards the western gate where the sun has already set with colors between lavender and forget-me-nots and into the forests. And further, the expanse of N City beyond the palace gates unfolds, lights glittering like fireflies. A river courses into a lake, the lake by your home that looks like a tear-shaped puddle from this distance. The stars are rising and Mark kisses your hair. The moment is perfect.

“Oh, I got something for you,” you tell him, trying to sound laid back. An excited anticipation bubbles up in your voice anyway. You turn in Mark’s hold so you’re facing him and straddling his lap, and you try not to notice how he has trouble shifting into a comfortable position. From Mark’s perspective, you’re very close and warm. He makes a poor attempt at composing himself and keeps one arm around your back, his free hand taking the little package you fish out of your pockets.

Renjun had said he could loan you one of his old ones from home, but you insisted he find you a new one and a nice one at that. It cost more of your allowance than it should, but Mark’s curious expression is worth more than every bright coin you owned.

He slowly unrolls the ink brush from its cloth wraps, jaw dropping in silence, admiring the smooth wooden handle and soft bristles. “For all the stories you will tell,” you breathe softly.

Mark’s mind is often filled with so many words, but right now he is rendered speechless. He carefully places the gift into a pocket of his own and draws you in to thank you with his lips.

The kiss starts sweet and strong like steaming honey citron tea, deepening when Mark tilts his head and brings his hands up to hold your face. When he tastes you with his tongue, it’s like the world around you fades to night and he is the only light you see. Mark shivers as you card your fingers through his hair. You lean in so you’re as close as possible, feeling aware of every part of you that’s touching, the heat blooming between you, his unmistakable excitement now pressing into you, and your hearts beating rapidly.

You tug on his collar, wanting to trail your kisses down the column of his neck and further, but Mark untangles himself from you and holds you at a distance. He swallows thickly. “I am a man of honor. Let me wed you first.”

“Mark, bed me…” You barely believe the words coming out of your own mouth, but you know you want him desperately. “Please.”

At your plea, his eyes grow wide, and then they narrow, swirling with desire. He makes a noise between a chuckle and a groan and moves to get to his feet. For a moment, a pang of rejection creeps into your chest, but Mark reaches for your hand to help you up too. He can’t believe how easy it is for him to give in to you, but he knows he wants you too, with his whole heart. “Come on then!” His smile is boyish and free, and you are quick to follow, treading carefully along the eaves and through a well-disguised door at the side of the roof. With you, Mark feels all the straight lines he has built up loosening into the loops and curls of ribbons. For you, he dares to step out for a new adventure.

Mark’s space above the library is plain. You spot a few scrolls and stacks of books, and you wonder whether his thoughts and writing fill the pages. You wonder what kinds of stories he has been reading lately. But those are questions for later. You fall first into the place where he sleeps and pull again at the fabric of his collar, until he’s almost lying on top of you. Mark is careful with his weight, holding himself up on his palms by your face, and he pauses to ask, “Do you trust me?”

“Completely.”

You try to pull Mark’s top off, but the sleeves get caught on his elbows, and you both giggle, momentarily breaking the heady rush you were in. Once he has peeled off the rest of his guard’s uniform, you stare unabashedly at how lean and toned he is beneath his clothing. With you, Mark realizes he doesn’t feel shy or embarrassed. He feels free to be goofy, to make mistakes, to be himself. He appreciates how you eagerly touch him. You trace a star-shaped scar on his chest and kiss the tiny moles on the side of his neck and near the corner of his lips.

There are too many knots and ribbons tied in a hanbok, Mark grumbles aloud. You shake with laughter because really, it’s more complicated to put on and pretty easy to remove. Slowly, he loosens the bow on your chest, admiring every part of you revealed, kissing your skin reverently, before pulling at the one around your waist and marveling more at the wonder of you.

It’s a bit drafty and cold when you’re unwrapped and bare under him, but Mark’s lips are soon emblazoned along your jaw, your neck, your shoulders. His fingers are hot as they dance across your skin, down your sides and dipping below, between your thighs and finding your desire for him evident. He reaches lower and trails a fingertip along your inner thigh. His touch is slow and light, drawing upwards toward your center. You realize he’s writing something on your skin when he whispers “love you” close to your ear, sealing the words into your heart. Mark’s finger trails upwards along your other thigh, tracing shapes and lines. And this time, he says “forever.”

Mark knows you’re eager and ready for more, so he lets you help guide his hand until he’s at the perfect spot. He begins to draw circles earnestly where you want him, watching you intently as you sigh in pleasure.

“Good?”

“Mm-hmm. Very.” You extend the “very” and your eyes flutter closed at the feeling. Mark’s so good as a person, as a friend, as a lover, that you’re almost overwhelmed by it all. He spells out his love for you, over and again.

When you reach for him after some time, longing to please him too, Mark simply moves his hands to hold yours in his own. He presses his body down closer to slide his length against you without entering you, and the both of you moan at the friction and new sensations. Heat courses through you, warm in your belly, right down to your toes, and back to your core again as he moves against you. Back and forth he rocks, your fingers clasping his more tightly, stars spinning above you, until you’re coming, coming undone beneath him, chanting his name. Mark slows down until you’ve caught your breath. He untangles his hands from yours to reach up and smooth the hair from your forehead.

“Will you have me?” You lift your hips in response to his question, digging your fingertips into his back, pulling him close.

“I’m yours.”

You let out a gasp as Mark presses the head of his cock into you. He’s careful and tender, kissing your breath away before moving to push in all the way. With effort, you open your eyes to look up into his. You hold each other and behold each other, connected from beginning to end. He drags along your warmth, languid and loving, and dives back in again.

Mark could write verses, he could write volumes, he could write songs about you.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Five: Embroidery Needles　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

Kim Doyoung immediately reports the missing contents of his storage shelves. Rose hips, cinnamon bark, and licorice root. Not to mention, the garlic, gingko, ginger, even ginseng! The contents that had vanished far outweighed what the palace guards who occasionally dropped in without notice could take. At first he thought it may be just that, but completing his personal annual inspection revealed otherwise. In retrospect, you should have known that Doyoung would be the type to measure and catalog all of his work. Perhaps you were getting too carried away in your fantasies, distracted by the romance of your dreams.

Doyoung doesn’t mean to be an exacting person; he is just an exact person. But he wasn’t always this way. The voices in his memories remind him why.

“Must’ve wasted them, feeding it to those beasts he keeps!”

“That little thief. Always thought he looked different from everyone else.”

“Glad he and his family were exiled.”

Hot tears well up just remembering it, and Doyoung bites the inside of his cheek to keep the anger down. His best friend in his younger years. Lee Taeyong. Taeyong who cared so much for life, for animals, large and small. Taeyong who once placed a tiny green frog in Doyoung’s palm. It scared Doyoung half to death, but Taeyong kept going on about how cute it was. When the queen’s herbal remedies had gone missing, there were no records kept at the time. The scheming political officials were quick to separate themselves from the situation, shifting blame on the innocent. Taeyong, their scapegoat, was branded as a thief and banished to hard labor. Doyoung vowed to catch the actual culprits next time. He would take careful notes and calculated steps if he needed to. He rose in the ranks as head physician over the years, hoping he could one day gain the power or connections to exonerate his friend.

Word travels to the crown prince about trouble with one of the court nurses stealing from the physician’s storeroom. Naturally, word gets to one the crown prince’s closest guards too.

Mark wants to understand, but he can’t afford to. His role is to guard the prince, and his team needs his complete focus and commitment, especially now. He had shown you his everything. His favorite spot to watch the sun set, his corner above the library, his innermost thoughts, his whole being. The hurt and betrayal felt bitter like poison. He thinks back to your chance encounter which he so treasured in his memories, now tainted with the thought that you might have been in the act of stealing that very night. His brows furrow and he doesn’t notice how tightly his jaw is clenched. He’s torn between following the rules which condemn you as a thief and siding with his personal knowledge of what you are like. He wants to talk with you, but he can’t seem to find you in all the usual spots. And now he hardly has the time to look for you with his new schedule. The palace guards have ramped up on meetings, and he’s exhausted from splitting time between all the units he’s in. Jungwoo’s sword nearly nicks his neck when Mark realizes how far his thoughts had wandered. The more he aches, the further he pushes into his training, exerting the pent up emotion in combat practice.

Prince Na, having lost his sister to spies from a neighboring kingdom in childhood, had no room for deceitfulness. It was merciful enough that Doyoung would be the one to deal with you directly.

“Sir, I… I’m sorry I tried making something new and overcooked it and threw it out. I’m willing to make up for it. I also got some of the ingredients mixed up. I’ll wash up all the bowls for the next month. I’ll gather the roots too! I promise, I--”

“I don’t need your excuses. I thought better of you.”

You hate to admit it, but his words stung. Doyoung had been like a mentor to you.

Doyoung knew you never mixed up the ingredients though. He knew you could probably identify them without even seeing them. And your new concoctions often became the best remedies, never failures. As much as he was angry, he was not one to be cruel. After probing further and finding no other double-dealing plots or secret orders you were following, he lets out a long sigh and tells you his next orders.

You should have been grateful that you weren’t sentenced to something more serious, but you would rather lose your bi-annual rice stipend than this. Or reorganize all the drawers to the picky head physician’s standards. Instead, you are relegated to beginning embroidery. Embroidery! Not allowed near the food or medicine, and in a completely opposite wing of the palace. Doyoung warns you that all the guards are informed and will be watching you.

Oh but there is one palace guard who must not want to see you. Since the news broke, you haven't seen him anywhere. No night time walks, definitely no night time views, only emptiness in your chest and no place to run.

Would Mark misunderstand that you were only skin deep with him? You know that isn’t it, but you also know you broke his trust. You are a thief, no matter the intentions, but you feel a tangled mix of shame, anger, frustration, and a sense of powerlessness that you cannot unravel. You think it might be better for him not to be associated with you after all. You wonder if he regrets meeting you.

You have to ignore the many new inquiries that Renjun tries to deliver to you, telling him it’s no longer safe to make the exchanges. Worry creases his brows when even his beautiful new drawing of the cosmos field you want to visit one day brings no change in emotion to your face.

You do your best to pore into your daily tasks, but it’s monotonous work, embroidery, with nothing more exciting than occasionally pricking yourself with a needle. You curse under your breath.

But what hurts most, perhaps, is the blank expression and emptiness in his eyes the one time you finally do catch sight of each other across a hallway. It’s brief, like two strangers passing. And as you haul bolts of silk upon your shoulder, you will yourself to think that it’s the burden of the weight and the sharp-pointed embroidery needles. Actually, you are quite certain what hurts most.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾　Six: Fire　☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

It’s that nightmare again. You’re falling from the library’s rooftop and into a bottomless lake. Mark’s sparkling eyes turn wounded, guarded, cold. What happens next is plunging into utter darkness and a numbing freeze taking over your limp body. But this time, the dream takes a turn. The waters around you swirl, sweltering hot, and start closing in. Instead of a deafening silence, voices are screaming. You try to decipher what they are saying, kicking to tread water and struggling to stay afloat.

“To the West Gate! To the West Gate!”

You jolt awake. The commotion of your dreams collides with reality. You piece together the hazy outline of Doyoung’s figure past the doorway amidst smoke and chaos. He’s shouting instructions, pushing people in one direction. The palace is under attack.

Crawling on your knees and holding a sleeve over your nose and mouth, you make it to the courtyard. White-gray ash and embers flicker through the air and you fight to breathe. You can’t see anything for a moment, but the wind picks up, carrying the thick smoke away. You turn to take in your surroundings and you stop in your tracks at what you find. In the exact opposite direction to the throngs of courtesans fleeing, an orange glow is consuming the Eastern Palace and the library right next to it, dark plumes of smoke billowing out.

The words of love, of history, tales of wonder, poetry and promises. Burning.

There’s nothing you can do but to cry out, “Mark!” Your lungs burn, and you struggle to stand to your feet and shove against the bodies of those trying to escape. “Mark!”

The singing of arrows across the air brings your focus sharply back to your feet on the ground and you find that you are being pushed along with the crowds, dragged towards the West Gate. And then you are running, into the forest, aimless, with tears streaming down your cheeks.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾ Seven: Healing, Again ☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

The bitter, earthy scent of herbal infusions fills the temporarily transformed gisaeng house where you are working. Several of the women are already well versed in medical care, and all are ready to help. The house sits in the center of N city, near the market, an area easy to access and luckily, untouched by fire and the following destruction.

Days feel like weeks and weeks feel like days with the new routine you suddenly find yourself in. Early morning rounds with cool compress cloths to treat the ones with burns, gathering the berries and calendula flowers before the sun got too hot, brewing teas in the afternoon, a hurried supper so you can continue your work before it got too dark.

