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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 months

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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction

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

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.

Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.

EDIT: I am dumb-dumb and forgot to thank @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and giving this her necessary stamp of approval and being the bestest biffle EVA, as well as @spoolofblack for reassuring me that Daemon is NOT too OOC here and cheering me on through the AO3 tagging journey. Thanks be!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depression, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.

“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought a period of quiet to the isle of Dragonstone, the years giving rise to further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”

- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

He is staring again.

You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.

One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.

“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”

“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.

When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.

“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”

Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount an unwavering reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.

“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”

The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”

Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.

This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?

The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.

Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.

You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.

Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”

“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.

He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.

Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.

“To the Dragonmont.”

You nod. “Ah.”

He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.

And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.

A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.

You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.

Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.

Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?

What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?

“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”

Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.

There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.

No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.

“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”

“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”

“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”

Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.

Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”

“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”

It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.

Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.

“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”

“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”

Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.

“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”

What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.

“Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”

“How long will it take to work?”

“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”

You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”

“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”

You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.

But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.

At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.

Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.

All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?

“Your Highness—”

“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”

“But the little pr—”

“I said get out!”

The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.

You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.

All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.

But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.

You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.

Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.

Failure.

The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.

“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.

At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.

You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?

“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”

Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.

You push him away.

“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”

More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.

Useless. It is useless. I am useless.

“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”

Still, tears. And the dam breaks.

They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—

The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.

You do not remember what follows very clearly.

Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.

It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.

You let the darkness swallow you whole.

Of course he is here when you awake.

You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.

Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.

His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.

You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.

“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.

The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.

Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.

For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.

After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.

“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.

You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?

“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.

His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.

You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.

Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.

Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.

It never comes.

His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.

Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”

He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.

“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”

“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.

Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”

His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.

He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”

Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”

“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”

“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”

An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.

“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”

“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”

“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”

I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.

How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?

When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.

“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”

A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”

“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”

You nod tentatively.

He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”

You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”

His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.

“See? They’re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”

The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.

You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.

Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.

You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”

The Keeper is here primarily for Tyraxes and Skyfrost, the respective future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn, given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.

“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”

Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”

“Fucky.”

Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.

Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.

At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”

“Shit,” Daemon murmurs. You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.

Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”

“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.

He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”

“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.

“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”

“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.

You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.

“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.

“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”

His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.

“If I could just—”

“No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.

With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.

Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.

The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!

When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.

You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?

If only Daemon was less observant.

“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”

“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”

“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.

It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.

And there—he has it. You know he knows.

“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”

Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.

“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”

“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”

You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”

“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”

The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.

No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.

Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.

He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”

You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.

One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.

He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.

In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.

Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.

“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.

Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.

You smile.

‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.

But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single ailment that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.

As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.

I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.

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majickth · 4 months

Note

Hello I am here to once again request a Mister Slab drawing

For the Hermit Swap would you consider a Vex!Etho 👀

alas poor etho

Fanon Swap

#the guy of all time <3 he’s allowed to eat people as a treat #hermitcraft #hermitcraft fanart #mcyt #mcyt fanart #etho fanart #etho #ethoslab #ethoslab fanart #fanon swap #hermitcraft fanon swap #majickthart

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ervotica · 4 months

Note

First, congrats on 2k! It is well deserved.

Second, for the kink wheel: sharing, with JJ Maybank and topper Thornton? If you’re not cool with those two, I’m also okay with Rafe and Topper 😉

i'm gunna do rafetopper for this particular one just because i have a very specific scenario in mind i feel suits them better, but feel free to send me another jj and topper one baby!!

warnings; poly!rafetopper x reader, dark!rafe + soft!dark!topper, drug use (r is explicitly stated to have done coke, rafe is sorta implied), heavy petting, making out, no actual smut but it is implied, 18+ only

a/n; oh this is sooo... i love them. pls pls i am BEGGING for requests of these two now they're sexy asf

Thick fingers curl around the circumference of your ribcage, peeling slick lips away from his own; you preen angrily at Rafe beneath you, jerking your chin indignantly when he reaches towards your face to anchor your gaze to his own.

"How aren't you tired, hm? Been at this for far too long, kid."

You bounce on your bum, rocking back on your heels where you're perched upon Rafe's lap on the couch; you're smacking away the hands that work to push you to the edge of his knees, effectively drawing you away from his kiss-bitten lips.

"You're done. You're cut off," he grouses, vexed stare meeting Topper's when he hooks two hands beneath your armpits and lifts you off of Rafe's lap. "Fuckin' take her. She's fuckin' relentless. Brat."

"Hey!" you whine, already squirming at the digits curling at the dip of your waist, drawing you into a different - but just as familiar - chest.

"Easy," Topper laughs, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips when you push yourself up onto tiptoes in voyage for a kiss. He grants your wish, taken aback at the way your lips slant hungrily over his own, but pulls away far too soon to quirk a brow at Rafe accusingly.

"Why is the kid vibrating out of her skin?" he asks, a crooked finger pointing at the older boy. "What'd you give her?"

Rafe rolls his eyes, disinterest oozing from his every pore when his thighs spread, lounging back on the couch. "Jus' gave her some blow. It's not a big deal, Top."

By this point you're clambering up Topper's front, elbows hooked tightly around his neck as you attempt to climb and secure your legs around him. Perspiration clings to your neck, clammy when Topper's palm comes to rest there and his other arm loops under your bum until you're lifted up and into his grasp.

