#p: tis but a flesh wound

[swordgrace]

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇, 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ aegon ii targaryen x wife!reader.

SYNOPSIS: in the wake of his burning, aegon’s recovery is marked by rage and insecurities. he pushes you away, but it is your comforting embrace that he desires above all else.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anon.

{ WORD COUNT: 7.4K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), hurt/comfort, post rook’s rest aegon, aegon isn’t a good person but he’s tormented, unstable marriage, talk of insecurities, wound/scar descriptions, p in v sex, unprotected sex, gentle sex, body worship (m & f receiving), lots of kissing & comfort/reassurance, very desperate aegon, begging, sub-ish aegon, reader is on top, riding/cowgirl, mutual orgasm, fingering (fem!rec), soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my first time writing for Aegon, so please be gentle + any feedback/critique on his character is appreciated! He’s quite difficult to write for. Either way, I absolutely loved writing this, and I hope that you all enjoy it, too! As always, thank you for your continued love & support. ❤️

𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 — 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞. It spread its blazing roots to those cast within it, leaving them hideously scarred or deformed, or perhaps leaving them with nothing left at all.

Grand Maester Orwyle had said that your husband may never walk again — that he may never draw breath again.

The harrowing memory of soot-stained knights hauling your husband in on nothing more than a swath of linen tied to sticks, placing him gently onto your marital bed had haunted you for several weeks since its occurrence. You could recall the pungent scent of charred flesh, the ragged rasps of Aegon’s breathing, the labor and sweat of Maesters working tirelessly to save him.

It was the labored wheeze of his breathing that continued to linger within the recesses of your mind, a sound so hoarse and weak that you wondered if he would survive. Watching your husband become a shell of his former self was never pleasant — you wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, even your worst enemy.

Aegon showed a resilience that few thought him capable of — the will to survive, to endure and spite his brother served him well. Even if each breath made him ache and each step had rattled his bones, he continued to progress, showing an astounding level of improvement in a short amount of time.

Fire was the end of all things, but not for him.

The observant gazes of those denizens dwelling within the Red Keep often looked upon Aegon with despair, and perhaps pity — it was a pity that he despised, one that made him quiver with rage. He had been made a cripple by his brother, an undesirable.

No one would want him now — not even you, his resplendent wife, a dutiful creature who had solemnly stood by his side, even after his numerous sins he committed against you. He was burnt and ugly, half of his face marred by a web of scars, ear twisted, silvery hair missing on part of his skull.

It was contempt that fueled him now, and he continued to play the part of a wounded, forgetful dog whenever Aemond was near, but in the sanctity of his chambers, he cursed his brother to whatever Gods would hear him.

If they heard him at all.

With each passing day, Aegon regained strength, yet he used a cane to aid in his unsteady gait. He rarely emerged from his chambers, not wanting to be looked upon as if he were some wounded animal in-need of coddling. Wallowing within his own misfortune became commonplace.

You visited him each day when he was still unconscious, sitting by his bedside, holding his hand within yours, yet Aegon had convinced himself that you no longer loved him. What woman would sensibly love him, after everything he’d done? If you were intelligent, you would dissolve your marriage and find a new lover, cast him into the shadows where he belonged.

Aegon had forbidden you to see him for weeks now, likely out of his own fear of rejection, or seeing the horrified look on your face with his own eyes. Orwyle spoke of your tenderness, how you never left his side when he lay bedridden — he could scarcely fathom it, if he were honest with himself.

The evening was a dour one in King’s Landing, marked by the encroaching threat of war, and supposed riots that had broken out across the city. Aegon sometimes laughed to himself — Aemond never cared about the smallfolk nor their desires, and his former hand had discouraged him from catering to those less fortunate.

It gave him some twinge of satisfaction, knowing that he wasn’t that stupid — not as dull and thick-headed as so many believed him to be. The burden of being King had been forced upon him, even when he never wanted it, and so he had no choice but to simply adapt.

He molded himself to a role that never belonged to him anyway, attempting to fit himself into a puzzle that he was never in to begin with.

Acceptance — he had come to realize that perhaps, unseen forces had tarried and toiled to put him on a Throne that wasn’t his birthright. Even then, Aegon was still the King — but a broken one. Who would ever look to a shattered King for guidance, or to lead them?

Dusk blanketed the city, casting its shadow over the Red Keep, a starless sky — it was instead marked by the black haze of clouds that concealed all, even the moonlight. The Keep itself seemed wrought with tension, one that threatened to snap at any moment.

With Aemond on some warpath, the smallfolk calling for blood, and his own mother dismissed from the Small Council, part of him simply thrived within the chaos, the mess made by his younger brother. It was satisfying to know that even he was not fit to rule — not like he imagined himself to be.

His walk around the corridors had been cut short when he caught a glimpse of Aemond, with Orwyle taking him back to his chambers. Aegon could walk without assistance, yet the distance was never one of any merit.

Much of his unoccupied moments were spent drowning in Dornish Red, or perhaps the most surprising thing of all, reading. He was never the studious child — he preferred merriment and whoremongering over the study of High Valyrian and the histories. Being gnarled like this had forced his hand — perhaps he could still become a learned man.

The Kingsguard he had appointed were gone, sent to join the Night’s Watch or beheaded for insubordination — he had no friends here, nothing left except himself and his mind, still perfectly intact. Now, Aegon intended to sharpen what was left of it, if he could in such a short amount of time.

He spent many of his days in fear — fear of Aemond poisoning his drink or slithering into his chambers like the fanged viper that he was to torment him, or perhaps stick Aegon’s Dagger into his chest. There was time left still for his mad cunt of a brother to finish what he’d started.

As the doors to his chambers rattled, Aegon immediately grabbed the shortsword he kept alongside his cane, breathing becoming strained and heavy. “Who is it?” He barked, palm planted against the sturdy mahogany of his large table.

“The Queen, your Grace.” Ser Belgrave, one of the last decent Kingsguard left in the Red Keep, opened the door just enough for you to see your husband, alive and conscious. He stood watch for a beat, and then closed the doors behind him, leaving you alone with Aegon.

Aegon didn’t know what to say — he was rageful and bitter, and having you here to gawk at him did nothing to quell those feelings. He did admire you from across the room, taking in the plane of cerulean silk you wore, shrouded by a pale robe. Your eyes were indiscernible — he could not tell how you felt from where he sat.

You were, perhaps, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon — and he had seen so many. He recalled when he first saw you in the Grand Sept in your wedding gowns, so shy and saccharine, like the first warmth of springtime. It wasn’t a union he cared for or desired, but duty demanded that he wed you, and you would give him heirs.

So much of his time was wasted in the arms of whores who cared for nothing save the size of his coin purse, when it all should’ve been dedicated to you — the last person who truly cared for him.

“Aegon,” There was not an ounce of reproach within your voice, and instead, it was all a breathy sigh of relief. You had only seen him in-passing, walking alongside Grand Maester Orwyle or Lord Larys Strong. He had not allowed you to see him fully, until now. “I …”

“Save your pity,” Aegon quipped, turning away from you as he turned inward upon his books, instead. Gods, he felt wretched for constantly causing you such agony, but he could not endure the sight of you seeing him. “Have you come to see the withered King?” He mumbled, voice riddled with disdain.

Aegon was not an easy husband — and your union had been fraught with strife, hallmarked by his love of whores and wine, his absence felt by you each and every moment. You had passed this off as reality — this was what marriage was, and you had no choice but to accept it or crack beneath the pressure.

Even now, you were willing to forgive him.

Instead, you gathered your skirts and inched closer, longing to look upon him again with your own eyes. He had always been a beautiful man, so handsome with those regal Targaryen features that it often stole your breath away — and that hadn’t changed.

“I missed you,” You confessed, and it made Aegon’s throat become unbearably thick. Tears stung his eyes, tears born of frustration, an inner hatred and disgust, a disbelief that you truly meant any of this. “I thought that I could stay with you this evening.”

“No,” Aegon retorted, voice trembling at the bottom of his throat as he shook his head. “I do not want you here. I forbid you from seeing me. What part of that do you not understand?” His rage swelled — but not at you. He was so angry with himself that it began to manifest in uncouth ways.

It stung you, but not as much as you thought. Aegon kept you away, pushed you out to arm’s length because he feared what you might think of him. Being beloved and liked by those around him, the desire for attention and adoration, was perhaps one of his greatest flaws. When he could not find validation, it was easy to find it with a whore instead, or in the simpleminded lickspittles.

If Dornish Red could talk, perhaps he would find whatever comfort he sought there, too.

He reached for his goblet of wine, hand unsteady as he held it to his lips, and even then, he looked absolutely pathetic when taking a swig. “I cannot even drink without looking fucking pathetic,” Aegon snarled, letting out a bark of humorless laughter. “I cannot walk without being gazed upon like a wounded animal.”

At last, you began to understand where this anguish came from, where it all manifested. As much as you pitied your husband for the tragedy that had befallen him, you admired his resilience, his desire to endure and push on, even if it was most unpleasant.

“Aegon …” As your soft palm reached to rest against his shoulder, he violently jerked away, recoiling as if it were you that had burned him. “I am here for you. We are still married — allow me to continue to be your wife.” You whispered, flinching when he let out a sardonic laugh.

The scars were everywhere, enveloping half of his body, still aching with a dull pain that he muddied with poultices and Orwyle’s draughts. Aegon refused to take Milk of the Poppy, enduring his agony in different ways, ones that many would consider to be harder.

“Gods, how cunning you are — you play the role of naivety so well,” Aegon hissed, attempting to pull himself up from his table, hand reaching for his cane. “I am burnt, I am disgusting, and I am a cripple. You are not here for me — I do not want your pity!” He growled, voice raising to a tempestuous level.

You did not press him further, but you could see the tears glistening within his lilac hues, spilling down his cheeks as he began to laugh. The sound was grating and hollow, devoid of any amusement — just emptiness. He used what momentum he had to stand, grip ironclad and white-knuckled around his wooden beam of support.

“Why must you continue to push me away, Aegon? Have you not done it enough?” You questioned, voice sharp and wrought with emotion, sentiments that you had been repressing for so long, for the entirety of your marriage. “Must I always justify why I want to be your wife? We are married — I love you.”

Aegon froze, tears spilling over his face, countenance one of complete and utter bewilderment. He could not discern if you were genuine or simply conniving, or if you were being true. You had told him that you loved him before, and he always cast it aside — maybe you had truly meant it all this time, and he was too indifferent to realize it.

His back was partially turned to you, as if warding you away from seeing him. Aegon had been made to think that he was a failure all his life, that he was insignificant, made to do nothing instead of act. Whenever he did act, it was impulsive and reckless, branded acts of stupidity.

Maybe the one thing he could do right was you — mend the divide, mend the bridge that had kept you distanced for so long.

That cold, bitter laughter soon dissipated into what were choked sobs, ones of despair — he had been holding himself together for so long, for the sake of the realm, for the sake of a family that cared so little for him. His body ached and trembled, and as much as he attempted to move away from you, he couldn’t.

The nearest settee happened to be where he fell, landing against the velveteen cushions, head hung in despair, body wracked with sobs. He was undesirable, undeserving of you and your love. He was some withered husk, a shell, a monster still dressing in the clothing of a King — he was nothing.

Yet, you made him feel like something.

Silently, you crossed the cold stone to join him on the settee, sitting at his side as you gingerly let your palm settle against his back. “You underestimate how much I still care for you, husband.” You whispered, caressing along his spine with a feather-light touch.

Aegon felt drawn to you, pulled into the warmth of your comforting fire, knowing that if there was still one person left in this world who cared enough, it was you. Tears stained his visage, leaving behind streaks of red, eyes wet with many left unshed.

“Why should you?” Aegon questioned, his voice beginning to lose the fury and rage it held before, and it was melancholy. Anyone would’ve asked themselves such a question, but you didn’t — you remained steadfast. “I have brought nothing but misery upon you.”

It was complex, his statement — you had been miserable for some time, but this tragedy that afflicted you both was something worth overcoming. You were beginning to see the true Aegon, the one buried beneath the weight of the crown, the weight of inferiority.

“There is still time for forgiveness.” Your words were poignant and soft, and they were enough to move Aegon to tears again. He sat there beside you, crying to himself, breaking down completely. You had never seen him like this before — and perhaps, it was long overdue.

The comfort you provided was one he so desperately sought, even if he felt so guilty. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this, to deserve you — and yet he welcomed the grace of your palm, the sound of your songbird’s voice, soothing him with your gentle smile.

He was ashamed for you to see him this way, a man lacking the strength of physicality, the strength to hold a shortsword. It often wavered within his grasp — he would never be able to protect you. His beloved dragon was left in ruins, recovering in the Dragonpit — everything he had that made him strong had been taken.

Aegon was terrified to look upon you in such close quarters, afraid to feel the bitter jab of rejection, the horror and abhorrence within your gaze as you found his scars. He dared not turn, only keeping the intact side bared to you, still perfectly handsome.

Orwyle had harkened this to some miraculous recovery, a sign that the Gods favored him — Aegon did not feel favored, nor did he feel that he deserved it. Whatever he used to think, that his father wheezed his last breath desiring him on the Iron Throne, was nothing more than a twist of words.

There was nothing miraculous or prophetic about him — he was a sad, drunken cripple left to rot.

As much as he commiserated over his woes and the foul hand dealt to him by his brother, Larys had convinced him to live out of spite — and you convinced him that being alive, even in this wretched state, was a reality that was worth seeking.

He nearly crawled away at the sensation of your fingertips brushing along his jaw, unmarred and unscathed by the garish tangle of scars. Aegon shivered at your embrace — he had gone so terribly long without it, wondering if he would ever feel it again.

“I remember when I saw you for the first time, in the Grand Sept — I thought that you were the most resplendent man that I had ever seen,” You crooned, feeling him nudge his cheek into your palm. You gently swiped away a stray tear beneath his eye. “You still are.”

Aegon scoffed — a bitter, vitriolic sound that made his breath turn hoarse for a moment. He found it incredibly difficult to believe you, to find any merit in what you said given the circumstances. Even if you still loved him, that did not include his horrific appearance.

Tears trickled down his face, ones that you collected with your thumb before he shook his head. “Do not patronize me,” He murmured, visage furrowing together. “You cannot mean any of that. Look at me,” Aegon hissed, only slightly turning towards you. “I am a loathsome creature.”

His misery was an understatement when it came to his appearance — he looked like some monster, gnarled and withered beyond recognition. Whenever he looked into the mirror, he screamed and raged until he fell, or perhaps lost his voice.

Any Targaryen was often regarded as beautiful — pale, platinum tresses and lilac hues, a countenance as regal and as beautiful as a god. He was nothing more than a cockroach, now. He couldn’t fathom that you still desired him in a conventional way.

With a soft, tender touch, your hand then moved to rest against his shoulder. “If there is a loathsome creature here, I do not see it,” You murmured, head canting to one side. “What must I do to convince you, Aegon? Do you not believe me?”

Aegon’s trust had worn so thin that it threatened to snap, threadbare and nonexistent. He could only allow himself to trust so much — everyone he thought he could confide in or rely on had now turned against him, or attempted to slaughter him.

“It is hard to believe anyone anymore.” He murmured, staring down at his hands — one trembled, wreathed in burn scars, and the other clenched into a tight first.

He was made to believe that he was the rightful heir over Rhaenyra, when that was never the case. He was made to believe that he was a good ruler, when his Small Council plotted behind his back without his knowledge. He believed that Aemond was loyal to him, that he loved him as a brother would.

Lilac hues flickered from the void of his chambers to you, peering at you from beneath the curtain of pale tresses that still clung to his head. Despite the accusations of disloyalty he had hurled at you, his mistrust and doubt of your true intentions, you still maintained an amiable gaze.

You stared at him as if he had moved mountains, pulled the stars from the heavens for you — and he realized that no one, besides you, had looked at him in such a way before. It was profound and affectionate, wrought with a palpable adoration that came from a deep-rooted place of good.

Aegon’s throat grew tight, thick with emotion as he drank you in, tracing over the delicate plane of your features, the spark of warmth that brightened your eyes. Such divine beauty that he had robbed himself of for so long — he only felt like a fool, the greatest fool there was.

With an unsteady, quivering hand, he hesitantly reached out to you, unburnt fingertips tracing the curve of your jaw. He sucked in a sharp breath whenever you shuddered, face turning inward to press a kiss against his palm.

“I want to see you, husband.” You whispered, grasping his hand with both of yours, digits oozing with the radiance of heat that blossomed from you. The burn scars were carefully concealed behind silken garments, hidden from sight. Aegon grit his teeth together, not wanting you to see how disfigured he’d become.

“No,” Aegon quipped, shifting away from you with a scornful, wary expression. Whatever handsomeness he possessed before, it had all been burned away, turned to ash — and it left him, this husk of himself, with a physique that was repulsing to behold. “There is nothing pleasant about it — it is rotten.”

Rotten was perhaps a vast exaggeration for his wounds and scars, something that you found to be perplexing. Scars did not bother you, and you wouldn’t let your husband’s insecurities dissuade him from your comfort and care. Still holding his hand, you moved closer, pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

Aegon shivered beneath the chaste kiss, wanting nothing more than to collect you into his arms. The gnawing fear of your potential repulsion made him hesitate, and the bitter stab of rejection seemed to dig into him more than anything else.

“What woman would want this?”

Aegon’s forlorn, despondent inquiry hung above the both of you like some dour cloud. His grim outlook was something that you could sympathize with, given that his appearance had been torn apart within an instant. He swallowed the sob building within his chest, violet hues glistening with wet tears.

At last, he looked at you fully, exposing the marred, scarred side of his visage, tangled with a web of textured burns. His eye was sunken in, vessels having broken the white around his iris, ear nearly missing entirely, countenance partially mottled.

It was the same with his body, nearly half of it covered in the same fleshy web, scars spreading out like the roots of a tree. Aegon looked to you with a shattered expression, one that possessed a vehement swell of rage and frustration, yet still retained a sense of desperation. He was desperate to have your approval, for you to tell him that he was still perfect, regardless of his disfigurement.

Without a word, you moved your hand toward the maimed side of his face, expecting him to rip away or recoil entirely. Instead, he stayed there, rooted in-place, shuddering when the softness of your palm cupped his jaw. The pad of your thumb gingerly raked over his cheek, feeling along every scar and rough surface.

“I want you, Aegon,” The soft, silky resonance of your voice had brought him to heel, gaining his subservience, despite his inner battle with his insecurities. He feared being ugly in your eyes, as if his heart weren’t black and decayed enough. “I want you still.” Your lips twitched into an amiable smile.

For a moment, his eyes had fluttered shut, and he soaked in the sensation of your touch, warm and real against his cheek. It felt incredible, something he had craved for so long — it had left a gaping hole within his chest. Any tears that fell, you collected them with your fingertips, swiping them away.

Again, you inched closer, leg-to-leg with him, gaze drifting towards his lips. Aegon did not dissuade you from it, breathing becoming somewhat laborious as you pressed forward, mouth molding against his. It had been a long time since you had kissed him — truly kissed him.

A low, stirring groan reverberated within the depths of his throat, and at last, he reciprocated. Aegon’s kiss was done in a flurry of passion, realizing what he hadn’t had for so long. You tasted saccharine, warm and soft against him, mouth pliant and willing.

Gods, how blind he was — foolish, fragile, moronic.

He had abandoned you for unattainable things, for insignificant people that cared little about his wellbeing. Aegon had you — you, so devoted and loyal and forgiving, even when he deserved none of it. He very nearly sobbed again, knowing what error and sin he’d committed against you, but he shoved it down.

His insecurities seemed so small, as if they were wiped away by the curve of your mouth that so desperately kissed him. Aegon moved his good arm, bringing it to the swell of your hips, feeling your supple physique through the thin silk of your nightgown.

A sweet, simpering moan bubbled within your throat, a sound that so clearly vocalized your desperation for him, your repression and longstanding suffering. “Aegon,” You whispered, sending tremors down his spine as he kissed your jaw. “We don’t have to, we — you’re in pain.” You didn’t want to subject your husband to such agony.

Aegon shook his head, willing to push through the dull aching if it meant that he could have you again. Despite his fractured confidence, you made him feel so strong again, as if he still looked as he had before the burning. “Fuck agony,” He panted, hot breath fanning across your flesh. “I need you.”

That was enough to send a surge of molten heat throughout your belly, thighs rubbing together to alleviate some of your mounting arousal. “To bed, then.” You whispered, and Aegon swore that he moved quicker than normal, as if you had rejuvenated in some mystical way through words alone.

Using his cane to support most of his weight, he sluggishly walked toward your marital bed, feeling you hover around his side. You did not help him, and he didn’t want it, anyway. He was growing stronger by the day, capable of making it to his bed without support.

Fresh linens, silks, and feathered pillows had replaced ones used yesterday. It was all clean, smelling of lavender and honey. As he sat along the edge of the bed, he nearly chuckled at all of this — finally laying with you out of desire, and not duty, looking positively abhorrent.

If only it hadn’t taken him so long to get here.