The time is long, but the moon has grown from waning crescent to waxing gibbous again before you know it, with the many people that come and go after receiving the care they need. The citizens are healing, gaining strength to rebuild again.

It’s late one evening when you see from the corner of your eye, an unmistakable design on a visitor entering. Midnight black, silky fabric with the emblem of a dragon. The ladle in your hand clatters to the floor and you pull up your skirts to run to the entrance.

As you get closer, yes, it’s the gold embroidery, yes, it’s the palace uniform. But he’s taller in stature. He’s not the one you’re looking for. Your steps come to a slow stop. Jaehyun recognizes you immediately and is equally quick to spare you of the suspense.

“We haven’t seen him yet.”

When your knees give out, he holds onto you and lets your tears soak his clothing.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It is a bizarre sight to see the crown prince enter town, not supported on a fancy palanquin but on the arms of Doyoung and Jeno, all in commoners’ clothing. You’re on the side of the street when you spot them, and you freeze in place before remembering to bow deeply. Jeno motions you to straighten. There’s no need to reveal identities, he whispers into your ear. Nodding with understanding, you help them to the house and find the nearest available space for Prince Na.

Word had spread that a powerful shaman was practicing in the center of town, but Doyoung had an idea of who that might be. He shares this with you with the slightest of gummy smiles. It took them a tumultuous journey to hide and travel safely, and it would take too much time to tell the tale. The prince’s health needs more immediate help first. You’re grateful the lost prince is alive, if not well, but the questions snowball in your mind, a thousand desperate thoughts begging to be answered. How did they escape? Did he survive too? But Doyoung explains the prince’s condition, symptoms, and what they’ve tried so far, and you need to pay utmost attention. Jaemin must have inhaled a large amount of smoke. His breathing is weak. He’s unable to speak. You fetch a jar of honey water to help with calming his cough and think of a few things that may reduce the swelling that must be inside his chest.

You learn from Jeno that the One Two Seven Squad is regathering. Though he doesn’t share many details, you read between the lines that what had happened was an unsuccessful coup. You hull soybeans while you talk, using low voices to avoid bothering the patients in your care, the water sloshing and providing cover for the classified information. Prince Na is asleep now, but Jeno’s gaze is fixed on him as he speaks.

Though the city is safe for now, he and the others are still on high alert. They would keep Prince Na hidden until they strategize their next move. You remember that Jeno used to train with Mark when they were younger, so you finally gather your courage to ask whether he heard any news, heart thumping hard.

“Ah, Mark… We parted ways just a few days ago.” Jeno’s voice always holds the most even, balanced tone. You can’t decipher what that meant.

“Parted ways?”

“Yes, he said he had somewhere he needed to visit.” You breathe out the breath that you had been holding, relief washing over you.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

If he could put it simply, you are a vision. Mark made his way back to the city in sorrow and disappointment, to where he knew his colleagues would bring the prince, not knowing it would lead to you. He had thought he lost you, just as you had thought you’d lost him.

Your back is to him, but he could identify your shadow anywhere. You have one palm against your forehead and the other on a child’s, checking her temperature. They call it your healing touch, your intuition, your experience, or your willingness to try, but for Mark, he knows it’s all your heart. He regrets ever doubting your intentions. He thought he was serving the kingdom, but all along, you… you were truly serving its people.

Mark waits until you’ve finished your work for the night, not unlike many nights before, in a different setting that feels so long ago with the events that had transpired. He knows you’ve found your place at last. One without rigid roles and gates to keep you back. He only hopes that he can be by your side again.

After whispering instructions to the nurse taking the next shift, you wrap your arms around yourself and rub them up and down for some warmth. You’re about to start on a brisk night time walk outdoors to clear your thoughts when he leaps from the rooftop and into your line of sight.

You think you may be delirious. But you amble towards the figure of Mark anyways until you’re standing right in front of him. You open your mouth to say the first thing on your mind, a heartbroken “I’m so sorry” on the tip of your tongue, but Mark doesn’t let you finish your sentence. He throws an arm around you. And when you circle your arms around him tightly and lean into him too, he kisses you full on the lips. You relish in the feeling: passionate, bold, connected once more. You open up and let him in. Then gently, he draws back to kiss your eyelashes, wet with tears, only stopping to murmur, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m sorry I took so long to return to you.”

You move to press closer into his embrace but look down to find his left arm in the way, poorly wrapped and held against his chest. He is the definition of a hero and a protector, and you want nothing more than to be his healing balm from now on. “Oh, Mark… I’ll make it better. I promise I’ll make it better.”

“You will. I know you will.”

You have many questions and Mark answers as you walk together, the moon shining brightly above.

“Where’d you go these last few days?”

“To the lake. To your home. I didn’t know where to find you.” You look up at Mark in wonder, and he pulls you closer with the arm around your waist.

“The roads have been restored?”

“Partly.”

“How… how are they?”

“Your parents and the villagers are safe. They… we… I thought you were gone.” It’s your turn to give him a squeeze. “We can send them a letter first thing tomorrow morning to let them know you are well too.”

“How’d you get hurt?” You start to inspect him, touching his shoulder gingerly and feeling the muscle in his upper arm.

He turns sheepish and glances away. “I actually tripped and fell on my arm when saying bye to your parents. It was very embarrassing. Please don’t tell anyone!”

You stop in your tracks and shake your head in laughter, glad it wasn’t too serious after all. Then you are pulling on his shirt collar so he knows what you want. “At least it wasn’t your writing arm, I guess.”

He’s glad too. And he knows there will be many stories to write about, with you. Mark leans in to close the distance again. Because sometimes, often-times, kisses are even better than words, and kisses heal even better than medicine at midnight.

˚·̩̩̥͙‧⁺˚*･༓☾ the end ☽༓･*˚⁺‧·̩̩̥͙˚

Thank you for reading! Hope your heart is full of love and wonder, and that you may dream a little past what you believe is possible.

Writing references: Joseon female physicians uinyeo | historical drama/sageuk vocab | korean herbs 1 & 2

[toxicanonymity]

can you make another raider Joel about getting sick during the night and he takes care of you

when you're sick

raider!Joel x f!reader Raider masterlist

WARNINGS: not graphic but if you don't wanna think about getting sick / throwing up, please skip it. Reader has hair that can be held. Future - any time after Gun Hug?

-

Joel would wake up to the sound of your cough echoing from the bathroom. You hear him rustling around then a gentle knock at the bathroom door. You don't answer. His voice is muffled by the door.

"you okay sweet pea?"

"yeah," you whimper hoarsely.

"lemme in."

"I'm fine real-" you cut yourself off, getting sick again.

He tries to open the door but it's locked

"damnit," he says under his breath. Then he backs up and shoulders into it with his weight and it bursts open.

You look back, and Joel is standing there looking at you with big, sympathetic eyes. He's wearing only short, soft shorts and an undershirt. He looks so tan and ripped. His right hand is bruised and his knuckles are scabbed over from a fight.

you hesitantly ask, "can I please have some privacy?" even though his forced entry gave you the answer.

His face hardens as he thinks it over. Then he says, "no. I said I was gonna take care of ya, sweet pea. That's what I'm gonna do." He squats down beside you. "talk to me, baby. what's goin' on?"

"I just didn't feel good," you croak, and sniffle as tears begin to overtake your eyes. You wipe the corner of your mouth with the heel of your palm.

He gets a wash cloth from under the sink and wets it. "C'mere." He takes your chin in his hand and his brow furrows as he cleans your face for you.

You groan, feeling it coming, and hover your head over the bowl. He sets the washcloth on the floor and gets behind you. He straddles your legs sits back on his heels, with his warm groin against you. He holds your hair for you and plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your head.

"don't look," you manage weakly before you cough again.

"I'm not, baby." He rests his cheek on your head so you know he's not.

When you're done, he asks if you feel better and you finally do. You flush the toilet. He wipes your face again and gets another washcloth to wipe your forehead. Then he helps you up from the floor.

He gets your toothbrush prepped and says "open," ready to brush your teeth for you but when you reach for it, he lets you do it. "All good?" He asks and you nod shyly. Then he takes you back to bed. He holds you and periodically kisses the crown of your head until you fall back asleep.

-

She is not pregnant, sorry.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

I love your writing! I need more sub Aemond. Just the thought of him begging and being overstimulated *chefs kiss*. Could you write something where you’re betrothed but he’s so obsessed with you and wants you in control from that aspect?

Sorry for the long ass wait. I hope this floats your boat.

Warnings: Subby Aemond, praise kink, hair pulling, voyeurism, finger sucking, male masturbation, Aemond tasting his and hers cooking, smut. Word count: ~1200

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

A King is nothing without his Queen, or in Aemond’s case a Prince Regent is nothing without a Princess. He bristles with irritation upon hearing from his grandsire that a match is to be made for him. He has only sat the Iron Throne in his brother’s stead for two weeks, the very last thing he needs is the tedium of a courtship.

Alas, it will be good for public morale, his mother insists. A royal wedding will bring cheer to the smallfolk and gods, it is needed, considering the war that rages over the succession of the crown. Aegon had Helaena, Viserys was wed to Aemma and then Alicent, now Aemond would have his own pretty bride to serve at his side.

He supposes it will be a marriage of convenience, naught but a political union, until he sees her. Her pretty hair is twisted up, the flesh of her slender neck on display and it makes his mouth run dry. Aemond is certain he has never seen a creature more beguiling in his life.

His eye meets hers over the table as dessert is served, following the welcome feast, and she sucks cream from her fingers, never shifting her gaze from his. He is certain it is deliberate, an attempt to drive him to distraction and it is working. His breeches feel much too tight in lieu of his growing arousal, his breath comes in shallow pants as he watches her plush lips wrap around each of her digits.

Everything she does has him utterly transfixed, from the sway of her hips as she walks, to the swell of her breasts against the bodice of her gown, Aemond is a man smitten. His thoughts on marriage transform from bitter reluctance to eager anticipation, counting down the days when she will be fully his.

He finds himself vying for her attention, constantly seeking out her gaze whenever they are in a room together, and preening under the intensity of her stare whenever she deigns to look his way.

The first time they steal a kiss, they have been left alone together in the gardens and as her lips meet his, tasting of honeyed wine and sweet vanilla, he surges forward, attempting to capture her mouth with more urgency. He groans as he feels her tug him back by the roots of his hair, a pleasurable hurt that sends a jolt of warmth all the way to his stones.

“Greedy boy.” She chastises in a whisper. “Don’t try to take more than you are given.”

In that moment he knows that he is irrevocably hers. He would raze entire cities to the ground if she asked him to, such is the power she has over him.

When he makes decisions during meetings of the small council, he goes straight to her to tell her, basking in her praises and delighting in the way she straddles his lap, her grip on his long, silver tresses iron clad as she kisses him hungrily, pulling back far too soon for his liking.

“Would you like a reward of a different kind?” She asks when he seeks her out one afternoon. “You’ve been such a good boy, I think you deserve it.”

His breath hitches at the sultry tone of her voice, only trusting himself to nod in response.

She grins wickedly, settling on the settee and rucking her skirts up around her hips.

Aemond gasps, his eyes going wide when he sees she isn’t wearing any smallclothes. She glistens with arousal and he moves towards her, overcome with thoughts of sinking himself into her tight, wet het.

“Ah, ah.” She chides. “You may look, but you mustn’t touch.”

It is sweet torture. Aemond has always despised the lack of control he has over his life, yet with her he relinquishes it gladly. He would fetter and chain himself if only for the faintest promise she may allow him to touch her, that she might touch him.

The sight of her legs spread burns itself into his memory, it’s what he sees when he brings himself to release each night.

She stays true to her word and never once does he get to do more than look at her. She is adamant that they must wait until their wedding night. He feels as though he may go mad with desire long before then.

He pouts when yet again she denies the touch of his hand against her most intimate of areas.

Her face softens. “Sweet boy, do you really need me that badly?”

“Yes.” He rasps, face contorted with unbridled lust.

“What would you do to touch me?” She asks saccharinely, her fingers stroking through her folds.

“Anything, anything you ask for.” He grits outs, screwing his eye shut at how painfully hard he is.

“Would you kill for me if I asked it?” 

“I would burn the entire city alive for the faintest touch of your cunt.” He replies with absolute certainty.

Her mouth falls open slightly, quickly replaced by a pleased smirk. “Here.” She removes her fingers from her between her legs, pushing them past Aemond’s lips. “You may taste me.”

Aemond moans around her fingers, the tang of her arousal dancing across his taste buds and, with a shiver, he spills inside his breeches.

