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krirebr · 10 days

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Beyond These Walls in Front of Me

Pairing: dark!Andy Barber x f!reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Andy brings you into a new part of your home. Part of the Trapped AU.

Warnings: Dark elements, kidnapping, human trafficking, training, references to punishment, isolation - Just trust me when I say that this is dark. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist

A/N: And here is the winner of the poll I posted last week, asking you all to help me choose the next part of this AU to work on. Of all the options, this was the one that was least fleshed out in my head, but I really like how it turned out! A quick reminder that this is an out-of-order AU, so this one is obviously after reader's first day but before Christmas.

Big thanks as always to @paperweight91 who always tolerates me sending countless screenshots and answered my endless questions of "Is this too much? Not enough? Does it make sense??"

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. Even if it's just screeching at me. As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You woke up at the buzz of your wristband. Andy’s arm was slung over your side as he snuffled into your neck in his sleep. You took a moment just to breathe, to gather your strength for the day. You could afford that time, you hoped. You didn’t think it’d put you behind schedule. Then, you got up, exceedingly careful not to disturb the man who shared your bed. You had learned your lesson, there. It was time to start your morning routine.

You took a shower, and using all the products he liked, cleaned yourself thoroughly. Once you were done and dried off, you applied moisturizer to your entire body. You’d given yourself a manicure and pedicure yesterday, so your hands and feet shouldn’t need attention, but you still double-checked to make sure the polish hadn’t chipped. Then it was time for hair and makeup.

Andy liked the sort of ‘low-maintenance, natural’ look that actually took forty-five minutes so you didn’t have time to waste. You got out all your toners, primers, serums, powders, gels, stains, etc. Thank god for the wide counter and twin sinks because you needed all that room to make yourself perfect for him. You avoided looking yourself in the eye in the mirror as much as you could. You already knew what you would find there. Emptiness. You didn’t need to see it again.

Once your makeup was done and your hair was in one of his approved styles, you tiptoed into the walk-in closet that he’d left unlocked and put on the outfit he’d picked out for you last night. It was a dress. Of course, it was. It always was. You hadn’t worn pants in… well, you weren’t sure how long. Time was slippery these days.

You stepped back into the bedroom to find Andy just starting to stir. You closed your eyes for just a moment, bracing yourself, then went to his side of the bed. With a gentle hand, you brushed his hair back from his face, then placed a soft kiss on his forehead. “Good morning, sir,” you cooed. Your hand traveled down from the top of his head to cup his cheek, just how he liked, and he nuzzled into it as he hummed sleepily. He didn’t open his eyes though, so you slowly pulled back your hand and made your way to the bedroom door.

You held your wristband up to the sensor and the door unlocked. You knew that if you looked back, you’d see Andy’s phone on his nightstand, lit up with the alert. So you didn’t look back.

As you walked down the hall, you couldn’t help the way you sort of held your breath as you walked past the punishment room as quickly as you could. Andy had taken to leaving its door open lately, in case you needed the reminder. You kept your eyes forward and didn’t look inside.

Once you got to the kitchen, you immediately started preparing breakfast. Andy had mentioned last night that he was in the mood for pancakes, so you got out the ingredients, along with eggs and bacon, and got to work. Breakfast was the most stressful meal to make because the timing was so delicate. Take too long and it wouldn’t be ready when he came out, which would displease him. But make things too quickly and they would just sit and get cold, which you had learned quickly also made him angry. So you kept an ear open to the bedroom and hoped for the best.

It lined up well today because just as you were stacking the last pancake on the serving plate, Andy came out and wrapped himself around your back at the stove. He was wearing sweats and a T-shirt, so it must be Saturday. That meant you’d gotten to sleep in a little this morning. How nice.

“Good morning, Sweetheart,” he rumbled, in between peppering kisses down your neck.

You didn’t shrug him off. “Good morning, Sir,” you said. “Breakfast is ready.”

He made a hungry little moan into your neck. “Everything smells so fucking good. Including you.” He finally let you go, picked up the cup of coffee you had ready for him, and took his seat at the table.

When you brought the food over to him, he tilted his head up in expectation. Without grimacing, you lowered your head and kissed him. He took control, as always, with a hand on the back of your head. The most important thing was not resisting him. You’d learned that the hard way.

Once he released you, you started to move away so you could make your own breakfast (oatmeal and fresh fruit like usual), when he grabbed your hand, stopping you. “Hold on,” he said. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

Your stomach dropped. No. What had you done wrong?? You’d been trying so hard to be good! You were good. You were.

You nervously glanced at him to find him looking at you curiously. He held your gaze for a moment, then commanded, “Kneel.”

You froze, for just a second. This was new. You weren’t sure where it was going. Maybe he wanted you to keep his cock warm while he ate. You could do that. You could. You could do a lot of things if it kept you out of the punishment room.

You dropped to your knees at his feet, looking up at him through your lashes and a wide smile bloomed on his face. He gently cupped your cheek with his hand and cooed, “Such a good girl.” Then he straightened his hand and tapped your cheek twice with his fingers. “Get up, sweetheart.”

You stood up, visibly confused, and let him guide you onto his lap. He just held you there for a bit, just stroking his hand up and down your arm. When he finally spoke, he said, “You’ve been so good lately. So obedient. I’ve noticed how hard you’ve been trying. How much you’ve improved.”

You didn’t need any prompting to say, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. That’s why I think you’re ready.”

Your brows furrowed. “Ready for what, sir?”

The smile he gave you was gentle, proud. “To move upstairs with me.”

“Upstairs?” you gasped. You didn’t know how to react to that. Upstairs had always been a far-off future thing. Just do what he says so you can get upstairs had always been the mantra, but now that the time had come, what did it mean? What should you do?

“Yes, sweetheart,” he said. “Upstairs. We finally get to start our lives together.”

“I–” you started and stopped, suddenly overcome by fear. You didn’t know what was upstairs. You only knew the basement, only knew what to expect in the basement. “What do I need to do, sir?” you finally asked.

“Right now,” he said, his tone full of amusement, “why don’t you get me another cup of coffee? Then you can make yourself breakfast and when you’re done eating, clean up the kitchen. I’ll take a shower after breakfast, that should give you some time. Then I’ll bring you upstairs.”

You hated the relief you felt at knowing what to do. “Yes sir,” you said as you scrambled off his lap and headed straight to the coffee maker. Andy watched you with a satisfied grin on his face.

You turned around halfway up the stairs, Andy right behind you. “You’re sure this is ok, sir?” What if this was a trick or a test? What if he changed his mind when you got to the top and you’d be punished?

He just raised an eyebrow. “Are you second-guessing me, sweetheart?” His tone was still light, but you knew you’d messed up.

You shook your head frantically. “No! No, sir. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Whatever you want, I’ll do whatever you want.”

He brushed his fingertips down your cheek. “I know you will, sweetheart. Now, turn around and keep going.”

You did as he said and finished climbing the stairs. When you got to the top, you tried the door but it wouldn’t budge. You held your wristband up to the sensor but nothing happened. Oh god. As you started to turn around to ask him what to do, he crowded into you, pressing you into the door, covering you with his body so you couldn’t see what he was doing. But you heard the beeps of a keypad.

And then his arm wrapped around your stomach to hold you as he opened the door and he was nudging you onto the main floor.

The first thing you noticed was how bright it was. There were windows! Sunlight was streaming in. As soon as Andy let go of you, you ran to the nearest window and turned your face up into the light. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but you swore you could feel the sun’s warmth through the glass. You hadn’t seen daylight in… you had no idea. You hadn’t been able to keep track of time down there, but months. It must have been months. Tears started to gather in your eyes and you tried to blink them away. He only liked it when you cried during sex or punishments, otherwise you were being manipulative. You couldn’t do anything that would rob you of this sunlight.

“Sweetheart,” he called from behind you. When you didn’t register that, he called your name, a hint of sternness sneaking into his tone. That got your attention and you looked over your shoulder. “Come here,” he said.

You pulled yourself from the window and went to stand in front of him. He put his hand on your cheek and ran his thumb over your bottom lip. “Now,” he said seriously, “being upstairs comes with a lot of privileges, but it doesn’t mean you can forget all your rules, ok? Or that you’re done training. I expect you to be just as good up here as you were down there. And if we have to go back downstairs, for whatever reason, I need you to know that it will be much worse for you. Do you understand?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

He smiled, big and genuine and you thought briefly of how that smile would make you melt on anyone else. “You can call me Andy now, sweetheart. That’s one of the privileges I was talking about.”

“Thank you, sir,” you said, the honorific so engrained in you it just tumbled out. “I mean, Andy,” you corrected yourself hurriedly, committing the new rule to memory. “Thank you, Andy.”

He cupped your cheek. “You're welcome sweetheart,” he cooed. “I am gonna miss the way you say ‘sir,’ though,” he added with a lascivious glint in his eye.

You stood as still as you could as he ran his thumb under your eye, collecting the tears that had gathered there. He looked you dead in the eye, and you couldn’t help but lower your eyes in response. “Come on,” he said, with a grin in his voice. “Let me give you a tour of the house.”

He took you into the kitchen first, of course, and immediately started extolling all its virtues, but you couldn’t hear him. And you could only see one thing. On the stove, in the middle of all the controls, was a digital clock. It read 10:37. It was the morning because of the light streaming through the windows. (There were even more in this room. There were windows everywhere.) And it was Saturday because Andy was home today and he hadn’t been home yesterday. It was 10:37 on a Saturday morning. Holy shit. Downstairs, you hadn’t had any indication of time passing other than the buzz of your wristband letting you know it was time to get up, or start a chore, or make a meal. But now, it was 10:37. And the next time you looked at it, you would know exactly how much time had passed since now. Time would mean something. You wouldn’t be adrift anymore.

You were crying. You couldn’t help it. Andy turned back to you, one hand still on one of the two stacked ovens that were built into the cabinetry as the other moved to his hip. “What’s wrong?” he asked harshly.

You shook your head urgently. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry, Andy.”

“Tell me the truth, sweetheart,” he said, with that tone that said you were on your way to the quiet room, at the very least.

Your eyes darted around the kitchen frantically, trying to find an answer that would appease him. “No, it’s nothing. I’m alright. I just– It’s so much. I’m– I’m overwhelmed. I feel so much.” It was much more honest than you usually were with him, not counting the early days when you would scream what you really thought of him before you understood the consequences. But you didn’t know what else to say.

He took a few steps, closing the space between you and it took every muscle in your body to make yourself stand your ground, not flinch away. As soon as he was close enough, he pulled you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “Oh, honey,” he said, his tone so much gentler than before. “I know. I’m so happy to have you up here, too. This is going to be so good for us.” He just stood and held you, running a soft hand up and down your back. After a few moments, he asked, “Ready to see the rest of the house?”

You knew the correct answer, so you ducked your head and said, “Yes, Andy,” as he released you. He grabbed your hand tightly and quickly tugged you into the next room.

You absently took in the large sectional, the big TV on one of the walls, more windows, but mostly you were struck by how much bigger the living room was than its basement counterpart. You’d assumed, foolishly, apparently, that the square footage of where you’d been living roughly matched the main floor above it, but as you looked around you were sure that this floor at least doubled where you’d spent the last who knows how long. You couldn’t help the shiver that traveled through you as you wondered what else was down there.

There was a dining room and another sitting room next but you weren’t taking anything in, couldn’t describe anything about this house if pressed other than typical upscale suburban fare. It fit him. You had the sudden, chilling, thought that maybe it would fit you too someday. Soon. If you continued to become who he wanted you to be. Because you already were. As much as you’d tried to stay yourself, especially at the beginning, you felt all the ways he’d ground you down, all the ways you’d changed. You remembered how easily you’d slipped down to your knees just an hour or so before. Just because he’d told you to. You wanted to cry again, but you wouldn’t. He wouldn’t like that. And wasn’t that just all there was?

As you came upon the stairs leading to the next floor, you stopped dead in your tracks without thinking, your hand falling out of Andy’s now lax grip. The front door. It was just… right there. For anyone to use. Anyone to enter. Or exit. A thousand thoughts flew through your mind all at once. You could just run. Right now. Maybe with the element of surprise, you’d get a head start. There were hooks on the wall, and on one of them hung a set of keys, what looked like car keys with a few others. Grab them and run and maybe you could do it! But where would you go? You didn’t know this neighborhood, this town. You didn’t have anyone you could go to for help. You didn’t have any form of ID. Last you knew, Andy had all of your papers and cards locked up in his safe. And those were all the new ones he’d gotten for you. Your original identity, your real one had been destroyed. You knew. He’d made you watch him do it.