“Are you certain, Aegon? I do not wish to hurt you, I —” Before you could prattle on about your concerns, Aegon silenced you with a kiss, coaxing you down by his side. His lips remained unblemished and unburnt, the taste of Dornish Red and sugar permeating his tongue.

“You won’t,” Aegon uttered, lilac hues raking over you, hungry and rapturous. “And if you do, you will not stop until I tell you to.” His tone retained a sternness to it, one that pleaded with you to allow him to drown in your affections, just like he always wanted.

With a gentle nod of your head, Aegon pushed your tresses away from your neck, thumb caressing along the column of your throat before he pressed a kiss there. You scarcely recalled the last time he’d done something like this, but you weren’t about to protest.

He wanted to hear your sighs and sweet whimpers, the sound of his name, breathy from your tongue. Aegon did not have the stamina he used to, but he would rather damn himself instead of stopping so quickly. He kissed and bit at your neck, soothing each mark with the languid lap of his tongue.

Gods, that sound — Aegon delighted in listening to your soft, wanton moan, pearlescent teeth nipping at your sensitive skin, kissing wherever he could reach. His burnt hand trembled, the flesh tender and still pulsating with a dull ache, but he elected to ignore it as best as he could.

Your hand pressed against his unmarred thigh, gripping into the flesh there as he groaned against you. He had finally gotten rid of that horrid, lengthy nightshirt, back to linen trousers and a silken, emerald tunic. His growing erection wasn’t subtle in the slightest.

“Let me see you.” Aegon murmured, wanting to look upon you with renewed eyes. You had always been beautiful to him, but now, you were captivating — a goddess incarnate, come to grace him with your presence. He watched as you stood, unraveling your robe as you draped it across the foot of the bed.

His mouth became dry, desire swelling within him like the urgent crash of a tidal wave. Aegon’s violet gaze remained transfixed, unable to tear themselves away from you and your perfection.

You stood in between his legs, shedding the thin, sheer gossamer of your nightgown, allowing it to pool around your feet before you nudged it aside. The last time you had undressed for Aegon, he was drunk and needy, several months ago.

His intoxication was of a different sort now, drunk upon your resplendence, your beauty, living and breathing before him. Aegon gripped your hip with his good hand, learning forward to press kisses all along your abdomen and stomach.

The sensation of your hand, so gentle and sweet, slipped against his marred cheek, gingerly caressing over his uneven web of scars, encapsulating over half of his skull. Aegon nearly groaned at your heavenly touch, the touch of a wife who loved her husband, scars and all.

He did not feel so monstrous anymore.

Aegon turned to press a kiss against the inside of your wrist, savoring the feeling of your fingertips roving across his scars. It was only when you moved to kiss the top of his head that he nearly faltered, breath warbled and wavering, surprise settling into his features.

He moved back, countenance twitching with pain for a fleeting moment, finding comfort within the silken duvet and soft sheets of your shared bed. You nearly moved to sit beside him again, but he stopped you, swallowing the growing lump within his throat.

“No,” Aegon whispered, tone a low, husky resonance, strung out with desire as he coaxed you into his lap with certainty. “Come here.” Those lilac hues were blown-out with lust and bewilderment, enthralled by you as he felt you settle down against him, thighs firmly caging him in on either side.

A grunt stirred within his chest, a dull throbbing pulsating throughout his body, but he persisted, feeling your plush form sit right in his lap. His good arm stroked along your spine and hip, faces mere breaths apart, and he kissed you with a blinding fervor.

Aegon never kissed you like this — not until now.

Whatever sentiments you felt for him, the ones that drove you to complete devotion, began to resurface — you still loved him fiercely, despite everything. “Will you allow me to see you, too?” You whispered against his mouth, digits dancing toward the hem of his tunic.

A beat of hesitation passed through your husband, who almost seemed to revert to his reclusive state. His jaw became tense, an inner war raging within him as he contemplated letting you disrobe him. Aegon looked at you, torn yet wanting, tugging you closer.

You gave him time to deliberate, not wanting to push him into something that he wasn’t prepared for. As if to soothe him, your fingertips traced along his brow line, and into the tangle of scars. “If you do not, I will understand, husband. It will not make me love you any less.”

That alone made him want to remove his tunic.

Aegon tilted forward, burying his face against your collarbone, mottled flesh textured against your own skin. He felt your palm glide against the nape of his neck, carding your digits through his wisps of pale hair. “It is hideous,” He uttered, insecurities bubbling to the surface. “I wouldn’t dare subject you to it.”

“Aegon,” The tenderness of your tone seemed to grab his attention rather swiftly, lilac hues drifting up toward your visage, perfect and comely. “It is all you — every scar and every imperfection, and I will love it all the same. My desires haven’t changed.”

His breath hitched within his throat, eyes swimming with an amalgamation of emotions, some of them too overwhelming to fully comprehend. He had sorely missed your embrace, and to further deprive himself of it seemed like an unimaginable torture.

You wanted him to take his time, neck craning as you peppered your lips against his throat — the burnt side, flesh marred and uneven, the sensation akin to a leathery surface. Aegon exhaled, gripping you tighter as he reveled in the feeling of your mouth.

It was he who initiated the removal of his tunic, attempting to pry it away and over his head, but he struggled, a low groan escaping him. Aegon wanted to feel independent, to do something himself, but he relented, accepting your assistance.

Removing the garment felt like an eternity, born out of his own nervousness and crippling insecurity of you seeing him this way, marred and mottled. Only half of him was covered in that tangled, leathery web of scars, spiraling down his entire physique.

Hovering your palm above his chest, Aegon’s lilac gaze silently pleaded with you to touch him, grace him with the touch of your resplendence. The scars were rough and uneven, innumerable and etched into his flesh like a blanket of leather.

Yet, you did not recoil or shy away, tracing patterns over his skin, pressing your sweet kisses wherever you could reach. Aegon felt his cock twitch and throb with desperation, longing to be inside of you. The tender care you showed him meant more to him than any crass or lewd act did.

You kissed his scarred shoulder, a gesture so comforting and kind that Aegon shuddered from exhilaration. That pattern of soft worship continued, as you kissed his scars again and again, reverence seeping into each grace of your mouth.

“Gods, how divine you are,” Aegon exhaled, quivering hand finally extending just enough to knead against your thigh. The palm that held your hip traced towards the warmth between your legs, and he shivered at the slick arousal there. “What a pleasant surprise.”

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. Aegon was swift to reward your kindness with quick strokes of his fingers, tracing along your slit before caressing your clit, toying with the sensitive pearl.

The game of waiting was an agonizing one, as he longed to be inside of you, let you feel him again with renewed vigor, drown himself within your love. Aegon groaned when your lips met his, connecting with a thinly-veiled ardor, passionate yet tender.

Agony and pain became a thing of the past — even if his body ached and contorted with a continuous sting, he didn’t care. He wanted to endure for you, savoring each moment, digits greedily stroking away at your cunt in order to warm you up.

Desire made him dizzy, head beginning to spin in a delirium, induced by the growing haze of lust. He couldn’t recall the last time he laid with a woman and truly enjoyed it — but he was enjoying this — he loved your body, and above all else, he loved you.

“I want you inside of me,” You panted, hot breath fanning across the shell of his ear. A shiver cascaded along his spine, prompting him to slow the steady strokes of his digits. “Aegon, please.” With a pleading tone that brought Aegon to heel, he nodded, letting out a grunt of discomfort.

He gently removed you from his lap, but only to readjust, moving himself back against the mound of feathered pillows and cushions. Those violet hues silently observed you, rapturous and starving, like a hound preparing to devour its meal as you clamored forward again.

Your hands moved to the leather ties of his breeches, loosening them up enough to free his cock from its confines, flushed head oozing with tendrils of precum. Aegon wasn’t shy about how aroused he was, how desperately he needed you.

“Sit,” Aegon groaned, hand kneading against your hip, attempting to coax you onto his hardened length. “Please, I — I need you.” You hadn’t heard him beg before, but the sound was husky, timbre strung-out with desire as you crawled back into his lap.

As you gently lowered yourself onto his cock, Aegon nearly moaned at the sensation, head rolling back against the pillows as you sank down completely. He couldn’t move like he used to, guide you along or assist, but he did squeeze your hip, caressing all along your side.

Depriving himself of you for so long was perhaps one of the greatest faults he’d ever made, filling him with a wave of guilt. He could not make up for it anymore, properly ravage you in the way that you deserved, but he hoped that this was a start.

Everything began to ache with more of an intensity, a dull throbbing sinking into his bones, but he relented. Aegon would not deny himself, and he would not deny you, above all else. A myriad of throaty groans escaped him as you began to move, hips rocking forward, disarmingly gentle and sluggish.

You did not go quickly at all, each movement slow and steady, thighs stinging from exertion. Slowly, you reached for his hand, the one that had stayed closer to his chest, longing to hold it, if he was able. Aegon’s breath hitched when you did, gently twining his fingers with your own as you rode him.

His cock filled you perfectly, filling a void within you that had been left half-empty for so long. At last, you had your husband again — the one that you yearned for since your wedding day. With gentle gyrations, you moved yourself up and down along his length, continuing your sluggish rhythm.

The palm that cupped your hip and thigh soon slithered toward the apex of between your legs, hoping to stimulate you just as you did him. Your moans, breathy and high-pitched, filled your chambers, noises that he had been longing to hear.

The full, lovely swell of your breasts bounced gently atop your chest as you continued your ministrations, repeating the monotonous motion of rocking along his cock. Your stomach sloshed with molten heat, and it quickly spread to your loins when Aegon’s thumb caressed the pearl of your cunt.

He wasn’t going to last much longer in this state, cock throbbing with tendrils of precum that released themselves inside of you. The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. It was a perfect storm of sensations, between the fervent circles he traced into your clit coupled with the feeling of him inside of you, you knew that your release was near and inevitable.

A breathy sigh of ‘fuck’ emerged from Aegon’s mouth, countenance contorted into a look of complete and utter ecstasy. “Gods, do not stop,” Aegon commanded through wanton groans, hips desperately wanting to buck up inside of you, but the pain was becoming too great. “Please.” He pleaded.

Everything felt so raw and sensitive, nerves set ablaze, arousal gripping him tightly as you continued to ride his cock, ensuring that you were still incredibly gentle. He thoroughly enjoyed watching you move, cautious and mindful of him, lips agape and visage one of sheer bliss.

The delight you felt was immense, holding onto Aegon’s hand, wanting to grind yourself into his thumb. “Aegon,” You moaned, looking down upon him with reverence and awe, no inkling of disgust to be found — it was ardor and want, all tangled into one. “I—I’m close!” Your whine made him want to tear you apart.

It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart, in shambles beneath you, hot ropes of virile seed filling your womb with desperation. Aegon saw stars from the intensity of his release, nearly collapsing in the aftermath of it all.

His breathing quickened, hoarse and labored as you tilted your hips forward, finding a much-needed friction as he caressed your clit even still. Watching you reach your release with his own eyes was a captivating sight, mesmerizing to behold as you shuddered, trembling and aching with relief.

He huffed, attempting to recuperate as you stayed in his lap for a moment longer, slick with your nectar and his own spent, its sheen coating the inside of your thighs. You removed yourself from him to give him some reprieve, stepping away to clean yourself up and retrieve your nightgown.

Aegon’s visage became one of immediate concern as he watched you move away, worried that he had offended you. “Where — Are you not staying?” He questioned, hastily maneuvering his breeches up around his hips again, doing his best to lace up the leather ties.

Surprised, you stopped near the basin of water sitting along the vanity, head canting to one side. “I intended on staying with you, unless you do not want me to.” You replied, sliding the silken garment back on after having taken a swatch of cloth to the warmth between your thighs.

“I want you,” Aegon’s tone had become a rather desperate resonance, as if imploring you to stay even when there wasn’t a need for him to do so. “I want you to stay.” He uttered, lilac hues somewhat shrewd as you approached, helping him put his tunic back on.

“Of course.” With a soothing voice, you pressed a kiss against the scarred side of his scalp, and then to his forehead, helping to ease him back down into bed. The draught left behind by Maester Orwyle assisted with the pain — not nearly as strong as Milk of the Poppy, but it was the best choice.

Taking a swig, Aegon sighed, feeling you climb into bed, curled against the good side of his body. He immediately collected you into his arm, feeling your cheek press into his shoulder. It was the most satisfying feeling in the world, having you by his side again.

“If you are agreeable to it,” Aegon began, tracing patterns into the small of your back, “I wish for you to stay here again, and share my bed.” He didn’t demand anything, nor did he use his title and power to force you into sharing your chambers again.

He would’ve understood if you declined, given everything that had happened between the both of you.

Aegon loathed the thought of being alone again, to return to his reclusive existence of self-deprecation and endless misery when you were still here, living perfection — his beloved wife. He turned his head just enough to kiss your crown, briefly inhaling your floral scent, one that he sorely missed.

“I would like that,” You hummed, comfortable by his side. It was the first time in many moons that Aegon felt almost entirely comfortable again, scars and all. “Know that I love you, Aegon — until my last days.” With a gentle touch, you reached for his marred hand, holding it delicately within your own.

Tears swam within his lilac hues, and he had to squeeze them shut just to alleviate that feeling of sobbing. To hear you say with certainty that you loved him — he knew that he no longer needed to fear the idea of living, not when he had you.

“I love you.” Aegon whispered, barely above a whisper. He held you tightly, cradling you close, grasp innately protective even when danger didn’t hang over your heads.

Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he was finally being transparent with himself — with his inner turmoil, with his very existence, and that he loved you too.

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my work onto other platforms.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Bound to Apologise

Summary: Aemond upsets his wife and forms a punishment fit for a Prince, feat. subby!Aemond | Word Count: 5.6k | Warnings below the cut~

Links to my Taglists: General Taglist | Aemond Targaryen Taglist

Warnings: subby!Aemond x wife!reader, p in v, oral (m receiving), use of a belt as bondage, orgasm denial, breeding kink I guess, Aemond blueballs Targaryen

When one thinks of Aemond Targaryen, a few descriptors come to mind.

 Stoic, stiff, perhaps brazen on occasion and when the opportunity should present itself, he has quite the silver tongue. He is a man who is sure of himself in identity, fiercely proud of his Targaryen ancestry, his skills with the sword and his deep and well-founded knowledge of history and philosophy, a fact he rivals smugly against his older brother at any occasion he is able.

 It is not as if Aegon cares much for rivalries of the mind. No, Aegon’s knowledge that is worthy of bragging in his mind is that of the flesh, and he makes sure to flaunt such knowledge in Aemond’s face at any chance.

 That is until Aemond took a wife.

 It had been almost half a year since Aemond was wed to his sweet wife in the Sept. An arranged affair, of course, and the two had scarcely seen one another beforehand, so even now he remembered the way he held his hands behind his back, wound tight with nerves, wondering what kind of person she was. It felt wrong to be tied so intimately and indefinitely to another person without really truly knowing them.

 She had smiled sweetly on that day, kissed him softly once their vows were exchanged, a faint blush at her cheeks while standing before her now husband. The wife of Aemond Targaryen. It felt so final, and she could not help the fluttering in her stomach.

 Aemond on the other hand had barely cracked a smile, simply kissed her, as he was duty-bound to do, and said his vows. She was pretty, yes. But he almost felt bad. What did this woman, illuminated so softly by the warm rays of light, have to gain by marriage to someone she surely found repulsive? Aemond hadn’t missed the various hushed conversations his mother had with Otto, the door cracked slightly ajar.

 He had a reputation amongst the ladies. Some desired him purely for his title and placing their family name on a high podium, their future children into the bargain. Some were repulsed by his fiery temper, those long, hard looks he gave everyone. And perhaps most notably, they were frightened of the One-Eyed Prince, on this moniker alone. ‘Aemond One-Eye would never find a wife’.

 Despite the incident being several years ago, it still raised its ugly head every now and then, in the form of self-consciousness, hushed female whispers and side-glances throughout the Keep. Most Lords and Ladies appreciated his skills from afar, never treading that delicate path in between that would bring them closer to him, which is precisely why it was difficult to even court a woman. Nevermind marriage.

 And yet, when his new wife had looked upon him at their wedding feast, she’d given him a sweet smile, looked deeply into his good eye and showed no signs of repulsion. It confused him for a moment. Was she making a mockery of him? By pretending not to be afraid or repelled by him on purpose? Hiding what she truly felt inside. Holding the bile in her throat at the thought of consummation? He blamed her flush on her face on the two cups of wine she had consumed.

 He was immensely relieved to have been proven wrong.

 Once the chamber doors were closed, she was clearly nervous, as any young maiden would be on her wedding night. With every aching second she removed the pins from her hair, Aemond stood before the fireplace, his heart hammering in his chest with nerves. He didn’t want to have to bare his soul to her. He didn’t know her. And the thought of forcing such a delicate little thing to gaze upon his affliction, watching her face contort into one of disgust, was eating away at his insides, his insecurities feeding on the buzz of the wine.

 She looked so pure and gentle in her off-white, thin chemise, leaving extremely little to the imagination. And with her hair down, waved from the braids, she looked positively mythical.

 Aemond swallowed and began to unclasp his doublet. She must have seen his true feelings beneath his poorly-hidden expression, because she’d stopped before him, a small hand laid delicately on his arm. A silent confirmation, that she was just as nervous as he was.

 “I do not wish to frighten you, my lady”

 Her heart could have broken, but instead it merely shuddered with his words.

 “Do you believe you frighten me?” she asked.

 Aemond’s silence had confirmed it.

 “You are my husband. And I, your wife. You may show me as much of yourself as you deem comfortable and I will not judge”

 Though brief, her comforting words gave him the confidence to consummate their marriage. At first it was clumsy, the way their lips had pressed against one another, and the clamouring at her body, laid entirely bare for him to feast upon. As with any wedding night, there was some discomfort, both for her and him, but for different reasons.

 But he was gentle, which surprised her and elated her in equal measure. And the sting of the loss of the maidenhead gave way to blooming pleasure, alongside something else. Perhaps a closeness that neither of them expected to have after just a few hours of knowing one another. But she hadn’t shied away from him, as he expected her to. On occasion during the act, she held his face so softly he trembled, struggling to fathom that this woman wanted him.

 They had left it only an hour before he was inside her again, where he now found sanctuary in her acceptance of him.

 In the moons that had passed since then, she had been his haven. His escape. She was so good to him, accepting of his desire to take his time in showing himself to her.

 Three moons after their wedding night, he finally pulls off his eyepatch, after a particularly long evening of lovemaking. She was laid next to him, the bed sheets tucked around her chest. Her lips parted when she saw what he’d been hiding underneath his eyepatch all this time, and she felt an undeniable closeness to him that was not there before.

 His scar felt raised beneath the gentleness of her fingers, but it was a look of sheer wonder, watching the way the sapphire that replaced his eye adopted the amber glow of the candles.

 Aemond felt his heart thunder and his cock get hard, when all she asked was for him to fuck her again.

 And he did with a new-found enthusiasm, a warm feeling blossomed in his chest, holding her form beneath him and fucking her relentlessly into the mattress, so hard that the bedframe struggled. He moaned loudly, giving her his seed and praying that it took, so that he could see his precious wife grow round with his child.

 It took him an entire moon to figure out that he not only respected her, but had come to love her.

 His wife, shy and timid perhaps at first, had become rather a force to be reckoned with. Their intimacy with one another had awakened something not only in her, but in him as well. At first, he delighted in having power and dominance over her, being quite a lot taller and broad, which he was wholly proud to have on display in the comfort of their chambers. He loved every little one of her whines and moans, drawing peak after devastating peak from her until she quivered in his touch.

 It had become a nightly routine. Sometimes several times in one night.

 Who would have thought that Aemond Targaryen, every now and then, enjoyed having such power taken away sometimes.

 It had started innocently enough. After so many moons being married and proving their love to one another every night, his sweet wife had sought for some variety and instead had clambered on top of him and sank on his cock, guiding the pace herself. Her hands steadied on his chest for leverage, her backside smacking against his thighs with every rough thrust of herself onto him.

 Alongside the dizzying feeling of watching his cock disappear into her cunt over and over, reaching new places in this new position, he found being held down exhilarating. Dare he say, even pleasurable. It made something wind tight as a bowstring in his gut.

 It seemed like she noticed this, as a lazy smirk graced her face.

 Ever since then they had experimented with that sensation. The feeling of one partner having full control, being held down, even tied sometimes. It was something reserved solely for them, behind their chamber doors. In the morning, when they break their fast with his family, he is once again the stone-faced, stoic Aemond Targaryen.

 Although it does not stop her from shooting knowing grins in his direction on the odd occasion, which makes his cheeks go a very fair pink, the tips of his ears burn and his breeches get inexplicably tighter.

 He enjoys this new side to his wife. It was buried deep, but now that he sees it, it never fails to surprise him.

 Which brings him to this moment. The moment when he knows he has said or done something to irk her.

 Her sister had arrived at the Red Keep alongside her father to visit her for a few days. Unlike his dear wife, her sister was still young and unmarried, and unbearably innocent. As soon as Aegon had laid his eyes on her little sister, his eyes gleamed with mischief, as if he’d seen a shiny new version of his favourite toy, but one that was actually available.