Later that evening at dinner, she swipes those same fingers through the sauce on her plate, insisting he must try it and as his tongue laps over the pads of her digits, his knuckles turn white from the intensity with which he grips the edge of the table. She smiles up at him, doe-eyed and devious.

He is sure he has imagined her asking it when she requests that he reveals himself to her, until she repeats the question with an arch of her brow. Wanting nothing more than to please her, he hastily frees himself from the confines of his trousers, his length heavy and warm against his palm.

He hisses through his teeth, his balls tightening as she swipes her thumb across the head with a mischievous smile.

“Touch yourself.” She murmurs. “Let me see how you pleasure yourself when you think of me.”

He swallows thickly, apprehensive at first, but spurred on as her eyes fix eagerly upon the sight of him. He strokes languidly, delighting in the way she shifts in her seat, biting her lip. It is satisfying to know she wants him just as much as he wants her.

His movements become faster, his breathing more laboured and she watches with rapt attention, until finally he tenses, spilling pearlescent ropes of spend over his knuckles with a grunt.

She approaches him almost tentatively, gently running her index finger through his seed, before holding it up to examine it. 

Aemond’s eye goes wide when she pushes it into his mouth, the taste of himself is foreign against his tongue, yet it causes a stirring along his lower spine that is not unpleasant.

“Good boy.” She praises.

He hums with satisfaction, pulling back with a wet pop. 

He truly would do anything for her, destroy the Seven Kingdoms if it made her smile, for a King is nothing without his Queen.

[pinkhairedlily]

it is unfamiliar and foreign, the first time sakura washed him. a side mission, on the riverbank, he was getting a hold of all the functions and routines of a single arm, and she offered to scrub his back.

sasuke flinched at the featherlight grazes. something so gentle couldn't possibly ran over his scars and rinse them clean.

"you're allowed to ask for help, you know." sakura's hands were steady and calm, so when his senses faltered, he knew it was his skin trembling—and his soul, his being, all of him—quiet aftershocks dissolving in the suds. 

he starts to look forward to home and these gestures that become his constant. sasuke shrugs off the clothes that bear the world and all its secrets and sakura holds him in an embrace that tethers the lightness of him.

against her rosette crown at midnight, he confesses the worst, "this village remembers the me from long ago. him, too, itachi, and the things we did."

"hush." she burrows closer to his warmth. "tonight, you are just you. you're sasuke, only sasuke. you exist in this moment and that's all you need to do."

he realizes, bit by bit, from his fresh wounds to stitches to scabbing, her tender touches had the strength to never let go, the tenacity to believe he would heal, and the trust to hold him if he doesn't.

this is how he stays.

[emmyrosee]

lol self indulgent bc I’m in pain and I want Sakusa to be real 💅🏼

Tw // laceration, bandage replacement, descriptions of a small wound and mentions of blood and scabbing

——

“Ow.”

“I know, baby. Hold still, okay?”

The minute Kiyoomi’s gloved hands touched the irritated areas around the bandaid, you were wincing, knuckles fisting and teeth sinking into your lower lip. He pauses, “are you alright? Do you need me to stop?”

“No,” you pant. “Please- just get it off.”

He nods, rolls his shoulders, lets out a labored breath into his mask, and gently grips either end of the now dirtied bandage, and with his own wince, pulls it up off of your skin, a small wail of pain escaping your lips. “Shhh, I know baby, I know-“

“It burns- Omi, it burns why does it burn-“

“It’s the air hitting it, I promise,” he assures. He takes a look at the wound with careful eyes, trying to evaluate it: the skin around it is raw from the adhesives being placed on it and removed constantly, the throbbing laceration mocking him as you tremble in pain. When a gloved finger gently runs over the blistering, you yelp and dart away slightly, and he grimaces.

He would give everything he has to make this go away.

There’s a small bit of scarring skin that’s forming over the swell, and he takes it as sign of finally healing- that and the small bit of blood that’s forming under the barrier to form what’s left of the scab.

At least it’s not coming out anymore.

“Alright. I’m gonna do a little more bacitracin and peroxide-“

“NO!”

“I have to-“

“It’s gonna sting,” you plead, eyes glassy and brimming with tears.

Of course it’s going to sting, he thinks to himself. But that’s not what you need to hear right now. It doesn’t matter how many times you dance this dance- your fears and worries are never bothersome enough for him to stop taking care of you. He bypassed your protests and opens a new bandage, pushing some of the ointment onto it before pressing it to the lesion. You choke out a small wail and tighten your body.

“Almost done,” he mumbles, grabbing some of the medical tape to hold the bandaid in place, wrapping it securely. With a relived sigh, he leaves his hand to keep pressure on the fresh dressing to try and soothe the irritated skin. “There. There baby. You did so good.”

You sniffle and use your hands to wipe your eye, and he hums and pulls down his mask with a quiet ‘c’mere’ and guides you into his chest, where your arms wrap around him to keep him close.

“I hate this,” you sob into his chest. His massive hand cradles the back of your head, the other rubbing softly up and down the planes of your back.

“I know,” he whispers into your head.

“It’s so itchy, and it hurts, Kiyoomi.”

“The good news is, it’s itchy because it’s healing,” he says, pulling back to look at you. The hand on your head shifts to gently wipe a tear from your cheek. “Bad news is, it’s irritated because of the bandaid.”

“I just want to let it heal on its own. No more bandaids.”

He chuckles softly before pulling off his gloves and tugging you back into a hug, trying to not let your heaving shoulders break his heart. “I’m not going to let you do that; we’ve got to take care of it. Doctor’s orders, remember?”

“Fuck the doctor.”

He laughs a little louder, letting his lips press a few kisses on the crown of your head. Then, he crouched slightly, hands still holding your cheeks to keep your eyes on him.

“Listen to me,” he says, subtly shaking your head for emphasis. “You deserve to take care of yourself. And I’m gonna be here to help you with it. But you deserve to live in comfort- and treating this shit is just part of it.”

You let out a shaky sob and after a few minutes, you nod, letting your hands rest on top of his, “I hate this, kiyoomi.”

“I know,” he echos again. His thumbs gently stroke your hot cheeks, “I wish I could take it away, baby.”

“I know.”

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Well & Truly Married - Mal de Mer

Is this, Mel wonders, a milestone?

Mal de Mer

cw: peeing, and a conversation during. (I warned 'yall.)

Snippet:

In the aftermath, fatigue—the great equalizer—fells them both.

It's late noon when they stir again. The sun is higher now, the shadows longer.  Their spent bodies, caught in the liquid pull of gravity, are still fused.  She cradles him in the circle of her arms and legs; he is nearly boneless, as if she's drained him dry.  The soft rhythmic tickle of his breath, warm on her throat, is the only sign of life.  Even his heartbeat, usually a ruthlessly steady cadence, has slowed to a lullaby under her palm.

Mel pictures the child in her womb: a tiny, perfect gift, tucked in a bed of bliss.

She smiles.

"Silco," she whispers, and drops a kiss to his damp forehead. "Wake up."

A drowsy rumble. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because if I do, you'll go."

"We're in the middle of the sea, my love." The unaccustomed endearment slips off her tongue. "Where would I possibly go?"

"Back to the shore."

The simplicity of the statement steals her breath. She has to swallow twice before the words come. "And leave you, is that it?" His silence is a sullen confirmation. She seals another kiss to his temple, right above his bad eye. "Never, Schatz. Not unless you ask me to."

"Good." He burrows closer. "I've no intention of asking."

Mel hides her smile in the dark crown of his head. Her fingers, tracing the ridges of his spine, encounter a terrain of welts. Some have scabbed up. Others are rawly oozing. The memory of her own frenzy is a guilty sting.

And yet all she can think is: How lovely.

His body, like a canvas, holds the imprint of all her spent passions. A signature he'll carry under his clothes for days. She's claimed him, and she's proud.

And she needs a bath.

With effort, Mel extricates herself from the languid tangle of arms and legs. Silco, with a groggy growl, tries to drag her back. But Mel's will is a match for his—and the pressure in her bladder is verging on painful. She manages, with coaxing tugs, to persuade him that a shared soak is a more worthwhile pursuit than lazing in a bed full of stale fluids. 

Not bothering with dressing-gowns, they pad, naked and wobbly, across the tiles. In the brightness, Mel can see the full extent of the damage they've done. A constellation of contusions—red, purple, green, yellow, blue—stains their bodies in visceral record.

"You’re beautiful like this," Silco says, idling by the tub as it fills.

"I look like a bruised plum."

"You do." He comes up behind her, arms snaking about her waist. "A juicy, well-fucked plum."

"What an appalling metaphor."

"No less true."

She half-turns in his embrace. Her fingertips trace the mottled discoloration below his collarbone.

"And what does that make you?" she muses. "The apple of my eye?"

"Too poisonous."

"And yet the sweetest I've tasted."

He scoffs. But his arms tighten around her.  It's a discrepancy she's slowly becoming aware of. From irreproachably aloof for days, he is now disclosing a secret cache of neediness. His hands can't seem to stray from her body. If she's more than an arm's length away, his eyes follow as if magnetized.

At the toilet, she hopes he'll grant her privacy. Unfazed, he props a shoulder against the doorframe and watches. It's a testament to Mel's own wrung-out stupor that there is no self-consciousness. Only a strange new species of intimacy.

After last night, there are few secrets left to guard between them. 

Then Silco strolls over, and takes himself in hand. Reflexively, Mel scoots back as he aims squarely between her parted legs. There is the splash of water on water. Her first frisson of alarm mutes into a droll amusement.

The exchange is the most surreal, and surreally matter-of-fact, she's ever had with a man.

"Does this mean the honeymoon is well and truly over?" she muses, as he tugs the latch of the flush.

Leaning over, Silco drops a kiss on her hair. "It means we're well and truly married."

It is no love lyric. But a laugh bubbles out of her.

This, she decides, is a side of him well worth the wait.

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Six

Master List of Series

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

Author's Note: I want to thank everyone for their patience with these updates every two weeks. This schedule works out perfectly for me, and I don't have to disappoint anyone with delays! I've gotten a couple questions regarding everyone's age for this story which I figured would happen. I kept the ages of everyone vague on purpose. Aegon is between 14-17, Aemond is 11-14, Halaena is 9-11, and the reader is 10-14. No matter what age you pick, they're all still minors. I hope that helped a bit!

Chapter Warnings: Traditional Targaryen family dinner, canon typical violence.

You had a sense of Deja Vu before the wide entrance of the dining hall, only this time, you were not alone. Next to you was your supposed father. You chewed on your lip nervously, pulling the thin scab that covered your marks from earlier.

So many things were left unanswered you had no idea where to begin. Were you truly his daughter?

Your mother was a prostitute; how could he be sure? How did he not know she was pregnant? That is not an easy thing to hide. How many brothers and sisters did you potentially have, was Daemon the monster Ma believed him to be, and who was watching you now, ready to report back to her?

"This is unnerving," you decided to say, not brave enough to voice your questions yet. He snorted, his eyebrows raising for a moment before he shifted his weight and took your arm in his.

"It is unnecessary, but is that not all customs to those unaware?" You mimicked his expressions but turned your gaze down, retaking your lip between your teeth. "Stop that," he chided as a father would, and you obeyed. You couldn't help it; the feeling came as an instinct.

Two guards opened the doors, and another from inside the dining room announced your presence to the family sitting at the great table. As you walked arm-in-arm with Daemon, you became even more ridged than the crown's sworn protectors.

Six sets of brown and violet eyes turned your way. An urge to channel your anxiety overcame you, but you stopped, remembering your father's -Prince Daemon's- words. You squeezed his thick black sleeve instead, and he glanced down at you, his eyes the same as the others.

Aegon was the first to stand in your presence, almost making your blank expression change, the other five soon following. No longer was his short platinum hair stringy, curls sticking to one another, but were clean, nearly a shade lighter with all the dirt gone. His rags had changed into a dark, emerald green tunic, a golden chain decorated with the same colored gems, and the sigil of House Targaryen embroidered on the chest.

Now that the alcohol had wholly left your system, heat filled your limbs, realizing just how handsome he was. His pouted lips stained a light red from wine, and he had a lively pale face with clear eyes. You were still upset with him. This was all his fault. You could have avoided this if he had kept to himself and gone straight to Madam's brothel instead of stealing you away.

As you and Daemon approached the table, you saw Aegon move from his seat, nearly sprinting to an empty one as he pulled it out. You looked to your father -Daemon- questioning whether or not you should accept Aegon's chivalry. He did not indicate what you should do, so you did the only thing you could do in that situation. Take Aegon's hand.

He kissed the top of it, his violet orbs boring into your slightly panicked ones as a grin graced his lips, helping you into your seat. Though Aegon wanted to sit next to you, he thought better of it, returning to the spot next to his sister wife as he took a swig of his drink.