As you argued with yourself, on the verge of saying fuck it and making a run for it despite all the reasons not to, you noticed a small black sensor to the right of the doorknob, identical to the ones downstairs. The ones that your wristband would unlock only if it was an authorized time. The ones Andy controlled on his phone.

You looked up to find him already on the first stair, his gaze locked on you. Your indecision couldn’t have lasted that long. Just a few seconds, if that. But, as he stared at you, you felt like he could see every thought you’d ever had. You wanted to shrink back, maybe run down the stairs to the basement before he threw you there himself, crawl into the punishment room, and beg for mercy.

But before you could do anything, he held out his hand. “Ready to see the bedrooms?” he asked. His face was completely blank, his tone betraying nothing.

You tried to do the same, to not shake or look or sound guilty as you said, “Yes, Andy,” and took his hand, letting him guide you up the stairs.

On the second floor, he brought you down the hall, bypassing several doors before pulling you into the room right at the end. It was huge, was your first thought. So much bigger than the room you’d spent the last who knows how long in. The walls were painted a light blue-gray, all the furniture – dressers and nightstands, a much darker gray. The bed was one of the biggest you’d seen, Californian King at least, maybe even Alaskan. It was covered with plush, fluffy bedding and lots of pillows, all in different shades of blue, with a light gray, stuffed, and quilted headboard resting against the wall. It all screamed luxury and relaxation. You were reminded of those home improvement shows you used to watch when you had the freedom to. They’d talk about how your bedroom should be a sanctuary, everything chosen to inspire relaxation and calmness. This was the sort of room they were talking about. You could have laughed, as all you could feel was the foreboding presence of Andy, standing by the door, watching your every move. You’d never relax in here.

You continued to explore the room, trying to act like you couldn’t feel his suffocating gaze on you. Your eyes slid over the ensuite to the two walk-in closets. You immediately noticed that there were no locks on the doors. Did that mean you’d be allowed to pick out your own clothes? And did that even matter if everything was chosen by him in the first place?

You turned back to find that he’d taken several steps closer to where you stood in the middle of the room. “I know,” he said, “that I should’ve shown you the other rooms first, but I’ve been desperate to get you inside our room, see what you look like in it.” His arms came up around you, pulling you tight to him. “You’re perfect. You fit perfectly. In this whole house. You feel it too, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Andy,” you said by rote, but you did feel it. You knew exactly what he meant. You fit perfectly, just like the nightstands, or the couch downstairs, all the tables and chairs. Just another piece of furniture that he picked out specifically to make his home perfect.

His hand came up under your chin, tilting your face so that you had to make eye contact. “I’m so happy I bought you,” his words chilled you as he went out of his way to remind you of your place here. “You were worth every penny.”

You closed your eyes for the shortest moment, letting yourself feel the horror. Then you opened them, met his gaze, and said, “Thank you, Andy.”

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#dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #andy barber x female reader #andy barber #defending jacob #basement wife au #dark fic #dark!fic #fanfic #chris evans characters #chris evans fanfiction #kris wrote something #reader insert

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shitouttabuck · 7 months

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oh my god nina!!! 8 for the bedsharing prompts if it takes your fancy <33

thank you sweet peach this scratched an itch !!!

bed-sharing prompts: whispering “Oh, you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up.”

Eddie’s not old—he’s not even 30, despite the near-constant jokes about his senior citizen-isms he seems incapable of shaking. And he wouldn’t even say he’s a man of creature comforts. He just likes familiarity, and routine, and his own goddamn bed.

Quarantine has brought a lot of change: being away from Chris, living in a single-occupancy apartment with three other people, and sharing a bed with all six-foot-two of Evan Buckley.

Currently, this means waking up at some wretched hour and squinting in the moonlight filtering in through half-open blinds, because the aforementioned best friend has stolen Eddie’s pillow from right under his head yet again.

Eddie groans quietly, easing his neck out of the crick it’s cramped in. He glares at the enormous lump snoring serenely beside him and pats the mattress blindly for his pillow. Eyes adjusting to the dark, he’s greeted by the same sight he’s woken to at ungodly hours thrice this month already: Buck with his gigantic thieving arms wrapped happily around Eddie’s goddamn pillow as he clutches it to his chest, dead to the world.

“Fuck’s sake,” Eddie mutters, reaching out and tugging the end of the pillowcase to no avail. Buck’s vice-grip doesn’t falter even in sleep. Eddie’s usually able to coax it out of his grasp without waking him, but it takes a minute, and their last shift had been a full-body workout from hell, and Eddie just wants to go the fuck back to sleep with a single measly pillow supporting his exhausted head. Surely that’s not too decadent a luxury to expect.

He tugs again, harder and meaner than he normally would. The pillow inches out of Buck’s hold, and Eddie grabs a firmer handful to yank it away, grunting triumphantly when it pops free.

“Hrmmph,” Buck grumbles, crease appearing between his eyebrows. Eddie stills, holding his breath as he gauges Buck’s proximity to consciousness. He thinks he’s in the clear, but then Buck murmurs unhappily and rolls ever-so-slightly towards Eddie.

“S’your turn to be th’ li’l spoon,” he slurs, and Eddie freezes even further. “’M th’ big spoon t’night.” He pats half-heartedly at the mattress between him and Eddie, jaw going slack again after a few seconds.

Eddie grins, just barely containing the snort that bubbles up at Buck’s sleep-talking. There’s enough distance from Ali and even Abby, post-train debacle, that means he can wring weeks’ worth of teasing out of this. Whichever one of them it is Buck’s dreaming of, Eddie thinks multiple nights of interrupted sleep allow him a little good-natured—if merciless—ribbing.

He shifts onto his back, shoving the pillow under his head and shutting his eyes with a sigh, but the movement has Buck mumbling again. His face is mashed into his own pillow, words barely intelligible when he says, “Y’re littler than me. C’mon, lemme be big spoon.”

The snort sneaks out of Eddie then, just a bit. He barely knew either woman, but he can’t quite picture them indulging Buck in this line of conversation. It’s—sweet, if deeply mortifying for Buck himself to know anyone else has heard it.

Buck snuffles discontentedly, forehead scrunching as he reaches out in search of the pillow, still asleep.

“Oh, you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up,” Eddie whispers, wondering if there’s more entertainment about to be provided and if it’s worth getting up to unplug his phone and catch the tail end of this on video.

“Urgh,” asleep-Buck responds, patting the bed a little more insistently when he’s unsuccessful in his pillow-retrieval endeavours. “Wh’re—c’mere. Eddie. Y’re li’l spoon.”

This time when Eddie freezes, it’s such a sudden locking of every joint in his body that his neck cricks in the opposite direction. He barely feels it, singularly focused on Buck’s latest garbled complaint, because—is Buck awake? Is Buck dreaming about him?

He’s frozen so still he doesn’t realise Buck’s questing hand is now well in range of Eddie himself, and he jolts back into his body when Buck’s strong, calloused fingers wrap around his wrist.

“C’me back,” he whines, tugging at Eddie while shuffling closer at the same time. Eddie holds himself carefully still, hardly daring to breathe as Buck slowly but surely plasters his long, long body along Eddie’s side, hitching one leg over Eddie’s thigh before flinging an arm across his torso and dragging him nearer.

“Mm,” he hums, brow smoothing out. His cheek rests on Eddie’s shoulder, face smushed but seemingly satisfied. Eddie’s arm is trapped between his own side and Buck’s stomach, and he worms it under Buck’s body almost on autopilot, more to get comfortable than anything else. This leaves him basically cradling Buck to him, and Buck gives one final happy grunt before burrowing his face into Eddie’s neck and going limp, a dead weight over Eddie’s right side.

Eddie makes his fingers relax where they’re clutching the back of Buck’s t-shirt. This is—fine. Normal and fine. So Buck isn’t dreaming about cuddling an ex-girlfriend, he’s dreaming about holding Eddie. They’ve been living out of each other’s pockets more than usual recently, leaning on each other a little heavier through a global pandemic and missing Christopher. Eddie’s told himself it’s because of constant proximity, and maybe it is, but whatever the reason, if Buck’s subconscious is embracing that vulnerability in this way, that’s fine. He’s an affectionate guy, and while it’s relatively new for Eddie to be on the receiving end of that from another man, he’s not one to shy away because of someone else’s archaic ideas of masculinity.

And—hold on. Y’re littler than me? Was that what Buck said? Eddie huffs indignantly, and then huffs again for different reasons, feeling his cheeks heat. He doesn’t know why, but he pulls Buck a little closer.

It’s still normal and fine, he finds, turning his head to press his nose into Buck’s curls. That surprises him a little, that there’s no freak-out of any kind accompanying—whatever this is. Buck smells like vanilla, because he used Chim’s fancy shampoo that’s actually Maddie’s fancy shampoo because both of them are missing her something fierce, and he’s definitely drooling onto Eddie’s neck, and now that he’s not sleep-talking he’s back to snoring like a motorcycle, and Eddie’s slipping under before he can marvel any more at just how normal and fine it all is.

When the moonlight is swapped for sunlight, Eddie stirs to Chim singing along to radio in the kitchen downstairs. Buck blinks awake right alongside him, cheek imprinted with creases from Eddie’s collar and turning pink as he hastily peels himself away.

“Oh, um, sorry,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He contorts his body in surprise trying to roll off Eddie’s arm. “Did I—sorry, Eds.”

Eddie works his arm back under Buck, easy and deliberate. “S’fine,” he yawns. “It was my turn to be the little spoon.”

In his peripheral vision, Buck turns a brilliant red, and Eddie gives him a reassuring squeeze before taking great joy in telling him just how embarrassed he should be about the contents of his dreams.

(Buck’s mortification is blessedly short-lived, since the contents of Eddie’s dreams are equally embarrassing in the very exact same way, as it turns out.)

#911 fic #buddie fic #wrote this then had GRUELLING therapy so now posting this and legally u have to be nice. please #i have missed writing silly stuff i know it’s just been a few weeks but this was so fun thank u sami it’s exactly what i needed!#911 #buddie #nina writes #ok running on three hours sleep and a therapy hangover and a regular hangover so. posting and snoozing xoxo #bed sharing prompts #mine

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atlasscrumpit · 8 months

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Yandere Miguel O'Hara

(MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING, ABUSE)

With a piece of fabric wrapped tightly around your mouth and your hands tied together, Miguel had you thrown over his shoulder.

His claws digging into your back as you screamed and cried, trying to break free. But, the more you fought the more his claws tore into your skin.

You sobbed as Miguel kept quiet, he made it back to his apartment and threw you onto the floor, making you cry in pain.

"You're a clever little girl, I'll give you that. I really didn't think you could escape here after all the measures I went to to keep you here." He said as you looked up at him with tears streaming down your face.

He knelt down and gripped your chin roughly.

"You tried to escape the only person who cares about you, Y/N. Is that how stupid you are? Do you really think anyone else wants this? Wants you?" He asked in a condescending tone as you continued to cry.

"You're a fucking mess, darling. Trying to kill yourself, having breakdowns or panic attacks, using food as a coping mechanism... You think anyone wants that? That's why you're so lucky to have me. Yet, you run away. Like a stupid little bitch." He growled before slapping you hard across the face. You yelped under the gag around your mouth and cried even more.

He untied your hands and the gag around your mouth.

"Stop... Please." You whispered as Miguel chuckled softly.

"Babydoll, I haven't even started and you're ready begging?" He taunted as you cried and looked at him.

"This isn't love, nothing about this is love." You whispered making him chuckle again.

"Who said anything about love? This is just possession, sweetheart. I own you, you're mine and you obey me and this is what happens when you don't listen." He replied before he gripped your chin again.

"God, you're so pathetic. Now, I'm a little angry after everything you've put me through. So, I'm going to punish you and let myself release this tension you caused. And if you're a good girl and don't complain I'll give you some dinner after but if you try to go against me you'll be starved, understood?"He said, his tone was so calming and gentle compared to his words.

"I understand."

You laid on the ground with blood on your face as you tried your best to stay awake.

Miguel looked down at you and wiped your blood from his hands.

"Get your breath back, baby. I'm going to get the first aid and I'll stitch you up." He said as your shakily breathed in and out and watched him leave from where your head was rested on the floor.

You began to cry again as you entire body ached from Miguel's punishment.