"It is a big deal!" he grumbles. "She's gonna be wired all fuckin' night, now."

"Why'd you always do this?" you trill wetly, head dipping to mouth at the curve of Topper's jaw. "I didn't do anything!"

"'s not your fault, baby," Topper assents, planting himself on the other end of the couch; you shuffle forward in his lap, lips spilling into a pout as you chase his mouth once again.

He's soon lost in it, dazed from the feeling of your mouth suckling at him, manicured nails scratching at the sensitive skin at his nape. The only sound Rafe can focus on is the smacking of spit-slick lips, Topper's groan and your gentle mewl when his tongue ventures further, licking into your mouth.

"That's enough," Rafe gripes, one roughened hand slipping beneath your miniskirt to swat at the dimpled flesh of your bum. "Give her back now."

Topper pulls back, heaving, to glare daggers at the other boy. "No way. I just got her!"

"Seriously, just let me have her."

"No-"

Their voices begin to mesh and blend into one cacophony of noise, and you're frowning when Rafe's hands settle against the jut of your hipbones to snatch you away. He doesn't give you time to begin a string of petulant complaints, lips ensnaring your own in a fervent act of pure lust. You go pliant and soft, allowing your lips to part and make room for the wet muscle of his tongue that prods at the opening of your mouth, vying for entrance.

"Attagirl," he murmurs, a sweaty palm cupping the side of your face to draw you closer, other hand pinching at one pert nipple through the flimsy material of your shirt.

He pulls away to admire your half lidded eyes, clouded over with need as you absentmindedly rut yourself into Rafe's lap, tent in his pants growing by the second.

"Let's take her home. How does that sound?" Rafe asks.

For the first time that evening, the two boys are in agreement.

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give-grian-rights · 3 months

Text

Hermitcraft - Basic History of Teams!

Alright. Buckle in.

Only a few days from now, and Hermitcraft 10 will begin! If you're new, I hope this helps!

Hermitcraft has existed for over ELEVEN YEARS now! While very few have been here for every single season, with the exception of our lovely Tumblr Resident, and official Tumblr Sexy Man Joe Hills, and our derp Xisumavoid.

You are under NO obligation to watch every season. There are probably few, if any, active users in this community who have. It's just not possible to watch it all. You don't need to watch the previous seasons to enjoy our community space! While there are a lot of back-references, for MOST people, it doesn't extend to lore and actions any older than season 6.

Most of the Hermits are associated with specific other members, despite ALL OF THEM taking turns collaborating, interacting, and sometimes building whole new dynamics and factions in the process. Some of the team-ups that you'll see referred to in fandom-spaces and the occasional one-off mention from our creators, include:

(Season 5) NHO, New Hermit Order - Docm77, Ethoslab, Bdoubleo100, and VintageBeef. Living in a jungle while having "fights" with others. Attempts to tax those who enter their jungle, had traps around it, and criticized the then-popular AFK Fishing Farms. Bdoubleo100, or Bdubs, especially enjoyed stealing from these. (Season 5-6) Convex, or ConCorp - GoodTimesWithScar and Cubfan135. One group I am the least familiar with unfortunately. They built a brand around the Vexes, with their business having pretty extreme low-morals that includes pollution and war profiteering.

(Season 6) ArciTects - Very close to be naming "BuildStone", it was proposed by and founded by Grian to Mumbo, later giving an invite to Iskall85. The purpose of this alliance was for builders to help redstoners, and redstoner to help builders. It accumulated in the ATTEMPT of founding the "greatest shop in the history of Hermitcraft", Sahara. It was, hilariously, a very large failure. Grian miraculously managed to entirely ruin the system with a single baked potato. No, I don't know how.

(Season 6) G-Team & Team STAR (Superior Tactical Alliance for Retaliation) - The Hermitcraft Civil War, consisted of a long list of minor conflicts in which various members of Hermitcraft blamed other people for pranks they committed, eventually spiraling into the confusion that was The Civil War! G-Team: Grian, TangoTek, Iskall85, Joe Hills, ZombieCleo, StressMonster101, and iJevin. Team STAR: Docm77, WelsKnight, FalseSymmetry, ImpulseSV Xisuma, RenDog

Mumbo Jumbo acted as a mole in Team Star, for the G-Team. He created this commercial for Team STAR. Team STAR made a very iconic diss track, which was soon remixed. It is a...Very iconic piece of Hermitcraft fandom. The result was Joe Hill's Response, in his short video also remixed by the same creator. Albeit missing the additions of the totally real voices of the other G-Team members

(Season 6) Area 77 & The Hippies - (I didn't finish Hippies POV and i didn't watch anything of Doc or Scar's POV of this unfortunately) Area 77 was founded by (unsurprisingly) Docm77, and GoodTimesWithScar, where they were doing experiments and studying abonomalies. SOmehow, this lead into Grian, once again, turning against them and forming The Hippies with the help of Ren, with Impulse soon joining. The conflict primarily consisted of them griefing Area 77 with flowers.

(Season 7) Boomers Demolition - Early game business formed by TangoTek, Bdoubleo100, and ImpulseSV which consistedo f almost exclusively non-duped TnT demolition, and was very fun!!