Everyone sat tense. An older woman around Lyra's age with chestnut brown hair stared at you, her gaze like ice, trying to wither away a fresh sprout of spring crops with a layer of frost. Queen Alicent, you realized, the dark green gown and seven-pointed star giving her identity as if she said it herself. It looked as if she hated you simply for being in her presence.

You should have bowed and scolded yourself for not, your eyes wide as the anxiety bubbled into your mouth. You ignored Daemon's earlier warning as you tugged at the loose skin on your lip.

"Prince Daemon," the young Queen spoke, finally breaking her stare from you. "How pleased am I to have heard the news of your arrival. I had presumed you, the Princess Rhaenyra, and her sons would travel together, not one to stray far from your nest."

You looked at Daemon, worried and confused, your gaze traveling between them. The hostility and passive aggressiveness were as plain as the soup the servants brought out, quietly placing the bowl in front of you.

"I saw no need for the Princess to travel in her condition. As you know, pregnancy is such a precarious condition." Daemon did not react to the hidden animosity behind her words, answering as if he was talking about the weather.

The Queen hummed, nodding and pursing her lips as she gathered some soup on her silver spoon. You did the same, imitating her actions so as not to cause more attention to yourself. You have dressed the part of a royal but felt anything like it, accidentally slurping the broth from your spoon.

Muffled laughter came from the left of you, your eyes pausing on the empty seat between Queen Alicent and a man that shared her looks. Aegon was leaning back in his chair with a chalice of wine in his hand. She gave her son a glare opening her mouth before the large dining hall doors did the same.

"King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name," a guard announced, his accent prominent as everyone rose from the table."King of the Andals, the Roynar, and The First of Men."

Four men carried the King on a decorative chair, leaning slightly on his ivory cane and dressed in a magnificent pile of red, gold, and black robes, a small wound on his face. Everyone was staring, their faces somber with a hint of disgust and pity. It almost felt disrespectful to gaze upon a man who held the Seven Kingdoms in his now frail hand, a man who sat upon the Iron Throne, a seat stained with blood and ash. You looked everywhere but him.

The men carried him straight to you, sitting his makeshift throne on the stone floor with a thud. Your gaze was downcast out of fear and respect for this man's position.

"My child," he rasped, his chest heaving with the effort it took to speak, "look at me."

"Come," he ordered, and you stepped closer, a servant to the King. The shadows of the candlelight danced on your skin, hiding your face. He stared into your eyes, his gaze searching for something. His expression was like a maester studying an object from old Valyria, looking at the hidden story behind every crack and dent.

Alicent glanced at a man dressed in the Kingsguard armor, his hair as black as coal, sharing a questioning but frustrated look. Aegon stood like the well-behaved Prince his mother wanted him to be, hands clasped at the front, attempting to hide an ever-growing grin.

How fun this is, he thought, swaying his body like a child waiting for sweets. He finally found something his mother loathed more than him, a kinship forming in his heart. It made him want you more-- made him want to take you to the full-length window in his room and fuck you for all King's Landing to see. It would be you and him, he realized, you and him for the end of time.

"How it gladens me to finally meet my brothers first born," the King said, shocking everyone in the room as he softly stroked your cheek.

Alicent could not hide her scowl from her father, crossing her arms and looking away. Though Rhaena and Baela were not there, she felt pity for them. Prince Aemond, silent for this interaction, quietly scoffed, not enough for his old father to hear but for his young mother to scold him.

"You are a dragon now." King Viserys wanted to say more, mumbling about how he forgot his words as you looked at Daemon warily.

You didn't trust this. Everything was going too smoothly. Even being raised as part of the small folk, you knew it was not customary to give bastards the same position as a trueborn child, especially when it involved the Iron Throne. Perhaps the time had softened the man, no longer a firm believer in tradition. Rhaenyra remained the heir even after Prince Aegon was born, sure to confirm it. King Viserys just wanted a family bound by love for one another.

Unease was all you could feel as you curtsied, imagining what the women at court would look like as Viserys tapped his cane on the ground, signaling his guards for his next destination between the Hand and his wife.

You returned to your seat Prince Daemon nodding once to assure that you did well, a light graze crossing your lower back in comfort.

No eyes were on the King as he told everyone to be seated well into the meal's first course. You couldn't bring yourself to look at anyone, focused on the new plate in front of you and shakily picking up your fork. A male servant topped off the drink you had yet to touch. Its beautifully designed engravings were too precious for your flea-ridden hands.

One stare you could sense above the rest, assuming it was Aegon, you glanced up only to find him throwing back his fifth goblet of wine. It was the other Prince, recognizing his long snowy hair and leather eyepatch as the boy who ran out of Madam's brothel in tears. The same boy who pushed you to the sandstone ground and called you a whore. You knew he remembered you also, twirling a table knife with his nimble fingers, the silver glinting in the candlelight.

You returned his stare, the intensity of a dragon's flame searing into him as he, too, received a plate in front of him. It was a silent battle of wills, waiting for one to inevitably fault and the other to reign victorious. You knew not why Prince Aemond seemed to hate you so. Perhaps catching him in such a weakened state of vulnerability was why, but you saw the same emotions in the Queen. Maybe it was simply because his mother disliked you.

"I am very much excited to have another woman in the family," the small blonde-haired girl said next to you. She looked much younger than you, her purple eyes soft as she smiled kindly.

It was you who lost the battle, giving the Princess your attention as she spoke to you with such sweet words. "I am afraid there are too many boys running around in this castle, and it has become very isolating."

She twirled her thumbs. You noted that nervous habits seemingly run within the family as you searched for a piece of skin on your lips.

"Nobody wants to play with me," she whispered, ensuring her family did not overhear her complaints. "Aegon calls be strange, and Aemond focuses on his studies, but you will play with me? Will you not?"

You felt pity for her, a frown forming slightly in sympathy as you agreed.

"Of course, Your Grace," you nodded, and she smiled brightly.

"Please, you must call me Halaena. We are family now." She grabbed your hands, intertwining them with yours as she lifted them with glee, happy to finally have a friend.

Yes, she had her bugs, the tiny creatures that crawled on her arms as she giggled with delight, speaking to them as if they were human, but they never talked back. She was glad to find something that would finally. You could share her love of the creatures.

The screech of wood against stone echoed in the dim room, the King standing with new confidence as he looked upon his family. He was not blind to the hatred among his kin, but his heart led him, wanting them to love one another as a family bound by fire and blood.

"It lifts this old mans spirits," he began, staring at the children in front of him, "to see my House united. Seeing them sit next to one another as a family should. Bound by their duty for each other." Viserys picked up his goblet, splashing some red drink over the rim with his shaking grip. "Let us drain our cups in honor of House Targaryen's power. The most Dragonriders Westeros has ever seen! And the coming legitimization of Prince Daemon's first born! " He looked over to you, "Perhaps, in some time, young one, you too will know what it is to saddle the beast and claim the skies."

He raised his drink higher, toasting to your future. A future you had not known possible until now. You mimicked his action, as did everyone else, ignoring the burning of your mouth as you downed your wine.

Prince Aemond was red with fury, balling his free hand into a fist, nails biting crescents into his palm. He had never gotten such uplifting words while struggling to claim a dragon. He was the forgotten second son of the King, not good enough even to be a spare, yet this... bastard was receiving the attention he had longed for since he was a small child. Aegon's seemingly glad demeanor only served to worsen his anger.

They had not been close as young children. Aegon constantly taunted him for not having a dragon, even going so far as to give him a pig with the help of his nephews. But ever since that fateful night in Driftmark, the night where Aemond claimed the most enormous dragon in history and had his eye taken as penance. Their father had done nothing to rectify the situation, going as far as to have Aemond threaten to be questioned about where he heard the rumor that ended in losing an eye. 

Since then, it was an unspoken agreement between the brothers always to have each other's back. For Aegon to stand in Aemond's blind spot and for him to always look out for his brother after one too many Arbor Reds. They still did not get along wholly. He was unhappy with how Aegon decided to conduct his daily life as the unspoken heir to the Iron Throne, and Aegon forever wondered how far precisely the stick went up his younger brother's ass.

Daemon's hand patted your knee, reassuring you without needing to be asked. You had not expected a man with the title of "The Rogue Prince" to be so... fatherly, and you could not help but lean into his comfort, smiling at him gratefully.

The feast was finally in full swing, well on its way into the fourth course and waiting for the main to be brought out. A small band played in the corner, the string instruments creating a lively but elegant tune as you swayed to the music slightly. Everyone at the table was tense except for you, your father, and the King; he was too old to be fully aware. If this were how all royal feasts were, you would dread them for the rest of your life.

A hand on your arm stole you from your thoughts, fully expecting it to be Aegon coming to badger you, but saw the dainty fingers of a girl. Halaena was staring at you with a bright smile on her peony lips, asking you for a dance.

You blushed, shying away from her invitation. "I am afraid I do not know how, Princess," you said bashfully. She smiled wider, tilting her head as if she was sharing a secret.

"Do not worry. I don't have much of a knack for it either, but we will be the only two that know, yes?" Halaena looked at you expectantly, holding out the palm of your hand as you stared.

"I suppose so," you grinned, taking the invitation as she whisked you to the open floor.

Neither of you cared about the judgmental looks from the Queen and Prince Aemond, jumping to the upbeat music in no particular order, linking your arms as you skipped together.

It was beautiful to act like your age again, forgetting about the impending future of responsibility that came with being a royal and just having fun. Yes, you were a commoner, but you were never allowed to experience the Festival of the Mother or a celebration of the Harvest Moon. Now, you knew why, but then you saw it as a stupid act of authority by Ma.

You grabbed Halaena's tiny hands, doing a push-and-pull movement while spinning in a circle, your hair loosening from its pinned style. You both made up your choreography on impulse, not worried if it went with the music.

You continued spinning her, laughing as the tempo sped up. Her long golden blonde hair whipped in the air, creating an ethereal look matching her blue dress. Her purple irises sparkled with delight, crinkling with laughter, and she stumbled backward. Halaena stood, dusting off her gown as she returned to you but was cut off by an uninvited, but welcomed participant on Halaena's part.

Prince Aemond stood a few centimeters shorter than you. His hands clasped tightly around his back.

"My apologies for the intrusion," he said to his sweet sister, Halaena blushing and shying away.

"No apologies needed, dear brother," she giggled, "I meant to get a drink." She smiled as she brushed a long strand of golden hair behind her ear, stealing one last dance at her older brother.

You bit your lip, not out of anxiety but from the peculiar interaction between brother and sister. You seemed to be missing something.

"May I have this dance, my lady," he said stiffly, the title forcing its way out of his mouth.

"The song has hardly ended, Your Grace, perhaps the next one," you declined, beginning to take your place next to Daemon, but Prince Aemond grabbed your arm, forcing you to stop.

"I know you have no inclination of manners here in the royal court, seeing as you were raised by..." he trailed off, looking you up and down with distaste, "those of smaller status, I will not take your rejection as insult."

You stared at him, astonished. His words were so proper and sounded so respectful, but they made you feel little, so... small.

"I will ask you again, my lady. Will you dance with me?"

You couldn't refuse, taking his outstretched hand as he led you in dance. You didn't say a word, concentrating on not tripping and keeping up with Prince Aemond's pace.

King Viserys looked on with glee, smiling with his missing teeth as his family danced together. This could be a stepping stone, he thought, to the end of the intermittent squabbling Rhaenyra's children and his own had. If they could extend the olive branch to a bastard of Daemon's, why couldn't they with their true-born kin?

The dance was going smoothly, neither of you talking, serving to your advantage. You knew this was a bad idea to accept Princess Halaena's offer to dance, but now you were interlocked with the One-Eyed Prince, following his move to jump and clap as you switched directions, accidentally landing on his foot.

"Oh, Gods! I am so sorry, my Prince; I did not mean to!" You began, ready to offer a thousand apologies for your misstep, as you saw Aemond's lips purse.

"I am sure it is quite alright." Prince Aegon appeared at your side, wrapping his arm around your hips in a protective manner. "Isn't it, brother?" Aegon practically told his younger brother.

"Of course it is," he said softly.

You glanced at Aegon with discomfort, then back to Aemond, seeing his once pink face shadowed with disappointment and anger as Aegon waved him off. He looked at you with an unreadable expression on his boyish face. He bowed, not making eye contact as he returned to his seat.

It upset Prince Aemond that his dance was cut short. He wanted to spit out all the vile insults he couldn't say to his nephews, but when he saw your nervous face and smelled the calming aroma of your bath oils, he could not find the right words. You were helpless, a mouse cornered by the pursuing tom cat. It simply would not be fair to squash you.