He returned a few minutes later and helped you sit on the bed as he began to bring out first aid supplies.

"Those scratches will need stitches, baby." He said as you nodded a little.

He began to stitch up the wounds from his claws in your arms as you cried through the pain.

"Shh, baby. I'm almost done. You're such a good girl, aren't you?" He cooed to you like you were a dog.

"I'm tired." You whispered after a while before Miguel bandaged up your wounds.

"Oh, I know my sweet girl. After this I'm going to feed you then get you into bed, how does that sound?" He asked as you kept your eyes away from him.

He always did this after he hurt you, acted like you were the most precious person in the world.

"I don't like this..." You whispered as he looks at you.

"What do you mean, sweetie? Are the bandages too itchy?" He asked calmly as you looked at him and shook your head.

"No... I don't like you hurting me." You whispered tears still in your eyes as he sighed.

"Baby, we've been over this. If you were good and just listened I wouldn't have to do this. I know you don't understand any of it but it's for your own good. Can you please just trust me with this, baby? You just need to be a good girl for me and you won't get hurt, okay?" He asked as you snuffled and nodded.

"Yes... I'll be good." You replied making him smile and rub your leg.

"Good girl, you're so perfect. You just forget sometimes and that's okay, baby. I just have to show you how to be better, don't I?" He said as you kept your eyes on him and nodded.

"Can we have dinner now?" You asked as he leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

"Of course, my sweet girl. Come on."

#Miguel #Miguel o'hara x reader #Yandere #Miguel o'hara #yandere miguel o'hara

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ghouljams · 10 months

Note

Living vicariously through Bee, can we have Bee either impulsively purchases or has new livestock bestowed upon her, except…she has no place to put them. And Königs like god dammit (affectionate) and helps her build a ramshackle paddock to keep them in for the time being. Can include whatever kinky or plot shit you want, competency kink, size difference, stronk, whatever. I just need validation cause I just had to help my dad build a quarantine paddock in the burning sun this afternoon cause he impulsively bought more sheep 😭

Maelstrom you fuckin beauty I am so here for this. Bee is exactly the type to fall victim to the supply store chicks and bring home way too many because she wanted them to have friends. She is not made for farming but she loves animals and is so stupid. This is going to be very little relevant plot stuff and mostly me making König's life harder.

You call König as soon as you get home, worrying your lip with your teeth and staring at your new family member. You need to have a good long talk with yourself about impulse decisions and saying no to your neighbors. The line hardly rings twice before it picks up.

"What's wrong?" König asks instead of a greeting. You don't know why something has to be wrong for you to call him. Although thinking about it there's usually something wrong when you call him.

“You have to promise not to be mad.” You hear König exhale over the phone, a slow release of pressure.

“I promise I won’t be mad.”

"Ok, I- actually don't know where to start," you tell him honestly, that seems to work best with him. There's a short beat before he tells you,

"I'll be right there."

König stares down at the little pig you hold aloft for him to see. It’s eyes are almost as big and shiny as yours, it's little nose snuffles as you stare entreatingly at him and god dammit he can't say no to you.

"You need a paddock, and a shed." He tells you, already making a mental list of what he’ll need to grab from his place.

"Is a paddock like a little fenced area?” You ask, holding your squirmy piglet like a baby. König nods.

“Do you have a paddock?” Sometimes it feels like he’s really holding your hand through a conversation. You swear you’re not normally this stupid.

“I have a busted up fence behind the house.”

“Show me.”

König crouches next to one of the old fence posts behind your house, testing its stability before nailing up the wire netting he’d grabbed from home. He tips the brim of his hat with his finger to glance at the rest of the posts in the area, quick mental math buzzing and filling in where he’d need to put missing posts. When he stands again the roll of his shoulders as he straightens to full height is mesmerizing. You don’t think you’d properly internalized just how strong he must be. Watching him work is certainly… enlightening.

He’s really good at this, and you- you have nothing to add that could help. If you’re being totally honest with yourself, you would’ve been completely lost without him to here. Your heart clenches in your chest watching him twirl his hammer idly. You should really be doing something besides watching him. The flex of his bicep as he wraps his hand around the next post and shakes it, the tightness in his back as he raises the hammer and brings it down hard on the top of the post to force it further into the ground... You let out a pleased hum involuntarily. Are you proud of your ineptitude? No. Is seeing König work sort of worth it? Absolutely.

“You sure I can’t help?” You ask, more to be polite than to actually offer. König glances at you, the soft patterned sundress, the sandals, and shakes his head. No, the only thing you need to do is keep looking at him like that.

“Don’t need any help,” He sits back on his heels, staring at the fence post for a moment, before he looks back at you, “actually, if you had something to drink?”

You nod quickly, feeling like just the worst host in the world. You’d been so busy drooling over how hot your poor neighbor is you’d forgotten how hot he must be working out here. You can see the sweat on his skin, the wetness of his shirt where it sticks to him, of course he’s thirsty.

“I’ve got some lemonade, how’s that?”

“Perfect, thank you Hummelchen.” You smile at the nickname, whatever it means it feels affectionate and it makes you happy. You’ve never had a nickname before.

You steal a last look at the flex of his biceps before scurrying back to the house. This you can do, piling ice high in a glass and pouring lemonade just to where you think it might spill. You pop another glass in the freezer for later and feel fairly pleased with yourself, thinking ahead for once. You grab the glass to take out to König, careful not to spill as you cross the grass.

He's back to working hard, tapping nails into fence posts, and making sure everything is as secure as possible for you. For you. He's doing this for you. Just like he does everything for you, and doesn't ask for shit in return. It would be hot if you weren't starting to worry you're taking advantage of him. He looks up when he hears you approaching, his eyes crinkling pleasantly at the edges. He doesn't seem to mind helping you out. You should really find a way to return the favor.

You hold the glass out to him, "Looking good!"

He hums, fingers bumping yours as he takes the glass causing some of the drink to spill over your grip. He wants to tell you you're more than welcome to stay and watch, that he likes feeling your gaze so heavy on him, so appreciative, but he stops.

You lick the sticky sweet drink from your fingers without thinking, a terrible habit you've picked up living alone. König's eyes trace the motion, the soft pink of your tongue as it slides over your fingers. His own fingers tightening on the cool glass, feeling the creak of it trying to hold up under his grip. You don't know what you do to him, making an inquisitive noise at his staring, wiping the wet of your fingers on your skirt.

"You need something else?" You ask, König's voice catches in his throat. You. You. God, only you. You're all he needs and then some. You really must not know. Fuck, he wants to show you, wants to make sure you know how your every movement affects him. Maybe then you wouldn't be so spectacularly naive.

"No," he finally grits. You grin, just happy to have helped even a little.

"Just grab me if you do, I gotta finish up the laundry but I'll be back for your glass." You pat the post nearest you with finality and turn back to the house. König watches you go, thumb rubbing at the condensation on the glass.

König's hand settles on your shoulder as you're pinning sheets in place on the line. It makes you jump a little, you'd been thinking and hadn't heard him walk up.

"Paddock's done," His hand is damp with sweat and dirt, his voice almost as warm as the air. You glance over your shoulder at him and have to pretend you're not staring. It's weird he'd lose the shirt and not the bandana but you're not complaining. He's littered with scars but they only add to the appeal of the cut musculature, did he walk out of a museum? He's gorgeous, and your throat feels dry for any sane words but "wow" and "Holy shit" and "do you mind if I just touch you for a little." You tear your eyes away from his abs to look at the paddock.

Perfectly straight fence and evenly spaced poles, your new critter already snuffling about in the grass. There's even water and food troughs, you wonder if he found those in the old shed or if he brought them from his place. Somehow the well fit fence makes him all the more attractive.

"You'll need a shed for it, but it should be fine for tonight." König tells you, you nod a little and swallow the drool you're working on.

"Piggy smalls can sleep in the house, he's little so-" you cut yourself off, the questioning concern in König's eye makes you think you've said something wrong again.

"Is that what you've named it?" You nod quickly and hear him snort.

"You like it?" You ask, just to hear him tell you no.

"It's very... you." He says after a moment, smile wide enough you can almost see the edges under his bandana. Butterflies kick up in your stomach and you twist your fingers into your skirt so you don't reach to try and touch him.

"Are you staying for dinner?" You ask quickly, before you lose the nerve to say anything to him.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes."

He likes the way you say it, like a sigh. Like you could never say anything else to him. "Then I'll stay."

#cowboy!König #oc: bee #könig x you #könig modern warfare #könig x reader #x reader #god theyre so silly #hes stalking you queen!! stop inviting him over!!!#bee reads dark romances shed probably think it was hot #thats Love levels of crazy

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morallyinept · 5 months

Text

Summary: Joel Miller comes back into your life unexpectedly after a gap of thirty years, and stirs up all kinds of memories and longing. Now, as you're stationed on an outpost for five days alone with the man you stupidly let go of all those years ago, you have a chance to confront him about your past life together and all the things you wished you’d said and done.

But Joel’s different now, and you know you need to tread carefully. Joel Miller is not the same man you once knew in another life.

A slow burn romance set in the post apocalyptic world, approx. twenty or so years after the initial Cordyceps outbreak.

Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)

Chapter word count: 4.8k

Series Masterlist

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: You and Joel finally - finally! - get close and embrace your feelings. Detailed descriptions of smut.

☝🏻 I WILL NO LONGER BE ADDING NEW TAGS due to some of them not working as they should, despite me tagging, so please ensure you're following me and turn on notifs so you don't miss an update on this story.

Enjoy! 🖤

Previous Chapter

You wake, what feels like an eternity later, but has only been hours, with your head stuffed into the crook of Joel's swamping armpit; the material slightly damp there, from sweat or the possibility of your own saliva pooling in your cheek.

He's asleep, snuffling gently, and the shack is thrust into the pale blues of the night as it carries its silent eeriness with it.

You stir gently so as not to disturb him; your arm numb that’s been crushed under your weight, and stand feeling your legs come back to life.

You step over the wayward bullets scattered on the floor from your panic earlier, transported back to the steady thrum of your heart, mirroring Joel’s movements as you fired at the infected. Keen and unwavering, the world narrowed into single points of focus as you cleared the way for him.

In that moment of controlled chaos, the world reset. A formidable duo against the canvas of the wild, standing as a bulwark against the horrors screeching to get you. A new kinship forged through shared missions and unspoken trust that had never really dissipated, despite the passage of time passing between you.

You felt it then. And you were certain he did too.

The scent of gunpowder lingers on your top, your skin, merging with the organic perfume of the wilderness outside. Approaching the window, you peer out carefully and the valley is still and infected free, aside from the corpses that still litter it from the attack.

Joel’s flooding your line of sight again; shooting at them with a calm rhythm that sends you back into that moment when that unspoken tether between you both convinced you this was all too real.

Funny thing about staring death in the face...

The kiss, God the kiss. You can still taste it on your mouth. Feel Joel’s tongue slip inside and search you out, taste him.

A moment carved out in the brutal landscape of survival, where every ounce of tenderness is a precious commodity and he was feeding it to you, a succinct piece of himself that you'd craved and missed terribly.

The absence of him only amplified now that he's in your personal space.

So many years wasted. So much regret.

So much to say, but how do you even begin? How can you start to tell him that you’ve felt out of sync, incomplete, for over thirty years? It feels like standing on an emotional plateau, the expanse of your failings spread out below. Each step requires careful negotiation over that craggy peak; a perilous dance between intimacy and self-preservation.

You reach for some water, refreshing your mouth and cooling you in the summer heat that still clings to your clammy skin.

Throughout your life, you'd often play this encounter out in your mind with sweet lucidity; something to bring you comfort and cling onto as you shivered in the cold, or maybe some petulant delusion that refused to relinquish its hold from the ledge. Either way you couldn’t have predicted that it would actually birth into fruition through a tiresome and painful labour.

And now that Joel is so within your grasp, reaching out and clutching onto you with two tired, calloused hands, you can’t help but to speculate and ponder on how you can both navigate forward together in this wilderness called living now, despite your mind trying out the slay of convincing you that you shouldn’t question it; you shouldn’t look for holes to pick at and make wider, bloodier.

He’s here and that’s all that matters, right?

A sleepy grunt from Joel stirs your gaze to his direction on the cot, leaving your muddled thoughts to tumble at your feet; a warm mountain of a silhouette unmoved and lost somewhere inside a dream as he clings to the fading remnants of it.