(Season 7) The Mycellium Resistance/HEP (Hermitcraft Environmental Protection) Hermicraft 7 saw Grian introduce the Hermitcraft Mayoral Election, created with the idea of putting Mumbo in as a puppet-government. If I had a nickel for every time Grian tried to start a puppet government (at this point) I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot but it's weird it happened twice. Grian and Mumbo lost. In it's place was GoodTimesWIthScar. As Mayor, they had further control over the shopping district. Scar's promise was to replace the shopping district's Mycellium with grass. Despite very happily admitting that grass looked better, Grian, in a moment of nostalgia, decided to replace some Mycellium. Scar proceeded by putting caution tape around the area. This spiraled into The Turf War

Mycellium Resistance: Grian (Mother Spore), ImpulseSV, RenDog, XBCrafted, iJevin, Ethoslab, StressMonster101, Docm77, and Mumbo Jumbo HEP/Mayor Scar: Scar, Bdoubleo100, Keralis, Xisumavoid, TangoTek, Cubfan135, FalseSymmetry, Mumbo Jumbo, who joined due to them having the better vault. Etho had intended on being a double-agent, selling information to Scar. His information, however, was useless on purpose and decided to pledge full loyalty to The Resistance.

(Season 8) Boatem Hole - Grian, Mumbo Jumbo, GoodTimesWithScar, ImpulseSV and PearlescentMoon more or less stumbled and tripped into forming a group after innocently stacking boats and crafting tables and crystals on a pole, dubbed Boatem Poll. They then proceeded to create a hole down to bedrock, and eventually into the void, called the Boatem Hole. It was a large plains biome which was turned into varying mountain terraforming and the like from all of them and was connected in some small ways.

(Season 8) The Big Eyed Crew - Bdoubleo100, Keralis, and TangoTek. Tango did not, in fact, have big eyes and instead wore sunglasses to compensate. They had a town and shopping area and was occasionally dragged into pranks by the Boatem Crew.

(Season 8) Octogon/Goatem - Docm77 and RenDog! Main rivals with Boatem (thus the Goatem - pole of goats) had a mega business, game-breaking creations, and jaw-dropping spidery teal-and-deepslate creations. Weird Science!

(Season 9) Soup Crew - ImpulseSV, PearlescentMoon, GeminiTay. Made the CRAZIEST combo-base where all their different themes blended into a cohesive build

(Season 9) Buttercups - Grian, MumboJumbo, and GoodTimesWithScar. What's up, Buttercup? They formed after an incient where Scar and Grian blew up a massive, complex tunnel bomber in Doc's base. They could not understand how to repair it, and left a few diamond blocks before conflict started. They dragged Mumbo in, and had a robot fight with...

(Season 9) The Perimeter - Docm77 and RenDog. Doc's base, known as The Perimeter, teamed with Ren to attack the Buttercups using walking redstone creations to do a robot fight. Due to an issue with one of the server's plugins, they all re-logged, breaking one of the bots and ending with Buttercup's bot to do more harm to itself than the Perimeter's, but ultimately the destruction did prevent Doc and Ren from getting any further. Ren and Doc then launched flying TnT dupers, which looked like butterflies, towards all of the Buttercups' bases and camp. They stopped them both, with one butterfly destroying The Perimeter's own bot even further.

I am so sure that I'm missing some, but I am losing my mind with all this trying to remember them all!! I hope this could give people an idea of who they might enjoy watching!

#hermitcraft #hc #hermitblr #hermitcraft 5 #hermitcraft 6 #hermitcraft 7 #hermitcraft 8 #hermitcraft 9 #hermitcraft 10 #mika-posts

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jakegasm · 1 year

Text

who you belong to | jake sully

genre: smut ♢

pairing: jake sully x omatikaya!reader

word count: 3.4k

warnings: jealous jake being mean?, spanking, vulgar language, crying, rough sex, 18+ (MINORS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DONT INTERACT)

brief info: jake just being jealous and also a meanie 👀

notes: this is my first smut in a loooooooooong time so pls go easy on me ;-; also shout out to my bestie who helped me write this @sinsandsuccubus , i love you bitch 🥺🤍

You were growing restless.

Each morning was the same. Wake up, have breakfast, and sometimes if you’re lucky you’d get a quick kiss as a departing gift. Though some days he’d be gone before sunrise leaving you to wake up to an empty hammock that the two of you share. Unfortunately for you, this was one of those mornings. Huffing you carefully swung your legs from the hammock and set your way to getting things ready for breakfast, grabbing your basket you followed your usual route to your collection site.

The walk was peaceful you couldn’t lie. The crisp morning air filled your nose sending you into absolute bliss. You enjoyed morning walks like this, the quietness soothing you in ways you wished your mate would again. The irritation builds back into you as you thought about your mate, the lack of attention from him is becoming too much to bare. You understood his absence despite you hating every bit of it. Your mate was Toruk Makto, the new olo’eyktan. Your people thought highly of him, so you understood the new responsibilities that were set before him but yet you still found loneliness within your home. It sometimes vexed you when you saw others interacting with him. Getting his attention that you so badly yearned for, yet he still wouldn’t take the hint of your desperation for him. Your fingers picked the last of the fruits from the bushes and trees the dew from morning air coated your digits and palm. With ease, you picked up your freshly picked fruit swinging the basket to your side to rest on your hip. The walk back was a bit rocky due to the extra added weight, though it was manageable. You nodded your head at others, as the forest began to wake up sending them a warm smile as a greeting.