Prince Aemond prided himself on being better than his brother. The son, who studied history and philosophy, kept up on the battle in the Step Stones and was the cupbearer during the council meetings. The throwaway second son, cowering in the first son's shadow.

"May I have this dance, my lady?" Aegon asked, bending at the waist and extending his hand.

You took a breath and steadied yourself, your skin flushed with a light sheen of sweat as you pushed your hair back. You peered past Aegon's shoulder, Daemon's slightly turned figure watching you as a stag was placed on the long oak table. He nodded, and you took Aegon's invitation.

He lifted his arm in an "L" shape, telling you to do the same as you circled each other, the music now a darker sound, but the tempo still upbeat. He smiled. His expression hides a malicious intent, the knowledge of man's sins behind it.

"You look ravishing tonight, little one," he complimented. You quickly glanced at Daemon, ensuring he didn't hear the term of endearment.

"Do not call me that, Your Grace," you whispered pointedly, leaning closer to him. Aegon couldn't help himself as his eyes traveled down your neck, pausing at the necklace your father gifted you and how it complimented your sweat-coated skin.

"Awe, pretty girl, it is just a pet name for you. After all, we are family now," he jabbed, leading you into dance.

"I would hardly call ourselves family," you scoffed, concentrating on not tripping. "I have not been declared as such in the eyes of the Seven or the law. My birth is not yet legitimized." You knew this discussion was futile, like arguing with a child, but you couldn't help it as he continued to bait you.

"My, if only we had an event planned for that very thing," he snickered as you switched directions. Aegon was enjoying this dance, reminding him of the childhood games he played, teasing a donkey with a carrot as he spun you.

"Is this why you brought me here, Aegon? Because you knew I was a bastard?" He shrugged, lifting you by your hips to get you to stop talking. "Why you had me wasted on cups and..." You couldn't finish the sentence, your cheeks heating up from something other than exertion.

Aegon smirked, the candlelight shining on his wet teeth as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you to him with his arm around your waist. This was improper. You could tell from the soft screech of a chair as you saw Daemon give you his full attention, not yet standing but ready to pounce at any moment.

"Aegon," you said softly, your breath hitting his wine-stained lips. You couldn't think straight. He was too close, and you could smell the sweet Arbor Red on his breath. Your whole body became hot, a wave of heat that felt almost icy, rushing between your legs.

"My sweet girl," he whispered against your skin, and you melted, stopping his swaying as the music ended. You were sure it was the alcohol talking, but you didn't stop him. He grabbed your jaw, the dirt under his fingernails gone as they pierced your skin. "You are so kind and different from the rest of us," he confessed. "You feel different, taste different."

You were unsure what he meant by that, distracted as he leaned his forehead on yours, staring into your peculiar eyes. You didn't care how everything was silent nor how all conversation ended with your dance. It was just you and Aegon, the boy who had shown you all that Ma had sheltered you from. The body that made your pulse quicken and knees weak despite all the wrong he had done to you. You closed your eyes as Aegon did, breathing his air as your lips parted.

The sound of chairs screaming and falling to the stone floor made you flinch, pulling away slightly as your eyes opened. Aegon gripped your jaw harder and, in a split second, was pulled away from you, his nails scratching your skin.

Daemon was a fire of black and red, punching Aegon in the cheek as he grabbed his wool tunic and shoved him against a wall. Prince Aemond was up at the same time as your father, his strides significantly smaller and taking more time as he went to defend his brother.

"You believe you can treat my daughter as one of your whores? Dishonor your wife in such a blatant display," Prince Daemon seethed. The King shouted, but he ignored him, his fist clenching around Aegon's neck.

"She didn't seem to mind," Aegon quipped, a smile forming on his red face.

You stood frozen, unsure what to do, if you could do anything. This was why they called Daemon The Rogue Prince, strangling his kin. The violence had thrown you off center, never having seen anything like it. It was odd how pink Aegon's face became, a vein popping out of his forehead as Daemon squeezed his throat. A voice encouraging you to see it to the end.

Halaena whimpered, plugging her ears and turning away as she saw Aemond attempt to pull Daemon from her brother. Queen Alicent screamed at her personal guard, telling him to protect her son. The others took a moment too long before they went to Aegon's rescue. It seemed as if they did not want to, waiting for explicit instructions.

Alicent's guard unsheathed his sword, pointing it at Daemon's neck. Finally, did Daemon listen, removing his hands from the Prince and stepping away, shoving Aemond off him.

Aegon gasped for air, his ragged breaths breaking you from your trace as you hurried over to him, only to be stopped by your father. Everyone followed suit, questioning him.

"You will do well not to attempt to sully my daughter's honor again," Daemon spat, urging you toward the exit.

"What are you doing," Queen Alicent yelled from her place next to her child. "Seize him!"

The Kingsguard with hair as black as night went towards Daemon, his sword placed back into its scabbard.

"Enough," King Viserys shouted, everyone in the room turning to him. "You saw as well as I what Aegon did. The compromising position he put my niece in," he boomed, the weak King from earlier gone. "He dishonors his wife and her with his actions. My brother reacted fairly," he declared. "The matter is finished. We all must retire for the evening for a joyous celebration in coming with the fortnight."

The Queen had seen this situation years ago in Driftmark when Aemond had lost an eye. No repercussions were ever going to come of this, and Alicent's resentment for Rhaenyra grew, though she had nothing to do with this. Her anger was palpable as you gave Aegon one last look. He smiled, his eyes hooded as he made a funny face. You did your best not to giggle as your father rushed you through the dining hall doors. 

Master List of Series

Thank yooooou for reading! I always feel like I could add a bit more drama to this, but I don't want it to become distasteful. It's only up from here folks!

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Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @buckysmainhxe, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid , @brezzybfan , @dd12004dd, @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfilit, @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress, @bellameshipper , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @buckylahey , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @joliettes , @existential-echo, @priyajoyy

[theliliesofthevalley]

Driftwood ༄

♖Alicent Hightower x f!reader

Summary: As King Viserys draws his last breath, tensions rise among factions in court as each side scrambles for support. As the secret paramour of Queen Alicent Hightower, y/n Hill is summoned to Alicent's chambers for her support.

Category: Angst

Footsteps grow louder and louder as the doors are blown open and a silver-haired woman walks through.

"You called?" Y/n said, catching her breath as she ran to Alicent's chambers.

Alicent ran into her arms as she smelled the familiar scent of seawater stuck onto y/n's clothes, calming her already rising nerves. As their bodies unraveled, y/n looked down at Alicent's hands as she saw torn skin and fresh scabs along her cuticles. Frowning, she brought Alicent's hands to her soft lips as she laid a chaste kiss upon her knuckles.

Since they were just teenagers, Y/n and Alicent had an unbreakable bond as Viserys had Y/n serve as one of Alicent's handmaidens. Due to her father's manipulation, her marriage to King Viserys deeply strained the relationship between Rhaenyra and Alicent, and y/n was the only one to truly stand by her side. Both bonded over their father's ambitions to one day have their kin on the iron throne.

"What has troubled your mind, my love?" y/n softly whispered.

"The king has died," Alicent murmured, "the maesters have confirmed it."

Y/n remained silent as she ungrasped her hand, "go on?"

"The iron throne remains vacant, with Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, Aegon can take the throne," she says, "Father says to strike now."

Y/n remained silent as she crossed her arms, "I cannot take part in this."

"What do you mean?" Alicent says, "If Aegon is crowned, I can have him legitimize you as a true Velaryon."

Thanks to Corlys and his extended stay in the free cities, he brought back a silver-haired Velaryon bastard clutched in his arms as he docked on Driftmark's harbors. Forever known as Y/n Hull, her Valyrian looks remained one of her most striking features as people and nobles from across the seven kingdoms were enchanted by her ethereal beauty. Alicent couldn't even deny Y/n's beauty had rivaled that of the realm's delight.

Those last two words struck a nerve in y/n's body. How could she, for years, openly bash the two young princes as bastards when she, the queen's secret lover, is a bastard herself? The hypocrisy in her very words upset Y/n as she cleared her throat.

"What about Princes Jacerys and Lucerys?"

"I've told you for years and years that they are not your brother's children! Look at them! Look at you!" Alicent shouted, "They're bastards! Your hairs aren't even the same!"

"They are my family! My blood!" Y/n grew angered, "Assuming their legitimacy based on the color of their hair, this is ridiculous Alicent! I will not have my nephews usurped and their birthrights snatched from them."

Frustrated, Alicent gripped y/n by the collar of her shirt, "By my command, you will no longer be Y/n Hill, you will be Y/n Velaryon. I will have Aegon label you as the next heir of Driftmark, the last of Corlys's kin. I will have your other siblings found and dealt with to ensure this."

Anger boiled in y/n's eyes as she ripped off Alicent's hands from her shirt, "You're not the woman I loved years ago."

A moment of uncomfortable silence filled the room as they stared at each other, unable to muster a response.

Tears rolled down her porcelain cheeks as Alicent's lips quivered, "Y/n, please, just think about this, about us," Alicent begged, "don't let this break us apart."

"I won't have you question my loyalty to the princess. from now on, I don't want my name uttered from your lips."

Y/n turns as she makes her way out of the room, not even batting an eye at her broken lover.

"If you step out of this room, I swear by the seven, I will have you labeled as a traitor to the crown," Alicent sobbed.

Without a word, y/n continued on as Alicent was left crying, the green garments donning her body were soaked in tears that tasted like the salty waters from raging oceans. Her lover, the one that stuck by her side when Rhaenyra turned the other cheek, who held her hand when she labored her four children and gave them the love their father couldn't provide, was forever gone.

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credits: dividers by @v6que

[whoops-im-obsessed]

Moments I loved in Newsies London

UKsies is a fansie's dream, every member of the cast is so in character even after the show ends and it leads to brilliant moments and interactions such as these:

*spoilers under the cut*

During 'Santa Fe (prologue)' there is fully a newsie undressing on the side of the stage, if you're sitting in the Bronx you'll get a lovely view

Zipline

Specs breaks up a fight between Race and Albert before 'Carrying the Banner' even starts

Crutchie has his own slingshot and shoots various members of the cast with varying degrees of accuracy

*steals apples from fruit cart, celebrates, gives one to a newsie sat alone*

Splasher jumps a skipping rope, he then proceeds to do a back flip in said skipping rope. You'll be hearing more about Splasher (Ross Dorrington) he is Something Else

Race actually smokes his cigar and blows the smoke in Morris' face

Splasher gets yeeted, cheerleader style

Oscar deliberately takes the paper from Davey's stack

Les makes sure to show his sad face to each side of the audience

Newsie fully asleep on the stairs on the side of the stage during 'The Bottom Line'

'Football? VIOLENT'

Davey tries to sell his last paper to the audience 'paper for you? Nope? Okay then :(

Les blows a bowery beauty a kiss and she gives him a feather, adorable

Couple of newsies watch Medda's show ('she's talking to me!' 'Nah, she's talking to me')

One of the newsies (?Race) nods his head along to all the knocks in 'Don't Come a-Knocking'

Bowery beauty kick line punctuated with 'woo!'s

Flirting 101 with Jack: 'the new york sun? I work for the world :D' *swings his legs and shows off his newsie bag proudly*

There is so much hugging in this show, this cast is so affectionate, its adorable

'AiNt wE tHe HoI PoLlOi'

'We got a ton of rotten fruit and perfect aim' *slingshots newspapers everywhere*

References to bway seize the day choreo in world will know

'Who wants Brooklyn?' (?race or tommy boy, couldn't see) *puts cap over face and plays dead*

Jack stays to talk to Katherine instead of going with the boys, Crutchie tries to get his attention - 'Jack come on! Oh for God's sake' and walks off. From where I was sat it sounded like ffs

The newsie wheeling Katherine's chair on stage for 'Watch What Happens' rides on it and goes 'woo!', she thanks them

side note: Matthew Duckett's Crutchie uses his crutch on the (technically) correct side, i.e. opposite side to injury, random but we love to see some medical accuracy in our shows lol

Crutchie initiates fighting the scabs and looks disappointed when he's stopped

Splasher doing no less than 10 box jumps in a row, possibly more

Splasher gets yeeted pt2

Les ascending

Crutchie using his crutch as a jousting pole

'They're slaughtering us!' *Splasher gets yeeted pt3*

Act 2

Cup clinkage

Driving the tables like cars around in kony - 'Zyoom!!!"