You smile recalling the sincerity of his words. The fact that he still feels it between you both; he never forgot, like you didn’t. You feel it finally warm the cold channels of your veins.

Time is fleeting, a verklempt commodity carrying nostalgia in its blood. Moving at speeds hard to comprehend, and a whole lifetime has almost passed by you both. You wonder how it could be that you’ve got so lucky to have a second chance, when most people in this world hadn’t begun to embrace their first. Their chances were gone, stripped from them and buried in the ground littered with bones.

It only makes you feel some swill of remorse; some ebb of guilt rises up out of the weeds with a small, fluffy head. You shake your head physically as the shadows of doubt recess back into the depths of your cranium.

Too much time has been wasted and you’re determined not to waste anymore. Not now, not when at any moment Joel could be lost to you again through this world digging its feral claws in and ripping him from your clutch.

The heat beads on the back of your neck, a stickiness all over that you feel, more prominently between your legs as it registers.

He’s here and you want him, more than you’ve ever wanted anything.

You swallow the water down, failing to extinguish the burning; the sparks flaring inside your chest full of hunger and need. You make your way back over to him, climbing back on the cot beside him.

His arms gravitate to you instinctively as he wakes.

He smiles in some lazy contentment as you feel warm in his grip.

“What time is it?” Joel murmurs out groggily into the blue fade, a heavy exhale from his nostrils warms your face.

“Late, probably.” You caress your fingers through his hair.

He hums out softly with the smile spreading wider on his lips. He’s so beautiful, even more so in this life now. You examine his aging face in the dying, inky light and take note of all the lines and wrinkles that have set up shop around his eyes and forehead.

He blinks the sleep away, setting his focus on you from curious brown orbs that appear like black glass in the encroaching dark.

“How’s the back?” You query gently. His hand, weathered by life’s challenges, finds a home over yours as you weave through his silvery flecked locks.

“A bit better now.” He says as you peer into him. You're certain he can feel your heart, hear it even, as you rest against the bulky frame of him. “Did ya sleep?” He queries trying to stifle a yawn.

“Mm.” You nod gently.

“Should probably move,” he goes to shift, but you stop him with a gentle palm to his chest, and he eyes you softly; his digits find yours, squeezing gently, when they start wandering over his sternum over the bobbling flannel.

“Don’t you dare.” You shake your head, eyes getting lost and tangled in his own.

A charged stillness hangs between you until you press your lips to his gently, and he doesn’t resist. Melting into you, with a sigh of relief, as his other hand sweeps up your back and clutches you tightly to him.

Joel moans into your mouth, filling you with helium and making you float slowly into the ether. Your head is dizzy, your stomach simmers as his tongue sweeps around yours tasting all your colours.

Joel kisses you as though he's chronically starved of affection as well as nourishment, hungry. He could gorge on you forever, filling himself up on you as his moans and clicks of his mouth confirm these promises to you.

Your heart quickens, you’re convinced you can taste it in your throat, standing on the threshold of a reunion that’s been three decades in the making. Time and the relentless hardships of survival have etched their marks on your faces, your bodies, but beneath the surface, the familiarity of your shared history lingers, burning brighter between you.

The touch, once so familiar, sparks a resonance that reverberates through the years, rekindling the flame that had never truly extinguished between you. It’s very much alive in the way he holds you close, how he gasps into your mouth.

How you know he wants this; wants you just as much.

You shift, straddling over him and then you feel him; excited and wanting as he grows hard between your thighs. Joel growls and delicately pinches your bottom lip between his teeth as you rub yourself against him, the delicious friction winding you up tighter.

“Ya still want me?” He puffs letting your lip go. It’s more a desperate, resounding plea than an actual question. A slight tone of weariness, caution - a faint ebb of fear - laces his voice.

“Always,” you gasp and he grunts. "Always, Joel."

He pulls back, watching you in the shadows and how your eyes find him and pull him under your hypnotic spell. He could never resist you; even with a shot to fuck back and the length of time that has separated you, he’ll find a way to be inside you again. To be at one with you.

To make you come undone and feed him all the pieces of you he’s missed out on for so fucking long - he decides instantly the pain later will be worth it.

“Haven’t even touched ya yet, but ya heart is racin’.” Joel breathes against your face in a coarse whisper.

“How do you know that?” You pant, a catch in your breath.

“‘Cause mine is.” He takes your hand, flattens it to his chest and you feel that thrumming metronome like he said.

“Joel,” you groan. "I want you."

You take his mouth again, smiling. It’s pure fucking bliss; the swirling, sucking and licking of that darned tongue, reminding you of all the ways he knows how to use it. His languorous kiss makes every nerve tingle, every heated shudder birth within your bones, sending you towards the edge already.

His hands, albeit shaky, begin to map the old routes of your body he once knew so well. Trailing all the contours of you, running up your back, down to your hips, squeezing along your ass and thighs. Rising up over the mounds of your breasts where he caresses and squeezes gently as he swallows your pants and gasps as he reminds you of his protective grip.

Your fingers fumble with his shirt buttons, he sits upright with a slight wince as his back cracks, shaking free of the offending item, eager to have you touch him.

You plant kisses over his broad, bruised shoulders, running your hands down the sculpted muscle of his tan arms. His chest is littered with a few moles; whitened scars that you run your fingers over and long to hear the stories of their origin, even if they're painful for him to revisit. You want to know it all.

You scratch your fingers in the soft greying hairs on his chest, tracing patterns in the freckles dotted over him like constellations.

Joel’s hands relinquish you of your top kissing over your skin, and finally your bra, and rather than hide from him, you reveal yourself in your aged flesh and graces.

Breasts that aren't as perky as they once were, skin mottled with your own scars and blemishes. He can see the echoes of the young, wily woman he once knew in the lines of your face, and as he looks upon you now, he relishes the resilience, the tenacity.

The way you can still take his breath away as you hear it dislodge in his throat.

“Ya beautiful,” he husks. And you believe it.

His mouth latches onto your nipple, sucking it into that warm, wet orifice and making you whine as he flicks his tongue against it.

“Mmm,” you breathe out as the hardened nub tingles inside his mouth. You feel it rush over your body, toying with your core as he kisses and licks.

He pushes his hips upwards and you feel him rut against your centre as he gets comfortable on the cot squeaking beneath you both.

You groan out and reach down; your hand sliding down his wide chest and over the swell of his tummy paunch, travelling between you both to feel him out over his jeans.

He audibly grunts as you reach him, squeezing and rubbing gently over him, and your nipple slips out of his mouth.

“Can’t guarantee I’ll last. S’been too long.” He blushes as you palm against him.

You shush him with your fingertips to his mouth, he kisses them gently as they traverse his lips. “It doesn't matter. I just want you, Joel."

“Ya want me, darlin’?” He asks again, heavy gravel plinking out his mouth like gold nuggets.

“I want you inside me,” you whine with so much need strangling your voice that it could be pathetic. But neither of you care right now.

"Always loved bein' inside ya."

He unbuckles his belt as you rid yourself of your jeans and panties, and are back in his lap wholly naked and bare.

His fingers find your bubbly seam, probing at the sticky folds there and he groans out. A delicate exploration, one that tantalises and teases, as he brushes up to your swollen clit and presses against it, watching you react and buck in his lap.

You watch as he tastes his fingers, sucking them clean of your slick and eyeing you as he does so. You instantly melt, your body fizzing.

You pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips as two of his thick fingers slide up into your pussy; your thighs are seated over his and open for him to whelve.

He sucks on your bottom lip as he slips them in and out, gently curling them against your spot that he finds so easily; muscle memory of your wet cunt that he never forgot.

Once he finds it again, he’s merciless in your undoing.

“So fuckin’ wet for me, darlin’.” He purrs; he’s your complete annihilation as he furrows and strokes deeper pulling those noises out of you he never forgot the sheet music too. "Goddamn..."

“Joel,” you murmur into his mouth feeling him pull you closer to the edge as he fucks you slowly with his thick digits. A fusion of rediscovery and the familiarity of long-lost passion that you don’t ever want to end.

"Aw God… such a beautiful cunt ya've got. Fuck, I missed this." He sighs as he listens to your mewls, your breaths.

The filth from his mouth makes you blind, eyes glazing over as your irises and pupils sink into the whites. Your insides clench around his fingers furrowing deeper in rapture.

"Joel, you feel so good. Oh my God..."

"Just wanna make ya feel good too, darlin'."

“Please, don’t stop.”

"M'never gonna stop."

You reach down and feel the weight of him in your palm, leaking into it as you massage up and down. He hisses and groans, his face running against yours and scratching at your cheeks with his soft scruff as you familiarise yourself with his cock that’s so hard and heavy.

You can feel it throb around your fingers as you work him up; pulsing, he’s a quivering bundle of muscles shaking against your body. Re-discovering all the delicious things that make him whimper, pant and shake like he’s terrified.

“Fuck,” he whines. He remembers this, remembers your touch. Revels in it and craves more as he shudders for breath. His energy, his vibrations getting tangled up in you as you pump him slowly.

“Mmm, Joel,” you pant as he feels you tense around him. Your pussy squeezing as your own grip around his dick falters a little. You can feel it deep in your belly, blooming and buzzing through all your nerve endings; that heat starting to engulf you.

He recognises it; that sweet moment when you tense up fully right before you become boneless flesh in his arms. He’s missed this so fucking much; the feel of your pussy so wet and dripping for him. The way your body shakes like a constant earthquake clacking against his ribs. The tingles on his skin as you moan and pant for him.

The rush he gets when you tell him you’re about to come for him.

“Come for me, darlin’,” he coaxes. “Been so long, let me have it.”

And you do, clenching around his fingers as you soak them; your orgasm peaks through you and makes your thighs shudder.

It’s glorious, fuck it’s like staring into the sun and seeing it for days after when you shut your eyes, burned into the back of your eyelids.

“Fuck!” You caterwaul.

Your body unkinks itself from being coiled up for so, so long. Your eyes water, a silly thing you are, as you feel it bloom and flower; the scents fill your nose with recognition, with remembrance as your orgasm greets you with wide, open arms.

Hello, old friend. I’ve missed you.

His hand grasps yours with an urgency that betrays the years of separation. His touch is electric, sending shivers down your spine. Your palms pressed together, fingers interlocking, squeezing as you come.

“Joel, I need you,” you sigh, begging into his shoulder trying not to drool over it. An unrelenting schism of his name uttered from your lips as you rattle and shake around him. “Please, please…”

And you begging him is his complete undoing.

The head of his cock is swollen and poking excitedly through the uncut skin. He runs his thumb over the gooey bulb; massaging the sticky secretions of glossy precum into it, making his hips buck weakly as he lines it up with your sopping slit.

You feel him, right there on the cusp.

A few pounding beats of realisation that you’re finally both here. Hearing your mutual breathing all around you, echoing like it’s been slowed down and turned up full blast; that laboured hmm-haa as you’re finally connected when he pushes in.

That lingering pause between you both where nothing exists around you anymore. It's just you and him.

The world can burn outside, the horrors and the creatures within can devour it - it doesn't matter. You’re here, he’s here with you.

He’s inside you.

He’s all you need to breathe as you pry your useless lungs from your chest and toss them aside like silk ribbons flying in the wind.

“Ah fuck.” Joel whines out as you sink down fully on him, feeling him stretch you out again after a long hiatus.

He groans out, that choked gasp in your ear as he enters you, flooding down your spine. The cords in his neck tensing; that deep, guttural sound when a man finds his pleasure reverberating out down the valley outside.

He always grunted when he slid inside you. That familiar whine of him escaping him a short, gruff burst sending your skin alight. Every hair on your body responds to him as he claims you again after a thirty year or so hiatus.

Your lips, once a mystery he thought he'd forgotten, are now an irresistible temptation as he kisses you again, deep and with an intensity that burns you up. Savouring it, relishing the feel of it after so long.

You realise he’s not simply fucking you, he’s making love to you.

Tiny pricks of pain are felt deep in your core as he slowly bottoms out and your cunt remembers the shape of him as he fills you fully.

“Ya pussy was made for me to fill it, darlin’. Still so fuckin’ tight.” He groans.

You coo, gripping him as he squeezes at your hips greedily. That single sheath of him into you takes your breath away, and for a moment it’s like you can’t breathe.

All oxygen is stripped from you and floating in a void of nothing where it’s only Joel; the feel of him inside you again at long last and the way he’s staring back at you as though he can’t believe that it’s just happened himself makes your eyes water again.