“Would you like some help with that?” Your head turned to the side to see a rather familiar face coming into view, your face lighting up with a smile.

“I am fine. Thank you for your kindness Zu’häi.” Your smile bared your teeth at him earning you a smile in return. You didn't know Zu’häi that well, the two of you only had small conversations here and there and you could not deny that the male was very helpful and kind for a young na’vi. His hands gently and securely grabbed the basket filled with fruit from your grasp giving your slightly reddened hip a break, easily holding the basket upon his shoulder his smile wider than ever.

“I insist. Please, guide the way.” The boy was persistent and you knew that so you decided it was best that you’d let him have his way, turning your back to him you guided the way back to your hut. It was nice of him to go out of his way to help you with your daily morning routine, so in return, you wanted to thank him for his kind gesture. You held the drape that covered the opening of your hut for him to enter instructing him to place the fruit by the makeshift table you had constructed for meals. Dusting his hands the boy once again smiled beamingly at you his hands now resting on his hips. You walked past him to one of the stumps that resided at the table and tugged his hand downwards to the seat next to you.

“Please sit. I will make breakfast for you, for your kindness towards me.”

“Oh no, that is fine. I just wanted to hel-”

“Sit Zu’häi.”

Your voice is more assertive and demanding now but, your eyes never left the fruit that your hands gently sliced and peeled. Quietness was filled between you two though it was a comfortable silence. Your eyes glanced up at him every now and then, his wide eyes filled with amazement as he sat in the olo’eyktan’s home. A smile crept up on your face as you sliced a fruit holding outwards in front of you and him. His face holding confusion at the gesture.

“Eat it, it is one of my favorites.” His face relaxed though you could still see that hesitation in his movements. Rolling your eyes playfully you gently pushed the fruit to his lips, his mouth opening slightly for the fruit to have easier access. “Bite.” You instructed and as quickly as you gave orders he followed. You watched his eyes light up brightly, the amber color even more vivid as the delightful taste of the juicy fruit melted among his palette.

“Oh my that is–”

“Amazing, I know. Here–” You pushed the bowl filled with the fruit towards him.

“Take it. Take it to your family. I have more than enough.”

“Oh no I can not–”

“I insist, Zu’häi.” You finished off with a comforting smile, a smile that reflected on to him as his hands gently grasped the bowl securing as you pushed it even more towards him, persistent with your offer.

“Oh, I didn’t know we were having guests this morning.” The voice of your mate is now the center of attention. The young na’vi sprung up from his seat nearly knocking all of his fruit out of the bowl. His hand nervously brings his fingers to his forehead to properly greet your mate.

“I was just leaving, sir.” Your mate’s eyes never left yours his face already telling you what he was thinking, after a while, you looked away rising from your seat to approach Zu’häi placing a hand on his arm. You felt his body slightly jump at the sudden gesture your face itching away a smile, out the side of your eye you could see your mate was growing irritated as you touched another in front of him your smile breaking through after seeing this.

“Zu’häi, enjoy the fruit. I will have more for next time you visit.” To tease a bit you gave his arm a soothing small rub before patting his back sending him on his way. The na’vi bowed slightly before quickly passing your mate basically running out of the hut to avoid the intimidation of the olo’eyktan. Eyes burned into the back of your head when you turned your heel to him, taking a seat and continuing your task beforehand. He stood there quietly his irritation radiating off of him as he shifted his weight in place. He watched your hands delicately cut and place the fruit onto a separate leaf carefully organizing them into place, he opened his mouth the speak but was quickly cut off by the sound of your voice.

“Sit, eat.” Pushing the leaf he watched you work on previously he noticed how your eyes never left your task and how your voice didn’t have the sweetness in it like it usually did. You were upset. And he knew it was all his fault. But his stubbornness wouldn’t have allowed him to admit that. Following instructions, he adjusted the brace that rested around his torso snapping it open to remove the piece of clothing before setting it aside next to him on the ground.

The two of you ate in silence, it was killing him that you merely spoke a word to him. His mind practically begged him to ask you about the events that occurred before his arrival. Picking his eyes up from his meal he watched your figure across from him, everything about you was angelic to him. You ate staring out the small cut of your hut the sunlight beaming on your skin hitting you at all the right angles. You were glowing. He hadn’t noticed how long he had been staring before your hands were clapping in front of him. Confused he snapped back into reality to realize that you were asking to take his leaf and that he wanted seconds. Denying the offer he gave his now empty leaf watching while you discarded the leaves and cleared the table. He observed your body closer this time, starting from your head to your toe. Your lips had just the right plump to them something he always loved imagining how it would feel to suck on them lightly or even nip at them. The curve of your breast which was currently covered by a neckpiece designed with red and white feathers gave him access to peek at your nipples that poked through every time you bent down slightly. His eyes traveled more down your body stopping at your hips, his eyes squinting when he noticed the red marks that resided on your hips. His hand wrapped around your hip the size of it securely holding it, a loud gasp escaped your mouth at the sudden action. His thumb grazed the spot tenderly careful enough not to hurt you in case it was causing you any type of pain. You were about to make a fuss until you studied his face, his eyebrows were scrunched together and his lips were slightly pursed.