Ascension

Katherine's fork crown, apple orb and paper scepter

Crutchie breaking the forth wall and grinning conspiratorially at the audience in 'Letter from the Refuge'

Specs coming to get the letter from Crutchie and a refuge newsie helping him offstage

Jack putting les on his shoulders in 'Watch What Happens (reprise)'

Jack dusting himself off a seat in Pulitzer's office

The general reaction to Brooklyn

Jack hurriedly taking down his drawings when Katherine's there and hesitating before taking down a pic of (who I assume to be) Crutchie

'These kids put out a pretty good papeeerrrr' *runs away from pulitzer*

Roosevelt handshake fangirling

Spot intimidating Pulitzer

Crutchie wearing a police hat when he comes back in ('aint been the same without ya man!')

Crutchie holding his character and wincing to himself after getting his papers in the finale

'You already work for my father' - cue Crutchie breaking the 4th wall again to look directly at me and call Jack a numbnuts

Race greeting Wiesel with 'hey beautiful'

Spot to other newsies 'im not scary!' *hugs*

*standing ovation*

[daughterofcain-67]

𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 (pt. 6)

(Beau Arlen x Female Reader)

(masterlist)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Beau is working restlessly to get you back and it’s killing him that it’s already been several hours with no sign of you. Agent Sampson is doing his best to remind Beau to keep a level head so Beau could get you back sooner rather than later. Meanwhile, you are doing everything you can to persevere and think of a way put of your situation with the limited recourses you have- which is next to none.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: kidnapping, TW: implications of non-con (no graphic detail), mild violence, i think that’s it?

You knew that several hours had gone by since you were taken from your home. That meant today was the anniversary of your husband’s death. What a hell of a day to spend it, being kidnapped and potentially taken out of the country within a couple of days. You still had yet to formulate any plans of escape.

The worst part is that you knew if you didn’t get out of this mess, you’d likely never see Beau again. That and you had plans for a movie night with him that weekend. Plans that were gone with the wind by now if you weren’t able to escape.

You wondered if Beau had told Cadence yet. You wondered what exactly he told her. You wondered if she’d be able to handle the news, if she would be okay. You hoped that she wouldn’t worry too much or she would find some way to distract herself from what was going on. She was your little sister and you hated when she worried about you. To be frank, you hated when anyone worried about you. Obviously you couldn’t exactly blame anyone for worrying about you with the situation you’re in now.

You were leaned back against the wall of the basement and you looked down at your wrists. These handcuffs weren’t your biggest concern. If you were lucky you could wiggle your wrists out of them. Then again you’ve tried that for the first couple of hours and the skin on your wrists was already cut and scabbed. You’d handle your wrists again soon but for now you were trying to think of how to get the chain off your ankle.

A part of you was glad you were barefooted when they took you. You thought that pulling your foot out would be difficult with shoes and socks on. The other part of you wished you had some shoes though because you felt like your toes were freezing. It’s not like they had a heater in this particular basement.

“Come on, think. You’ve watched cop shows once in a while, and Beau’s talked about cases where captives have escaped before. You can do this.” You spoke to yourself. However, you didn’t exactly have bobby pins in your hair or paper clips so you could pull one of those moves like you’ve seen in the movies where people pick their way out of their shackles.

All you could really do at the moment was wait. Be patient, continue to wiggle your limbs until you were free but who knew how long that would take. And unfortunately, patience was not exactly your strong suit.

Suddenly you heard the door open and when you glanced up, you saw the King. Andre was there without his mask and he had a crown pin on the top left corner of his blazer jacket. He looked so different compared to the first day that the two of you met.

“What do you want.” You glared and Andre hummed a little.

“I just wanted to talk, Sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Andre sighed a little before he walked towards you. You wished you had some kind of superpower to just teleport out of here, or maybe even make yourself invisible. If you could shrink and disappear into the wall, you would. Anything to just avoid the man in front of you. Obviously you couldn’t do that though.

“Aren’t you in the wrong position to be giving demand’s like that?” He asked but then Andre looked down and saw how your wrists were starting to scab over and he tilted his head a little.

“I suppose its a good thing those cuffs aren’t any bigger.” The chuckle he let out made you feel sick to your stomach.

“What did you want to talk about so we can just get this bit over with.”

“Touchy touchy. I was just going to suggest that… maybe you can work for me personally. That way you don’t have to go out of the country soon and be sold off as a slave. You could be here although… you would have to give your business to me, and not have any contact with your little sheriff friend.” He said.

“There’s no way I’d give in to something like that. That business would go to Cadence before it could ever go to someone like you.”

“Cadence… you know, she would have made a good candidate too for this little operation. She’s such a sweetheart.”

“Shut up.” You seethed and he squatted down in front of you before he reached out, the next thing you knew he had your jaw in his hands and you could feel his fingertips keeping a firm hold of your face.

“If you were smart, you’d watch your tone with me.” He said and you spat in his face.

His eyes darkened as he let out low growl of disapproval, “You’ll pay for that. And you’ll pay dearly. So be a dear and keep quiet.”

Your eyes widened when he gripped at your shirt and tore the material….

Cadence took the news pretty hard, just like Beau knew that she would. It killed him to see the way her face fell when she found out her sister was taken. All he could really advise her to do was close up the cafe if she didn’t have anyone to keep it open for her if she needed time away.

Much to Beau’s surprise though, Cadence agreed to keep the cafe open and just keep working. Cadence said you would have wanted her to be strong for your sake. Although she did agree to take the first couple of days off just to see if you would come home and you would have someone to go home to.

After he met up with Cadence and took her home, Beau went right back to the office to find out if Hoyt or Poppernack have found anything, or even if Agent Sampson was making himself useful. He swore that if the FBI were going to drag their feet on this he may end up having to take care of everything himself, or get Cassie to help him out since she didn’t have the same rules as the FBI.

Once he pushed the doors open he saw that some other agents were there, no doubt a part of Harlen Sampson’s team.

“Pompernickle!” Beau called and looked around only to see a hand raised up.

“Right here, Boss!”

Beau walked over and stood behind the deputy at his desk, “Please tell me you’ve found something to get to Sampson.”

“Actually, the fingerprints we found over at Irene’s place did in fact match the ones that were at Y/N’s house. We just got the results from the database. Somebody was slacking here in Montana.” He said.

“And who’s that supposed to be?”

“Our guy Ace? He wasn’t the only one at you houses. There were two sets of prints. We found out that this Ace guy is related to your Andre fella. A cousin, actually. His name is Matvey, or simply Mat, Bolkonsky. Related on the paternal side.” Poppernack said just as Agent Sampson walked up.

“Another Bolkonsky, huh? He was born and raised Russian and he tried to move down here when Andre’s father started their so called jewelry company. Turns out he wasn’t really the best of the bunch and he was charged with drug dealing. He ended up getting a kid killed with those drugs about seven years ago. Naturally he was charged with second degree murder, unfortunately he got out for good behavior with parole. And we haven’t heard anything on him since, although he has been a suspect for other gang related activities and I don’t think murder and kidnapping is out of his range.” The agent said.

“So what does that mean? If he’s here and he’s with Andre, we can go over to Andre’s place and ask about aiding a suspect if he was the one that did kidnap Y/N right? Well what are we waiting for?” Beau said.

“Legitimate proof that Andre was there too. We’re waiting on the results for the second set of fingerprints. We also need to consider the idea that Andre may not have known about this.” Agent Sampson replied and Beau’s hands turned into fists.

“You’re kidding me, right? To me this sounds like enough to at least have an interview with the guy since you’re so intent on doing this by the book. We’ve gone on less even if this is circumstantial.” The sheriff reminded.

“If I may say something,” Poppernack chimed in, “If you do have that interview with him, there is a reason. He was the last known person to have seen Y/N after all so if we propose it as simply routine questions to cross him off the list as a suspect, he may be cooperative.”

“I’m on it.” Beau said and was about to walk past the desk.

“You aren’t going by yourself. Someone like you is going to go there and bite his head off and ruin everything. I’ll be going with you.” Agent Sampson said.

“No offense, Agent, but I’m pretty damn good at my job and I know what the hell I’m doing. I’ve been in this job long enough to know how to handle a situation like this. I’m not some damn rookie.”

“Fine, but I’m still going with you so it at least looks good on the papers. It is technically the FBI’s case still and we want these guys to go away for good. So try to keep that in mind while you’re trying to keep your cool.” He reminded as he walked out of the door.

Beau just glared at the agent. He knew Sampson was right about doing this by the book, but it still ticked him off. He wasn’t about to waste time on this. Sure he’ll do this by-the-book interview. But the moment things go south, Beau may need to make some plans to conduct an interview all on his own.

The sheriff went to his car and the agent ended up following him to the vehicle and they got in.

“Listen, I know you’re angry and I don’t know what kind of connection you have to the… captive.” Beau could hear the agent begin to speak, “I’ve been where you are with my wife before. It’s vital to keep your head on straight.”

“Thanks for the words of wisdom.” Beau rolled his eyes and started his car.

“I’m serious, Arlen. I lost control and nearly lost my wife for good because the perps almost got away with nothing but a slap on the wrist. That’s why we need to get this done right.”

The sheriff looked down at his steering wheel for a moment. Of course he could at least take the words into consideration, but he knew that you were too important to lose. And if this Bolkonsky business were to go south, being too slow with the law may get you lost just as fast as recklessness.

“Let’s just focus on getting Y/N back to her sister. Andre’s our first stop and hopefully we’ll come across another lead like surveillance of Mat participating in suspicious activity.”

Forty-six minutes…

That worst forty-six minutes of your life and you had counted every second if it just to keep from screaming. You didn’t know what Andre was capable of if you ignored his warning and tried to scream or make any sounds.

“Well… I don’t think the clients will mind slightly used goods. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.” Andre said as he pulled up his pants.

You couldn’t make direct eye contact with this man after what he had done. Your everything ached but you were glad it was finally over.

Andre was nothing but scum of the earth, and even after what happened… you were trying so hard to be strong. But after those forty-six minutes, you were beginning to wonder what the point of strength was if something like this could happen no matter how patient or optimistic a person tried to be.

Then you heard a phone ringing, of course it was Andre’s. When he answered you could see the slightly annoyed features on his face.

“Hello, Sheriff. How can I be of assistance?” He asked.

Your eyes widened.

Beau was on the phone. He was really looking for you! He was looking for you right? You weren’t imagining all of this?

You had to do something, now was your chance! Andre didn’t take your mouth up or anything so you had to do something. This could be your only shot!

“Beau! He has me in some basement! He could go after Cade-“ a harsh stinging erupted on your face from where Andre smacked you.

“Oh no, Sheriff. That’s just some movie I’m watching at a friends house. He has a weird and nearly concerning taste in film. I can come and meet you to talk about the date in just a few moments. Let’s say… Tonya and Donno’s place? I’ve heard they have some great sandwiches. My treat.” Andre said.

The charm that Andre tried to have made you cringe. How disgusting did this man have to be to think he could use charisma like that after what he just did. And how stupid did he think that Beau was?

“Uh huh… I see. My cousin? Oh I didn’t even know he was in town. I suppose great minds of the family think alike. We’ll discuss this more when we aren’t on the phone. If we talked about everything now we’d just be limited to small talk and that’s always awkward.” He laughed.

When the phone call was done, Andre turned and glared at you.

“You’re worried about your sister that much, huh? Well maybe we ought to give you something to worry about now that you may have ruined everything by screaming.” He promised.

Then he walked out of the basement door, locking you up once again.

Your mind started racing. You hoped to what’s god was out there that Beau really did hear you. But on the other hand, you were terrified for your sister’s safety. What if Andre really would send his crew to go after Cadence like they did to you?

You couldn’t have your baby sister go through the same thing you’ve endured. You refused to let that happen.

“Please, Beau… if you heard me at all, send someone to the house to keep Cadence safe.” You pleaded, even though you knew there was no one listening.

You felt something roll down your cheek and when you lifted your cuffed hands to your face, you felt tears. You didn’t realize you were crying and honestly you thought you were a little dehydrated to do that. You supposed you were wrong but maybe the moment Andre mentioned your sister put things a little more into perspective.

“I have to get out of here.” You vowed and looked at your scabbed wrists and started to try and wiggle out of them yet again but you had even more of a reason to escape, more of a reason to try.

Hey guys, I know this chapter was a bit more intense than the previous. But I hope you enjoyed so far. Thank you to those of you who have been commenting, reblogging and liking these chapters. I really appreciate it! Love you all!

Tag List:

@roseblue373 @deans-spinster-witch @chriszgirl92 @fanfic-n-tabulous

[noellerain]

• Arabella [Luca Kaneshiro x fem!reader]

Warnings: smut, spitting, huge age difference (sixteen years), curse words, vague mentions of violence in Luca's past, implied sexual acts in ShuVox's part, Alban is Luca's nephew lol [please let me know if I missed some! Thank you!]