 He wasn’t even deterred by the firm look she’d given him.

 She and her sister walked arm in arm to the main hall, where they would dine all together that evening. Her sister spoke excitedly, happy to be brought to the Red Keep for the first time and to be reunited with her beloved eldest sibling.

 Aemond and Aegon were chatting idly at the table when they’d arrived, her sister went to one side of the table to be sat next to their father. The two brothers, who usually were not so well-acquainted and chatting in such a friendly manner, were so engrossed in their conversation and their cups, that they barely acknowledged her presence.

 All the better that Aemond’s back was to her as well.

 “She is a lovely looking girl, but it is a shame she is so terribly dim-witted” Aegon chuckled, “A family trait, I presume?”

 Aemond, dizzy from the effects of his wine, chuckled.

 “Perhaps”

 She’d bitten her cheek in frustration. Was he so deep in his cups that he actually found Aegon funny? Not only that, but had humoured him in insulting not only her sister’s intelligence, but his own wife’s as well.

 She pulled her chair out beside him loudly, and Aemond went red and jumped in surprise, dread prickled all over his skin. She gave him a mischievous, knowing smile as she sat, “Husband” is all she greeted him with.

 Aegon, who found the entire situation hilarious, had left him with that and as Aemond took his seat next to his wife, straight-backed and instantly sober, he bit his lips several times throughout the evening. She didn’t spare him a single word nor glance, unless he spoke to her directly, in which she forced a pleasant enough smile to her face and gave him one word answers. Playing the pliant little wife, while at the same time letting him know that he would not get off so easily.

 She thought, once, that she may have taken her retribution a bit too far. But it was fun if nothing else, to watch how frustrated Aemond got.

 She did not lay with him that night, nor the night after. Nor the night after that.

 When her sister and father departed King’s Landing, he thought this might be the reprieve. But he was wrong.

 It had been a full week since he had touched his wife intimately, not because he didn’t want to, he’d tried a fair few times. But every time, she had dismissed him with that playful smirk, the same one she had when she’d clambered atop his lap for the first time. And though her outfits and mannerisms remained the same as always, after being denied the pleasure of his flesh to hers for so long, every sway of her hips, every glint of her eyes and every movement of her hands had his breeches pathetically tight.

 She knew what she was doing as well, the little tease.

 He was aching. And it became too much. Not only did she deprive him of her sweet, tight cunny. She barely spoke to him. And the silence and barely-contained need to be inside her, was all too much to bear.

 She was in their chambers, sat before the fire, a large tome open in her lap and when she’d heard the chamber doors shut, her eyes had met that of an extremely pent up husband.

 But instead of greeting him, she bit back a smile and turned back to her book.

 That little-

 “Wife” he greeted through gritted teeth.

 “Husband”

 She didn’t fool him with the sweetness of her voice.

 “What are you doing?” he asked, half-desperate and half-irritated as he crossed the room to sit opposite her.

 “Reading, my love. So that I may grow to have acceptable intelligence”

 His nostrils flare in annoyance, and yet he can’t deny the way she acts has a profound effect on him, after a week of not being able to have her, he’s desperate for anything. Even just the brushing of her hand, he is convinced, would make him spill in his breeches.

 “You know as well as I that is not what I meant”

 She slowly closes the book, righting to stand in front of him, her eyes trickling over his form. She knows him well now. Knows how underneath this cold exterior he offers up to her, is a desperate man underneath, yearning for a taste of her affections. His body sparks up at her hungry eyes over him.

 “Then I do not know what you mean, husband” she replies, barely able to stop the spread of her smile, “You shall have to elaborate”

 His hands form tight fists. She’s right there, ripe for the taking, his sweet wife. How easy would it be to sling her over his shoulder and take her right there on the bed, still dressed in her finery, with her skirts rucked up over her hips.

 “I mean-” he starts, “-you and I have not laid together for the better part of a week”

 She cocks her head, “Oh? Is that so?” she answers sweetly, “Forgive me, I hadn’t noticed”

 He’s stunned into a sort of shocked silence, mouth slightly open, but without the headspace to form a reply. His wife pretended to busy herself with other things, placing the book back and dusting the covers, something she knew would get him riled up.

 “What is this game, wife”

 When she turns to him with that faux-innocence smile on her face, unable to hide how amused she is at how outwardly her husband is showing his frustration, Aemond can feel his limbs go numb.

 “I do not believe you are in any position to accuse me of anything, husband” she counters, crossing the room in deliberately small steps, “In fact, I do believe I am owed an apology of sorts”

 Her brow twitches slightly. She knows. She knows she has him exactly where she wants him.

 As much as he tries to ignore the way her attitude makes his breeches get tighter, all of his blood goes straight below his waistline.

 “But I can see, in your true Targaryen male nature, that you will not apologise…with words that is” she says, a wider smile gracing her face. An almost mischievous one.

 Aemond swallows thickly.

 He clears his throat, blinking a few times at what she just said, “Perhaps…you might enlighten me on how I can make amends”

 Got you.

 “Give me your belt” she instructs.

 It’s borderline pathetic, the speed in which he tries to unbuckle it from his doublet and his fingers fumble with the silver, the embarrassment evident in the way it clinks clumsily. He pulls it through the loops and extends the leather towards his wife. She lets his hand hang there for a moment, as if to extend his internal torment, before she takes it, her fingers slipping over the roughened edges.

 “Take off your clothes, leave your breeches on” her voice is clipped and deadly serious, “then get on the bed”

 She watched from the foot of the bed as he did, twisting the belt in her hands as she regarded him. Saw the way his breath had hitched as she instructed him to do something and the way his pupils swallowed the violet of his eye. He was desperate. And the longer she went without saying or doing anything, the more the excitement and anticipation was starting to build in his core.

 “My dear husband” she says, still fully clothed but clambering onto the bed beside him, “You have wronged me in a manner most unbefitting”

 Her voice was low, the same way it would be when they were alone together, coupling.

 Gently she pulls both his wrists together, tying them first before raising them to the bed frame, sliding the leather through the buckle and pulling his skin flush to it. She pulls on it a few times, to make sure it is secure. Smiling down at him when she confirms he is not able to move.

 His chest moves hurriedly, a warm, fluttering expectancy erupts in his gut.

 “And all you have been able to think about is our coupling, or rather lack of” she smirks, pulling a large pin from her hair so it falls around her shoulders. Looking up at his dear wife from this angle, in this position, will never cease to be thrilling.

 Her small fingers slide under his eyepatch, depositing it on the bedside, so that she may see all of him.

 He would never ever reveal beyond their chambers how he enjoys to see her, eyes half-shut looking down at him, exerting her own version of dominance over him. And he was eternally grateful that she never told a soul either. It would embarrass him beyond measure. He could only stand to be embarrassed in front of her.

 Even though she was very much in charge, she did so in her own feminine way. Used her body differently, her words even.

 He doesn’t think he will ever tire of it.

 “Would you like to fuck me, husband” she asks low, nudging his knees apart so that she can kneel between them. It doesn’t fail to set his blood alight, the way she says such vulgar things…and make it sound so right.

 As her fingers begin to undo his breeches, his hips move and so do his hands against the bed frame. It sets that grin on her face again.

 “Yes, I do…I have missed you”

 Her fingers start to peel his breeches from his hips, exposing the pale skin underneath, and he almost sighs in relief to feel her soft hands on his bare skin.

 She cocks her head, looking at him, “What makes you think I will let you fuck me?”

 A sort of dread…disappointment  pools in his stomach, but alongside that, arousal. He cannot tell if she is serious or merely teasing him, and it is the in-between of not knowing that makes his head feel as if there is cotton stuffed into it instead of thoughts.

 “Fucking is a reward” she starts, “and you have not been good”

 Once his breeches are off, or at least down to his toned thighs, enough where she can see his manhood, aching and swollen against his taut abdomen, hardened from his years of training with the sword. The tip is flushed, the same colour as his lips, with a milky arousal leaking from it. She is sure that with one touch, he could simply come undone, and it makes her smirk wickedly.

 “I will forgive you…on one condition”

 Gods, how badly he wants her to just touch him already. With his cock now exposed to them both, her hands so close, it’s borderline unbearable to be teased like this.

 “Anything, please…”

 A flush blossoms on her cheeks. She always did like it when he begged.

 “You must not peak, until I say”

 Aemond almost goes bright red. This is territory that has not been tread before. And yet, he can’t deny the excitement it sends through him, the way the air is instantly knocked out of his lungs, and how his hands tug slightly against the belt.

 He outright moans as her small hand encircles his cock, giving a few languid pumps, squeezing when she gets to the tip, brushing her thumb over the sensitive slit. Now that she has given her order, her demand, all he can seem to think about is his peak, and how hard he is concentrating to not do it too soon.

 “You seem more sensitive than usual, husband” she coos, her other hand placed on his thigh, only barely squeezing, “have you missed me that much?”

 “Yes…” he responds through slightly gritted teeth, unable to take the breathiness out of his tone.

 “Hm” she hums, dipping her head to his waistline, making him suck in a quiet breath, “Let us see if you can be good then”

 She flatters her tongue against the underside of his length, dragging up achingly slow to the slit, her hand still applying pressure as she makes her way up. When she gets to the slit, her eyes meet her husband's.

 There's that damn smile again.

 Aemond shudders a breath, looking into her eyes while she has his cock on her tongue is only spurring him on, so he shuts his eyes, tipping his head back against the pillows. His hands tug at the belt. Wanting morning more than to just run his fingers through her hair.

 "Look at me" she orders.

 When he does, his jaw slackens, cheeks warm as her hot mouth envelops him entirely. Pushing down to take more of him, her hand strokes whatever else she cannot fit. Aemond watches her take him with every slow bob of her head, pushing his cock against her hot throat, warm, wet and inviting.

 If he is good, he may get something else.

 From this angle, her breasts are dangerously close to spilling from her dress, and he watches them move as she continues to suck him, her tongue curled up to press against the prominent vein on the underside. After a week of not having him, she relishes the taste of him. How he smells faintly of sweat and leather, and how badly she wants more of it.

 She plunges her mouth down further, til her lips are against the base and Aemond moans out loudly. His tip lodges the back of her throat, and while well endowed, she has learned to take him as deep as she can, until she softly gags, tightening her throat around him.

 She is testing him. Seeing how far she can push him as she pleasures him with a renewed vigour, humming around him, sending little jolts of pleasure up his spine.

 It was his biggest weakness, taking him into her mouth. And to be so clearly pleased to do it as well. Merely watching the way his length disappears between her plush lips is nothing short of heavenly.

 He bets her cunny is wet from this alone.

 It very nearly makes him peak, those sparks are there most certainly. Especially the way her throat contracts around him.

 But he holds back the reins. For now.

 She pulls off him with a soft, wet pop, making a show of licking her lips to taste his precum.

 "You are blushing, my love" she says, and he knows even without looking she is smirking again.

 "Please…" he murmurs, "...do not tease me any longer"

 She cocks her head again, pretending to not know what he means.

 "Is my mouth inadequate?"

 He shakes his head quickly, feeling his hair begin to stick to his nape with the effort of holding back his peak.

 "No-no…I just need you"

 "Need what" she grins, moving to straddle him.

 Aemond's eye widens here. Her dress is fanned out, and underneath he feels her bare form pressed against his aching cock.

 The vixen had not had small clothes on this entire time.

 And after using her mouth to pleasure him, she was soaked.

 It was most like her. She always did everything with purpose. Always one step ahead.

 She smiles when she sees it click in his mind and she moves her hips, dragging her slick over his length, making his eye flutter.

 "Say it"

 He swallows, tugging against the belt. He half thinks of requesting to touch her. But he knows she would not allow it.

 "I need to be inside you"

 She raises her eyebrows.

 "Please" he finishes.

 She pulls the front of her dress up, to give him a good view of her wet cunny, spreading her slick over him and he almost moans at just that. It's a sight to behold. The feeling…even more indescribable.

 "My poor, silly husband" she coos, taking his length in her hand, using her palm to coat the entirety with her arousal, "...you came here to say something. Now is the time"

 She raises her hips, his tip not even touching her, but the anticipation of it is too much. Aemond, almost subconsciously, bucks his hips up. Only to be met with her pushing him back down.

 "Stay still" she says firmly, "or you will not fuck me at all"

 His chest moves quickly, clenching his fists, his whole body feeling unbearably hot.

 She waits, with that glint in her eye. She really would do it. She would clamber off him and not fuck him, just for the satisfaction that she knew he wanted her, and that it had been denied.

 "I…apologise…" he mutters quietly.

 She doesn't move.

 "For?"

 He grunts, frustrated. Too busy thinking of him sliding through her folds, nestled in her cunny.

 "For saying such things about you…"

 She tuts, with an amused grin, "We shall test your loyalty, husband. Remember…you need my permission"

 Whatever Aemond was going to say is stuck in his throat as she sinks on him, enveloping him entirely in her slick heat. She does it slowly, so that he might feel every inch of her, every ridge inside. And when her backside sits on his thighs, moving her hips side to side, his tip nudges her sweet spot, the curve of his long, delicious length finding it effortlessly.

 He has to briefly close his eye, not look at her, so that he doesn't get too overwhelmed. After a week of not having her, she feels so perfectly tight, so much so it feels as if her cunt is milking him already. He cannot get too tied up in the feeling, lest he lose her forgiveness.

 The sound he lets out when she begins to move is almost pained, one that feels like it takes all his strength from his muscles.

 He looks up at her, her hair cascading over her shoulders with every shallow thrust inside, with that tell-tale pink to her cheeks from the effort of it. He can feel her arousal weeping out of her, coating his length and smacking against the base, that alongside his barely-contained moans.

 Her hands trail up his bare torso and he can feel gooseflesh erupt in the path she leaves. Her soft palms trace the expanse of his chest, and she doesn’t miss the way his stomach muscles tense up as she hastens her pace while she touches him. It’s only when her fingers apply a feather-like touch against his nipples that she finally gets a breathy moan from him.

 It only adds more fuel to her fire.

 Every touch, as small as they are, with how pent up Aemond had been, is hurtling him towards that edge. He can feel every inch of her perfect insides, squeezing him as she nears even herself. His stomach does flips, a familiar flutter getting stronger inside.

 “Please…wife…” she barely manages to say.

 She smiles, her chest moving quickly with the effort of their lovemaking. Her thighs ache in the most wonderful way, her cunt stretching around his girth, the tip kissing her end, filling her so deliciously.

 “Please what”

 “I want to touch you…please” he begs, his fists still tight and pressed against the bed frame.

 He takes a much needed breath when she slows down, merely circling her hips against his pelvis instead.

 “Are you close, my love?” she asks sweetly, leaning up to grasp the belt in one hand.

 Aemond nods, not trusting his own voice, lest it betray the inner turmoil inside. But she sees it. She doesn’t miss a thing.

 She cocks her head, half of her wants to reprimand him for not using his words to reply to her. But the other half feels how his cock throbs inside her, aching for completion, to paint her walls with his spend.

 “Very well” she smirks, undoing his bondage, “but you may only touch me here”

 She guides his now free hands to her clothed hips, keeping hers on top to make it clear how serious she is. Even now, merely touching her, through clothes it doesn't matter, it’s like some kind of torture.

 He grabs her hips tightly and backs himself up against the pillow in a half-sitting position, causing his length to press up inside her, he doesn’t miss the small gasp she emits. She’s close as well, he can tell.

 He fucks up into her with renewed passion, and her head tilts back, her lips parted only slightly to allow her quiet but wanton moans to slip out. Her sounds are like a reward. But he knows he is still denied the greatest one of all. One that seems more and more difficult to hold back the tighter she clenches around him, her fingers digging into the flesh of his wrists. There was something exciting about her being fully clothes while he fucked her. It almost felt forbidden. But exciting all the same.

 He can feel her slowly losing her resolve as he pounds harshly into her, as if he is letting out all his frustrations.

 “-Fuck…Aemond…” she breathes, “-Don’t stop-”

 His breath comes in hurried pants, wanting her to feel good but at the same time holding himself back. He can feel the pressure inside, fit to burst at any moment.

 “My perfect wife…”

 “-Aemond, I’m close-”

 She pulls up the front of her dress, her small slender fingers diving between her legs to apply pressure to her pearl, and she inadvertently tightens around him at the combined pleasure.

 He is not sure if he can last much longer. Forgiveness be damned, he wants to see his spend leak from her.

 “My love, I-”

 She looks down at him, a lazy, fucked-out smile on her face, her hair sticking slightly to her forehead.

 “-Yes, husband…fuck your heir into me…”

 His eye widens at the vulgarity, but his throat tightens at the challenge and he slams so deep inside her with a shocking collection of desperate thrusts. She continues to circle her slick over her bud until the buzz floods into her limbs with a choked cry, her body trembling in the bruising hold he has of her hips.

 He fucks her all the way through it, now that he has been given the permission he so desired, he craves it like hunger. It feels like it takes everything out of him, the wind surely knocked from his lungs, as he finally stills inside her, feeling the warm, familiar flood of his spend deep against her womb, completely emptying himself until he aches.

 Aemond never lets up on his grip, holding her tightly to ensure she has all of it, and he gives a few additional shallow thrusts that make her cry out, hoping his seed will take and she will grow round with child for him. The thought alone makes him want to keep her in their chambers all day if he has to.

 Their eyes meet, the only sound is both of their breathing. Her own eyes flicker from his seeing one, to the sapphire, and a soft, contented smile, not the same mischievous one as earlier, makes its way to her face. It encourages him to do the same.

 “I could stay in your perfect cunt forever…” he breathes, his chest moving steadily.

 She hums a laugh. It is certainly something he would say.

 “Am I forgiven?” he asks, eyebrows moved only slightly, like he is expecting a witty response.

 His wife pretends to think, her fingers touched to her lips. And with his softening cock still nestled inside her, she leans forward to lay a tender kiss on her husband, her delicate, soft lips pressed so gently to his, in a manner that contradicts the sensuality of what they had just done.

 When she breaks, her forehead pressed against his and her hand cupping his face, she wrinkles her nose playfully.

 “I shall think about it”

 When one thinks of Aemond Targaryen, a few descriptors come to mind.

 Stoic, stiff, perhaps brazen on occasion. With not a soft bone in his body.

 Who would have thought, that sometimes, he enjoyed letting that persona slip, just for a moment.

 But only ever with her.

dividers by @firefly-graphics​

General Taglist:  @risefallrise @valeskafics @theoneeyedprince @thelittleswanao3 @hb8301

Aemond Taglist:  @m00n5t0n3 @boofy1998 @merakiaes​ @hanihoney88 @let-love-bleeds-red​ @bellaisasleep​ @watercolorskyy @heavenley1927 @ryswritingrecord @partypoison00 @gaeela-6 @saeselkie @padfooteyes @introverbatim @queenofshinigamis @thatkingofgirl @ryswritingrecord @dahlias-and-marigolds @triscy

[joels6string]

Whatever Helps You Sleep

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: It's a restless night for you and the nomad you've been tied to in search of a new place to call home.

Rating: E

Word Count: 2.8k

Content: unprotected p in v sex, fingering, creampie in a post-apocalyptic world like morons, so much desperation, Joel Miller being a grumpy but standup guy

Everything hurt. All the fucking time. 

Every joint throbbed, the balls and socket grinding and scraping, each taut fiber threading beneath your skin begging for any release of the eternal tension that had settled in over two decades ago, the cold you’d still not gotten used to amplifying the ache as you laid on the rickety old mattress on the floor. The springs jutting into your back certainly didn’t help, nor did the sounds in the distance too far away to identify. The knots in your stomach mimicked the ones that had settled into each muscle, your teeth chattering against the chill of the fall night. 

“Why you twitchin’ like that?” Joel. 

The man you now traveled with had found you holed up alone in a building, your fingers trembling on a rifle that looked too big in your hands and eyes wide enough to display the fear that had consumed your every waking minute clear as day. The loss of your group at the hand of bandits had left you alone and unfit to travel the infected-swarmed lands around you. You’d accepted your fate to starve to death or put a bullet in your own brain should you get a bite. While you hadn’t been the weakest link on your team, you couldn’t go it solo. But Joel and his 15-year-old girl, Ellie had come bursting through in search of supplies and while he’d made you beg for your life with the cold metal of his revolver pressed to your temple, he let you keep it, offering safe passage through to the next habitable town. 

That was months ago.

“Sorry,” you mumbled at his complaint, you hadn’t even realized you’d been doing it. 

“What hurts?” he asked, that gravelly voice heavy with exhaustion, or maybe exasperation. 

“I’m fine.”

“Then stop movin' so damn much.”

Easier said than done. That rhythmic movement was the only thing easing the pain and keeping you even slightly warm, your subconscious searching for relief here in a rare quiet moment. An old bullet wound in your hip always flared up when the temperature got too low, paired with years of unrest and panic, comfort was nothing but a forgotten memory. 

“You’re makin’ the floor seem like a better option,” he grunted again, guilt joining the churning turmoil in your gut.

“I’m sorry.”

“You cold?”