“It is from the basket I was carrying earlier.” His eyes never left your hips the roughness from the pad of his thumb never leaving your skin. “Though Zu’häi came by to help me carry it.” His nose flared at this, the more you mentioned his name the more he felt the fire in him spread and grow bigger.

“Zu’häi huh?” Was all he could say biting the inside of his cheek, his irritation now turning into anger the more you two spoke about him. He knew the male all too well. He was olo’eyktan after all, he needed to know his people. Inside and out. This name you two spoke of whispered amongst people in the forest gossiping on how the male wanted you despite you already being mated. He had heard the male was determined and willing to sacrifice anything just to have you. But this isn’t what triggered him. He had caught wind with his own two ears of how the male wanted to mate you, every detail of your body explained, every position he’d want to put you in, and how much he wanted to implant his child within you. This is what set the fire ablaze within him. Jake knew he always had the upper hand when it came to you, though somehow as of lately he felt somewhat intimidated by the other male. Something that rarely ever happened. He needed to set the record straight, and let everyone know who you really belong to. You had only hummed a response to him ignoring how the grip on your hips got tighter, but not tight enough to keep you in place as you glide your way across the shared room. You felt his intimidating eyes bore into the back of your skull and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t bother you though you refused to acknowledge him and his death stare.

“What are your plans for today?” Clearing your throat you waited for a response while busying yourself with the folding of your blankets that were gifted to you by one of the elders. You heard him shift in his seat and shuffle with something you couldn’t make out. “Why was Zu’häi here?” He ignored your question, his curiosity now getting the best of him. His breathing now slowed and controlled as he tried his hardest to not raise his voice not even an octave to make you suspicious of the question, though his tone had already given away his frustration.

“The boy helped me when it was not needed, so I thanked him in return for a meal.” Your answer was solid and straightforward, though the thought of you two being in here alone knowing the male's intention sent his blood boiling at your cluelessness. “He likes you, ya know?” You only gave him a laugh in return shaking your head in denial. “He wants to mate you too.” The words that slipped past his lips sent his anger into overdrive, only this time you actually made eye contact with him. Your hands rested on your hips and your face scrunched up in confusion.

“Now why would you say that jake?”

“Because it’s the truth, I heard it for myself. I don’t want you talking to him anymore.” You scoffed at him clearly not believing anything he was saying to you, and boy did that finally flip the switch in him. Quickly he sprung up from his seat and approached you in a determined stride his body now looming over yours. Finally looking into his eyes you noticed the anger that swirled in them, you almost felt bad for him. Almost. Your previous nights and days of loneliness came flooding back to you, how you desperately yearned for him but were always met with a cold place in which he held.

“I do not care what you have to say about him. Zu’häi is a nice boy, I will continue to talk to him if I please.” You were about to walk off but a strong grip on your arm yanked you back into your place, the death grip on your arm burning. “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.” His voice spoke lowly with a warning tone to it, he was fighting every ounce in his body to stop himself from finally snapping. “And I am telling you. I will continue to see Zu’häi if I ple-” your sentence was cut short by his quick and swift motion of pining you down face first on the woven hammock nearly knocking all the air out of your body from the sudden action. His grip on your arm never let up as he now rested it against your back while his body pressed fully into you. You wiggled in his hold but to no avail you couldn’t free yourself, his grip being too tight.

“I tried to be nice about it but you make everything so fucking difficult.” His words spit venom out at you while he admired how delightful the curve of your ass was propped up so nicely in the air for him to see. “Looks like i need to show you who you belong to.” He felt himself twitch just below his navel at the site, his other free hand smoothing over the skin of your ass tenderly before delivering a powerful smack to it followed by another tender caress. The repeated actions had you whimpering before him with tears pooling in your eyes not realizing how much this was actually turning you on, the last smack he delivered landed way too closely on your sensitive bud allowing a loud moan to erupt from you.

“Oh? You like getting spanked?” You shook your head vigorously though you knew he knew that you were lying, your dampened cloth proving it. His fingers traced the outline of your loincloth before hooking two fingers under and pulling to the side to reveal all of your glistening glory. He smiled to himself before leaning into you just enough for his chest to touch your back, his breath hitting your ear as he spoke to you. “You know I don’t like liars.” His fingers massaged gently between your folds while he spoke to you enjoying how you were writhing underneath him.

“What did I tell you what happens to liars?” He continued his middle and ring finger teasingly pushing at your entrance sending your brain into a frenzy. You mumbled out a response while desperately trying to relieve the ache that was getting too much for you to handle.

“I didn’t hear you babygirl, you have to speak louder than that.”

“They get punished!” You were basically yelling at him but you didn’t care, you were becoming an absolute complete mess under him. He hummed in satisfaction before leaning up again straightening his posture, your arm now being freed from his grip though he knew you weren’t going to try to run away. Not now anyway. In a blink of an eye, the cloth that shielded all of your wonders dropped at your feet, your body now out on full display for him. Watching your body exposed to him made him realize how long it's been since the last time you two had done anything like this. Definitely too long, that's for sure.