“Ya feel so fuckin’ good. Mmph… just like I ‘member.” He pants through delicate, desperate pecks at your face.

It’s a collision of pent-up desire, a reckoning of the years you’ve spent apart. The taste of familiarity mingled with the urgency of the present, creating a heady cocktail that intoxicates you both.

“I remember you too, Joel.” You nuzzle into him, clinging onto his broad shoulders. “God, your cock is still so huge.” You gasp with a bewildered giggle. It’s perfectly unbearable as you grind slowly on it.

“Yeah?” He smirks. “So big it’ll rip ya open, huh? Ain’t that what ya used to say?” He teases.

A small, juddery chuckle escapes you and he feels you clamp round his cock as you do. Joel shunts his hips upward once and it hits you, all the way deep in the furthest reaches of your cervix and you cry out.

"Like that, remember?" He croons.

"F-fuck, yes!"

He does it again and you claw at his skin desperately with your nails.

"Joel!"

He does it again. And again, until he settles into a heady rhythm as he fills you with each thrust, your clit grinding against his pubic bone deliciously.

You’re mewling, clutching onto him as you remember his body connected to yours like this and experience it again all over for the first time.

Your hips meet his every snap with a wet mash as you take him in. He packs you out, rubbing against the right spots and you start to see chrome stars gathering under your eyelids again.

“Joel,” you mewl as the tension starts stiffening your vertebrae straight and spreads into your pelvis, locking up around him. Your walls flutter and squeeze and he groans the most delicious sound in your ear.

Every touch, every caress, carries the weight of history - a brutal history that begs to be rewritten. The grittiness of your pasts fuel the fire, and the room becomes a battleground of desire and the utmost acquiescence.

“Mmm, don’t stop,” you plead as he smothers you wholly. Your head feels like it no longer belongs on your neck, your eyes are rolling back as though you're possessed.

Your body snaps back, letting go. You shake; your cunt clenching, soaking. Surrendering wholly to him.

“That’s m’girl," he pants. "That’s m’fuckin' girl!” Joel praises as you flood his throbbing cock.

All gentle masculinity gone as he grabs you tightly, shunting your hips against him; leaving bruises in your skin to bloom into violet flowers as he fucks you through your peak.

You cry out, constricting around him. Feeling it ripple all over your body; punching glitter out of your back in colourful, metallic bursts. You throw your head back taking in a deep, heavy hit of oxygen, but there is none when you’re this far thrown up into the universe.

The feel of his hot breath against your neck and the slither of his wet tongue leave aftershocks flooding through you. His arms crush you closer as he continues to wind and flex.

You look at him when you resurrect from the dead, and he smiles crookedly through those pink lips you need to taste again. He’s not lost it, that ability to leave you absolutely wrecked as though high on some wondrous drug.

And like an addict, you’ll always crave him.

You kiss him deeply and he completely surrenders too.

“M’gonna come,” Joel husks, sweat from his forehead sticking to your face. You want it; you taste it on your lips and lick the salt of it up.

“Come inside me,” you mewl.

“Ya sure?” He queries with weak, desperate trepidation.

You nod. “Fill me up, Joel. It's okay." You assure.

Little breaths of "fuckfuckfuck" puff out of him on a ragged whisper as he feels your pussy milking him until he’s coming deep inside of you; spraying you down with that thick pearly warmth.

His body jolts and his grip tightens further into your hip skin as he releases. Feeling your pussy pulse and rib around him from the sensitivity; those fluttering twitches against his shaft squeeze him further into an utter brain dead mess.

“Aaw fuck.” He whines gently.

You kiss all over his sweaty face until his lips latch onto yours and he groans contentedly into your wet cheek flesh.

You both rock to a slow gradual halt; staying sheathed on him until your centre becomes a faintly ebbing contraction of muscle that eventually stills and leaks him out down his balls.

Joel’s voice is a gravelly whisper finding you in the violet hues of the dark and being strangled.

“Ya kill me, darlin’.”

You stroke through his curls, untamed and damp at the back of his neck. His arms hold you close, pressing you to his chest as he plants kisses along your collarbone.

You pull his head up and look at his face, into his sleepy, dreamy eyes. His beard isn't full, in fact it reminds you of a teenager trying to grow one and being left with patchy fluff. It's greying slightly in some places, towards his ears and chin as you run your fingernails through it scritching gently. But the moustache is thick, despite being short enough to see and taste his pink chapped lips.

So you do; a deep kiss that melds your skin and binds you to his. He kisses back deeply and then plants an amuse-bouche of little tender kisses over your lips and chin to seed and grow.

“I… love you, Joel,” you say as you pull away from him.

You can’t help it, you always have. It just flows naturally, feels right.

And the lesson here is not to let things fester. Seize the moment in this crazy, horrific world. Too long have you spent feeling incredibly bereft of hope. A complete immolation of you as you fight and bolster, endure and survive.

This can't be all there is left in this world. There has to be more. And you found it, you finally fucking found it.

Kelper was right, he was right to bring you back, he was right to breathe life back into you. He knew, that bastard just knew. You smile, thinking of his face when he'll say he told you so.

Joel nudges his forehead to yours and breathes out in sweet relief. “I never stopped lovin’ ya.” He replies. “Not really.”

You sniff trying to stop the tears, but they fall onto his thumbs as he holds your face close to his. He can taste them on his lips, drinks them down as you let them go, free falling to their death as they take some of the grief and suffering with them, lightening the load.

It shifts. You don't know how or why or when. Just dwelling in his energy now, rather than the lines around his eyes.

They're still beautiful, Joel's looks have only gotten better with age, you’ve deduced, but it's not the thing that’ll steal your breath now. No, it's the subtleties. The way he glows inwardly when you catch a rare smile he throws you in the shack. The safety you feel in the weight of his arms right now that stops the worry and angst of his absence for decades almost immediately. It's in the words he doesn't say, because he doesn't have to say them.

And sometimes he can’t, and that will be alright.

You realise that Joel now in this world, is the man you've always wondered what it could be like to be loved by. Joel back then wasn't ready. Wasn't mature enough. He hadn't had everything stripped from him so he could appreciate the small things, the finer details. That comfort in silence, that warmth of a body that just wants to be next to him because they simply enjoy his bruised weight crushed against them.

And as you rest contended against him, slowly allowing yourself to shed some of those crusted layers of pain in salt water tracks, Joel does the same as he contemplates this too.

As he allows himself a moment to see in the opaque fog as it starts to shift and thin out.

He knows he loves you; that he loved you back then, and loves you now.

Love is no longer some massively unattainable thing that needs to be filled with capitalist sentiment to be brought. Love, to Joel, is in the small things unnoticeable by others.

In a world when you have nothing, sometimes forgoing even the basics, like food; love is the thing that will be savoured when it’s found, taken care of. Not tossed around so foolishly or frivolously like before.

Love is to be planted, grown and watered; tended to every day. It's leaves smoothed and rubbed gently between a finger and thumb. Pruned and clipped so it can bloom into something beautiful that he can dare to enjoy in this rotten world that has already taken so much from him.

And he refuses to lose anything else - he can’t. He's just one fucking man, he can't.

“S'never gonna be enough,” he murmurs a little while later as you’re laying in his arms on the cot.

Both naked and he’s running his hand down the length of your spine leaving goose pimples. “But I got as much love in me to give as ya fuckin’ need.” His voice is in the roots of your hair. "I dunno if it’s gonna be easy, if I’m gonna be easy at times… But m'gonna try. I want to."

You smile with wet eyes, and place a kiss just below his nipple. “You’ll always be more than enough, Joel.” You lift your head to find him in the dark. “You’re everything.”

Joel’s arms cradle you so tightly that he could snap your bones.

“M’not goin’ anywhere, darlin’. It’s you n’ me now, okay?”

To be continued...

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chaosfae-writes · 4 months

Text

𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

premise: a crowded marriage of three, a suffocating marital bed, and one must go — and it’s the meddling husband.

pairings: Alicent Hightower x Targaryen!woc!reader, Targaryen!woc!reader x Vaemond Velaryon (arranged)

ao3 // 15k words

warnings: birth/labor, wlw romance, infidelity, jealously, arranged marriage, misogynistic Westerosi views.

a/n: for my Alicent, my little meow meow. Alicent really said, “look at me, look at me, I’m the husband now.” prepare yourselves, it’s long, please take your time.

do not repost my works.

The birthing bed is a woman’s battlefield.

Choppy breaths of agony, quivering and irate as a wounded animal. Squelching wet noises mildly echo, the scent of copper is nauseating —- the terrain of your neck is damp with sweat. Nostrils flaring, baring teeth as a snarling dragoness.

White hot fire licks along your uterine walls, sore pelvis aches as if it’s cracking, bloodied thighs shaking, chest heaving, throat parched and dry as unforgiving Dornish sand, and the Queen’s tender fingers interwoven with yours.

Alicent’s knuckles baring white, milky fingers clutching tamarind tart fingers as in one fist. She’s perched on her knees behind you, as your spine laid against her bodice hanging off a chair; not caring that blood has now stained her dress — embroidered emerald fabric now adorned with murky brown stains.

It’s been a few hours into the long night, guttural groans rip through your throat, stings as if shards of glass live there —- by now the entire realm of King’s Landing has heard your wails. Trembling teeth, mouth wet with tears and sweat.

Your dizzied skull falls defeatedly upon the crock of Alicent’s neck; sweetly she lays her cheek on your temple. Alicent is a mess, heaving and panting from the stress.

She’s on her knees ungracefully, her thick midnight auburn hair in messy tresses, no longer does she don the regal guise of a queen, but as a soldier in war.

Murmuring under her breath, pleading to the Gods for you and the child to survive the labor -— the ichor that slowly trickles and seeps from the cave of your womb terrifies her as it pools and stains down your thighs.

Prayers recited as hymns, as chants, pleas to the Gods for your life. You have been a life-line to Alicent, been her anchor at each of her births —- throughout her entire life. And she too, will be by your side.

As your hands shook in pain, entering into the new world of motherhood, Alicent witnesses it as not your step-mother, but as your entrusted companion—- as lovers, with ease, she assimilate to the role of husband, as if it’s her babe too who is struggling to breathe life into the new world.

“Push, princess! Its crown is near!”

Throat nearly torn, you muster the strength to push, a high-pitched scream pierces through; a wounded animal using all her strength to bring her unborn cub to the world. A babe’s cry comes as a crackle of thunder, an unforgiving war cry — the fight is won! What a shrill, fiery dragon unfurling its wings.

Relieved gasps, your abdomen a tad bit lighter, but still a little swollen flesh. The umbilical cord still connected, the connection still strong.

“A daughter, princess!”

Exhausted cheers as the baby is swathed in a blanket, sore fingers out-stretch for her. You sob in relief, face wrinkling with a wavering smile, as Alicent kisses your cheek, inches away to your lips. The maidens say nothing over the gesture, too overjoyed — it’s all too familiar. It has been for years.

Clumps of blood clots rest upon Valyrian pale tufts of hair, you cradle the delicate neck of your snuffling babe, your baby’s little chubby fingers curl mindlessly in the air. The babe’s spine lay on the flesh of your thighs, sinking into yourself on the bed.

Doe violet eyes blink, and stare at you, curious and innocent. Alicent is truly over-joyed, her sore shaky fingers reaching for the newborn’s cheek. “Hello there, we’ve been expecting you.” Gently your thumb caress your daughter’s cheek. Alicent’s stroke the ends of your daughter’s hair —- pale as fresh snow.

“What name shall you bestow her, Princess?”

A beat of silence, you smile as a name rings in your mind. “Alysanne, beautiful Alysanne. Named after our late good queen.” A joyous moment, all basking at new life— maidens, the mother, the mother queen all awe at little Alysanne, her arms wiggling in mid-air.

All glee at new life.

All but a missing husband.

The journey from Driftmark to King’s Landing was a blur. It took two days by ship for the return. His trip back home was cut short by the caw of a raven.

‘Ser Vaemond, come with haste to King’s Landing, as the princess is in labor.’

Vaemond tiressly demands for the chariot rider to speed up his horses on the kingsroad, all under the blanket of the night sky —- with the letter still in his grasp, wrinkled.

Anxiously clicking his heels against the wood, scoffing furiously at himself for ever leaving. Bouncing in his seat, his back hunched.

His fingernails digging into the velvet stitching of his cushion, his teeth seeping out, as if he hisses in anxiety.