Yes. Yes, you were fucking cold. It had to be no more than 40 degrees and all you had was a pair of jeans worn thin as the tissue paper that had gone extinct far too soon and a flannel that barely reached your wrists. You were freezing. 

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped back, thankful Joel had given Ellie the bedroom to sleep in, she needed the rest away from the bickering.

“I know what you said,” he retorted, “but you ain’t good at lying.”

He had you there. Especially when your dishonesty manifested in a hunt for solace from perpetual agony. 

“Is it your hip?” He knew. He’d pulled the bullet out and cauterized it not even two months into your time with them. Your piercing wails as the searing hot metal had seared at your flesh still haunted your nightmares, the smell burned into your nose, and Joel’s apologetic fretting at the time was the most unguarded you’d ever seen him. For a moment he made you think he actually cared.

“Yeah,” you muttered, arguing was fruitless.

“Undo your jeans.” What did he say? “Get some heat and pressure on it.”

In the search for any form of reprieve, you did as he asked. He’d gotten up, you could hear water sloshing and the click of the propane heating plate you’d used to warm your dinner, his heavy boots thudding above your head before his weight dipped the mattress again. 

“May I?” His tone was gentle and quiet—wary—and you nodded.

Joel was an attractive man, and not just by today’s standards but by general ones. Tall, broad, and sun-goldened skin, his hair and beard graying faster than they should beneath the weight he carried. Despite his hulking frame and aloof demeanor, there was a grace to him; you hated admitting to yourself that should he ever ask, you’d be more than willing to offer yourself up. You’d done well to repress the urges you first felt walking behind him and watching his wide shoulders sway and his competence around weapons and foraging alike, but every so often they crept back, usually on nights like this where you begged for a sliver of respite. 

A warm, wet cloth pressed against the hideous scar marring the side of your hip, a loud sigh whooshing from your lips. It did feel nice. The heat washed down to your numb toes, his large palm holding pressure down that did alleviate enough of the misery that owned you to let you settle, your knees no longer rubbing together in search of comfort. 

“You’re freezing,” he noted, and you bit back the retort on your tongue teasing him for pointing out the obvious, “I gave Ellie the blanket, all I got is a coat.”

“It’s fine,” you lied again, the heel of his palm pressing down and drawing a relieved cry from your parted lips as your cheeks heated in embarrassment. 

He did it again, massaging out the rigidity holding you hostage, the muscle loosening beneath his weight, trigger points releasing as he pressed them against the bones of your pelvis. When the rag had cooled, you expected him to roll over and try to sleep again, but a large hand swallowed you whole as he continued, now skin on skin, the sensation sending a forbidden surge between your thighs. This time, your teeth sunk into your lower lip in lieu of allowing the traitorous whines from breaking free. He’d gotten closer at some point, you could feel the heat radiating off of his body, your resolve holding strong enough to resist closing the remaining distance between you. 

“Why didn’t you leave me with that group a few months back?” you finally asked, the question had been burning in your mind since he’d refused to let you stay with a small civilization you’d found. It had been your original agreement after all. 

“Didn’t trust ‘em,” he answered quietly, his fingers continuing to knead into your flesh, “I have enough trouble sleepin’.”

That was as heartfelt as Joel Miller was going to get tonight. 

Callouses met scar tissue as you melted into the lumps in the surface molding around you now, his trigger finger finding a new skill as he soothed you to enough comfort to have your eyelids fluttering closed. The cold still nipped at your toes and nose, your body trembling as a result despite the searing hot palm on your skin. But at least the pain had receded enough.

“Scootch on back,” he murmured, tugging on you lightly in what resembled more of an offer than an instruction, but it was one you couldn’t refuse. 

Within seconds you were no longer yearning for the scratchy wool blanket Joel kept folded in his pack, his chest firm against your back, knees locked behind yours, and a heavy hand on your lower stomach the only source of warmth you needed. You sought more, closing what little distance remained between you as he shifted to allow you the space to do so, your smaller frame fitting easily in the stretch of his chest. 

“Now will you stop fidgetin’?” The husky tone he spoke with was softer than the first, less perturbed, his fingers still brushing through the open waistband of your jeans. 

It was mortifying but practically instinctual the way you pressed your backside against him, hoping his fingers would slip lower, breach the fraying waistband of the panties you’d cycled through for too many years. He stiffened slightly as you repeated the motion, desperate as lust took control, you could feel it in the way his bicep flexed on your arm and his palm pressed slightly tighter. The proximity allowed you to vibrate with the repressed groan he kept trapped in his chest, your brain too fogged from the scent of dirt and gunpowder clinging to his skin and the way his beard caught on your hair as he shifted, pressing his growing bulge against you lightly. 

“Joel…” It fell pathetically from your lips, whining and dazed as your stomach tensed at his offer to give what you’d so ardently desired. 

He clicked his tongue. “Why d’you gotta say it like that?”

“Please.”

Whatever control he’d been gripping like the barrel of his shotgun fell away, his hand leaving your abdomen to sting in the stark temperature change and pinch your chin, turning your face towards his own. You could barely see him in the dark, but the vulnerability swimming in his eyes glowed in the faint moonlight seeping in from the window. Did you take this plunge? There was no going back. Not for you. When you parted ways—and you knew you would—what happened then? Would you get over him? This man that saved your life more times than you could count with your fingers and toes, fed you before himself, and fought the battles you couldn’t. In a world as broken as this, Joel Miller stood alone.

His kiss was timid, testing the limits and giving you enough time to change your mind here and now before it escalated. Always the gentleman. But when you pulled his bottom lip between your own deepening what he’d begun, it took seconds for his tongue to dart into your waiting mouth and unleash a dam of pent-up attraction and need. 

The fervor you accepted his affections with only fueled the embering fire, his growl of appreciation echoing in your mouth as your fingers thread into his hair to pull him closer, the grayed locks softer than you expected. You didn’t know what to expect from him, was he generous or selfish? Greedy or giving? The question was answered as his weathered fingers slowly slid down your torso, palming roughly at your breasts as he kissed you still before slipping them beneath the final barrier and cupped at your mound, his middle slowly dragging through your slit.

“Jesus Christ,” he marveled at the slick that had accumulated, your lips brushing through the whiskers on his jaw as you spread your thighs wider to grant him access.

No time was wasted, too much had already and that was being made very clear by the sopping mess between your thighs and the franticness Joel’s belt and jeans were undone to relieve the pressure on the effect you had over him. His middle digit found your clit, circling slowly while he enjoyed the way your back was arching and the subdued whimpers ever so faintly evident in your panting breath. His hair was still knotted in your grasp and you greedily tugged his lips back to yours, sloppily kissing him as you let the heat coursing through you take control, losing your inhibitions and enjoying this long-awaited moment.

Your gluttonous body welcomed him eagerly when he dragged lower and slid inside your waiting channel, his hand clamping over your mouth just in time to muffle the wanton cry that finally broke free. The way he shushed you only made it worse, your body bucking down against his hand impatient for more. Slipping his ring finger in stretched you even further, his pace increasing as you writhed in his hold, your breath hot on his palm as it puffed out in blissful little gusts. 

“Warmin’ up?” he cooed gruffly, his tone hinting at cocky as you cried out again, his fingers scratching at the rough patch deep inside of blackening what little your vision could see.

You were teetering on the edge, your body rocking on the precipice before his thumb pressed down on your buzzing bundle of nerves and sent you rappelling down into euphoria. White hot heat banished the last of the cold that lingered, your hairline damp as your shirt clung to the sweat pouring down your back. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he soothed, continuing gentler now as you spasmed in his arms, “That felt good, didn’t it?”

All you could muster was a nod, the hand that was still lightly covering your mouth gripping your chin and directing your mouth to his again, his tongue probing into your parted lips as you collected enough coherence to kiss him lazily in return. 

“Your turn,” you breathed, a crooked smirk twitching as he pulled your jeans down to the middle of your thighs, shifting enough to free himself from his loosened garments. 

“You tell me if it ain’t right,” he instructed, nuzzling his nose behind your ear as the head of his cock slipped between your folds, pushing into you slowly as he sighed in contentment.

It was right. It was so fucking right you instinctually fucked yourself back, sheathing him completely in one swift movement. He was long and thick, stretching you past where any other had gotten you, your body molding around him as if it had been waiting for him to make it whole. A hand on your hip kept you still had he began to gently rut into you, acclimating to the feeling of being immersed in a woman’s warm, wet heat in an effort to not cut this shorter than it already probably would be. You were impossibly full, it had been a long time since you’d trusted anyone enough for this, your fingers no match for what he could do and the way he made you feel.

“Shit, you feel good,” he purred in that Texan accent that made you swoon, “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you gasped, your fingers returning to his hair to cradle him close.

The pace picked up, his hand on your hip sliding back between your thighs as he thrust harder and faster chasing a high he hadn’t felt in years. You wanted more, wanted to give him more, and as he began to lose control your body began to drift from your side to your stomach, his arms working to brace himself over your prone form as you lifted your hips slightly into the air to feel every punch of his hips on yours. Your ass rippled against his force, his grunts fueling the second wave crashing against your lower abdomen, the pressure building rapidly as he fucked into you like a man starved. The crook of your arm caught your sounds as he sought relief in you, the only thing keeping you in place were his hands as your knees slipped on the bare surface of the mattress you were pressed into. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mewled, slamming you back onto his length as he surged forward, every inch of him buried deep in your cunt until you were strangling him as you came again, him following not long behind.

When he finally stilled you could feel him spurting thick and hot inside of you, your pussy still twitching around him as your shaky legs burned from the exertion. As he pulled out you whined in protest at the loss, your body collapsing down as he reached for a rag and began wiping what was leaking from between your legs. 

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he griped as another glob dripped free, “Got carried away.”

“Timing should work in our favor,” you eased, your cycle still the only normal thing left in this God-forsaken world and he grunted in acknowledgment, his brow relaxing from its concerned grimace. 

“We should get some sleep.”

You nodded, watching him carefully as he settled back down on his back, his head turning to peer at you and finding your wide-eyed anticipation staring back at him. With a chuckle he opened his right arm out welcoming you onto his chest, a gesture you scampered to take before he changed his mind. You tucked yourself into the space between his neck and jaw, your arm draping over his middle as he wrapped you up tight. It didn’t take long to fall asleep. 

When you woke the next morning he was already up, repacking up and readying for another day on the road to nowhere. 

“We’re headin’ down to settle somewhere,” he sounded from the corner, his gaze remaining locked on his open pack, “figured you could get your fresh start there.”

“With you?” you asked timidly, your voice still heavy with sleep after the best night of rest you’d had in years.

“I don’t see why not.”

Ellie’s arrival into the kitchen you and Joel had slept in cut your conversation short, her always perceptive eyes flicking from you to Joel on the other side of the room. 

“Did you two finally seal the deal?” the teenager asked nonchalantly, both your faces falling in horror. You thought you’d been quiet. “What? Don’t worry, my innocent eyes and ears were spared if you did. You’ve just…never smiled at her when she’s actually looking.”

Joel Miller Masterlist

Series coming soon: More Than My Father’s Son

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

hi!!! congratulations on your 1k followers!! your blog is so great and you deserve each one of them!! i wanted to request a ficlet with the following picks: P, zombie apocalypse au, hurt comfort and 🔪!! can't wait to see what you come up with, congratulations again!! -@steveseddie

Aw, that's so lovely, thank you! This one was a lot of fun to figure out, and of course it has grown a little plot already. 😅

My world ends (without you)

Rated: E (for blood and violence)

Words: 997

Tags: Zombie Apocalypse AU; Established relationship; Blood and violence; Steve Harrington whump

One time, shortly after they lost Eddie, Max asked Steve if he never got mad. She didn't look at him, just continued staring ahead, knees hugged to her chest. Her face was dotted crimson from their latest run-in with the dead, like a smattering of extra freckles.

“Do you even care at all? About what happened to Eddie?” 

“Of course,” Steve said, fingernails digging crescents into his palm. “He was my friend.” 

She huffed. “Friend, yeah. Whatever. Point is, I'd be furious at these undead fuckheads, but you? You're so calm. I don't get it.” 

Steve hummed, thinking about how to explain. 

“Of course I'm mad,” was what he settled on. “But you gotta keep a level head, or you'll do stupid things. I got you kids to protect. And besides, you think those undead fuckheads asked for this? It's the damn virus that's screwing us all over.” 

It's funny how he remembers this now, months later, huddled into the shelter of a tree and peeling his pants away from his bleeding leg. Part of him is still hoping it's something else - that he cut himself falling through that window, that one of his last bullets ricocheted and got him, fuck, please anything but this. 

But it is. 

The teeth marks in his flesh, the way the wound is already festering and turning black, tell him all he needs to know. 

“Fuck!” he swears, falling backwards and staring up at the darkening sky through stinging eyes. His hand twitches for his gun - he'd rather end it now than happening upon Robin or the kids later - but then he remembers he's out of ammunition. There's nothing he can do. 

Nothing but lie here and let the fever take him and hope that whoever finds him puts a quick end to it. 

*

He doesn't expect to wake up again, not as himself. When he does, his head is cradled in someone's lap and for a moment, he thinks he's back at their camp with Robin, that it was all a nightmare. But then he realizes he's still in the forest and the pain in his leg hits him like a ton of bricks. 

“-quite the number on you, huh, big boy?” 

Steve's groan turns into a gasp. 

“Eddie? This isn't real, you're dead.” 

Eddie grins, briefly. It tugs on the big, gnarly scar covering his jaw and the side of his face, just where Steve saw him get bitten. Then, his face settles back into grim determination. 

“How long?” 

Steve blinks against the confusion and the fever. “Huh?” 

“Your leg, Stevie. How long since the bite?” 

“I … I dunno,” Steve slurs. His head is pounding. He's burning inside. “Few hours?” 

Eddie nods. “Gotta be quick then. Sorry, this is gonna hurt like a bitch.” 

He places Steve's head on the ground, bustling around with something in the fire he has built next to their spot.

“What’re you-” Steve starts to say, trying to sit. That's when he realizes his wrists are tied above his head and panic kicks alive behind his ribcage. “Eddie?” 

When Eddie turns, he's holding a knife. The blade is glowing orange.

“No,” Steve breathes, feebly straining against his bonds. “Nonono, Eddie, please!” 

“Hey,” Eddie says. “Remember when we first met?” 

The question comes from so far out of left field that Steve forgets to struggle. Eddie’s eyes are dark and serious in the firelight. 

“You said to make it outta this, we gotta trust each other. You trust me?” 

Steve doesn’t even hesitate. He nods. Eddie smiles, brief but pleased. 

“Then let's go.” 

Something nudges against Steve’s lips, something dry and leathery - a belt. 

“You'll wanna bite down on something,” Eddie says, regret in his eyes. “Believe me.” 

Swallowing down the humiliation burning in his throat, Steve opens his mouth. 

“Atta boy,” Eddie praises, but the joke falls flat between them. “Let's fucking do this.” 

And Steve's world disappears behind a wall of pain. 

*

“Y’know,” Eddie murmurs. He's propped them up against the tree trunk, Steve’s head tucked under his chin, fingers combing Steve's sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “I'd be lying if I told ya I never thought of tying you up and gagging you with my belt, but this was not what I imagined.” 

Steve scoffs weakly, eyes straying down to his bandaged leg. “Did it work?” 

Eddie shrugs. “Think so. Henry says you gotta cut the infection out before it spreads, but how much time you got depends on a lot of factors. Your fever seems to be under control , so that's good, but lemme know if you develop any unusual cravings. Brains, raw meat, that kinda-” 

“Woah, hold on, who's Henry? Did he …” 

Eddie interrupts his ramble when Steve’s fingers find the new scar on his jaw. He allows Steve to map the shape of it for a while before catching his fingers and pressing a kiss to them. 

“Yeah. He's head of a safe zone, about twenty miles north from here. He's a scientist … well, used to be, and … Stevie, he thinks he knows how to cure it.” 

“What? Eddie, that's incredible, where- We gotta tell the others, we gotta-” Steve has hardly startled upright when Eddie guides him back down. 

“Right now, honey, all we gotta do is let you rest. Plenty of time to break the good news to the others tomorrow.” 

And maybe it's the pain, or maybe it's the blood loss, or maybe it's the overwhelming bliss of having Eddie back, but Steve doesn’t find it in himself to argue. 

“Alright,” he whispers, letting his head sag against Eddie’s chest and allowing the gentle rhythm of his beating heart to lull him to sleep. “Just … don't leave again.” 

Eddie kisses the top of his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.” 

He's broken that promise before. There's no guarantee he won't break it again, not in this fucked up nightmare they live in. But Steve trusts him. 

That has to be enough. 

Man, that Henry sounds like a swell fella, I'm sure nothing will go wrong.

More celebration ficlets

[whirlpool-blogs]

asking for a friend??

WIP Tag Game

ohhh this is the Nazi interrogation Buckies fic! Loosely based on the post that @thebuckys started, and @crowthis and I were riffing on.

Gale is known to be the best B-17 pilot around, so the Nazis are determined to get answers from him. They know he would be their best bet for getting information about the fuel range of the bombers, airspeeds, combat box weak points, max rate of ascent and descent, etc.

They also know that the Buckies' biggest weakness is each other. So when Egan rolls into the processing center, they know exactly what to do.

After days of fruitless interrogations, they drag Gale into an interrogation room and there's John, tied to a chair and hair matted with blood, eyes wide when he spots Gale. They tell Gale that for every question that he doesn't answer, they're going to hurt John. Quickly, John yells out, "I'll be fine, Buck, don't give em nothing."

So when the Nazis ask what the fuel range of an escort P-51 is, or what radio frequency they use to pull together their formations in the air, Gale keeps his mouth shut. Even when they flatten John's warm, beautiful right hand against the table and crush every last delicate bone in it. Even when they hold an electric cattle prod to John's abdomen for so long that he's throwing up onto himself, that Gale can smell burning flesh.

Eventually, the Nazis realize they're getting nowhere and escalate to the next option: their truth serum. It's super expensive because it has to be synthesized in a lab using hard-to-find reagents, so they really do try to avoid using it as much as possible. But they have a Major, and they have Cleven, so the higher-ups clear the use.

They inject it into Gale's veins and Gale just laughs at them. "You think truth serums actually work?" he spits. "If they did, then you would know that I'm actually in love with John. And the fuel range of a Spitfire is 1180 miles with a drop tank." And oh FUCK.

But now that Gale has started, he can't stop. He tells the Nazis about how long he's been in love with John. He tells them how 12 o'clock high is the weak spot of a combat box, where the fuel tanks on a B-17 sit. He tells them about Marge, how he's going to marry her, how he's going to break his own goddamn heart and marry Marge because he can't face the alternative.

John is begging, Please shut the fuck up. Gale, just shut up. Shut up.

The Nazis are DELIGHTEDDDDDD, they hit the payload AND the pilot is a deviant?! They start joking, laughing, and then decide to give Gale a reward for his good behavior: a blowjob from the man he's apparently so in love with.

John's mouth is all wrong when he takes Gale's soft cock inside of it, all slimy and warm. There's leaky, gummy wounds where his two back molars used to be. Gale doesn't need to be a genius to figure out why; there was already blood on John's face and a pair of bloody pliers on the table when he arrived.

It's the worst blowjob of Gale's life.

He comes, still soft.

John pulls off, spits blood and cum onto the floor. There's tears in his eyes. "In love with me and still gonna marry Marge, huh?" he asks.

Gale looks down at him. "Yeah," he says, softly. "Yeah, I am."

[beeeeandpuppycat]

Trevor spengler smut alphabet cause he's 18 in the newest Ghostbusters >W<

A = Aftercare: well he's kinda confused how to help but he's got the spirit ! Usually just letting you wear his shirt and shower together which just gets him even more flustered

B = body part , thighs and breast . Thighs cause he likes it when his face is squished between the soft flesh and breast cause he wants to blblblblbll in them

C = Cum , probably quick. His hormones are wild and he loves you a lil too much , First time U guys did the deed he ended up cumming immediately. Almost funny how embarrassed he was. Now he usually lasts 15 minutes but he makes it worth it <33 cums hard. And everywhere

D = Dirty secret , one time you when you came to his house for a sleep over . He was doing the laundry and there it was. A pate of small panties in the basket - and well he couldn't help it. Keeping the pair and secretly using it to masturbate in the bathroom. At the moment it's tucked under his mattress

E = Experience , no experience other than you . He was always busy doing ghost stuff . So you were his first everything which just made it all the more perfect .

F = Favorite position ,cow girl . He enjoys having you on top of him riding him like a pony. - sometimes arms tied back above the headboard. His body twitching arms tugging just wanting to hold on to you while his eyes basically roll back to his skull

G = Goofy sometimes. But usually your the one making the jokes. He would be all over pleasured and suddenly you make a silly lil reference and he's back to giggling nervous and giddy

H = Hair cleanliness , well.... Not at all really . Not at all shaved , but atleast he's clean. ?