He was practically drooling over you when he used his thumbs to spread your folds watching as your hold clenched over nothing, his own ache now becoming too much to bear. Wasting no time he quickly undid his own loincloth letting it fall to the floor, his dick springing up hitting just the base of his lower belly grabbing ahold of his own length he gently teased and pushed at your entrance. “j-jake.” He ignored your pleas and continued his torture, you rocked your hips back just enough for his tip to slip in, a moan emitting from the both of you. His hands gripped your waist urgently to prevent you from moving back any further before pushing you off of him, your body fully sinking into the hammock.

“Don’t get too bold now baby, or you’re not gonna cum. I’m just going to use you like the toy you are for my own pleasure and leave you high and dry. Is that what you want?” He spoke with a grunt, placing his hand on the lower part of your back to hold you down.

You shook your head no, earning an immediate smack to the ass.

“Use your words.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No sir.”

“Good girl.” He pulled you back into position by your hips, your back arched, breast pressed into the hammock.

“Spread it for me.” He spoke huskily, to which you rapidly moved your hands to your cheeks, pulling them apart as he moaned, running his tip over your slick.

He slipped into quickly, drawing moans from the both of you, before he pulled out, a “pop” sound coming from your pussy. He repeated the action, teasing you for what felt like hours, your hole clenching around nothing.

“Please… sir…. Fuck me please.” You moaned out, your body beginning to shake.

“Well, since you said please.” Jake slipped into your solidly, pounding you immediately at a fast pace, giving you no time to adjust to him.

The tip of his dick kissed your cervix, skin slapping sounds echoing through the room, alongside the wet sounds from your pussy.

“Push back into me.” He grunted, landing a hard smack on your ass. You followed his order, matching his speed as he fucked you, a hand slithering down to rub your clit.

That is, until he bent down and grabbed you by the throat, pulling you against his broad chest.

“You don’t touch yourself without my permission. This is MY pussy, MY clit. Do you understand me? You just carry it around for me.” He spoke, his grip getting tighter on your neck.

All you could do is moan and nod your head, Jake moving his hand from your neck to cross your chest, his other hand that rested on your hips now moving to your clit.

“Shit! Jake, please!.”

“Mhmm. Feels good doesn’t it. You wanna cum don’t you?”

“p-please!”

“Apologize. Apologize to me and I’ll let you have it.”

“I’m sorry Jake, m’so sorry. It’ll never happen again. I promise.”

“And you won’t see Zu’häi again? Not even look his way?”

“y—y-yes! god, yes! I won’t i—i promise!”

“Mm, good girl. Now go ahead, cum for me.” And at his command you came, euphoria flooding your veins as you creamed all over his dick, him pushing you off of him to release on the small of your back.

“Fuck.” He grunted, running his hand up and down his shaft quickly. Your knees buckled underneath your brain completely turned into mush while you struggled to catch the breath that escaped your body. You felt the hot strings explode across your back before his chest collided with your back propping himself up to avoid putting all of his weight on you, his breathing rough and ragged.

“You okay?” he asked you puffing out spurts of air, you only nodded your head unable to form any words. With the little bit of strength he had left in him he carefully took a place behind you as he moved the both of you fully into the hammock, your face nuzzling into his chest listening to his heartbeat pound against his chest. You two lied there for a few moments not speaking a word, only this time the silence was peaceful.

“I’m serious about you not seeing Zu’häi. I don’t want it to happen again or ever.” His voice rumbled in his chest while your fingers danced along tracing shapes and words into his skin, your lip captivated by your teeth to hide your smile.

“You have my word.” And with that, the two of you decided to make the best of this moment and enjoy the peace and serenity of your embrace, letting all of the days duties drizzle away.

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writersblockedx · 1 year

Text

The Things we do

Pairing - Kaz Brekker x Fem!Reader Summary - When Kaz finds out a rivial gang has taken you hostage, he'll stop at nothing to find you again. Warnings - Angst, violence, torture, wounds, blood, hurt/comfort vibe Words - 2.8K

Masterlist

Kaz didn't know where you were. And, even worse, neither did you.

What you did know however: your head was pounding, the room was dark and you were tied to a chair. Your head dragged up, blood trickling from your cut lip as you faced your captor. She was a mean face. Her eyes flooded with fury that you doubted ever left and she bred the sense of vex with every step she took. If anyone was to be a psycho kidnapper, it would have been her.

"Y/n Y/l/n." A voice called your name like it was illegal, like it was something to be dragged through the dirt.

Your captor took a step back, revealing the man who was sitting in the chair behind her. In no way was he rough around the edges like the girl was. In fact, he wore a suit to fit, his lips moulded into something he seemed to use as a weapon. And despite her cut lip and likely bruised features, her head tilted and she pushed her luck. "Nice to know you know, because I've got no idea who you are." Maybe had you not just been kidnapped, you might have been more composed.

The man stood and she felt herself lean as far back in her chair as she was able. "It doesn't matter who I am." He said; his voice so monotone for the context of the situation. "I just need to know about you."

You weren't so sure where this was headed. Your mind was still trying to catch up with the punches you had just endured, attempting to understand where you were and how you were in fact going to get out of it. "Me?" You reiterated, flashing some puppy dog eyes you knew weren't going to work. But it was worth a try in this situation.

He nodded and then a word slipped from his lips. Just one word and that was all you needed to know you were in the shit now. "Crow." Them puppy dog eyes slipped away as easily as they had settled. Suddenly, you came to realise the severity of the situation and you questioned if you would be able to get out of it. The suit man looked over to the captor, nodding his head as if giving a silent command.