MINORS DNI!

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

It’s a summer night and the wind is hot and dry. Had he known how disastrous that date would be, he would’ve ditched it and opted to stay home with his little nephew. They would watch cartoons all night, or maybe set up the toys he bought for him a few days ago after a job well done at school. He’d be in his sweatpants, sipping root beer and he’d watch the little boy run around the living room, letting time pass by. Maybe– just maybe– you’d be there too.

But nope. He wore his best suit, and asked you to babysit his nephew until he comes back. He could only groan in regret while he walked briskly down the sidewalk. You came on time, just as you always did. You were out with your friends, you said. But you came as soon as he called. And while he subtly stared at your black crowning glory, a few strands caressed by Midas’s selfish hands, your round eyes that possibly held all the secrets of the universe and the way you bore your entirety with such grace, confidence and innocence… As if that wasn’t enough, you stood close to him, fixed his necktie and when he took a deep breath and smelled papayas in bloom, he swore that it made his head spin.

It’s wrong. He knows damn well it’s fucking wrong. You’re sixteen years younger than him, fresh out of college with your life ahead of you. And he’s old, way past his prime. He knows that and he sees that the first thing in the morning when he looks at his reflection on the mirror: his salt and pepper hair that he dyed a few times before eventually giving up, the wrinkles surrounding his eyes that were testaments to the laughters he had throughout his life, and even the tattoos that are symbols of fearlessness and his dominance in his organisation as a mafia boss had started to fade. The multiple scars, wounds and scabs he got on the job that represent each trial he had surpassed were now deeply embedded in him. So much that those became one with his skin.

He had a fair share of experiences when it comes to women. But what we had with those women is something different. Being the leader of his organisation, he had no time nor could hardly care less for a serious relationship. Those women were a one-time fun. Flavours of the month. Beautiful and confident women who knew what they wanted and who knew what he wanted. And the most important requirement? No strings attached.

He may sound crazy, and no one might believe him but the moment you moved in next door, befriended his menace of a nephew and could easily go inside their home and hop around the house wearing his large apron, clean up after the little boy and make his life bearable… no. Not bearable. In fact, in the last years he spent with different women who only wanted his deep pockets, women who slept with Mr. Kaneshiro and woke up with Luca, only you made life thrilling again.

He raked his fingers through his long, blonde hair before pressing the doorbell button situated at the side of the large gates. He glanced at his wristwatch that read 7:30 PM and he thought… Surely, they aren’t doing monkey business up there, yet?

He had been friends with four men for many years. They were there through the bestest and the toughest of times.The only thing is that three of them are now facing the greatest challenge in a human being’s life: the incessant and non-stop ticking of time.

The infamous detective had retired, enjoying the rest of his time. Every now and then, authorities get caught up in hard detective work and that’s when he’s summoned. The novelist is now living in a province with the love of his life. He’s still writing stories under aliases, his craft getting better like fine wine.

The other two… well, there’s a little secret about them.

“Good evening, Luca.”

He looked up and saw Shu. Unlike his physique that had seen better days, Shu still looks the same after all these years. Beguiling eyes and smooth porcelain skin… except now that he’s standing in front of him, wearing a loose haori in black and red ombre. His neck and collarbone were littered by red and purple marks, some of them are even bleeding. Luca could only groan and shake his head in disbelief.

“Shu, it’s freaking seven in the evening!”

Shu could only rub his forehead in embarrassment and chuckle lightly. “I’m sorry… it’s just, you know, Vox’s been–”

“I don’t want to know the details. Please– Please spare me from knowing, Shu.” Luca pleaded. Shu just nodded shyly and opened the gate a bit wider for Luca to go in. However, the blonde man seemed to hesitate.

“Nevermind, Shu. I… I’ll just…” he took a few steps backward, and that’s when Shu reached out his hand and squeezed Luca’s shoulder tight.

“Come on, Luca. Get in. Let us know what happened.”

This is not his first time visiting the household. But he always got chills whenever he stepped inside and saw the red and black interior of the house, with a touch of violet on the decorations. Their other two friends might have gotten used to what is now the status quo, but Luca is still adjusting and still can’t wrap his head on how, why, where and when his demon and sorcerer friends started knocking boots.

“Hello, big guy!” Vox greeted when he stepped out of the master’s bedroom, wearing a matching haori. His arms were widely opened when he walked towards Luca, immediately wrapping the blonde man in his arms. Luca shivered. He’s still cold to touch even after so many years but the embrace was tight and sincere, reminiscent of his father’s.

And just like Shu, Vox still looks the same. Smooth, porcelain skin, long black hair with streaks of red but this time, his eyes are in the pinkish colour rather than the usual red. When they met each other’s gaze, Vox’s eyes went soft. Just by the exhaustion plastered all over Luca’s face, he already had a gist of what happened.

“I’ll go get you some whiskey. Vox…” Shu looked at Vox. The demon immediately turned to his lover whose brows were deeply furrowed and his hands were clutching the sleeves of his haori. Vox could feel his tension hence, he gave him a reassuring smile before cupping his cheeks and planting a long kiss on the forehead to which Luca smiled at. So many years had passed… yet the love and warmth he felt from the two remained the same. He felt at home with the familiarity and kept it close to his chest.

“I got it from here, darling.” he whispered.

You were in the deepest part of the ocean. No, you weren’t drowning. You were just slowly being carried away by the currents, sinking deeper yet never reaching the rock bottom. You continued to drift in the darkness alone with the beating of your heart. It has always been like this, you thought. So often that you’ve become one with the darkness, and the water could no longer knock your breath away.

But suddenly, a light appeared at the surface. A hand dipped down the water, and using its firm yet gentle grasp, it held and pulled you up. Your eyes shot open, consciousness gradually coming back to your body. You looked up and saw him. You felt his hand on your shoulder, thumb pressing on the straps of your summer dress. He’s blocking the harsh light coming from the lightbulb, and in his position, little strands of hair that couldn’t be tied in a ponytail, were falling.

Luca. The voice inside your mind rolled his name out gently. Your mouth hung ajar, taking little sips of air to fill your clenched lungs.

“Good evening. Why did you sleep here? You could’ve used the guest bedroom, you know.” he asked, his voice the perfect amalgamation of hoarse and smooth. Deep and light.

You looked around and saw that the television was still on… Oh goodness. What time is it? You brought your hands to your eyes and rubbed them while you slowly stood up. He retracted his hand on your shoulder and sat down next to you on the sofa, watching every little move you make.

“I was just watching this… uh, drama while waiting for you. I didn’t even notice that I fell asleep already.” you explained in the middle of a yawn. “Alban has been excited since I came to babysit. We played all day and he helped me cook– oh, right. Did you already have dinner? We cooked some tonkatsu.”

Luca looked at you for a few seconds before he slowly shook his head, a shadow of a smile appearing on his lips. With that, you stood up and went to the kitchen to heat up leftovers. He stayed on the sofa, eyes following every sway of your dress’s hem, while the conversation he had with Vox kept playing in his head over and over and over again.

“I knew right off the bat that all she wants is money.” he explained to Vox while he sipped on his glass of three fingers of rye whiskey.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Luca.” Vox gently said. “Would you perhaps want me to ask my beloved to make you a love potion?”

Luca fell into a pit of laughter. “What?”

“No, I’m serious. We can talk to him right now and he can make you a potion that could attract women who are dead serious in finding love just like you. My darling is that amazing.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t want that, Vox.” Luca told him, shaking his head. “I… you know. I want what you have.”

The sudden confession made the demon’s eyes go a tad bit wide. He pursed his lips, contemplating his friend’s words while Luca downed the rye in one go. Moments passed and the demon uncrossed his legs and walked towards Luca, who was leaning against the counter.

“You know…” Vox trailed off, looking quite unsure on where he should start. “That was flattering. It really is. But for me, buddy, I think… I think you already have it. I think you’re just looking at the wrong places.”

Luca felt his heart skip a beat. He knew what and who Vox was talking about. Slowly, then rapidly, he shook his head, shutting down the possibility as quickly as possible. “No, Vox. It’s just… you know. It’s awkward. She has a life ahead of her. I don’t want her to be with a pathetic old man like me. Everyone is going to say something. There’s only so much I can filter and protect her from.”

To which Vox replied with a smirk, “Luca, I didn’t mention anyone.”

The demon patted the blonde’s shoulder, whose lips sealed in an instant, and said, “I know. Everyone is going to say something. It’s natural, especially we’re beings that are capable of thinking. And just like me, there’s only so much I can protect my beloved from. But you know… I would rather die protecting him than not being by his side at all.”

“Luca?” You called out while waving your hands in front of his face. He seemed to be in a deep thought for a few seconds before he finally blinked, and looked at you with those soft, jet-black eyes that made your heart squeeze.

“I… the food is ready. Don’t you wanna eat?” You asked. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled and stood from his seat. You swallowed the lump in your throat and boldly grabbed his hand that was limply hanging on his side.

“Come on, it’s good! Alban said he made it with lots of love!” you exclaimed and dragged him towards the kitchen, pushing down the bubbling giddiness and warmth surrounding your stomach. His hands were bigger than yours, rough and coarse. But they felt warm, comforting… safe.

“Sit, sit, sit!” You urged him to the table where a plate of steaming rice and tonkatsu sat, waiting for him.

You noticed that he remained standing, looking at you. For the past year that you’ve moved in and became close with his nephew and him, you’ve always thought that there’s something about him that’s so bright. The brightness that reminds you of the sun each day you wake, its beautiful and majestic beams pouring through your window.

He may be a tall, large man who intimidated Alban’s playground friends, but he is the same man who gave up many things just to keep his nephew safe. You know what he’s capable of– heck, he was a mafia boss. He sat down with you on the sofa and confessed what you needed to know over glasses of white wine a few months ago. And though you may not know how the mafia works, you know that it’s dirty business, and a roll of dice can cost you more than you paid for. You’ve seen enough movies and read too many books to have an idea how dangerous and dark it is.

But he was a mafia boss.

It was in the past. Bygones be bygones. Because right now, he’s just the fun uncle who accompanies his nephew to school events, joins the mom community in their zumba and yoga sessions, and the neighbour who was kind enough to help you unload boxes during your moving day. He was the one who helped you with your resume and recommended you companies to apply for, the one who made sure you walk on the safe side of the road, the one who ditched his date just to fetch you from work while it was raining and the traffic was heavy, the one who takes note of the little things about you and remembers them, the one who makes you laugh with his incredibly different sense of humour, the one whom you can sit with for hours, talk with or be with in a comfortable silence just watching TV or watching Alban play, and the one who sat down and opened his heart to you– took your hand, and walked you through his past that was inked with blood, the stench of sins that were masked by the scent of lavender and baby powder. He showed you how the big transition of his life took place and told you about the peaceful future he’s working on.

God, the urge to say out loud to him how much you wanted to be a part of that future he’s talking about. To stop looking for someone because you’re right here.

“I see you,” he whispered. You looked at him, face contorted in a frown. You didn’t quite catch what he had said. He only smiled and said once more, “I see you, my Arabella.”

Then he brought his face close to yours. Your eyes almost crossed by the proximity. You can smell the pungency of alcohol, and his scent of musk and wood. And in a matter of four deafening heartbeats, you felt his lips softly land on yours.

Your head spun. What? What was happening?

He wanted to say sorry. Sorry for not being able to keep it in but he also wants you to know that he tried his best for the past months. How it took him almost everything to stop his fingers from tracing the curve of your nose, the bow of your lips, and your nape down to the arch of your back.

He ran his fingers on your scalp, your hair gliding in between his fingers. Your lips tasted of strawberries and rosé, a flavour so intoxicating and dizzying. He cupped your jaw, pressed harder– wanting more and more of that sweet taste while he whispered, “Sorry, ‘m sorry, baby.”

You’ve always thought that it must’ve felt like seeing stars. Blinding light in your eyes, your tight grasp to rationality slowly letting go as you transcend higher to the skies, away from the ground. You couldn’t be anymore wrong.

It was messy. Your lips were swollen by the time you felt the cushion behind your back. The hair tie that was keeping his hair in a ponytail was long gone, strands of his golden locks tickling your flushed skin while his lips smothered wet kisses on your navel. Your summer dress was discarded on the stairs, and he impatiently ripped the white, button-down shirt he’s wearing. He threw it across the room, left to gather the floating dust coming from the moonlight spilling through the window.

It was uncomfortable. Your arms were crossed, legs shut. Your eyes were closed, not daring to look him in the eye. This isn’t how you imagined your first time to be. You wanted it to be certain, and you laid there with a bit of sanity left, wondering in fear of what happens after.