I = Intimacy he loves you so much even he can't quite understand it. He doesn't do PDA really or anything but he's always making sure to hold your hand . In private he's always making sure to hug you . Peppering your face in loving kisses and happily cuddling on to you during the night all the time

J = Jack off, tons. Like non stop . Hormones made him even more hyper sexual than he already was . When Ur not over -hes using lil pictures of you and sex tapes of you to masturbate

K = Kink , being bounded down. Either your tied up or he is ^^. Plus biting . Leaving bite marks on your thighs . And well- especially kissing. Sucking all over your breast. "Blblblblblblblblblbl"

L = Location ,well. He enjoys his bedroom. He doesn't like people watching - enjoys it when it's private. But maybe sometimes a car. Or just a public stall bathroom

M = Motivation , hormones of course. But also cause he's a boy and genuinely his girlfriend is beautiful. So that's enough to get him horny 24/7

N = No . Turn offs, actually hitting and hurting you. Yeah he bites and of course sometimes his wrist or even yours can get slightly wounded but he would never physically punch, hit or slap you. Any lasting marks genuinely just makes him feel sad and guilty

O = Oral ,he likes receiving , any kind of head. Bite marks, and being the receiving one during sex

P = Pace ,fast and sloppy. - no real pace yet managed to hit all the g-spots perfectly . Always ends up leaving a mess behind

Q = Quickie ,he doesn't necessarily love anything fast. He enjoys actually loving you and making sure you feel good. But he doesn't necessarily have a choice considering ghost hunting . So yeah he does quickies alot^^

R = Risk ,I say he more enjoys it safe

S = Stamina , tons of stamina. Teenage boy so yk. He cums quickly - 15 minutes but he can do it all over again. 3-4 rounds.

T =toys ,well to be honest he got way too curious watching a porn video of some girl using toys on herself. And well.. he asked you about it. And well- you gave one to him. Usually just use it on you..rarely . And very secretly something only you know about he would use it on himself without anyone knowing <33

U = Unfair ,? Well maybe to himself but he usually makes sure you both get equal pleasure . He feels bad if he doesn't :(..

V =, volume in bed ?, fucking loud as hell. Whenever U guys are in a bathroom stall you have to cover his mouth just to shut him up- cause he can't stop sobbing about how much he loves you or how much it feels good.

W = wild card(head cannon) enjoys silly comics. Idk get this guy some my little pony comics he'd eat them up

X = X-ray (beneath his clothes) maybe like 5.1 , 5.2 he's average sized. - lil sensitive vein going up and the tip a pretty bubblegum pink

Y = Yearning , do I need to repeat myself how high his sex drive is ? Mf got the dawg in him .

Z = Zzz , out in a flash. - second you guys finished and you went to shower he already forgot and passed out on the bed. "Bleh"

[credince--writes]

Deep In Those Woods- Chapter 10

Keegan P. Russ x Fem!Reader

CW: Attempted SA

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6- Chapter 7- Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10

AO3

You find a strange man in the woods, no doubt running from the federation. He seems, well, in simple terms beat to shit. May your act of kindness not go unpunished.

Taglist:

@dindjarinsmeshla @tessxq @ladyvlolypop @tiny-kasper @biggiecheeselover @konigsleftkidney @mykneeshurt @katsufairies @noname0756 @brain-has-left @vinithechocolatevampire @hotthankss

The heavy and hard metal reinforced toe of the soldier's boot digging into the side of your skull, the force of the kick sending all thoughts of survival and running away like a football punted through a field goal. The bright light from the lit end of his gun blinds and blurs into large shapes, meshed silhouettes and a visceral throbbing.

The sticky, hot feeling of blood- bits of torn flesh from the intensity of the shotgun blast coat your skin in blotchy, steaming patches. 

You lift your arm in an attempt to block the blinding light as the man approaches again, but everything’s spinning, the motion of lifting your arm throws your entire body off balance. The adrenaline pumping in such a mass supply- the feral, animalistic hindbrain rearing up because it knows this is truly life or death. Your heart is pounding in hopes of delivering the chemical to live another day. Some kind of super-human response in the face of peril.

The confidence of your body fulfilling its duty, being able to protect yourself is shattered the moment the large hand wraps around your forearm and tugs you upward. Body lifting up the earth like a rag doll, then being forced face down into the grass.

Heh, a blade wedged up into your nose.

It tickles.

The twinge of pain, even in its dulled state as your arms are wedged so face backwards makes you grimace. The trees are pretty tonight, the moonlight- even in their blurry form cast tall, dark, blurry forms into the night sky. Maybe the best part about the dissolution of the modern world is the beauty of the night sky without the city’s lights.

It was blurry, even if your muscles felt light they had been hooked up to an electrical main. Tense and ready to pounce at any moment- the blade's edge you were dancing on. But you were aware- slightly. The disconnect ever present in your brain. The sound of a wounded animal as you are drug through the woods, the feeling of zip ties holding your wrists together. 

The feeling of the coagulation collecting dirt. The dust coating the blood on your body, the sticky and thick shell it started to mold onto your flesh. If they jostled you hard enough you could see bits and pieces flake off and onto the dirt below you. 

Sometimes out of spite you’d dig your toes into the earth, digging deep gouges into the moist wooded earth. 

The feeling of rope, your shoulders screaming. The cold of the nearly dried blood on your skin. 

The ache in your neck at the pain of draping forward, opening your eyes and seeing more than blurry shapes and figures. The smell of smoke and two men sitting next to a small fire, something similar to a chicken’s carcass being cooked over the bright coals. The ache in your shoulders, quickly moving to alleviate some of the weight on them by pushing up onto your tiptoes, only for your boots to slip on something and slide out from under you.

The sudden jolt and weight on your wrists and shoulders caused a sharp gasp to escape your lips. The sneer and chuckle of the two soldiers watching you struggle to maintain footing the entertainment of the night.

The smell of blood registering in your nose, the wet slip of something under your toes- looking down to see a pile of guts ripped from the carcass of the chicken discarded at your feet. Every attempt to stabilize yourself met with a wet squelch or the popping of cartilage and bone.

The gag is unstoppable, your body heaving forward with a jolt, further straining your muscles.

They only laugh harder.

The extent of the situation begins to dawn on you- that you wouldn’t be able to do anything against them even with your hands free. The nightmare you’d feared since the beginning had become true, and you were at the mercy of something worse than monsters. 

You were at the mercy of men. 

It’s that very fear, validated in the moment that one of the men rolls over to sleep for the night. The second left to stand guard for the night- waiting until the breaths of the first became even. 

He stands, eyes locked onto your body.

The bile rises in your throat.

You can smell his breath, cigarettes and rot. The wafting smell of charred meat from the chicken they’d eaten earlier. The smell of decay wafting from his mouth with heady breaths. He grips your chin between your forefinger and thumb, and you can see the glint of the dirt and filth coating his hands and under his nails. 

He sneers something to you that you can’t understand, a teasing and crude tone of mock worry. 

He leans in closer.

Without thinking you drive your forehead into his nose as hard as you can, lurching your body forward with as much momentum as you can gather from your struggling toes. 

He lets out a howl, and stumbles back. The first man immediately jolted up at the sound of his comrade’s injury. You hope the satisfaction of the harm inflicted would’ve compensated for the feeling of using your head as a weapon- but the dread washes away any potential smugness as the two men turn back to you, fists raised.

You didn’t even break his nose.

The first, an open handed slap across your cheek sends you reeling backwards, yanked to the side as you stumble as the other man grabs hold of the rope your hands are strung up by. The second lands in your midsection, by the third your knees give out and the only thing keeping your body upright is the rope your wrists are dangling from.

You didn’t even make blood leak from those stupid fucking nostrils.

They get bored rather quickly, four hits in and you're dangling like a piece of meat. Rather than the tears spilling down your cheeks, a whimper escapes your lips as the pain settles into your bones. A throbbing in your lip, and an ache in your middle. A pain blooming on your back. The ever present scream of your shoulders begging for relief. 

You’re going to die here.

The hand reaches under your chin and forces your face back up to look at him. Mumbling something you still can’t understand, free hand reaching up and grabbing hold of your belt.

The hot feeling of spit splattering against your cheek and nose makes the bile in your stomach rise back up into the back of your throat. His thumb coming up and rubbing circles of his spit onto the side of your face before giving it a smug pat. Once, twice for his own good luck. Hand sliding up from your belt and underneath your shirt- you can feel the dull scratch of his filthy nails against the blooming bruises on your abdomen. It makes your spine curl backwards at the feeling- the revolting smell of his breath.

The rustling of ferns, stomping feet against the fallen leaves and branches.

The sickening crack of teeth on bone. The blur of fur and flesh.

The scream of a man in agony.

Both of your heads snap to the side, a dog- no, a beast tearing flesh from the forearm of the man once sleeping. A man lurching from the darkness, blade in hand diving into the throat of the man as the dog tugs on the limp limb, snarling and huffing teeth bore to the taste of blood and pain.

The hand, resting over your rib cage feeling the desperate thudding of your heart yanked away as a blade is driven once, twice, three times-

Again, and again, and again-

The blood splatters against the trees surrounding you, a hot droplet is flicked from the blade and onto you. Adrenaline pumping in your ears all over again as the rope above you is sliced and a man is pulling you into him.

You fight- as much as you can with your wrists still bound. 

The arm wraps around your middle and pulls you back and away from the fire, back and deep into the darkness of the woods. Rather than smoke, guts, blood, coals- rot, all you can smell is blood and the cold forest air. 

Your legs flail, shoulders jolting side to side trying to get away- the dog has seated itself in front of you staring intently at your struggle. As if you’re to be it’s next meal- they’ll set you free to try and run away for their enjoyment of the hunt. The struggle you’ll never win-

Hands cup both sides of your face, steely blue eyes in the moonlight, your own heaving breaths. The arms behind you refuse to relent against your struggle, footsteps. Men.

Fear.

Your name, the timber and desperation of a voice.

Warm hands.

“Hey, hey come on and breathe. Take a deep breath for me sweetheart.” Keegan's voice, and the sound of your hyperventilating.

The brothers share a look.

Cold metal slips between your wrists, freeing the tension of the zip ties. Your hands reach up and meet his, trembling both with fear, adrenaline, and relief. You open your mouth to say something- anything.

All that releases are broken sobs, tears finally breaking the dam and flowing down your cheeks.

He smells like blood. 

He smells like death.

Just like you.

[butterfly-lies-chase-them-away]

Could you write an Alfie x Reader where they are soulmates in which when ones skin is marred (wounds, tattoos, that kind of thing), and Y/n is always in pain and getting tattoos she never wanted because of her soulmate getting into fights. This makes her angry with the man she never met. You can choose how this ends :p

Soulbound Scars (Soulmate AU) (Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader) ONESHOT (request)

(UNEDITED)

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4028

Warnings: getting punched in the face 💀 Summary: (The request) A/N: This was acutally a really cute request, I had to write it!

In the gritty heart of Camden town's unforgiving underworld, Alfie Solomons reigned supreme as a feared and formidable gang leader. He was intimately acquainted with the relentless brutality that defined the streets he called home. His life was an unrelenting maelstrom of conflict and power struggles, a ceaseless cycle that left behind a haunting tapestry of scars and pain, etched into both his flesh and his very soul. The very essence of his existence was a testament to the harsh, unyielding reality of his world.

But in the midst of this brutal world, there existed another figure, shrouded in mystery, whose existence was inextricably tied to Alfie's in a most enigmatic way. Y/n, a woman of quiet strength and boundless empathy, bore an unusual burden. She was, in every sense, Alfie's counterpart, linked to him by a connection that defied explanation. They were soulmates, united by an unbreakable bond that allowed them to experience each other's pain, scars, and life's trials.

Y/n's life in Camden Town was far from ordinary. She was a young woman who struggled to secure employment in a society that had little regard for her gender, and the ever-present physical toll her body bore. Her skin was adorned with an intricate mosaic of tattoos, scars, and bruises, yet these marks were not the result of her actions. Rather, they were a reflection of Alfie's turbulent existence, a testament to his unending battles and ceaseless struggles.

As Y/n walked down the crowded streets of Camden Town, she couldn't help but feel the weight of judgmental glances upon her. Her face, adorned with an assortment of bruises and cuts, was a testament to the unspoken battles she fought daily. Every step she took was accompanied by a barrage of side-eyed glances, a mixture of curiosity, concern, and, unfortunately, condemnation.

The passersby, with their fleeting gazes and murmured comments, couldn't comprehend the enigmatic tapestry of pain that adorned her skin. Some showed empathy, recognizing the silent cries for help etched into her features. Others, less understanding, chose to avert their eyes or exchanged hushed words of gossip.

Y/n's path through the bustling streets was a journey marked not only by the physical toll on her body but also by the constant scrutiny of a world that judged without knowing the depth of her struggle. Yet, she persevered, refusing to let the unforgiving stares deter her from navigating the complex tapestry of her life.

Amid the relentless scrutiny she endured while walking the streets of Camden Town, Y/n faced another layer of her unique predicament. Not only was her face a canvas of bruises and cuts, but her body was further adorned with intricate, mysterious tattoos that she had no control over. These tattoos covered her arms in a vivid tapestry of ink, each mark a stark reminder of Alfie's tumultuous life.

The abundance of tattoos left Y/n with a wardrobe of clothing choices that were constrained by the need to conceal the enigmatic symbols etched upon her skin. She would carefully select long-sleeved shirts, even during the warmest days, to hide the visual evidence of her connection to this mysterious man she share her soul with. It was a constant battle between the desire to blend in and the ever-present reality of the inked tapestry beneath her clothing.

Nights were another challenge altogether. Y/n would often wake up, feeling an all-too-familiar sensation of itching along her arms, only to discover the presence of yet another tattoo. These markings appeared as if Alfie's struggles and battles were transferred onto her very skin while she slept. Each morning, she faced the daunting task of examining the new additions, each telling a story of violence and turmoil.

The combination of her conspicuous injuries and the ever-multiplying tattoos made Y/n a walking enigma, a living testament to the strange connection she shared with Alfie. As she navigated the judgmental streets, it was as though her entire existence was a riddle waiting to be unravelled, leaving Y/n isolated in a world that couldn't begin to comprehend the complexities of her situation.

In an era where the challenges of being a woman were already formidable, Y/n's unique circumstances made her life exponentially more difficult. The inherent bias and inequality that women faced were amplified by her conspicuous appearance, which seemed to carry the weight of an even greater burden.

The mere act of stepping out into the unforgiving world became an ordeal, where she had to navigate a labyrinth of prejudice and stereotypes. It was an era where gender roles were strictly defined, and women were expected to conform to society's expectations. Y/n, however, was anything but conventional.

Her path was marred not only by the physical marks that adorned her face and body but also by the constant whispers and judgments that followed her like a shadow. The way she looked challenged the societal norms of the time, rendering her an outlier in an environment that preferred conformity.

Y/n's resilience was undeniable. To stand out in a world that sought to stifle her, to bear the physical and emotional scars of a life she never asked for, took a courage that surpassed the ordinary. Despite the world's judgmental gaze and its relentless attempts to stifle her spirit, Y/n remained determined to carve her own path, defying the limitations placed upon her by society, and, most notably, the mysterious connection she shared with this rebel.

Y/n had never come face to face with the man, but an undeniable aversion had taken root deep within her. It was a visceral sensation, a loathing that had no rational explanation but ran through her like a vein of unyielding steel. 

Y/n's life had been intricately woven with the presence of a man she had never met, and the intensity of her feelings toward him was palpable. While the connection between their souls was undeniable, she remained in the dark about his identity, an enigma that both frustrated and intrigued her.

The absence of a face, a name, or any defining feature to attach her emotions to only fueled her disdain. She couldn't help but loathe the man who had unknowingly brought a cascade of chaos into her existence. It was as if her life had been entangled with his in a relentless dance of pain and suffering, and she had been given no choice in the matter.

The absence of answers, and the inability to pinpoint the source of her torment, was a constant source of frustration. Her heart was burdened by the knowledge that there was a soulmate out there, somewhere, who held the key to her mysterious existence.

Yet, despite the resentment and the ambiguity of it all, there was a peculiar undercurrent of curiosity that lingered within her. She couldn't help but wonder about the man who was the silent orchestrator of her suffering, yearning to understand the intricacies of their shared connection and the profound impact it had on her life.

-

On an overcast afternoon in Camden Town, Y/n was strolling down the bustling streets, her steps guided by a peculiar yet undeniable pull. She'd been to Camden countless times, weaving through the vibrant marketplace, but today was different. A magnetic sensation drew her towards a particular establishment she'd often passed without a second thought.

The bar, a dimly lit, weathered haunt tucked away in an inconspicuous corner, beckoned her like a siren's call. Its façade was adorned with faded neon signs and a slightly cracked window, offering a glimpse of a cosy interior where the hum of conversation mingled with the distant strum of a guitar.

Without knowing why, Y/n found herself standing in front of the entrance, the tattered awning casting a shadow over her features. Her heart raced, her curiosity piqued. It was as if an invisible hand guided her, a force she couldn't resist. 

She pushed the weathered door open and stepped inside, the scent of aged wood and alcohol enveloping her senses. The bar was a time capsule, frozen in an era of dimly lit intimacy, a stark contrast to the chaotic streets outside. It was a place where stories were etched into every surface, where secrets were shared over drinks, and where the past seemed to linger in every corner.

Amid the dimly lit interior of the bar, Y/n's footsteps were guided by an inexplicable force, leading her toward a specific corner that seemed to beckon her with an eerie allure. It was as if an unseen hand had gently pushed her in that direction, while an electric sensation sent shivers down her spine.

In that corner, bathed in a faint, golden glow of a solitary overhead lamp, sat a large, bearded man. His hulking presence was accentuated by a formidable frame that seemed to fill the space around him. A thick, grizzled beard covered most of his face, and a distinctive porkpie hat crowned his head.

The room around her faded into a distant murmur as she locked eyes with the mysterious figure. There was an air of enigma that surrounded him, an aura of intrigue that had lured her to this very spot. His gaze, beneath the shadow of his hat, was intense and penetrating, as if he had been waiting for her all along.

The atmosphere in that corner of the bar felt pregnant with significance, as though their destinies were inexorably entwined. Y/n stood there, captivated by the presence of the bearded man, and the unspoken connection between them seemed to hum with an undeniable, almost magnetic force.

As Y/n stood there, locked in the intense gaze of the bearded man with the porkpie hat, a profound realization washed over her. It was as if time had come to a standstill, and the world around them had faded into insignificance. The magnetic force that had drawn her to this corner of the bar, the inexplicable connection she had felt, was crystallizing before her eyes.

The bearded man's eyes, beneath the shadow of his hat, held a gaze so intense that it seemed to pierce through her very soul. In those deep, penetrating eyes, Y/n saw a reflection of the same enigmatic pull she had felt, an electric connection that transcended reason.

At that moment, their souls seemed to align, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this man was her soulmate. It wasn't a matter of mere coincidence or chance. It was a profound connection, one that had bound them together long before they had even met.

As the realization dawned, the bearded man's mesmerized expression mirrored her own astonishment. The unspoken recognition between them was palpable, a bridge of understanding that needed no words. It was as if the universe itself had orchestrated this meeting, a fateful collision of two souls destined to be together.

In the hushed corner of the bar, amid the dim light and the enigmatic atmosphere, Y/n and her newfound soulmate shared a moment of silent, mutual acknowledgement. It was a moment of clarity, an epiphany that transcended the boundaries of time and place, and in that moment, their souls danced to the same rhythm, forever united by an unbreakable bond.

As the profound realization of their soulmate connection washed over them, the bearded man with the porkpie hat rose from his seat with a deliberate, almost reverent slowness. His movements were graceful, as though he were stepping onto sacred ground, each step bringing him closer to the enigmatic woman who had walked into his life like a long-lost melody.

Y/n, too, was not to be outdone by the gravity of this moment. Her heart raced as she felt an irresistible force drawing her toward the bearded man. With determined strides, she marched up to him, her eyes locked onto his, and her pace unyielding. The world around them seemed to dissolve into an indistinct blur, leaving only the two of them in the spotlight of destiny.

The onlookers in the bar could sense that something extraordinary was unfolding before their eyes, a connection that transcended the ordinary boundaries of time and space. It was as if they were witnessing the reunion of two souls that had been apart for an eternity.

Despite the magnetic and mesmerizing connection between Y/n and the bearded man, there was still a torrent of emotions that coursed through her. The hatred she had harboured for him, fueled by the inexplicable nature of their soulmate connection, surged within her.

Without warning, as the bearded man stood before her, Y/n's anger and frustration reached a boiling point. With a sudden, fierce motion, she swung her fist and landed a forceful punch squarely on the man's nose. The impact was a resounding blow, a manifestation of her pent-up emotions.

As her fist connected with the man's nose, the shockwaves of pain cascaded through their interconnected souls. Y/n felt not only the force of her own punch but also the searing pain of her soulmate's nose as if it were her own. The sensation was overwhelming, a shared agony that transcended the boundaries of their individual experiences.

In the dimly lit corner of the bar, their connection was brought to the forefront, not only in the inexplicable recognition of their bond but also in the shared pain they now bore. Y/n's actions were a culmination of the complex emotions that had swirled within her, and the bearded man, bewildered and in pain, held his nose, the realization of their unique connection etched into every facet of their beings.