Like that, just as he turned his back and started walking away, a fist came flying. The knuckles of the woman's palm cracked against your cheeks with a thud. You had groaned but didn't dare say a word. You glanced back up at her through the lingering bruises. "Are the rest of you crows at the crow club?"

"Why do you want to know?" You should have known where speaking back was going to get you.

Just as quickly as them words had left your lips, another punch came crashing at your jaw. And you struggled with that one. It erupted a groan as you settled within the pain that plagued you. "What about Kaz? He's the boss right?" She continued to interrogate.

You gazed over at her through stern, mean eyes. "You can punch me till I'm bloody, I'm not telling you anything."

This time, a punch didn't follow. Instead, you watched as the woman wandered around the chair you were glued to. She walked over to a side table, retrieving a small box. It wasn't until she opened the box that you grew nervous. There were several tools. Many of them rusty and blunt but in the hand of your kidnapper, still rather painful. She took one of the bluntest knives, one that had rusted so much it was burnt and brown. With that in hand, she wandered around once again.

"Anything you went to get off your chest now?" Asked the woman.

You could feel your breath itch in your throat, feeling her shadow hover right over your shoulder. It was daunting but didn't stop you as you quipped back, "Do your worse." And she certainly did.

She took the blade. At first, it brushed over the prickles of your skin, then, within a flash, you felt it jab into your shoulder. With that, you let out a piercing scream. The metal seeming to have shot so deep into your body it felt as if it were scraping against your bone. You didn't have to look to know it was bleeding. By the time the weapon had dug into your skin, the blood was dripping down towards your elbow.

The woman took a firm grip over the blade. With every single, slight touch it was painful. Just the brush of her fingers against the metal had felt agonising. So when she took a hold of it, a groan escaped your lips. She leaned over the bleeding shoulder, "You're gonna tell me what I need to know." Her voice was a whisper but it felt deafening in your ear.

Your breath was uneven and, just as you were about to catch it, she shoved the blade down further. Another scream erupted from your lips. This one louder and much more of an echo. And once more, she leaned over your shoulder, "Where does Kaz keep the money?"

Once you let out a sigh, you looked over at her, "I'm not telling you." You were stern in your words even if everything in your body already wanted to give in.

This was what being a crow was. It was criminal. It was getting beating up and getting bloody, but it was dealing with that. And so you would. At least, you would try. Because when she even grasped the metal, you were regretting your decisions. "Wait, wait!" She stopped; so did the pain. You took a breath, trying to gather your thoughts that the pain had cut through. "Please..." You couldn't imagine anything worse than another touch from that blade.

She asked the same question: "Where does Kaz keep the money?"

A long moment followed. One in which you knew you were going to give in, even if it killed you to betray Kaz like that. Your fellow crow, your boss, the man who had took you in when you had nothing. "There's a safe. It's under his desk in the office. The office is upstairs in the crow club." Like it was nothing, you spilled everything.

"See," She paused and in one swift movement, tore the knife from your skin. Another scream erupted. But it was the last one you would have to endure. "Wasn't that difficult, was it?" She had no idea what you were in for with Kaz now. "Now, when's this office left empty?"

You knew this plan was so this gang could get their sticky fingers on Kaz's money. And maybe you should have cared more to not spill all this information considering Kaz paid your wage. But alas, the fear of the pain was seeming to pull the words from your lips, "When there's-"

You didn't know why or what had happened at first, only that your kidnapper had fallen right in front of you. Then you spotted the knife in her back. You almost couldn't believe it at first. Well, not until your head snapped up to figure that was wandering from the doorway. "Inej?" The woman removed the scarf that masked her face as she rushed forward without another word.

She went around straight away, her hands reaching out and untying the rope which bound you. "Where is she?" Came another voice which boomed through the building. A wave of guilt passed you as you came to recognise the voice: Kaz.

"In here!" Replied Inej.

And like that, the man came through. His eyes pooled with sympathy, completely unaware of how you had just betrayed him. Not that he had noticed. In that moment, Kaz had never felt such relief. Over the period you had been lost, he hadn't felt himself breathe. He sent Inej and Jesper left, right and centre until finally, they got a hit. A rival gang that barely hand enough bullets to take down the three of them. He couldn't care who had taken you. It could have been the king himself and he would have still swug through battlefields, explored every inch of this world, whatever it took just so it could get to you.

Now, with your eyes interwinding with his, he rushed to you. Inej had only just let the rope fall from your body and it was suddenly being engulfed by Kaz. At first, it had shocked you. Then you soon settled into the comfort which was ever so familiar. With your head situated on his shoulder, your gaze glanced to the doorway, finding Jesper stood there. He too just as relieved, taking in the sight of his boss and his friend tangled within the comfort of one another. Jesper knew that Kaz needed that hug just as much as you - if not more so.

When he pulled away, you were met with that worrisome gaze which seemed to devour you. "Can you stand?" Kaz questioned.

And while you couldn't exactly give him a reply, you nodded and that was enough. His hands came around, taking a hold of your own as he helped you to your feet. He guided you towards the exit, not daring to let his touch fall. About half way there, you both stopped. There came the sound of a thud from behind you. It wasn't until you turned, finding that Inej had pulled her knife from your captor's back that you came to realise why. Of course she taken her knife back. No one chose to comment. Instead, you found that it was normal and continued walking, following Jesper.