The Red Keep towering into the night-sky, stars twinkle and shine; the driver couldn’t utter a word, clumsily Vaemond shifts to the door.

His feet bolts out the luxurious carriage, dashing up the castle’s stairways, knees bowing inward, nearly slipping onto his face. The palace slumbers with only few sworn shields roaming on duty, and the many more counting roaming in the streets down below in Flea Bottom.

All move in the presence of Vaemond, clearing the path for him. His feet twisting, and twirling upward the grand stairway, his sweaty palms gripping the railing.

His wife’s chambers are not too far, inching closer and closer by footfall. His heart beats as a wild war drum against his chest, so many thoughts swim in his mind—— what does his child look like? Is it a daughter or a son?

Hurried steps softly echo, closer and closer now to the chambers. The hallway seems as a stretched maze, mocking him as if he could never reach his end.

With a flick of his wrist, the golden knobs are tugged, and yet it’s silent.

The shared quarters glow in dark ambience. The scent of incense is faint. Vaemond straightens his wrinkled cloth, and takes a step closer.

The silence breaks.

A bitter scoff, more as a bite, “By the Gods, he has arrived. What husband doesn’t even accompany the birth of his first born?” Alicent sits across from the bed, posture now rigid.

Her fingers curl near her chin, as in deep thought. The low crackles of flames illuminate her face, wickedly cold as stone. The marigold hue casts upon Alicent’s face —- ever so strikingly benevolent.

Vaemond’s nose flares, cheeks puffing up, walking on edge, inches more closer to Alicent now, his tongue ready to lash out.

“I’m quite baffled, your Grace — from how high you reign on that horse of yours, it’s a miracle from the Gods that you haven’t fallen yet.”

“She was nearly at the Stranger’s door.” Alicent nearly shouts in a hush — bolting from her chair with a dull screech, and the clicks of her heels -— maintaining her volume to make sure she doesn’t awaken you; peeking over her shoulder.

Not even a stir from Alysanne and yourself, a soft smile adorns Alicent’s face. But as quickly as it came, it quickly went, muffled footsteps grating Alicent’s senses, coming closer behind her.

“I arrived as soon as I —-” His hurried footsteps halted clumsily, the crackle of the flames echoing piercing the silence.

There he sees it.

The splotches of blood that splatters across the green flourish, Alicent’s mouth is pursed, her eyes calculating and cold. Staring him down with such distaste, her lips twist as if to spit poison, with a hint of a curled smirk.

And he sees it all, he sees her spite.

Alicent never changed into clean nightwear, but remained in the soiled dress, wearing the stains of your blood that slipped from your warm womb —- proudly so. Just moments after your birth, you nearly slipped away to the Stranger, too much ichor spilled.

Despite edging on death, you drowsily clung Alysanne against your damp breast —- if you were to draw your last breath, at least, your little girl was the last touch you felt before departing from this realm.

The sight of your body succumbing to unconsciousness nearly sent Alicent’s soul to the heavens, she felt as if she could crawl out of her skin; your bodice crumbling back into her chest.

The handmaidens quickly grabbed your crying little girl, one of them dashing to fetch the maesters —— all the while amidst the chaos, Alicent’s cradles you, her hand stroking your jaw, pleading for you to awaken. Nearly shrilling on the top of her lungs.

For the last two days, Alicent had been by your bedside, hawking over the maesters —- no woman can trust the maesters, the very ones who cut through the belly of the late queen.

Maesters only follow the word of their king—- but for you, Alicent ensured all the hand-maidens and maesters listened to her strict commands as knights on a battlefield.

She snarked, and nipped, scaring all of them away and even your devoted maidens who were reluctant to leave you —- to the point of herself solely attending to you as your care-giver, as Ser Criston Cole guards the chamber doors outside dutifully.

For sparse moments Criston would leave his post, and see Alysanne. The moment his rich brown eyes fell upon the sight of Alysanne in your arms, he swore to the Gods that he will protect her till his last breath.

Alicent served you the milk of the poppy by hand. Cradling Alysanne when you were in deep slumber, and when you would awaken, in and out of consciousness, Alicent would softly help bare your breast for Alysanne to feed.

Alicent would gently cuddle your baby in your exhausted arms, guiding little Alysanne’s plump cheek against yours, both heads on the pillow.

Alicent wants him to bear witness -— for him to see that even as your husband, that mere title means nothing, it never held true value, nor never will.

How boldly she is—- impudent even. Raised to be modest, to uphold duty, it’s never been in Alicent’s nature to be cruel, but something has changed in her over the years.

Perhaps it’s the manipulative lessons from her father, the loneliness that iced her heart to become this unhinged cornered animal.

That’s who Alicent is now — cold and hardened as an uncut emerald gem.

Another knot formed these past fortnights, tighter in the tether of your two souls, it’s her who gets to see the scars, to bear your blood.

A badge of honor.

No marital vow can diminish this bond.

“Your Grace, it’s quite late. I must retire for the night, to tend to my wife.” The formalities bundle in Vaemond’s mouth as pit seeds, biting his tongue from lashing out.

He sees it, the condescension that vibrates off of Alicent, pursuing her lips in deep thought. Alicent hums with a tone, sneering at him with just her eyes, but as a drop of a coin, her mood shifts in such trained manners.

“Of course, Ser Vaemond.” She turns her back to him, walking to your sleeping body, bending over to gently kiss your forehead, and little Alysanne’s forehead.

“Oh— please do make sure to provide her with the milk of poppy in the morrow.” Alicent doesn’t look him in the eye, as if doing so is tedious, that he is beneath her.

“She still aches. Here,” Alicent points strictly at a bowl that rests nearby on a table, “rag soaking in warm water, she runs a little chill. As well, do make sure not to ale her as she feeds Alysanne by her breast.”

‘Alysanne? By the Gods, he has been blessed with a girl! The babe has been named?’

Vaemond swallows his confusion and surprise, awaiting for Alicent to leave his chambers—- although, if he could, he would throw her out the door himself. She tells him what to do, as if instructing a child, that he couldn’t merely comprehend basic tasks to take care of his wife.

From the corner of her eye, Alicent senses Vaemond’s shame. Shame for missing the birth of his child, his first daughter —- more so, rage, and she feeds off of it like a starved animal.

“Goodnight.” Alicent’s hand gestures to Vaemond dimessively over the shoulder, quietly shutting the door shut. Vaemond stands rooted in the middle of his chambers, his fists coiling by his sides—- he mutters under his breath, cunt.

Alone now, Vaemond steps close to the bed. Both Alysanne and yourself undisturbed, deep in slumber. The babe tucked in your arms, cozy under the thick blanket.

Vaemond’s hand shakes over your cheek, stroking a damp strand of your hair. Breathing frustration through his nose, his knuckles graze the cheek of his newborn child.

His anger simmers, he missed it—- the birth of his first daughter.

“Prince Lucerys has been officially declared the heir to Driftmark— how absurd.”

House Velaryon has been blessed by the Realm’s Delight fertility once more, a new babe, a new heir. The silver beauty birthed yet another boy with rich brown hair, and dark brown eyes. A gleeful time for House Targaryen … and a grievance upon the queen. A son, healthy — and strong.

It has been three days now since the birth of Alysanne Velaryon, not yet presented to the realm; your inistience of wanting Rhaenyra and Daemon’s presence in the royal court.

Despite your uncle living in far Pentos, and your sister residing on the island of Dragonstone with Laenor, and her children —- just for a bit, due to tensions arising once again between the queen and the heir.

Before Rhaenyra’s departure, she had just been in labor, delivering her second child. You were hoping that sending ravens detailing the new birth of your firstborn would help bring your favored loved ones back home, and bask in unison over new life.

Cooked platters sliced pheasant, steamed vegetables, bread, and gallots of wine. But even the sweet tang of wine cannot tame the sour disgust that weighs on Alicent’s tongue. A hovering presence looms across the table, ever so snide, ever so thinking. A selfish void that will devour any in its path.

Across from Alicent is her father.

At times, Alicent would have her private dinners with Otto, when even his affections are twisted, and against Alicent’s well-being, she still seeks his love, and advice. Despite the filth he has taught her, what child doesn’t crave their father’s love?

“The disrespect that Rhaenyra harbors for her own kin, parades her bastard son as a true born.” Alicent scoffs, leans back in her chair, her cuppee resting in her palm, her nose scrunches in distaste.

“Corlys has his daughter wedded to Daemon, and his son —” Alicent titters a bitter chuckle, “A pillow-biter claiming bastards as his own. Corlys’ claim no longer upholds.”

Alicent doesn’t stop her bitter poison, and her father relishes in it, seated across his daughter with a small proud smirk. Her fueling rage will guide her to uspur Rhaenyra, for her son to ascend the throne. How proud he is, as his daughter falls deeper into her spite.

“Alysanne is true blood, she deserves her inheritance in Driftmark.” Alicent impatiently takes a gulp from her wine, the sweet tang trickles down her throat, but it doesn’t quell the brewing venom.

“Rhaenyra claims to care for her younger sister, the gall of it all.” Alicent doesn’t stop, she can’t, she has to release this anger, even in her quiet solitude with a man whose tenderness only reaches so far.

Blinding affection has Alicent turning her perspectives away from her obvious hypocrisies, but no taught honor or ideals in her mind can truly touch you.

Otto Hightower sees women in power as a preposterous notion, a sin against the order — women cannot provide value to the natural law; only if aided by a man.

Otto prides himself on the molding he persisted upon his daughter over the years, a Hightower as Queen of all seven kingdoms —- the last Hightower to rule, fell to her demise to Maegor the Cruel. And he vows to never let that fate fall upon his only daughter.

Indeed, Otto has his strict opinions but —- even he has his exception; under his benefit. He has admire your tenacity since you were a little child, bright-eyed and naive once.

Yet intelligent, claiming that you wanted to do good for the people as princess, despite your inheritance being knocked down behind your siblings.

He can see you are a woman grown, determined and ambitious, making plans as the new lady of Driftmark to contribute for the land to prosper; just perfect for his molding.

Otto can perhaps reach his hand into the political dynamics of Driftmark through you, carefully craft your black and red dragon scales to a lovely shade of emerald.

“Vaemond is a proud man, too proud —- but, a better fitted heir for Driftmark. Corlys is weak, he cares more about names than honoring heritance.” Otto cuts into his meal, the warm pork melting in the cave of his mouth.

“If Vaemond were to become the new Lord of the Tides,” Otto clicks his tongue, “Alysanne will be named his heir.” His tone lingers, a hint is thrown in the air; calculating his thoughts.

Alicent hums in agreement, her mind twisting in her murky thoughts. Nodding along, hell-bent, her motives aren't as ambitious as her father. Her belief is solely molded by you, but that this is what’s best for you, for Alysanne.

‘Alysanne must become the new heir of Driftmark. Tis only fair.’

The silent tension breaks.

“She will soon expect her sister to return.” Alicent mutters in her wine, her fingers unlock, as she gazes down at her porcelain plate, her finger tapping against the silver engraving.

“And her uncle.” Otto speaks in a hush.

It’s no hidden secret, the rogue second son harbors deep affection for his younger niece. Most of your childhood was spent on dragon back with your uncle, and older sister—- your uncle is a rather protective creature.

When Daemon departed on dragon’s back to the far Pentos with Lady Laena, he hugged you tightly the day he left. You sobbed for long days, alone in your chambers, aware that you won’t see your favored uncle and cousin for a time.

But exile is no more than a word to Daemon.

Often leaving Pentos with his wife, and children, gallancing around the court with Rhaenyra and her children, as Viserys allows it.

And that worries Otto.

To have your alliance, he must first go through the turmoil with Daemon, and Rhaenyra. To convince you to forfeit your loyalty, in favor of your youngest siblings.

The seven hells can freeze over in frost-bite, and you still won't turn your back against the menace of a prince. Prince Daemon will rip through the realm with the flames of Caraxes before he lets his niece support the Hightowers.

“Marriage.” Otto perks up, his finger tapping against the table. His tone is ominous, and yet it leaves a heavy weight in the air. “You have given birth to Aemond moons ago,” Otto’s eyebrow raises, goading his daughter’s reaction, with a knowing nod, “—- and one day, he will be in need of a bride.”

Alicent’s eyes are moon-wide, but with a silver of agreement, she’s tittering on the idea. “Aemond will learn under our wing, be wed to Alysanne —- perhaps, the fresh air of the sea is healthy for a boy.” Alicent’s lips curl into a devious smirk.