“Hey, hey.” he called, his voice gentle and soft. His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs caressing the apples of your cheeks. “Open your eyes, baby. Look at me.”

And you did look at him, threatening tears blurring your vision. You put your hands on top of his, cheeks snuggling to the base of his palms. “I… I just don’t want to give you something–”

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay. You don’t have to. I love you and we can stop here if you want. It’s okay, baby. I love you and we’ll figure things out, okay?”

You felt hot tears sliding down your cheeks, his fingers were quick to wipe them away. Without inhibitions and hesitations, your hands reached out for his jaw, his stubble tickling your fingers. You pulled him close and kissed him ferociously and longingly. Your legs started to relax and soon felt yourself open up, his chocolate-dipped fingers leaving butterfly kisses on your inner thighs. You felt him in, and you fought real hard to hold his gaze. Memorise him. Take pictures with your mind, prove to yourself it isn’t a dream.

He wanted to seize you with his hands and embed his body in yours. Til your bodies become one– he would crawl on your skin and bask in your warmth, be close to your heart and savour its every beat.

His hands situated on the plush of your thighs, fingers squeezing the smooth, plump flesh. His eyes were in daze, staring at you while your lips went down on each wound and scar that he once tried to hide from you. Yet here you are, planting light kisses on each one, reminding him that those scars are his and that there’s nothing to be ashamed of because regardless, he’s loved and accepted. Your fingers delicately traced each line and curve of his tattoos which are symbols of his bravery and the representations of his positions in that society, a world you’ve never been before.

He sat up, held you by the waist and pulled you close until your bodies were almost combined. His lips sank into the nook of your neck, each suck and bite knocked your breath away. Your fingers combed his long hair and gathered a few strands once you reached the ends. You brought those golden strands to your lips, gently pecking and inhaling their scent. You lightly chuckled once the sweetness of the flowers wafted through your nose.

“Hmm?” he hummed after hearing your small laugh and feeling the light vibration of your body. You shook your head and pressed a kiss at the top of his head.

“Nothing, sweetheart. For a big, tough man, you smell rather sweet.”

“I’m a big tough man?” he asked, eyes shining in awe. It reminded you of an adorable and energetic golden retriever. You threw your head back in laughter before nodding, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Yes, you’re my big, tough man, Luca.”

His eyes were tightly shut, his body almost close to convulsing while he held the back of your knees while your feet were hung in the air. Fuck, fuck. Strings of profanities bombarded his mind while he held you close, trying his best to calm down and not scare you. But how the fuck could he do that when you’re this fucking tight? He held to that last string of sanity he has like his life depended on it, reminding himself to take it easy.

“Slowly, please…” you begged, lips buried on the flesh of his shoulder. Your hands are on his back, freshly-painted nails digging his skin. In the middle of it all, you have half a mind to suppress the noises coming out of your mouth, in fear that Alban, who was sleeping next door, might hear.

But there’s only so much you can do. Because when his hips started to snap, and your breath was knocked away, body bobbing up and down– fuck– you lost it. No, there were no stars that appeared and shone brightly in your eyes. What you’ve seen were his jet-black eyes that held your gaze while he continued his ministrations slowly.

“Come on, baby. Hold on to me, yeah?”

“Hmm.” you hummed and melted into his arms, your hips started to snap in sync with his. You heard him groan, which– heavens above– made your insides clench. You took it as a cue to continue and go faster, meeting him halfway through.

It was too much. By the time you reached the one hour mark, the blanket you stuffed in your mouth was dripping wet. Your voice is long gone at the back of your mind, throat dry from the lewd noises that never faltered to slip out for the past hour. Your head is spinning, body spent and filled to the brim. But you refused to let go, legs tightly wrapped around his waist while he bent you in half, his eyes never leaving yours as he kept a faster pace and rhythm. His one hand was encircled on your neck, while the other was cupping your cheeks.

Your throat started to itch and in a desperate attempt and twisted plea, you opened your mouth wide, tongue slipping out, begging for a drop of water in the middle of Sahara. He understood, puckered his lips and spitted. The thick blob of saliva fell on your tongue– tastes like whiskey– and you swallowed hard, an act that made him go even more feral.

You laid down on the bed, time suddenly became an unknown concept while your eyes went in and out of focus. You heard the door creak, and you wanted to turn your head and look at him but your body felt like it wasn't yours anymore: tear-stained cheeks, limp arms, sore legs and aching back. The euphoria was now dissipated, replaced by the kind of silence that was slightly nagging, begging to be acknowledged. He came into your vision and even though it hurt, you couldn’t help but to smile. He reached for your hair and fixed some of the mess before wiping your entire body with a wet cloth.

His hands, big and calloused, dipped in experience and blood suddenly became like Alban’s. Clumsy, shaky… heck, even a little queasy. While he was washing the cloth, he still couldn’t believe what just happened. He could still feel the softness of your lips, the intensity of your gaze, your scent all over him that smelled like ylang-ylang. And heavens… the small whimpers and moans that he had secretly wondered and thought about before… Still, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. It was supposed to be one kiss and a confession. How did it end up like this?

“Sorry.” he whispered while he wiped your stomach using the warm cloth.

“Hmm?” you hummed, way too out of it to even comprehend what he had said.

He retracted his hand and looked at you again. God. Even if your hair’s a mess, your body is marked with his tattooed kisses, you still look so beautiful. A goddess. Or maybe an angel sent from above that he doesn't deserve. In a low whisper, he said: “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” you asked in a tiny voice, your eyes starting to blink slowly. Hypnos had arrived, and was slowly cradling you in his arms.

“I didn’t… I’m sorry. I really am. I wanted you to know how much I love you yet–”

“I love you too.” You said with what’s left of your voice. Once those words came out, your heart almost burst into millions of butterflies, lifting the heavy load up, up and away.

His eyes went wide, mind slowly registering what you just said. Soon, a smile slowly creeped in on his face. You couldn’t help but break into a smile, too. God. If you could only move your arms, you’d pull him in for a tight hug and whisper to his ears that you love him, how much you care for him and Alban, and that he made you feel so, so loved and cared for tonight more than all of the men you’ve gone out with for the past years combined.

“So don’t say sorry, okay? I’m really, really tired and sleepy, Luca… but I love you, okay? I love you and we’ll figure it out…”

Those were the last words that came out of your mouth before you slipped into the darkness and fell. He pulled the blanket up and laid down next to you. Strange. The bed used to feel huge, and no matter how much he covered himself using either a blanket or a duvet, it never felt this warm.

Your hands immediately grabbed onto him, your cheek pressing against his chest. And when his palms held the arch of your back, you felt cold to touch. He pulled you even closer, tangled his legs with yours… Then while he waited for sleep to come, he stared at your peaceful sleeping face, in awe of how tiny you looked in his arms.

Finally, after so many months of hesitations, and searching in the wrong places, he finally has someone whom he shall treasure with the entirety of his heart, along with Alban. Someone who listened to him, didn’t berate and leave him even after knowing his past. He finally has someone who cares for him and Alban, someone he’d be delighted and absolutely honoured to care for, love for, and spend the rest of his life with… oh, wait. That’s looking too far in the future. But he’d let you know tomorrow morning how he intends to make it come true.

He pressed a kiss at the top of your head and inhaled your scent, wishing it would linger on the sheets, on the pillowcases and on him.

“I love you. I love you and thank you, my Arabella.”

•••

Noelle: AO3 saw this first teehee :D [inspired by the song Arabella of Arctic Monkeys]

Thank u for reading!!! 🥹

©noellerain

[the-cookie-of-doom]

The alpha greets Kinn with Kim at his side, a possessive hand on the back of his neck forcing Kim to keep his head bowed. He gnashes his teeth against the radiating command of submit, submit, submit. He refuses to look at his brother, even when he hears Kinn’s sharp inhale. 

Oh, Kim is certain he makes quite a shocking sight. His alpha has been kind enough to allow him pants for this meeting, a pair of filthy days-old sweats that still stink of his heat. The rest of his body is left bare. Every last mark on his body—the bruises sucked and beaten into his flesh, the scratches raked into his skin—is on display. And the crowning jewel—the still-healing bite in Kim’s neck, too high to even think of hiding it, barely scabbed over and flushed an angry red. 

“Kim—” 

The alpha digs his claws into Kim’s nape and he snarls, jerking in the unforgiving grip. He’s half-feral with fury and doesn’t care at all about the sticky warmth now dripping down his spine. 

“Thank you for the gift,” the alpha says smoothly, dragging Kim into his side. He fights it, digging his own claws into his palms. He will not submit. “Not as docile as an omega should be, but it was a pleasure to break him in nonetheless.” 

Kinn, forever wearing his heart on his sleeve, stands there struck dumb. Kim wants to yell at him, to demand he do something, say something, anything other than stand there, his silence an admission of his weakness. But Kim, trembling beneath the force of fury and fear and that fucking command, pulsing through their bond, can’t force the words to come. 

“I believe we have business to discuss,” Kinn finally manages, a small relief, even if his voice is tight with barely restrained horror and hatred. 

“Yes. Let’s find somewhere more comfortable. Come along, darling.”

As if Kim has a choice. He’s led by neck as the alpha turns on his heel and begins walking down the hall. Is it a deliberate choice to pass the room where Kim was forced to spend his heat, the thick, cloying scent of it still wafting out as they pass? It must be. Kim feels the charge in the air, Kinn’s hackles rising. 

Kinn wants to kill him. The alpha that has taken what does not belong to him. He wants to protect his pack. Kim wants to tell him it’s too late for that. Years too late. Their father ensured a long time ago that there was nothing left to protect Kim from, no torment he’s been spared. Nothing he hasn’t learned to endure, just as he will continue to endure this. 

Kim catches Kinn’s eyes only long enough to shake his head. Slowly, so that his brother will understand. 

What’s done is done, he wills his brother to understand. Kim has already sacrificed himself to his brother’s cause. If Kinn ruins it all now in the name of hollow vengeance—it will have all been for nothing. The violation, the mutilation, a bite mark in his flesh that will scar into an unbreakable bond, forever tying him to this thing that is less than a man. Kim needs his sacrifice to be worth it. 

This alpha will get what’s coming to him someday. Kim will make sure of it. But when that day comes, it will be his hand that delivers the killing blow. It’s the least of what he’s owed.

[a-song-of-art-and-fire]

The Kingslaying

"The Kingslayer. The false knight who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend."

A rather gruesome little diorama for this, our spookiest of months! I've said before how much I love all things Robert's Rebellion, and Jaime's kingslaying is right up there. I think it's a fantastic aspect of GRRM's writing that we're told outright at his first appearance that he's "the kingslayer", and write that off as 'well he must just be sneaky and treacherous as all Lannisters are", and it's only two books later you learn he had complex, nuanced, straight-up heroic reasons for doing it. The heady mix of seige, betrayal, potential patricide, actual regicide, and mass human sacrifice to achieve twisted apotheosis into draconic godhead... it feels like 6 different Greek tragedies crashed headlong into one another, and seeing it all though a haze of steam, hormones, and septic delirium is just... *chefs kiss*.

This diorama was actually pretty thrown together compared to my usual standards. My ASOIAF minis are from a war game, so they need to come up with a lot of distinct units for multiple armies, and the books being pretty low fantasy only really give "late medieval man-at-arms" or "conscripted peasant levy". As such, you get some fairly weird and wonderful units, such as every Baratheon soldier having Robert-style warhammers, or in this case a whole unit in Jaime's lion helmet. For me, this translates to a lot of alternative Jaimes.

I am a bit phobic with Jaime, as I once had to swap his hands very last minute, luckily here he's young and straightforwardly right handed. I don't think the close up is at quite the right angle, but you can see his green eyes under the visor, I'm pretty happy that they look quite frightened/panicked. I added the cloak as well, got to have that iconic "It was that white cloak that soiled me, not the other way around" vibe. This is also the first time I've given him his oft-mentioned gilded sword, I love the blood on it forming the Lannister colours.

Talking of the blood... yes, it's a lot. In my defence, it's actually semi transparent in a way that doesn't show well in photos, but does make it marginally less intense. I also know Jaime actually pulled Aerys up and slit his throat, but I had a hard enough time posing these figures, i thought that would be beyond me. I also like the literal nature of stabbing him in the back, and Mark Addy's delivery of "What of Aerys Targaryen? What did the Mad King say when you stabbed him in the back" is burned into my memory.

Aerys himself is a random wizard miniature I had kicking about, I had to do quite a bit of resculpting to get him right. He has the scabs on his hand, but the Howard Hughes fingernails were beyond my sculpting skills. I made the falling crown myself, again, seven tiny dragons felt a bit ambitious.