The bar's patrons were taken aback as a young woman made her entrance, her presence exuding an air of defiance that seemed to defy explanation. The audacious act of punching the formidable gang leader in the face sent shockwaves through the establishment, where the norm was to avoid eye contact with such a powerful figure.

A collective gasp seemed to hang in the air as the punch landed, and the aggressive gang leader was rocked by the force of the unexpected blow. The room fell into a hushed silence, the dimly lit atmosphere amplifying the intensity of the moment. The patrons exchanged bewildered glances, their expressions torn between concern and curiosity.

"That's for not fucking taking care of yourself, you bloody asshole!" Y/n screamed at the man, the words laced with frustration, her own blood trickling from her injured nose. Her emotions had finally found an outlet, and they erupted in a torrent of anger and pain.

The gang leader, despite the hit he had just taken, managed to crack a grin and release a hearty laugh, the sudden absurdity of the situation not lost on him. ”Fucking ‘ell.”

His amusement, although unexpected, seemed to shift the tension in the room, eliciting a mixture of uncertain chuckles from some of the patrons. 

"You pack quite a fucking punch, don't you, dear?" The bearded man remarked, his voice a mixture of amusement and respect as if he had gained a newfound appreciation for the fiery spirit that resided within the young woman who had just rocked his world.

"Yeah, I can feel that," Y/n replied, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm, although her nose throbbed with an intensity that mirrored the exchange of emotions and pain they were sharing. The connection between them was undeniable, transcending the physical and into the realm of something far more profound. As they stood there, two souls locked in a complex dance of emotions, the world around them seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the enigmatic connection that bound them together.

"Let's get out of here, yeah?" her soulmate suggested, his words carrying an unspoken urgency as if they were drawn together by a force that extended beyond the confines of the bar. 

"What's your name, las’?" he asked, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Y/n," she replied, her own lips curving into a hesitant yet genuine smile. It was a simple exchange of names, but at that moment, it felt like the beginning of a new chapter in their intertwined destinies.

"Alfie," the man introduced himself, the weight of his name now matched by the weight of their shared connection.

Y/n offered a small nod, a sense of relief washing over her. Finally knowing the name of the man who had unintentionally been putting her through a rollercoaster of emotions brought a strange comfort. The enigmatic puzzle pieces of their lives were beginning to fall into place, even if it meant navigating an uncertain and unconventional path together.

"Sorry 'bout the..." Y/n began, her voice trailing off as she lifted her hand and mimicked a small punching motion to indicate the earlier altercation.

Her soulmate chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he understood the gesture. "No need to apologize, love," he said, his voice tinged with warmth. “I probably deserved that.”

"Yeah! You fucking well deserved it, you've made my life a living hell!" Y/n exclaimed, her laughter ringing with a mixture of relief and exasperation. The absurdity of the situation seemed to dawn on her as she continued, "No one's gonna hire a woman who looks like she's getting beaten every other day, and don't even get me started on these bloody tattoos." Her words were a blend of frustration and humour, a testament to the unique challenges she had faced due to her mysterious connection with Alfie.

Alfie couldn't help but join in her laughter, his own laughter resonating with the understanding of the bizarre reality they had been thrust into. "Well, you certainly don't mince your words, love," he remarked with a grin, finding an unexpected camaraderie in the woman who had just punched him in the face. It was as if, in that moment, their shared experiences and shared pain had forged a connection that transcended their initial animosity.

"Well, looking like you, you could imagine why," Y/n replied with a wry smile, her gaze shifting from her own scars and bruises to Alfie's imposing figure. It was a moment of shared understanding, a recognition that their connection had created a unique bond, neither one had anticipated.

"Well, you can work for me if you'd like," Alfie offered, his smile carrying a mixture of genuine kindness and a touch of playfulness. It was an unexpected proposition, given their tumultuous introduction, but it seemed to fit the absurdity of their situation perfectly.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, the offer taking her by surprise. "Work for you? Doing what, exactly?"

"Well, I could always use a secretary," Alfie mused, a spontaneous idea forming in his mind.

Y/n arched an eyebrow, considering the offer. "Is it legal?" she asked, her practicality coming to the forefront.

"Does it really matter?" Alfie replied with a sly smirk, his eyes dancing with amusement. The legality of the situation seemed to be a secondary concern in the face of their newfound partnership, and the unconventional offer only added to the intrigue of the strange and extraordinary connection they now shared.

They halted just outside the building, its imposing exterior betraying the secrecy that lay within. Alfie held the heavy door open, allowing Y/n to step inside.

"What is this place?" Y/n inquired, her gaze scanning the interior with curiosity.

Alfie hesitated for a moment before he answered with a cryptic smile, "My bakery."

As Y/n took in the surroundings, it became evident that it was far from being a conventional bakery. The heady scent of spirits and the sight of distilling equipment told a different story. It was a distillery, hidden beneath the facade of a bakery, and it held the promise of adventures, secrets, and perhaps a partnership that defied expectations.

Alfie guided her through the labyrinthine distillery, the aroma of spirits filling the air as they navigated the maze of barrels and machinery. Eventually, they reached his office, where he motioned for Y/n to take a seat on a well-worn couch. With a nod, he disappeared briefly to retrieve something from his desk.

Seated in his office, Y/n felt a sense of anticipation and curiosity. The air was heavy with the secrets held within the distillery's walls, and she couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead.

As Alfie busied himself, Y/n decided to shed her heavy jacket, the worn leather falling to the floor. It revealed the intricate tapestry of tattoos that adorned her arms and shoulders, each one a testament to the shared pain and connection she had with Alfie. Her short-sleeved dress showcased the artwork etched into her skin, a silent testament to the unique bond they shared and the scars that painted their lives.

Alfie returned to the room, a low, appreciative whistle escaping his lips as his eyes traced the intricate tattoos that adorned Y/n's arms. "Nice tattoos," he remarked, a playful lilt in his voice.

Y/n couldn't help but smirk in response. "Yeah, you're a real artist, aren't you?" Her words held a teasing quality, a recognition of the shared journey they were embarking upon.

Their banter, filled with humour and unspoken understanding, seemed to define the beginning of their unique partnership. It was a partnership that transcended the ordinary, rooted in the inexplicable connection they had discovered, and the world outside the distillery seemed to fade into insignificance as their shared adventure began.

Alfie returned with a bowl of water and a small towel, his actions reflecting a surprising tenderness. He dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out slightly before approaching Y/n. Gently, he began to wipe away the dried blood that clung above her lip, his touch careful and considerate.

Y/n watched him silently, a mix of emotions swirling within her. The contrast between the fearsome gang leader she had initially encountered and this side of him, which displayed care and concern, was stark and intriguing. The unspoken bond they shared was revealing itself in unexpected ways, forging a connection that transcended their tumultuous introduction.

"Thanks," Y/n whispered, her voice laced with a hint of gratitude as Alfie continued to clean the dried blood from her face.

Alfie rose from his seat, a soft smile playing at his lips as he emptied the bowl, the remnants of their shared pain vanishing with the crimson-stained water. With a quick swipe, he also cleaned the blood that had found its way into his beard. 

Y/n leaned back on the couch, a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. "So... when do I start work?" she inquired, her tone a mixture of anticipation and eagerness as if she was ready to embark on this new and unconventional chapter of her life.

Alfie paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on her before he answered, his words carrying a sense of excitement. "Tomorrow work for you?" The invitation was met with a nod from Y/n, and the distillery office seemed to brim with the promise of shared adventures, unspoken secrets, and a partnership that was forged in the most peculiar of circumstances.

-

And so, as they embarked on this unique story together, Y/n and Alfie found themselves bound not only by shared pain but by a connection that defied explanation. Their partnership, born from an unconventional introduction, took them through the labyrinthine world of the distillery and the tumultuous streets of Camden town.

In each other, they discovered not just an understanding of the scars and bruises that marked their bodies, but a shared resilience and strength that allowed them to navigate a world where the boundaries between pain and pleasure, danger and intrigue, blurred into something altogether extraordinary.

As they ventured into the uncharted territory of their newfound partnership, the scars that painted their lives, and the enigmatic connection that bound them together seemed to promise a future filled with unexpected adventures, challenges, and perhaps, a love that transcended the ordinary. The pain they shared had given birth to an extraordinary bond, one that would forever unite their souls in the chaos of Camden town.

- A/N: Had absolutely no idea how to end this off but I'm happy with what I've written. I hope you enjoyed this one-shot as much as I enjoyed writing it. I know they didn't interact much until the end but...it's still cute maybe Don't know how they wanted me to write this request but I hope they're happy. But keep requesting as I really enjoy them. :) 💚

[clintbartonswife]

rip off the band-aid

Pairings: Peter Parker x Wade Wilson Summary: wade carries patterned band-aids. peter is in love. Whumptober prompt #7 : alleyway / radio silence Notes: college!peter parker, descriptions of violence and injury, excessive bad language masterlist   || whumptober2023

Peter hissed as a stray bullet grazed his forearm, having successfully dodged the rest of the emptied magazine, the fabric of his suit tearing and allowing some of his blood to creep down his arm.

"Come on!" He exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Okay, now you've annoyed me Mr. Robber. Do you know how hard it is for me to fix this thing?"

The bad guy seemed taken aback by the statement, hesitating as he reloaded. That was all the opportunity Peter needed, leaping forwards to deliver a punch square to his jaw, knocking him on his ass. As he scrambled to regain his footing, Peter webbed him to the spot.

"What the hell man, I've got places I need to be!"

"Shush - you tried to rob an old lady, you don't get to complain at me right now." He began backing out of the alleyway, only feeling slightly guilty at the robber's continued protests. Not too guilty though, he had shot him after all. "Stay there - the police will be here... soon. Like, within the hour definitely."

Extending his arm to release another web, he winced at the hot pain that radiated across his skin, willing his healing factor to kick in. Swinging back to his apartment was gonna suck.

Deciding to avoid that for as long as he could, he began to walk up the side of the building. Once at the top, he looked out over the row of flat roofs, smirking.

"Parkour" he whispered, beginning to run. As he leapt over the roofs, he allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of freedom, wind rushing past him with a deafening roar.

He eventually made it to the last building, a large road separating this building from the next. Readying himself to swing, his ears picking up on pitchy singing coming from the building opposite.

"I know that voice..."

Already smiling, he swung up to the building, landing on the edge of the roof. Deadpool was facing away from him, bright pink headphones over his ears.

Under the mask, Peter raised an eyebrow, huffing a laugh as the merc continued his off-key singing, wiggling along to the beat. As he reached the chorus, he began to do the funky chicken, turning around slightly with each jump.

"P-p-p-poker face f-f-fuck her face, ca- OH god, webs!! Dont sneak up on me during my gaga time!"

Peter laughed at this, warm feeling in his chest. He had begun to associate the feeling with Wade. It was dangerous.

"Well maybe if you didnt have your volume up so high, you woulda heard me landing"

The mercenary gasped, placing a hand on his chest. "You don't listen to gaga on anything other than full volume, every monster knows that!"

"How many times do I have to tell you you're not a monster until you believe me?"

"Wh - Oh. You do care. As adorable as that is baby boy, I was using the fan name for all gaga stans."

"oh - right. I knew that."

Deadpool placed his hand on his forehead dramatically, "You make me feel old, Webs. You really do. Good thing you've got daddy issues or this would never work."

"Wade -!"

At this, the older man chuckled, moving closer to the spider. "I mean, really it's lucky that I -" He broke off, crowding closer to Peter. "Your arm -"

"'Tis but a flesh wound, it's really nothing, it's practically already healed-"

His voice gave out as gloves gently parted the rip in his suit, allowing Wade a better look. Peter could do nothing but watch with baited breath as the other man pulled out a small case from one of his many pockets, producing a hello kitty band-aid and carefully placing it on the cut. He then bent down to place a kiss on the area, the warm leather of his red mask against his skin sending chills up Peter's arm.

"There!" Wade grinned, seemingly unaware of the mental spiral he had sent Peter down, "All better!"

"Y- yeah. All better. Thanks, 'pool"

///

It had become a thing.

Wade seemed to have a never ending supply of band-aids in the pockets of his suit which he was always too happy to give out. At the end of patrols Peter usually had at least one band-aid stuck to him, even when it was very clear he didnt need it.

Just last night Wade had sent him home with 6 plasters on his back, themes ranging from paw patrol to spongebob. He hadnt noticed until he was getting changed, meaning that the merc had been putting them on him throughout the night without Peter realising.

He wasn't sure if that gap in his spidersense was something to be happy or concerned about.

He chose not to think about it instead.

Today, he was stood on the edge of the roof, waiting for Wade to come back with Chimichangas.

"Oi! Webhead!" Peter looked down, Wade holding up the takeout like a baby Simba at the base of the building. "Uppies?"

He snorted. "You're not a child, 'Pool."

"Don't make me take the stairs you cruel and beautiful bastard."

Peter rolled his eyes affectionately, making sure he was grounded with his footing before sending a web down to Wade and pulling him up. As he did so, Wade vocalised to the tune of 'When will my life begin' from Tangled.

"You're an idiot." Peter laughed, Wade placing the takeout safely on the edge of the roof before hauling himself up the rest of the way.

"I happen to be an idiot with food, so you might wanna rethink that attitude Petey Pie."

"You would starve me?"

Deadpool cocked his hip out defiantly. In response, Peter took his mask off and pouted.

"Ugh! No fair! You know I cant deny your cute little face of anything!"

Peter laughed, taking his share of the takeout with a cheer of success before sitting down cross-legged on the floor. "Pleasure doing business."

"Cold. Very cold." Wade chastised, though his smile was audible. With a hefty sigh, he joined Peter on the floor, pulling his mask up to his nose. "I grabbed you a fortune cookie on my way - I know you like those."

Peter blushed slightly, trying his best to hide his surprise. "Oh - thank you 'Pool."

He accepted the small package, ripping it open excitedly and letting out a small hiss as the plastic sliced into his finger.

"Nobody panic!" Wade yelled, dropping his burrito on to his lap and producing a plaster from his pocket in record time. "Daddy's got you covered!"

"Wade -"

"Shush." he chided, taking hold of his hand and applying the band-aid gently.

Peter rolled his eyes fondly, "Really? Isn't this a bit on the nose?"

"Branding is important for any self respecting merc-turned-hero. Plus, this way people know that if they hurt you I'll gut them with my katanas!"

"Hey! What have I said about the no killing thing?"

Wade dropped his head like a scolded schoolchild. "To not kill people. Which I will stick to... unless you are gravely injured."

"Is this your way of keeping me around?"

"Is it working?"

Peter just smiled, rubbing his thumb against the deadpool-themed band-aid before breaking open the fortune cookie.

'if we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives'

He swallowed heavily, glancing quickly up at Wade who was currently trying to fit as much as possible of his burrito in his mouth at once.

It would be so easy to say something right now - to, for the lack of a better phrase, rip off the band-aid.

Fear held him back, unable to even think of a world in which he didn't have Wade. Sure, the man made a lot of jokes about dating him, but they were never followed up in any way that would even suggest an inch of seriousness.

Peter refused to mess this up.

So instead he shoved the note down the neck of his suit, unwrapping his food and pushing his thoughts to the back of his head.

///

Over the next few months, Peter found himself thinking back to the fortune he had received. The note itself was pinned to his corkboard in his bedroom, meaning it was the first thing he saw every night as he left to and returned from his patrols.

Wade seemed blissfully unaware of the younger man's mental distress, still happily providing themed plasters for every little cut and scrape that he had gained during his endless hours protecting his city.

Peter made a mental note that the range in themes were steadily declining, the majority of them now boldly covered in deadpool's symbols. A small and slightly insane part of his brain convinced him that this was Wade's way of staking his claim, somehow akin to a wedding ring.

Today, he was on his way back from college, tracing his fingers over the band-aid on his forearm. The cut underneath it had been tiny, his enhanced healing definitely having erased it by now, but he couldn't bring himself to take it off.

"Help!"

Peter froze in his tracks, senses dialled to 11. The hairs on his arms rose as he kicked into gear, running to an empty alleyway and stripping his clothes as quickly as he could to reveal his suit, shoving them in his bag and exchanging them for his mask.

Between swings, he quickly typed out a message to deadpool for backup, the amount of police cars racing towards the area a good indicator of the level of threat he was about to face.

The sound of crumbling buildings heightened as he grew closer, sirens and screams building into a frantic cacophony, reaching its peak just as Peter arrived at the scene.

He took a moment to assess, sticking on to the side of a building as his eyes tracked through the chaos in search of the source. He figured it out pretty quickly.

What can only be described as a green goblin soared through the skies on top of a metal... thing, smashing buildings to pieces with his gloved hands.

With a deep breath, he leapt into action, using the momentum from his swing to hit the goblin square in the jaw.

"Queens is not your personal playground!" he yelled, sticking on to the side of a building as he gauged the situation, "Though I'm sure you'll love it in prison! Maybe we should go there now? Save me the trouble of dragging you there -"

He was cut off as a car was thrown in his direction, Peter preventing it from crashing into the building with some cleverly timed webs.

"Well. That was rude."

"No spider tells me what to do" The goblin spat, "You are all beneath me - imbeciles - and should be treated as such!"

At the end of his sentence, he once again launched a car, Peter dodging and catching it once again. "What do you have against cars, dude?"

The cars kept coming, Peter attempting to find a way to subdue the goblin man whilst still making sure that the cars didn't hit him or anyone still in the surrounding area.

He managed to send another SOS to Wade, nerves setting in as he saw the goblin down a glass of green liquid, the man's veins popping out as he let out a scream.

"You shall all fall at my feet!"

"Yeah... the average New Yorker is not into that. Not to kink shame or anything - I'm sure the people who do like it are really happy with their choices - that's the key! Consent and choices -"

His phone buzzed, distracting him for a moment, just long enough to miss the broken off piece of scaffolding flying towards him. It impacted his side, arm faltering mid swing.

He fell to the ground, swearing at the impact.

It took a few seconds before the pain began to register, blood running down his side like a macabre waterfall. Legs weakening, he retreated to the nearest alleyway, dipping behind a dumpster.

"Spiderman! Come out and face me you coward!"

Peter winced, the wound in his side bleeding more heavily than he was comfortable with, red liquid spilling on to the floor as he shifted his weight in an effort to better take cover behind the dumpster.

He could hear the echoing steps of the goblin approaching, but couldnt seem to find it in his muddled mind to move.

Where was Wade?

The footsteps halted at the entrance of the alleyway. Peter could hear the goblin's breathing, closing his eyes as he accepted his fate.

Instead of the pain he was sure was coming, the footsteps retreated, seemingly chasing after something. A few moments later, a cacophony of noise filled the area, followed by quiet.

"Webs?"

Relief rushed through him, Peter managing a weak shout. Wade rushed towards him, looking around for a few seconds before spotting his scrunched up figure.

Peter choked out a weak laugh, moving his hand to reveal the extent of the damage. "Think I could use some of your plasters around now, 'pool"

The merc was eerily quiet, unmoving as he looked at the injury.

"Fuck - 's that bad, huh?" Peter asked, coughing slightly as he curled back in on himself.

That seemed to break Deadpool from his stupor, the man kneeling at his side in an instant. "Fuck, baby boy - I - I dont know what to do."

Gloved hands hovered over his, before retracting back, Wade beginning to whack himself on the head. "How do I fix this. No - fuck, fuck, shitty fucking fuck!"

Peter frowned, fighting through the haze that had started to descend on him in order to pat Wade's shoulder comfortingly, "It's 'kay, I'm fine! See?" He moved his hand from his shoulder to his cheek and attempted a smile. "I'm okay."

"I don't - I don't know how to fix this, Webs. You need a doctor... I need -" He dug through his pockets, whipping out the bedazzled hello kitty flip-phone. "Matt knows a nurse - she's fixed him up before maybe -"

Peter blinked heavily, a high pitched ringing sound starting to deafen his hearing. Fear began to rise within him, sitting heavily on his chest. It was bad - that much he knew, if only from Wade's reaction.

'if we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives'

He nudged Wade's phone away from his ear, demanding his full attention. "I need you to know something."

"You can tell me when you're all better," Wade insisted, listing off their location to someone on the phone.

Peter frowned. "Wade. Please."

"I'm getting help, okay? Just let me get help -"

"I love you." Wade froze, hand tightening around the phone. At his lack of response, Peter continued. "I have loved you for months now. I love - I love your laugh, your smile... I love your voice. I love -"

He was interrupted by a cough, groaning as pain spread through his entire body, fresh blood splattered on his glove. Wade dropped the phone to the floor, applying pressure to his wound, panic clear in his voice.

"Peter -"

"I love your stupid band-aids. I love how they make me feel like I matter. Like you care -"

"I do care -"

"And if I die -"

"You're not going to die -"

"I need you to know how much you mean to me."

Wade's breath quickened, leaning over to yell 'hurry' into his phone. Peter's head felt light, the pain starting to feel more like weightlessness. Distantly, he noted that this was a bad thing.