Hightower blood on the Iron Throne, on the seat of Driftmark——how marvelous.

“Indeed.” Otto’s pride gleams into a wolfish grin.

Devotion.

All Alicent has ever been in her life is devoted. A devoted daughter, a devoted wife, a devoted mother, and a devoted queen. But alas, in all of King’s Landing, no one truly took Alicent’s side, despite her efforts to maintain peace. To engrave her voice within the council.

At first, before she grew as a child bride, and a babe herself who bore children; she thought perhaps her father was her aide, since Rhaenyra shunned her the moment King Viserys announced the engagement — but he is not, he never was.

But despite the sorrow her father gifted her in this life, she still harbors love for him.

But no, never her father.

Is there still peace from Rhaenyra? No — Rhaenyra doesn’t see Alicent, and Alicent doesn’t see her, it’s as if they speak different languages.

Perhaps the king?

No, never her husband, who never showed affection for his younger children — in his heart, he has only one child.

No, never the king.

The court shall see to her efforts?

No, the lords would rather entertain themselves with the king’s sickly rambles and her father’s greediness than to solely hear a woman’s thoughts and ideas.

Only through her father as her mouth-piece, would the court take her efforts into consideration. At birth, Alicent was a woman marked for sorrow. A loneliness so deep, simple kindness would send a jolt.

A young Alicent would pray and pray to the Gods for a love she can hold onto every night — just herself. Selfishly would cling to her heart, stuff and sew it herself.

For a while, Rhaenyra band-aided the wound, but it wasn’t enough. Rhaenyra was once a true friend, and Alicent would sometimes catch herself missing those lost years in the quiet of her solitude.

Especially when she holds the ripped piece of paper from the historical text of the late Queen Nymeria.

But it wasn’t Rhaenyra, it was never her.

It was you.

Tamarind tart skin that shines under the sun, silver pale hair that curls at the shoulders, violet eyes and plump cheeks. Velaryon and Targaryen descent, inheriting your late mother’s complexion, and the aquiline nose you share with your older sister.

So pretty, with your braids interwoven with your waves of silver. Wispy lavender, and red dresses, and gem rings that adorn your fingers. Such a peculiar creature, so dainty, yet fierce—- digging your heels as a young girl in the training grounds.

Alicent used to watch your private lessons in the training grounds with your uncle, and or with Ser Harwin from time to time. Or rest under the trees’ shade, as you practiced your archery in the gardens, much to your septa’s dismay.

A deep friendship blossomed, years spent reading under the hovering weirwood, late conversations as young girls, attending tourneys, and even inviting Alicent to your chambers, to sleep in one’s embrace.

A beautiful bond—- soon challenged by a beast.

Your mother had passed, taken by the Stranger, just as the late Queen Aemma had many moons ago; died in labor, trying to birth a son into the realm.

A piece of yourself died with her, a void that could never be filled. Late fortnights, wailing at the sept, head bowed, pleading to the Mother for mercy, whispered prayers for her to carry your mother safely to the heavens.

Consoled by Rhaenyra, and Alicent, as you all kneeled at the fire pit. Your forehead connected to your arms, wailing, as Alicent’s and Rhaenyra’s heads rested on your shoulders. Your sobs echoing against the sept’s walls.

The faint memory of copper still lingered in your nostrils, to see your mother’s lifeless body coated in her own ichor—- dry-heaved and wailed over her.

It took all the maidens and maesters to pry you off of her.

It was the king’s duty to wed, and bring heirs, you knew he had to marry again. Word spread among the court, advising with much encouragement for Viserys to remarry—- not all were enthralled at the prospect of a girl crowned heir for all the realm.

And the beast conquered as he pleased, just as his ancestors.

The day came, months after your mother departed from this realm. And you can recall the day vividly, the pang to your heart still fresh.

The day Viserys announced that he will take Alicent as his new bride, she can still remember your solemn face, quickly blinking away tears, smiling through the restraining pain —- how you dashed as fast as light after Rhaenyra who couldn’t bear to stomach the anger within herself.

Alicent can still feel the empty ache, witnessing you flee away in what she mistook as disgust, rage, and heartbreak. Pacing through the keep, trying to follow your trail, as a puppy galloping after a scent. Trembling fingers cling to the engraved walls, balancing herself.

Faded voices loomed from the heart of the gardens. Under the Weirwood tree, two pale silver heads now barking at one another, crying. Pacing after one another, hands flying in the air—- trying to understand this grievance.

Rhaenyra sobbing, angry tears stained her flushed pale cheeks, as you tried to soothe her down. Alicent hid behind a pillar, picking at her cuticles.

It felt the garden soil unearthed itself, caving inside —- ready to swallow you. Collapsed onto your knees, your mind buzzing. Sniffling, as your fingernails fully scratched at your skin.

Timid footfalls echoed nearby, slowly your eyes peeked through your wet lashes. Before you, Alicent walked to you, her auburn hair haloed by the sunlight.

Kneeling before you, her lip quivered, her hands fearfully hovered over yours. Afraid that you might reject her, but you took hers into your hands wholeheartedly.

“I don’t desire him. My intentions were not for pleasure.” Alicent spoke in whispers, heavy with sorrow. “My father sent me to his chambers, I —” Alicent’s breathed quickened, as if her cavity was tightening.

“I simply gave comfort for his loss.”

You believed her immediately, for months, Alicent had been aiding you through your grief over your late mother. All Alicent ever does is tends to anyone in need.

You embraced her in your arms, shushing her, apologies slipping from her. Shaded by the Weirwood tree, consoling each other.

Duty had to be upheld, autonomy isn’t a woman’s right. Resentment coiled itself as eels—- loathing the very man who is your father.

Father Time felt rushed yet the atmosphere felt slowed—- the preparations to integrate House Hightower into the royal reign was tedious and buzzing, causing you to spiral.

Days and nights spent weeping in your bed, hugging Alicent tight. Time blurred. Ceasing down to the atoms, time was not your companion. You didn’t have the space to breathe —- one blink, and the day of the wedding ceremony came bursting violently.

Dressed Alicent in her ivory wedding gown, accompanied by Rhaenyra—- but you possessively took over, fixating on her hair pieces, and tying the spinal laces.

An ivory dress, with gold threading of dragons against her chest, her brown hair pinned in curls, with a creamy red jeweled crown. Cleaned her bloodied fingers with a warm rag.

As you leaned against Alicent’s spine, brown fingers clinging to her shoulders, your cheek resting against the crock of her neck. Her face glowing with a dew from fresh dried tears.

You whispered in the shell of her ear, “In another life, blessed by the Gods, I shall take you, Lady Hightower as thy wife. Under the Weirwood tree, wed you in Valyrian tradition.” A tear escaped your eye, staining her skin.

Alicent sniffled, droplets falling down her milky cheeks, onto her lips.

“We shall wear marital crowns as our ancestral women before us.” You sniffled through a weak smile, under your puffy eyes. “I shall wear green, to honor your house.” You whispered.

“And I shall wear shades of red and black.” Alicent whispered back, nearly sputtering through her tears. Her chin wobbled.

A marital ceremony, a splendor to the realm, but a horror. A malevolent man, tightly his hand gripped your love, Otto Hightower walked his child to her death, with a proud smile.

Rhaenyra wore lavish black with intricate threads of crimson red, hair pinned into a jeweled headpiece—- truly a delight. A reminder of her inheritance, no matter of your father’s new marriage. In her own terms, it was her way of grieving.

But not a grief that rivals yours.

The High Sept blessed the union, with a shaky gesture of his ailing hand, reciting the scriptures of the Faith, as Alicent stood in a pure innocence—- sold for the price of power.

Recoiled underneath your skin, at the sight of Viserys’ hands engulfed over Alicent’s. Leaned inwards for a kiss, his chapped lips nearing those familiar pink lips you have tasted—- sweet, and tender.

Alicent’s brown eyes filtered slightly, twitching with disgust.

Screaming internally, as the claws of the Seven hell’s demons scratching raw at your throat, fists tightened shielded by your fabrics.

That’s not how she likes to be kissed! Don’t hold her, not as that! Be gentle with her! STOP DEFILING HER!

A kiss to seal this matrimony hailed from the seven hells.

Rhaenyra and yourself bowed dutifully, stiffly and rigid; before your father— the king, and his new wife, the new Queen of Westeros—- your new step-mother, your love.

Slurred and drowned in wine, engorged in feast to only vomit over a balcony —- throughout the night, Alicent’s eyes broke at the sight of your head bobbing tipsily, eyes closing one slowly after the other.

Dizzyingly watched the acidic chewed food stained in burgundy spirits fall along the palace wall.

A dainty hand stroked your back, pulled you into a warm embrace. Rhaenyra tended to you, caressing the slope of your spine, as you wailed over the balcony.

You couldn’t bear to prolong your presence during the wedding feast, Rhaenyra guided you to your chambers that night. Helped clean you, and shed you of your gown into your sleeping wear.

The cushioning of your bed sunk you into a hard sleep, as your sister tucked you under massive blankets.

Awoken that fortnight, by a slight shake of the shoulder, a heavy grogginess pulling you down as rocks in one’s pockets.

Blurry vision cleared, strained a bit in the dark, to see a sniffling figure by your bed’s edge. Those big brown eyes—— gleaming wet. A gasp left you, without a second, you enveloped her into your arms, as Alicent bursted into wails. Her cries pierced your heart.

Your hands stroked her back, guiding her into your blankets, as your fingers caressed her, you felt sticky wetness, causing Alicent to whine.

Your hand shook, in the gleam of the moonlight, crimson stained your fingertips. Tears showered your face, mouth shivering, as Alicent cried, muffled words into the crook of your shoulder, “It hurts.”

Your mouth agaped in silent agony, both arms encased Alicent, cooed her. Rocked Alicent to sleep that night till her weeping quite down to silence —- you vowed in the dead of night, that you will do your duty, you will honor Alicent; do right by her.

Stood by her, and kept her company —- and plotted. Your father will not have the oath of being Alicent’s husband, it felt wrong.

Built the courage to go against taught beliefs, over moons—- until one day, you lured Alicent to the gardens, with a soft note left in her chambers.

‘Meet me by the noon hour, in the gardens.’

Waddled down to the gardens, carrying her first born, Alicent found you pacing, burning a hole in the grass. A soft mutter, my dearest. Alicent’s fingers stroked the jut of your elbow, she didn’t enjoy seeing you overwhelmed with stress.

With a deep inhale, and wild wide eyes, only a few words could be muttered.

“Let us be wedded.”

A disbelieving chuckle escaped Alicent, but by the glimmer of your eyes, it was nothing short of a joke. Alicent’s face drained, with a teary wavering smile.

Slow nodded, and a hasty smile, Alicent accepted the proposal.

A warm day it was, the sun beamed upon King’s Landing—- a little white lie to escape the palace, to seek refuge.

Accompanied by a sole witness, your beloved Grey Ghost—- as he flew majestically upon the sky; as Alicent and yourself rode on one of those long boat to Dragonstone.

Silver steel, ichor staining bottom lips, and the slope of your foreheads connecting. A caress of Alicent’s swollen bump.

United in blood, as one.

Devoted —- all your life, you have only been to Alicent. Loyally by her side, despite the growing pains between Alicent and your sister; trying to be the voice of reason.

Alicent’s grief suffocated her, a girl enduring a woman’s sorrow. Being Alicent’s shadow in each of her births, defending her against all odds.

Cherish and care for her children —- your siblings —- as your own. Cared for your brothers and sister more than your father ever did.

A child bride who everyone said should be grateful to be queen of all seven realms—- not given grace to be seen as a girl, not even a woman, but a mere object.

Only one did. You are her companion, the only one who desires her body wholesomely, who yearns for her mind. You plague her thoughts all through the hours, at night, and in her sleep.

Itching possessiveness tingles at Alicent’s fingers, flooding her veins. How she yearns to box you in a jar, and gaze upon you, a beautiful treasure that no one can have.

Unimaginable acts she will do—- just to keep you.

Dearest sister,

New life has been welcomed to the realm, a babe with ripe cheeks, and a soul kicking as a goat. Beautiful bronze skin, and pale Valyrian hair.

A girl, by the Gods, she is magnificent!

I yearn for you and uncle to be home — I dearly miss all the children, how they would love the babe. Her name is Alysanne, named by our great-grandmother, the good mother.

Please return home. I pray to the Gods that the animosity will soon be seen to end. We are family, by blood and marriage.