By the time you made it home, the Crow Club was empty. It wasn't until later that you would come to realise Kaz had closed the club, needing the empty space to focus on finding you. Something he was thankful for now he had you in his arms.

Once you got home, Jesper pulled a chair up for you, forcing you to sit down as he tended to the wound plaguing your shoulder. Inej was sat on a table across from you, sharpening a knife while Kaz was standing behind you. And for a moment, it was all silent. All their attention was focused on you and the wound which was buried deep into your skin. Yes, it felt as bad as it looked. "You sure you're okay?" Inquired Jesper as he pulled your shirt down for easier access.

You didn't bare look at any of them, knowing the pity you were likely to receive. "I'll be fine, Jesper." You replied without much emotion in your tone.

Jesper gave a concerned look to the man standing behind you. Something of which you had missed, too busy replying the memory of the knife in your shoulder to take note. "Okay, okay." Jesper said. "But just know," He paused as he gathered his needle and thread, "This isn't going to be pretty."

You didn't look to him as you answered, "Just clean it up, will you?" You weren't so much in the mood for Jesper's playful mood like you normally were. "I don't want an infection and a stab wound."

And like that, Jesper's lips stayed sealed as he gathered his items, staring at the wound as he attempted the best way to tackle it without hurting you so much. "What were they asking you?" Inej spoke up as her head lifted to meet yours. "Did you tell them anything?" That question made you wince.

Jesper scoffed, "It doesn't matter anyway, you killed em'." He did make a good point there, something you were silently thankful for.

"And by the looks of things," At the sound of Kaz's voice, you finally turned, meeting his gaze which seemed attached to the wound sitting on your shoulder. "You didn't tell them anything either."

Had it not been for the groan that came with the needle making contact with your shoulder, you might have said. Instead, you sucked in a breath before letting out a, "Jesper." in a snap.

"Sorry," He apologised. "I did say its not gonna be pretty." And with that, he started to thread you skin back together like it were clay.

"Do you know who it was?" Inej continued to interrogate.

You thought on it for a moment but with your pounding head, you couldn't come up with much. "No." You said first. "He wore a suit like he was trying to be more fancy than he was."

"That's it?" Critiqued Jesper from behind you, his snooty tone prompting you to gaze over at him. "He was too fancy for a suit? That's what you gathered?"

Your glare turned deathly, "I was a bit preoccupied with the fact they kept punching and threatening me...obviously." You agrued.

"Careful," Said Jesper. "Don't forget whose holding this needle." The small prick of metal glistened in his hand before your eyes rolled, turning back around.

"So we have no idea who these people are." Kaz concluded as his gaze jumped from you, something which had only enhanced that ever-heavy feeling of guilt which burdened you.

A loud exhale, almost loud enough to be classed as a sigh, came from Inej, "Suppose it's a good thing you didn't tell them anything the-"

"Ouch!" Your voice shot through the club.

All eyes came to you and your burning stare that was being pointed at Jesper. He had slipped. Only the smallest of bits but still, you had snapped at him like that. And what was worse, your anger didn't die down. Instead, you stood abruptly, tearing the needle from further patching up your wound. "Y/n-" Kaz started but you were already walking away.

And without even looking back at him, you said, "I'm fine." And continued on, eager for some privacy where the guilt of spilling your guts didn't linger.

You escaped into your room, taking in the air like it was fresh, like it wasn't intoxicated like the rest of the club was. The room was lonely, and it was empty, free of anyones opinion and judgement. With tears pricking your pupils, you wandered over to the mirror. Your shoulder took all your attention. Sure, Jesper had sewed up about half of it but the wound was still sharp and deep into your skin. It's edges ridgid and screaming to be tended to.

With a huff, you pulled your t-shirt back up, groaning at the pain which came with the contact. And you continued on with shakey legs and even shakier breath as if you could continue on. You soon came to realise it wouldn't be that easy.

The door clicked open and you tensed, suddenly appreciating your back was facing the door. The tears were easily about to slip from your eyes and that was something no one needed to see. "I told you I was fine." You said, sucking in a sharp breath that you preyed gave you the air you needed to not let those tears fall.

"You're not meant to be." Only then did you come to realise the intruder in your room was none other than Kaz Brekker. And his voice was enough to prompt you to turn, meeting his soft features which made you weak. "Whatever you went through, it was always going to be painful."

He had no idea what was truly the cause of your pain. "I've been beaten before Kaz." You argued.

He took a cautious step into the room, knowing you could force him out at any given moment. "None of us expect you to be okay, this wasn't just any normal beating, Y/n." He went on, providing comfort which would normally be accepted. But considering he didn't know the full story, it was a struggle to accept it.

Until, in a rushed decision, you gambled your whole relationship with Kaz. "I don't care that they hurt me, that they punched, stabbed, bled me like I was a doll. I couldn't get less." That part was true. "But I just- I had to."

Kaz's brows knitted, "Had to what?" He queried.

"I had to tell them." Like that, the words hung in the air. "I had to tell them everything." The tears finally started slipping until they were streaming down your cheeks.

The moment Kaz caught sight of that, he rushed over. And just as needy as before, he engulfed your body into his own. "Hey, it's okay." He assured. "All that matters is that you're safe."

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