Frowning, he pushed Wade's mask off, smiling as his eyes took in every crease and crevice of his face. He lifted his arm with great effort, faintly tracing over his cheekbone, down his jawline and finishing at his lips.

With his face bared, the spider could finally see the pure anguish worn on Wade's face.

"Don't be sad."

"Just - Stay with me Petey, you're going to be okay."

His eyes were so heavy, the lids closing against his will.

"I love you too!" Wade yelled, desperation seeping out of every pore. "Fucking goddamn to hell, I love you. Don't leave me -"

Peter couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, eyes fluttering as unconsciousness pulled him into oblivion.

"Over here! He's - help him!"

[villainsimpqueen]

Shades

recom mansk x doctor reader.

Everyone knew that you were a soldier's special gal if the soldier bestowed you with their shades. The protective sun visors were no longer just eyewear but now a symbol that a soldier wanted you.

Of course you thought the notion was just some made up thing the other women on staff made up to make each other jealous. You were a doctor, you had more things to prioritize than getting some soldier sunglasses. You moved through the medical bay whizzing around patient after patient. You listen to complaints and concerns and your job is to assure them and find cures for their issues.

Some have an STD. Your job was to find the long list of partners and inform them to come for testing and prescribe them creams and antibiotics.

Someone comes in with a gun wound? You are to rush them to surgery if you l, yourself couldn't fish out the bullet.

Someone had sliced their hand? You were flushing the wound with saline and cleaning it before stitching it back up.

You were far too busy to worry about getting some man or woman's sunglasses.

Bot when you danced an endless loop around taking care of people.

"Y/n can you attempted to room 345." A head doctor called as she moved to a different room in a hurry.

You quickly made the way to the room grabbing the hologram tablet off of its holder and turned on walking in.

Mansk Dorman

Sex: Male. age: 25.

occupational: Recombinant soldier.

injury: Knife in leg….

You blinked as you read the injury.

'I'm sorry…How the hell?' You had your questions and you walked into the room still staring at the screen.

"Mr. Dorman?" You asked and you looked up jumping.

Blue skin, Yellow eyes, a tail hanging off the bed and shades pressed up his head.

"Your the third doctor who nearly pissed their pants." He told you and your eyes widened as you were staring at an avatar

"oh umm I'm sorry i wasn't expecting…Well you." You told them before your eyes moved to his left pants leg, a turnaget tied around his upper thigh as a large ass knife was in his lower thigh.

Your eyes widened as you quickly made your way over to him.

"How did this happen?! Why hasn't anyone come and taken care of this?!" You felt concern and anger as you rushed around the room grabbing supplies.

"Rough housing gone wrong?" The man chuckled and you turned, pointing a finger at him.

"Do not laugh! this is serious you could have bled out!" You hissed at the man as you moved to get what you needed before moving to the bedside.

"It's not that bad, besides Brown made a turnaget." The man chuckled and it dawned on you he was in shock. As he should be but you realize that was mostly why he wasn't panicking his brain telling him that it was a funny occurrence rather than a horrible one.

You moved to give him pain meds following how much he'd need by his weight….It was enough to kill a human.

You cut his pants away from the bloody knife and he hissed as the knife moved in his thighs flesh.

"Sorry." You muttered as you then moved to grab a large needle.

"I need to inject this numbing agent into the wound. '' You told him and the man gritted his teeth but nodded. You moved to do the injections holding your weight onto his leg as he jerked.

"You can't move!" You told him.

"It fucking hurts! " The man hissed as a growl left him, his whole body vibration from you and you felt the hair of your neck stand up.

You apologized to him and once you were done you grabbed sanitized towels.

"I have to remove the knife." You told him hand moving to the blade but jumped as a blue hand snatched your arm away a hiss leaving him.

"Like fucking hell!" He growled at you baring his teeth, eyes wild with pain and fear and ears slicked back.

But in his panicked judgment he didn't take in how you had two hands.

While he was distracted keeping your left hand from the knife you quickly grabbed the blade handle with your right hand and snatched the large ass blade from his thigh chunking it away.

Dorman let out a loud yell of pain as his eyes momentarily rolled back causing him to fall back into the bed.

You moved, hands both free, you applied pressure onto his wound with the towel. Holding it with on hand you grabbed a blood clotting solution from your medical tray and moved the towel dousing his open wound with the thick chunky solution,

You let out a sigh as the blood slowly stopped gushing and moved to get stitch thread and a thick needle.

You looked at the man watching has his chest started to.move slowly, calming down from passing out and you moved too quickly stitch up his leg.

By the time you were cleaning his leg from dried blood his yellowed eyes opened.

"You will need to be in your bed for a bit. Ill try to see if we can have a crutch made for you to use. No pressure on this leg until the wound starts to grow back together and seal. " You told him before wrapping bandages around his thigh.

Silence.

You looked up to see his eyes trained on you.

"You tricked me." He stated a bit of bitterness in his tone.

"I needed the blade to come out or else you'd have infection. " You stated.

You finished and left, Ordering for The man's discharge the next morning.

When you came into work he was already gone but you were informed he left you something.

You were given a box and you opened it eyes widening some in surprise.

"What did you get?" A nurse looking over your shoulder before letting out an excited squeal catching the other ladies attention.

"OU Y/N GOT SHADES!" the nurses squealed, feeling excitement for you.

You moved the glasses to see a note.

'Let me treat you to dinner? Meet me by the cafe at 8?- Mansk.'

You were surprised and you almost went to look up his quarters to send the sunglasses back. You weren't interested in finding love, only pursuing your career but the other nurses' excitement and questions on what you would wear, how you would do your makeup…made you rethink about it.

You left work earlier and went home. The shades in your purse.

'I shouldn't waste my time.'

But yet you were in your shower, soon drying your hair and styling it.

Opening your closet pulling out a flattering outfit and heels. Your longest heels you owned and were standing by your dresser mirror applying freshly done make up.

You were soon heading out towards the cafeteria to meet the soldier who was blue.

When you walked up to the doors you saw the tall man leaning on the wall, in new camouflage pants a green tank top he seemed to be wearing a jacket that matched his pants. His yellow eyes moved over to you, his ears perking up.

"You look beautiful." He said a smile coming from him and it made you feel a flutter in your stomach.

"I wish I could say the same." You said and you heard him chuckle.

"This is the only clothes they thought would make us. We're all waiting for more." He said and you smiled.

"I figure your taller stature does make it harder." You said and he smiled before opening the door. He towered above it.

"Ladies first?" He asked you and you smiled.

"I dunno, I kinda wanna see how you're gonna go through that door." You said playfully. "Since i said no pressure on your leg at all."

Mansk grinned as he held the framing of the door moving the crutch he used through and ducked under using his strong arms to hold him in the air for a moment as he swinged under the frame. His strong unharmed leg was placed on the ground and you watched his leg flex as he stood back up on it grabbing his crotch and carefully putting his recovering leg down.

"See no pressure required. Doctors order everything." He said and you giggled walking through seeing the amusement in his eyes.

"Im suprised! A soldier actually listening to a doctor's orders? Color me impressed." You joked and Mansk grinned before leading you through the cafe. You expected to sit at a normal table but he nodded at you to follow him. You got to humorously watch him climb up stairs. Both of you laughed as he gobbled up them and he slid a key card into a pad causing a door to open.

Your eyes widened as you were in a room with a full glass dome and fancy tables set.

"What is this.?" You asked.

"Spec ops can get table revelations to this restaurant if we want them." Mansk told you.

"don't blame me if the food is bad though, I have never come here before. "

Your eyes flew in bewilderment as you looked at him.

"You never came to eat here?" You asked him stunned.

"I didn't have anyone to come with. None of us do, we just tend to give our tables to others…..But i had a reason to come here tonight and someone special to bring." He said a ile forming on his face and you raised a brow.

"What made you want to bring me? What's so special?" You said as he led you to a table, picking up a menu his eyes landed on you and you felt that fluttering once again.

" I like your way of thinking." He said and you tilted your head.

"huh?"

"You're a quick thinker, Many would have froze, if I gripped them so harshly and you just shrugged it off and continued your mission..I like that. You also recovered from your shock seeing me quickly once you saw my wound. The other doctors walked back out and sent in a new person. I was in there for like two hours before I actually got some help…So thank you doc." He said with a soft smile and you felt your face warm up.

"It's y/n actually.." You told him.

"y/n…That's a lovely name." He said, nodding his ears, fluttering some.

"A Lovely name for a fierce lady."

And you laughed, missing how his eyes gleamed at the noise.

The food was decent, not worth the expensive pay for a table but it was better than the cafeterias meals. You enjoyed your time getting to know Mansk. You learned that he was actually learning to be a military medic so that his unit didn't have his friend Brown to help them in dire situations. It was how he knew how to try a turnaget around his thigh.

"So how did that knife get in your leg?" You asked him and a look of embarrassment overcame him, his ears drooping down.

"I tried to give my friend Fitch a kick to his ass and I slipped and fell, and my knife happened to fall out of its holder and I landed on it." He confessed and you couldn't hold back the giggles that left you.

"Oh…You wound me babygirl." He said as he held his chest.

You found yourself freezing your heart racing as your face warmed at the pet name.

His eyes seemed to twitch and a look of worry overcame him.

"Story…I probably should've have said that…It was rude of me assu-"

"No…I liked it." You cut him off smiling and He smiled back those ears perking up.

"You don't call anyone else baby girl when you give them your shades do you?" You playfully asked, wiggling a brow and he laughed.

"Actually…You're the first woman i ever gave my sunglasses to." You must've made a face because he laughed.

"Hey I'm actually really possessive of my shades..I'd fight someone for my shades." He admitted and you found yourself smiling.

"So you'd fight me if I didn't give them back?" You asked.

Mansk looked at you almost adoringly and he smiled a soft gentle warm smile.

"Nah, I wouldn't ever wanna fight you, You look like you could kick my ass."

And you laughed.

You smiled warmly at the memory as you carried two bowls over to the couch you both shared. You moved into Mansk large arms getting comfy a purr moved through his chest as his arm wrapped around you.

"I made your favorite." You told him with a smile, eyes moving to his bright yellow ones.

You watch his ears perk a playful grin on his face, a hand squeezing your thigh.

"I do in fact enjoy like my baby girl honey~" He purred and you blushed harshly.

"I meant beef stew!" You said, causing the man to laugh, taking his bowl still while holding you to him.

"You can have honey afterwards." You said with a grin ignoring the noise of excitement, leave him.

"Doctors orders?" He whispered in your ear causing a shower to leave you.

"Doctors orders." You told him, a louder purr left his chest.

"I fucking love doctors orders." He said moving your face to look at him.

That grin on his face, Bright yellow cat like eyes, perked ears and those damn shades of his hanging from the neck of his shirt.

You felt your heart race and you smirked at him.

"I know you do." You told him before softly kissing his lips before turning away.

"Now eat."

And you giggled as a groan left him.

[raphianna]

OC Infodump Tag, R.A., Dragonborn; ft. 5 Other OCs

@skyrim-forever I wasn’t tagged, but your questions intrigued me :] I hope you don’t mind me doing this. I also hope you and/or anyone else who reads this enjoys :]

What is your OC’s name? Why did you choose it? Were there any other names you considered?

How was your OC raised? What kind of background?

What values do they have? How were they instilled in them?

What does your OC look like? Have they had other designs? How has their look changed?

Does your OC have a family? What do they define as family?

Does your OC have a mentor or someone they look up to? Why do they look up to them?

What has been the most significant event in your OC’s life? How has this affected them?

Who does your OC care about? Is it reciprocal?

What are your OC’s hobbies? How do they relax?

What should we understand most about your OC?

This is pretty long, so it’s going under a Read More ^^’

Her name

‘R.A.’ Originally, it was the shortened version of my online name, ‘Raphianna’, but as I fleshed her out more, I gave her her own name, ‘Raelyn Ava’. I don’t usually put too much thought into names, I admit. I chose Raelyn Ava because it could still be an abbreviated version of R.A., but I genuinely love it now.

Her full name is Raelyn Ava Waterlily, and I chose the name Waterlily simply because it sounded pretty lol.

When she was younger, everyone called her Raelyn Ava, Raelyn, or Rae. But as of now, she’s shortened her name to R.A. and dropped her last name entirely, because she wanted as few ties to her childhood as possible.

How she was raised, background

She had a loving, albeit distant relationship with her parents.

Keyword: had.

They were killed in front of her when she was 9, when their village was attacked by a branch of Volkihar vampires. They’d tried to trade her for their own lives. She lived as a captive for 7 years afterwards, until she was 16, when she escaped. She wasn’t really ‘raised’ past the age of 9 per se, more so fought to survive.

Before, she lived a simple life, and was eager to learn archery, and was skilled in parkour. (I bring up parkour, cause my mama calls me a goat in the game since I can scale almost anything :P)

Her values

R.A. relies heavily on self-discipline. Those 7 years were hell, and she was never willing to talk about it after she escaped. There wasn’t anyone to talk to anyways. It made her emotional to think back on what she went through. Strangers didn’t need to worry about the weight of her wounds. And later on, her loved ones shouldn’t even have to imagine what she experienced. Her view of self discipline was a bit warped at first, but she learns how to understand it in a healthier way after she opens up to people.

She also has a tight grip on loyalty. When she learned that she could trust people, whether it be from the promise of money, deals, or genuine admiration, it was life changing. And when that loyalty started coming from real relationships more often, she was that much more determined to protect it. She has very negative feelings towards Mercer and Astrid because of this. (Though she believes Astrid deserved a second chance in the Void.)

Her looks & design

R.A. is a Wood Elf. She has shoulder length black hair, completely black eyes, and tan skin. She’s thin and 5’6”. She has a scar in the shape of a handprint across her mouth. (It’s the handprint from the warpaint option, but I made it into a scar.) There’s scarring across her throat also.

My first design for her was a Redguard, cause when I first started playing Skyrim, I literally just copied my mama as she played. (Redguard, heavy armour, two handed weapons.) My character had the same hair, but with silver eyes. She also still had the handprint across her mouth, but that was only because I thought it was cool at the time :P

I changed her to a Wood Elf when I learned that they were inspired by Native Americans. It was strange when I learned the races’ inspirations. I remember talking to my dad about it, and how I wanted to switch to a Wood Elf, since I’m also Native American, and he encouraged me to. Thus, the creation of R.A. really began.

But I still loved the silver eyes. I was bummed that wasn’t an option for the Wood Elves, so that’s why I chose the completely black option for her eyes. But R.A. did have silver eyes when she was younger, but they changed over the course of her life. Her hair also used to go down to her hips, but she cut it after she escaped.

Who’s her family

Right off the bat, yes, she has two adopted children, Lucia and Blaise.

But she also has two older siblings: a brother named Taon, who’s 35, and a sister named Erissa, who’s 31. Both Taon and Erissa left for Skyrim when their mother was pregnant with their sister; Taon was 16 and Erissa was 12. R.A. never knew either of them growing up, but her parents often talked about them.

Taon has green eyes, upper back length black hair in a high ponytail, and pale skin. Erissa has white hair that goes down to her mid back in a low ponytail, green eyes, and tan skin.

It took R.A. a long time to warm up to them, especially when she found out that they knew their mother was pregnant when they left.

By the time R.A. arrived in Skyrim, Taon lived in a cabin near the Eastmarch hot springs, and Erissa was Archmage of the College of Winterhold (canon who).

She does eventually get to know her siblings, and they become super close. Taon and Erissa feel horrible for essentially leaving R.A. behind, and they do their best to make up lost time with her.

They’re a really great aunt and uncle to R.A.’s kids.

R.A. gets Taon initiated into the Thieves Guild, and he and Erissa are among the few people who know that R.A., Karliah, and Brynjolf are Nightingales.

The Waterlily siblings also have two cousins, however.

Their names are Elision and Kyn Nightshade. Elision is 29 and Kyn is 28. (Pronounce Kyn like the beginning of Kynareth.)

Elision is a priest of Kynareth in Whiterun, and Kyn is a bard in Solitude. They learn about their cousins when Elision sees R.A. heal the Gildergreen with sap from its parent tree, and he sends a letter to Kyn.

Elision has black hair up in a ponytail much like Taon’s, golden eyes, and tan skin. Kyn has long black hair cascading down her upper back, purple eyes, and tan skin.

The Waterlilies are wary when meeting the Nightshades, since they never thought twice about their parents or any family they might’ve had.

As far as they’re concerned, their parents are dead to them.

But they become friends with Elision and Kyn, and the two cousins are just as angry at the Waterlily’s parents when they hear about what happened.

R.A. is the baby of all of them at 19.

However, blood doesn’t matter to R.A.. If she decides you’re family, you’re family.

She’s close friends with a Khajiit named Ji’zaka. He’s 26 years old, and they met as captives of Volkihar when R.A. was 10 and Ji’zaka was 17. Ji’zaka escaped with R.A. at the age of 23 when she was 16. They unfortunately were separated shortly after they escaped, and lost contact for 3 years.

Ji’zaka doesn’t know what happened for 2 out of those 3 years, but he found himself in Skyrim during the third year. Not welcome in any of the cities, and not really fitting in with any of the Khajiit caravans, he was initiated into the Dark Brotherhood and was an assassin for them when he reunited with R.A..

When she was named Listener, he was the only one besides Cicero who fully supported R.A.’s new role.

Ji’zaka has light grey fur that fades into white with black tips on every other end of his fur. He has red eyes, sharp claws, and multiple piercings in his ears.

He lives with R.A. at Lakeview Manor, and often ends up being a jungle gym and bed for her kids. They love him.

(All of them make one of the most chaotic groups to ever travel across Skyrim)

Who's her mentor

Delvin, which even she found odd, she’ll admit. They had a rocky start when they first met. R.A. was secure in her skills by the time she came into the Thieves Guild, and didn’t appreciate him assuming he knew better than her. She told him as much, rather harshly with her words; as much as her damaged vocal cords would let her, anyway. It was silent after she told him off, and R.A. did worry about making a bad impression, until Delvin laughed, and said he liked her attitude.

She was drawn to his offers of having a drink every other time she came back from a job (she never actually drank, just had some tea). He often seemed to know when something was wrong, and let her know he would listen. R.A. took Delvin up on his offers, and he was the first person she actually opened up to.

Delvin became a sort of father figure to her, someone she could safely confide in. She counts him among her family.

(I’m upset that you can’t insist you know what you’re doing with Delvin or Vex, so R.A. gets to do so from a story point. :P)

Most significant event

Talking with Serana throughout their quests with the Dawnguard. Specifically the conversation in the undercroft of Volkihar castle. R.A. never realised how much she loved family until then. And seeing Serana so resigned to her own father’s fate helped her move on from her parents’ betrayal. It wasn’t forgiveness, it likely would never be forgiveness, but she could let go of it. And seeing Serana in such vulnerable moments helped R.A. see her in a different light. She never hated or disliked Serana, but she tried not to get close to her at first. The amount of trust between them near the end nearly made R.A. weep.

Who does she care for

She cares about her kids, her siblings, her cousins, Ji’zaka, Serana, and Kharjo. Yes, the care is reciprocated, without question.

(Fun fact, I’ve played R.A., Taon, and Kyn in Skyrim :D I couldn’t play Erissa, cause I suck at mage characters, and I think the next OC I wanna play as is Elision, since he gives me paladin/healer vibes ^^ I wanna play Ji’zaka, but I’m unsure about fur colours and patterns.)

Her hobbies & relaxing

Relaxing is relatively new to R.A. and Rayya had to tell her in the gentlest terms that patrolling her house all night wasn’t typically relaxing; not if you were constantly on lookout. Rayya said it was primarily her job, and she urged R.A. to find another way to relax.

Kyn got her enrolled in the Bards College, and R.A. took to playing the lute. Her kids love to sit with her and listen while she plays. They often fall asleep like that.

Gods help you if she finds her favourite book series. You can’t get her attention for hours.

When there’s no enemies around, she loves to roam around Falkreath and the Rift. They’re her favourite Holds.

What should you understand the most

R.A. has a lot on her mind. Thane, factions, crises, the complexity of a possible chaotic afterlife-

It takes a lot to slow her mind down, and in some cases, make her see reason. She’s not reckless, but she knows when and where to target her rage. She shouldn’t have to bear these kinds of responsibilities, but she does. She’ll push through them, because she knows it will give others options she never had in the past.

Nothing can really be done when she gets like that. The best you can do is follow her and see your next quest through.

[wttcsms]

✧ wttcsms works in progress;

a look into what's in my drafts because yes, i do write, thank you very much!!! please feel welcome to scream at me in my askbox and make me tell you more about any of the wips here

last updated apr 19 2023

it always leads to you — sae itoshi x f!reader

most likely a mini multipart series (probably around 4-6 parts, each only about ~6-7k words each). nsfw + plot (porn w plot)

current stage: prologue finished, outline needs to be done

current wc: 4k

current tags: exes to fwb/situationship to strangers with a history to awkward co-parents to lovers (relationship status: it's complicated!), pregnancy, child is part of the plot, angst, character study into sae, timeskip, homesickness, nsfw

started off as a one shot (5 times you can't escape the memory of your ex, sae, + the 1 time he comes back) but while writing it, i realized that the reunion between the two of you opened the doors to a lot more possibilities. originally, i just wanted to have it leave off at him on your doorstep whenever he decided to stay in japan bc he heard of blue lock and wanted to stick around & since he was in the area, he would find himself coming back to you. (he breaks up with you before high school graduation when he decides to go to spain). however, that scene spiraled into you & him reconciling, and eventually, there was an open sort of ending where sae decides that maybe the two of you do have a fighting chance of working out.

HOWEVER, i wanted to explore this dynamic even deeper, so the fic kind of spirals away from the canon timeline + i'm introducing a timeskip. you & sae have this weird ass long distance situationship where the distance feels like too much of an obstacle to overcome, the two of you are always on the brink of a "break up", he ends up visiting, the two of you kiss & make up and have renewed hope that this shitshow of a relationship can still work, and it's just an endless, toxic cycle, really. there's genuine love, but he's too in his head & in an entirely different country — world, really — from you, and things are hard and he's shitty at feelings. at this point, sae is 20 & making his debut into the world of professional international football.

on the same day he's about to sign with a great team, he receives a phone call from you.

you're pregnant.

he hangs up without a word. (asshole behavior but seems p in theme with what we're shown so far abt him)

the next part following that is another timeskip. this time, sae is 27 and moving back home to japan. he's in the middle of recovering from an injury, one so bad that he will never be able to play soccer again, especially at the level he was it. now he's back home, licking his wounds, and having to face everything he's spent so hard trying to run away from.

i think this fic is my first attempt at redeeming a character; i know we don't know much abt sae or his internal thoughts + intentions, but i'm having fun with fleshing him out as a flawed person who actually had good intentions. he fucked up, majorly, and reader isn't keen on taking him back. you're colder to him than you ever were, and you barely want anything to do with him. swapping the dynamic on him is also really fun to do as a writer; sae goes from the one who's out of reach and reader is the one chasing after him but now, reader is the person out of reach & sae is the one doing the chasing.

song inspiration: renegade - big red machine ft. taylor swift, cardigan - taylor swift, betty - taylor swift, exile - taylor swift, best - gracie abrams, i know it won't work - gracie abrams, the last time - taylor swift, tis the damn season - taylor swift, right where you left me - taylor swift

married (with benefits) — rin itoshi x f!reader

most likely a loooong one shot (~13k, hopefully not over 20k) nsfw / porn w plot

current stage: outline in progress

current wc: tbd

current tags: fake marriage/marriage of convenience trope, wag culture, single dad!rin, son's teacher!reader, BREEDING KINK, falling in love, mutual pining, oh no there's only one bed!!!!, jealous!rin, protective&possessive!rin, "don't speak to my wife like that" trope

original post talking abt this can be found here

basically reader is FLAT BROKE LMAO and is given the opportunity of a lifetime bc rin itoshi needs to save face and beat his awful ex-wife in their custody battle for his son.

my heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue — jean kirstein x f!reader

nsfw / porn w plot one shot (~8k)

current stage: first scene that sets up the mood for the fic is completed

current wc: 1k

current tags: fwb to lovers, toxic relationship (not w jean), college/modern au, praise kink, love confessions, jean is just so sweet & so boyfriend ok, idiots in love, mutual pining, insecure!reader, nsfw

this was a request from a follower <3 basically reader originally likes eren and they're in a toxic situationship and reader is crying over eren at a party, you run into jean, he gives you the best dicking down of your LIFE. essentially, u fall in love w ur situationship but get a happy ending this time around lol

[whumperstorm]

Zephyr drabble No. 1 - Whipping

(Note: Zephyr uses she/he pronouns interchangeably)

content warnings: mentions of past self harm, "it" as a pronoun ~~~

The rope on Zephyr's wrists rub painful marks into her skin. They took away her gloves, so the rough fibers dig directly into her flesh. It wouldn't be so bad if she stopped struggling, but she can't. She can't help it. She's tied to a pillar, her arms pulled up and around so her back is on full display and her chest is pressed against the pole. Her legs are free, but she's already tried kicking out at her assailants to no avail. She can hear them around her, their footsteps on the concrete and their hateful muttering, but they're too far away to hit.

A sharp crack has Zephyr flinching. He gasps at the sound, trying to discern its source. It kind of sounded like a...

"What- What do you want??" he asks desperately.

"Fucking freak," is the only response. "Pretending to be a person."

Zephyr sobs. He is a person! He has a family and a life. He was born and he can talk and laugh and live just like them! But all they see are his "additions". The animistic teeth and ears that mark him as "other". The magic he embraced so readily, thinking it made him special. Made him a superhero.

"P-please, I just wanted to help-" she says.

"You can help by screaming nice and loud for us."

For a moment, all Zephyr hears is another crack that echos through her eardrums. Then suddenly, a burst of agony tears across her back, ripping open her shirt and skin alike. She shouts in pain and surprise, spine arching away from the pain.

Yep. That's a whip.

Zephyr's struggles begin anew, wrists protesting his movements. He knows they aren't going to stop at one strike. He's read history and he knows how this works. There's a lesson to be learned, a price to pay. He feels something hot trickle down his back and knows he's bleeding. His thoughts flash back to another time, when his arms wept blood from a different kind of cut, all lined up in rows, and he chokes. I don't want to bleed anymore!

Another strike lands across her lower back where her crop-top doesn't reach. The pain doubles with no fabric to slice through, and she wails. A spark of electricity shoots out from her body, but wherever they’ve set her up  is made of wood and her tormentors are too far away.

"Look at that!" one shouts. "That coulda killed us!"

No, NO it was an accident! Please, stop hurting me...

The strikes speed up now. Lash after lash rain down on her until her shirt is in tatters. Distantly she's disappointed, it's her favorite one. Her entire back screams, and her voice follows along. As the pain stacks and the cuts begin to overlap and dig deeper, her screams turn feral. A growl crawls out from her throat and her voice becomes guttural as she writhes.

"It really is a fucking monster..."

"See? You can't hide what you are."

One strike goes too high. It hits his upper shoulder and wraps around his neck. He chokes as it slices through the delicate skin of his throat and snags on his collar.

"Ah, shit," says the one holding the whip.

The cut didn't go deep, but the cord is stuck. Zephyr whines. Help, I can't breathe! He's already lightheaded from the torture and blood loss and now he wobbles on his feet.

"I'll get it."

Hands touch him, fingers dig into his throat.. Zephyr panics and flinches away, but there's nowhere for him to go. His hair is yanked back to expose his neck and he cries like a wounded animal. Tears pour down his face.

"Fucking- Hold still!" the voice spits. Too close. The pressure on her neck is released and she can breathe clearly again. She gasps, and her legs buckle. She falls until her arms are pulled taut and she's hanging, her knees not quite touching the ground. Her shoulders burn from the pressure, and her flayed back sings as the skin is stretched tight.

She's losing grasp of the world around her. The pain rules over everything and her ears ring. After a minute, or maybe an hour, there's more lashes. The pain is as agonizing as before, but now all she can do is flinch. Her head hangs. She feels nauseous. Distantly she hears voices, muffled like they’re underwater.

"...no fun.."

"...eave it here and..."

"...nna die anyway."

Zephyr's wrists are cut loose and he falls. Unable to catch himself, his head smacks into the ground with a groan. There's a kick to his side, almost dull compared to the fire of his back. Then, with his cheek pressed to the ground, blood and tears pooling around him, Zephyr falls into blissful unconsciousness.

[the-diabolist]

wanna be a part of that maybe. c: cain (sweet boy >.<) P(lace):Dining room w(eapon): Candlestick. such strange picks. but cain would so do this.

Kinktober 2022, day 16 - he so would!!

c.w: gn reader, temperature play (wax play), biting/marking, restraint, bit of pain play, guided masturbation (kinda). 700w

His control of the wax spoon is steady and precise, sending droplets of hot liquid down to your skin, exactly where he wants it, before returning the tool to its small melting furnace.

This time, his target is your left clavicle - searing heat lands right over the bone and trails down your chest in a thin rivulet until it begins to harden, coating another small section of your body in a bright red shell. At a glance, it looks like you're oozing blood from a multitude of wounds.

As he watches the wax travel and solidify, Cain sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth.

"Fuck, that's gorgeous," he mutters, and then his golden gaze flicks upward to meet yours. "And you're not half bad, yourself."

You chuckle breathlessly, chest rising and falling like bellows, the mixture of arousal and pain having hijacked your bodily responses.

You shift against the headboard you're propped against, tugging on the ropes keeping your arms tied together behind your back. They don't budge; you hadn't expected them to, but you're suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to run your fingers through his hair.

"Wow, thanks," you say dryly, but his attention has already drifted to the unmarked expanse of your thigh, which is resting at an angle against his side.

He doesn't reach for the handle of the wax spoon yet, though - instead, he runs a hand from your hip to your knee, lifting and pushing it back toward your body until he's able to lean down and plant a kiss there.

He keeps going, trailing kisses up the inside of your thigh, then bites down hard before moving back down. Your breath catches at the sharp pain. That'll bruise, you bet, but that was probably his intention. It's not the first non-wax mark he's left on you tonight.

Speaking of bruises - he's got a hand wrapped around each of your thighs, kneading and squeezing, digging the pads of his fingers into your flesh until you're certain he'll leave behind perfect blueprints of them.

Finally, his hands leave your skin in favor of freeing yours, reaching behind you to undo your bonds.

"Touch yourself for me, love," he purrs once you're loose, readying the wax again.

You do as he says, hand sliding between your spread legs to soothe the pulse beating there. He watches intently, waiting until your hips start to rock against your hand before dripping a thimble's worth of wax just above your knee.

You hiss as it hits you and trails up your thigh, toward your still-moving hand, losing heat as it goes. The bead doesn't quite make it to your apex before it stalls, drying.

"I'm close," you moan - the words are barely out before he's kissing you deeply, swallowing the tail end of the sound.

He bites your lip when he's done, then moves lower to sink his teeth into your neck, making you gasp. As your breathing shallows, he leans back, once more lifting the spoon with long, elegant fingers.

"Don't stop," he says, more of a warning than an instruction, and drizzles molten scarlet over your frantic hand.

You cry out as it hits your knuckles and runs through your fingers, coating your heated, sensitive flesh and making you come hard, thighs shaking and twitching on either side of the man kneeling between them.

Your head falls back against the wall with a thud as you recover, panting. Cain looks you over thoughtfully.

"Hmm. It's a lovely sight, but it's going to be a pain to clean up," he muses. When he leans close to kiss you again, his hips grind against yours, letting you feel how hard he is; you're surprised he's been able to resist touching himself, but then he does tend to become absorbed while focusing on you.

He smirks when your lips part. "I'll wait for you in the shower. Join me as soon as you can walk."

[emo-emu64]

Requests

Characters-

Marvel

Loki Laufeyson

Thor Odinson

Bucky Barnes

Peter Parker

Adam Warlock

Peter Quill

Star Wars

Din Djarin

Han Solo

Luke Skywalker

The Hunger Games

Finnick Odair

Peeta Mellark

Haymitch Abernathy

Call of Duty

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

König

Keegan P. Russ

John 'Soap' MacTavish

Captain John Price

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

The walking Dead

Daryl Dixon

Rick Grimes

Glenn Rhee

(Not finished with the show yet, but still know pretty much all spoilers, bare with me please)

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

Castiel

Gabriel

Destiel

Miscellaneous

Isaac 'Zack' Foster (Angels of Death)

Mammon ( Obey Me!)

Eddie Munson (Stranger Things)

Steve Harrington (Stranger Things)

Prince Corrick (Defy The Night)

Leo Caruso (A Way Out)

Ideas/Suggestions

Dialogue Prompts-

Sass(?)

"I hate You." "Really? Why? I think I'm a delight."

"Is that blood?" "No?" "That question should not be answered with another question."

"You smile like an idiot when you look at them. It's vomit-inducing, honestly."

"Ow!" "Seriously, we've been through this how many times, and you're still a baby about it." "It still hurts..." "Well, I don't know what to tell you, maybe get stabbed less, I guess."

"Relax, 'tis but a flesh wound" "Last time you said that you had been stabbed."

Fluff

"Jesus, your feet are cold!"

"Can i braid your hair?"

"This reminded me of you."

"I don't think I've ever seen you smile."

"Hold still, this will sting a little."

Scenarios-

Fluff

Laying together in a hammock

Late night snack runs

Grocery shopping

cooking/baking together

Morning routine

Dancing barefoot in the kitchen to their favorite songs

Making cinnamon rolls together in the morning

AUs

Demon/monster

Pirate

Medieval

The second half is more a reference for myself, but all are welcome to it. I do not write NSFW fics. All my works are x reader, except for Destiel because its really the only pairing I have any experience with.

[v1x3n]

R I P P E D A P A R T

john price x reader x 141 ⸝⸝ navigation part one part two part three

୨୧ 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 : tortured for information by your family and the person you loved, john price. you were harmed for something you hadn't even done, you were framed as the traitor and soon they would find out.

୨୧ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 : angst - torture, cutting, 'betrayal', forced intoxication, passing out, threats.

You could see in his eyes he didn't want to believe it but you could also see the hatred in his eyes, the betrayal and the anger. 

He stood away from you, watching as ghost, who you had known as Simon, stood in front of you, a knife draped along your tear stained cheeks. Arms tugging at the ropes that held you up against a metal pipe centered in the room, your legs tied to the cold metal, the rope strangling your flesh, your skin around the rope glowing white as the blood slowly but surely stops flowing down to your ankles and arms. “Please” you sob, tears brimming your eyes, once again whilst his knife left your cheek. “I - it's not me!” 

They don't reply as your cries fill out the room when ghost pushes the blade of the knife against your cheek, a slit quickly appearing. Crimson blood drops from the wound, the deep wound stings. You hiss at the sharp pain as Price's eyes lock onto yours, his eyes filled with a rage you had never seen before.his expression remains stoic but you could tell - deep down - he was hurt. Hurt you had ‘done’ this, hurt he trusted you, hurt he saw the person he cared for dearly betrayed him like that. Like a sly fucking fox. 

John took a step closer towards you and Simon, his boots echoing loudly in the silent yet sob filled room, your breath caught as the knife swung down to your lower abdomen. You flinch at price getting as close as he can, face to face with you. You could feel his hot breath on you - and what does he do? He fucking smirks, seeing his cruel grin right in your face brings you with such fury. “It's not fucking me!” you scream into his ear, eyes welding with tears once more, tears that dare to fall down. 

Simon's face was stiff as he slices into you, a deep cut straight into your lower abdomen, the pain makes you shout out in pain, “stop!” the tears drop from your face, trailing down you and splashing onto the floor. “Give me one fucking reason why i shouldnt slit your throat right now.” Price coldly states, his dead eyes staring into yours - no sympathy found in his gorgeous blue eyes. The cut plastered onto your cheek stings as your salty tears pours into it. The burn hurts and causes you to scream out once more, ghost rolls his eyes -  a sight you had saw after giving him a stupid fucking joke but now it was used to mock. To tell you that he doesnt fucking care about your pain anymore, he doesnt care about the cuts , the wounds and the burns he caused you. He doesn't care about you being tied here, bare and for everyone to see for weeks. He doesn't care less about the way you cry - knowing he, no, both of them, had helped you time over time to stop you and to comfort you whilst times you sobbed in front of them. 

Why didn't they help now? 

Breathing seems to get harder as the blade presses deeper into you, ghost had told you about his tactics before - this is why you weren't scared of what was coming. Because you knew. He would wear the person down, inch by inch, by constant harm and fear. Nothing too much but eventually killing them - if they dont give him what he wanted in the end, but you could see deep down he wouldnt fucking kill you - well you hoped. 

They both watch as tears pour from your tear ducts, your chest rises and falls faster than the tears drooping down your body. "I said give me a good reason. Do it now." Price grunts out, his gaze unwavering. 

“i- its not me!” you manage to choke and scream out, your lungs burning as a painful cry escapes you. All ghost and price do is chuckle, “why the fuck Would we believe you?” ghost puts the knife down against the cold, bloody floor. Your body stings as you cry out once more, “Id n-never! I swear!” their coldness sends chills down your spine, how could the people who you once called family be this cruel ? this mean ? this fucking heartless ?

“Why would i betray you when i fucking love you, john!” you blurt out, water rolling from your eyes at how this is how you had to confess. Price almost flinches at your words, you could feel his breath hitch slightly. But you were so fucking stupid if you even thought for a second that he would believe you. Ghost snorts at your words whilst your captain's eyes soften for a moment.

The masked man's cold gaze flicked between you and price, his expression revealing nothing - you wouldn't be surprised. “P-please john, i love y-you” you sob out, eyes welding with large sparks of tears. The man you are pouring your heart out too scoffs at you, “do you think we are that fucking stupid?” he spits out. Your head stings as Simon yanks your hair back harshly so you could look him in the eyes, “shut up” Simon's grip onto your hair strings as he speaks the first words he has said since he brought you in this trauma filled room. 

“Tell me the truth, do not fucking lie to us.” 

You refuse to say anything, frozen as your sob at everything these fucking men, your family had done to you. The more and more pain they had put you in caused you, muted you even more. The first day was terrible, memories of that first night repeat in your mind when you're left alone, cold and shivering - unable to sleep due to the position you were put in, it aches you. They knew you hadnt fallen asleep either, your heart- wrenching screams echoed through the room, it wouldnt have mattered if you had kept them up either, they knew non of them could sleep a blink knowing the person they loved and cared about, the person they saw and worked aside every fucking day would betray them like that? The first night was terrifying but you thought that- you hoped that it was the end and they had came to their senses overnight and finally fucking thought about it, or found out who framed you? 

Simon undid the ropes that hung you up when your mind spiraled with past thoughts, your knees hit the hard ground, you groan and put out your hands as you finally touch the floor, you haven't been this close to walking or even standing in what? Weeks? You don't know how long it has been. Your gaze shifts down to your hand, reliving the moment when Johnny has cut off some fingers, now left with 8 fingers that clench onto the floor that your blood and tears covered. 

They both look down at you on the floor and step back , almost daring you to get up but you just couldn't. Price let out a sharp breath, running a filthy hand through his hair - his frustration and anger clear on his face. “If you talk-” john breathes through his nose, “if you tell us, it'll be much easier f’ you” 

“i didnt fucking do it!” you scream out which results in a quick kick to the ribs by ghost. You grunt and he kicks you again. Wincing to each batter to the ribs, “you're making this worse on yourself, love.” John sneers, peering down at your harmed body, clearly on the verge of just giving up. They watched as you gasped for air, your mutilated hand reaching out for the ground in front of you - to try to crawl away but something, or someone stops you. John's firm foot stood onto your ankle, the odd position you fell too causing your ankle to twist, you sob a cry . his foot stamping down and twisting it further, with ghost stomping onto your ribs and price close to breaking your ankle it was too much, your cries grew and grew - your body shook from the pain. 

They stand and watch as your cries grew stronger, your tears streaming down your face and your body twitching from the harsh pain. Simon grips onto your hair once more, pulling your scalp to make you look up at them, “open your fucking mouth” he spits. 

Price pulls out a flask of some sort and jolts it to your lips, you weren't listening so he forces it through your dry lips, the metal clinking with your teeth, “he said open.” he said firmly. You try to pull back away from the potion of some sorts they had brewed. Ghost yanks your hair towards it and the flask enters your mouth, hair pulled further so you're facing up to the ceiling as the liquid enters your mouth, it burns. 

“C'mon sweet’art, swallow it down” their wicked faces blur as you gag, the disgusting drink hitting the back of your throat and pouring down as ghost holds onto your nose, you gasp for air and the burning sensation makes its way through your throat. You gag at the potion, eyes meeting up with John, your old captain. “Tha’s a good girl, hm?” His words were kind and praise-filled but his tone was gruesome and harsh, his rough exterior plastered onto his face - he just simply didn't care about what he was doing to you, well, that's what you thought. You choke loudly, drips of saliva mixed with the fluid they had shoved into your mouth falls down your chin, they both stand back. Prepared for what's next, which was you spewing your guts out, completely emptying your stomach onto the ground, a small drop of blood hitting out with the vomit, your choking and gags fills out the room. Pure pain is how it felt. Your eyes sting with tears as you cough out the brew. 

Due to your weak body, you feel your mind spinning and youre body succumbs to the intense torture, your eyes flicker and your body goes slack. Vision blurring as you pass into unconsciousness - falling into a darkness that brings a relief from the pain.

The two men stood around you notice your body go limp, exchanging a quick glance to one another and sighing. They weren't expecting you to pass out so quickly but it wasn't that much of a surprise. Your limp body almost panics them too, so ghost crouches down and places two gloved fingers to your neck, to the side of your windpipe. Checking if you were still alive. “Looks like she's done” price gruffly speaks after ghost nods, reassuring you were still alive. The masked man stands up and straightens himself back up. “Lets go” his voice low, staring down at your unconscious body and running a hand through his hair once more. They both exit, leaving you there, luckily for you they didn't tie you back up to the pipe. You were just left there - slumped on the floor. 

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