Love you dearly, sweet sister.

May the Gods be with you, and the children.

A letter freshly written, ready to be sent to Dragonstone by raven. Given to Alicent by you, praying deep down that one day the broken bond between Alicent and your sister would be mended.

Tirelessly over the years, attempts to cease Alicent’s emotional humiliation upon your sister, weaponizing the crude word ‘bastard’ against your nephews.

Continuously in-between Alicent and your sister, being forced to choose who’s side to be in. Nearly straining your relationship with Alicent at one point of time.

Alicent’s lips purse into a scowl, crudely folding the letter once more, instead of packaging the letter for the awaiting raven, Alicent simply stashes it within her library.

Rhaenyra doesn’t get to savor the joy of your motherly glow, she doesn’t deserve to see Alysanne. To pretend to be the doting aunt. Not after snatching away Alysanne and your future, the blatant disregard of loyalty, usurping Driftmark.

Alicent will not see to such treason.

Sunlight twinkles, and illuminates the king’s chambers. A warm day, the sun swelling with joy.

Sweet hands pat Viserys’ chest, arising him from his slumber. He awakes with a small cough. His eyes blink open, to see his wife kneeling before him.

Viserys sighs with a small smile, with a whisper of Alicent’s name.

“Viserys,” Alicent’s kindly whispers your name to gain his attention. Tenderly her hands reach for the joints of his elbows, guiding him to sit up right from his rest. “She and the baby have recovered.”

A soft cough followed by a relieved chuckle emits from Viserys, now with the will to move on his accord despite his ailing pain.

For a while now, the sickness has bestowed more ache on the king. The milk of the poppy and the maesters hovering over his well-being has become more of the normal routine.

Alicent points to the wooden chamber doors, there you stand with little Alysanne clutched in your arms. Viserys’ lips stretch into a wide smile.

You are a vision of your late mother. With your hair brushed back into a braided crown, as waves cascade down your spine, with various woven braids decorated with little gold ringlets, with a gold chain across your forehead.

A pant of guilt and endearment blooms in his chest.

“My sweet girl.” He outstretches his arm, beckoning for you to come sit beside him.

An odd jolt of happiness is in your step, taking a spot next to your father, Alicent assists you to make sure Alysanne doesn’t fall from Viserys’ weak grip.

For once, in such a long time, you felt seen by Viserys. For once, you are not the spare.

“Father, her name is Alysanne.” You softly cradle the sleepy babe in your father’s arm, a toothy smile stretches his face, his cheeks plump with joy.

“By the Gods, she is beautiful.” He strokes her little cheek with his thumb, her little chubby fingers grab his index finger. Viserys glees with a laugh, “We must fetch a dragon’s egg for her cradle.”

A joyous occasion, as Alysanne is held by her grand sire. Viserys coos at her little sleepy mumbles. A lovely family unit, a mother, a grandfather, a step-mother and a step-grandmother —-- a lover.

All but a husband.

Awoke the morrow with a sleeping wife, and child—- went on his morning walk for his own time.

Returned to an empty chamber.

Vaemond walks with a stride, such speed to his step along the pathway to the king’s chambers. As he nears the doubled wooden doors, a hand halts him at his chest that is followed by the clink of armor.

With a heavy breath of annoyance, Vaemond doesn’t have to turn his face to see who has the nerve to stop a father from his child’s presence. The sworn shield, the queen’s loyal dog.

“Ser Criston, my wife is in the chambers with my child. You dare stop me?”

“The queen has instructed that no one enters.” Smugly Criston stands digiantly with a snide smirk, the implication is snarky, and bold — ‘and that means you’.

‘Pitiful and pathetic.’ Vaemond mulls, his lip twitching.

“I do wonder…” Vaemond tilts his head mockingly, back-peddling his steps, calculating his next move. Criston arches his brow.

“I’ve always forethought the queen leashed your head as her pet, but now I truly see, I mistook the wrong one.” Vaemond’s eyes trail for a second —- Criston’s face scrunches in offense.

A chorus of spewed shouting and pushing ensues. Shoving each other, declaring for the other to throw the first blow.

Even before the marriage, when it was simply courting—- the decision of marriage being made by Viserys upon your behalf, Alicent was always near in the shadows.

Putting her thoughts on how the ceremony should commence, only letting you decide what you want—- even going so far as to suggest to Viserys to end the bethroyal that ‘there are more suited men for her hand. Ser Vaemond is only a second son, what is there that he can offer her?’

The courting phase was always interrupted with Alicent stringing along. Vaemond would try to isolate you, converse with you, sweet-talk you —- but never once asked you of your interests, only boosted himself, and what he can provide.

And to Vaemond’s displeasure, Alicent would whisk you away at any given moment, hushed whispers among each other, and girlish laughter; with a sly eye over her shoulder at him.

Vaemond admits he didn’t fall in love for the sake of romance as those fairytales that young maidens read. He was the peruser, convincing Viserys for your hand, that ‘pure valyrian blood must be in union.’ You are his cousin. A cousin he barely saw over the years, but enough encounters to be familiar with one another.

It offended Vaemond greatly when Alicent rebuffed him, stating it was unfair to you to not have the choice to choose your betrothed, like Rhaenyra once had. Alicent was furious, her face scrunched in fury.

“It seems that our grace has forgotten that Princess Rhaenyra was bestowed the choice —- do you recall how she squandered it?”

Alicent’s lips pinched shut, turning to Viserys, hoping he would consider her decision. But Viserys’ allowed this, claiming that it is best that his second born be close by, not married off to another foreign house —- in a far away land.

Alicent has been a thorn in Vaemond’s rib, she made it her life’s purpose to torment him. Never could he be alone with you during the time that bridged between the proposal and wedding ceremony.

Vaemond was surprised Alicent didn’t sneak in their marital bed the fortnight of the ceremony. But she took full control anyways —- and Viserys let it happen every time.

Now, he sees another ploy of Alicent’s. To isolate him as a husband, and now as a father. He cannot even present his own child to the king as a man, the pride and honor of such an act stolen. Alicent has pilfered this opportunity right from under his feet.

To add salt to the wound, her sworn hound is restricting him from entrance.

“Vaemond?” Your muffled voice beckons for him through the door, he tries to inch closer but Criston doesn’t relent his intrusive hold, earning a growl from Vaemond.

“Vaemond, that you?” Footsteps closer behind the chamber doors, the latch clicks, with just a sliver of a crack the door opens.

“Vaemond, why all the shouting?”

“Ser Criston refuses to let a father enter.” Vaemond interrupts, pacing from heel to heel, agitated to the brim. Chest puffing, trying to intimate Criston.

You breathe a sigh of frustration, furrowing brows in disheartened dismay —- your gentle arm curls around the edge of the doorway, delicate fingers with the gentlest touch on Criston’s armored shoulder.

“Ser Criston, please let him enter.” The knight’s hardened features soften at your request, no longer bristling with entitlement, bowing his head, and finally steps aside, with a sweet-honeyed, ‘As you wish, princess’.

You sweetly thank him, and extend your hand to grab Vaemond, pulling him inside to partake in the joyous celebration. As Vaemond walked through the chamber doors, an exchange of distaste was thrown through dagger glares.

Alicent’s eyes sharply pierced his heart, if looks can kill, Vaemond would drop dead on the spot —- preferably with his heart cut out.

Alicent sits perched with Alysanne in her arms, swathed in an emerald blanket, as you provide your father his milk of the poppy; his joints were aching, and needed to rest back on his chair.

Alicent’s fingers caress his child’s little toes, purposefully her knuckles graze the stitched fabric—- peeking up at Vaemond subtly through her lashes.

Green cloth?

On his child?

On pure Valyrian blood?

Vaemond nearly wretches in his mouth. He notices your dress is a light shade of evergreen. A dragon brooch on each shoulder that ensembles a gold chain across your chest.

Green? Have you gone mad, woman?

Orchestrated performance, the movement, the positions —- you tending to your father, as the dutiful daughter, the wife and now newly mother. Viserys, the illustrious king, the father, the grandfather, weak but strong, overlooking the new life of his bloodline—- and her.

Alicent held little Alysanne, observing it all with a proud smile.

As if Alicent is the husband.

And Vaemond is merely a stranger trespassing.

Alicent’s eyes, methodical and smug. Vaemond sees it, he sees it all. He’s dying inside to snatch his child away from Alicent, but who knows—- Alicent would probably fall prey to the act of victim, cry to her husband that she has been wrongfully accused —- of what exactly?

Vaemond doesn’t have any evidence to his brewing resentment.

What can he say? The Queen has been trying to meddle in his marriage for the last two years? That she won’t let him near his own babe? That she has to be everywhere with his own wife?

Every soul in court will say how crude he’s being, that it’s all nonsense, merely preposterous.

‘The Queen is a good woman.’ The court will proclaim, ‘That she’s only performing her duty as the princess’ mother.’

‘She is no mother to you.’ Vaemond thinks. ‘Not even you can see through Alicent’s games.’

“Ser Vaemond, bless be. Sired me a beautiful granddaughter.” Visery sits as a jolly aging man, hair thinning to the point of some of his dome visible, and even a little pot belly protruding through his embroidered fabric.

Vaemond smiles, “Thank you, Viserys.”

“Truly, she’s beautiful.” A voice stabs Vaemond, swallowing down his loathing with a strained tight-lip smile.

Alicent is gazing down at Alysanne, rocking her against her breast, “She has her mother’s beauty.” Her tone is innocent, a demure smile to Viserys, and he falls for it, nodding along.

‘Fool. She plays you for a fool, Viserys.’

Vaemond walks to you, with the same forced thinned smile. His fingers reach for your long thick hair, caressing the curls, kissing your cheek.

No doubt in his mind, he can sense Alicent’s irate, and for a moment, it delights him.

‘Alas, the charade has ceased.’

Vaemond feels lighter, finally getting solace between himself and you. Time to part from Viserys and Alicent, Vaemond desires to eat a morning meal with you. To break fast together with Alysanne in her cradle, gurgling happily.

Recovery from birth has left you famished, craving for a hearty meal.

Departing from Alicent gave a shiver up your skin, it felt wrong to be away, she has been so attentive during the labor, and the after birth. Always holding Alysanne, as if she was Alicent’s blood.

Alicent hesitantly restrained herself, as Vaemond took control like the reins of a horse. Alicent wanted him to leave, to befall in the pits of the seven hells, so she can have Alysanne and you to her own.

But, an outburst couldn’t be made.

Ser Criston swiftly dashed to your aid, his arm jutted out for you to hold on to—- conveniently occupying the space that was meant for your husband. But at least, Vaemond was able to hold his child in his arms back in Viserys' chambers.

Trailing behind Vaemond and yourself is your handmaiden, Elinda Massey—- who is also your sister’s handmaiden. You summoned her to help you, still a bit achy at your step.

A mousey, loyal, and gentle woman. In her arms is Alysanne, letting your daughter’s small chubby hand grab at her slender creamy fingers.

Vaemond walks behind you as if a lonesome man, a mere man trailing behind a princess, and her sworn shield, watching you and Criston laugh and converse—- excluding him is your second nature.

The dining chambers are filled with platters of food—- the extended polished wood covered with meats, eggs and fruits.

See Criston bows, taking his post at the door, his darkened gaze shadowed by a brow.

“At last, we are alone.” Vaemond’s hand holds yours, his thumb stroking your fingers. Crawling with disgust within yourself, forcing a genuine smile to appease him.

“I have missed you.” Vaemond leans in, speaking against your cheek, his warm breath nearly making your skin recoil in a shrivel.

“And I, you.” You spoke in a formal, practiced infliction.

Vaemond’s lips connect to the skin of your cheek, daringly near the corner of your mouth. In times to display marital affection, to keep from shriveling away, you close your eyes, and a vision of Alicent soothes your mind.

Whenever you were to ‘perform’ your bedding duty as his wife, you lay limply on your back as a spread eagle, and imagine Alicent ravaging your body—- as she has done many times. Years now of this affair, suppressed away in the dead of night, hidden behind closed chambers with only whispers.

Edina cradles Alysanne close to her chest, prepping your little dragon for her slumber.

Vaemond pulls a chair for you, “This food looks divine.” He says, his hands caressing down your shoulders. An innocent smile forms on Edina’s face. “Queen Alicent has ordered the feast.” Her tone was gentle.

Vaemond chews the soft wall of his cheek, but wrinkles his mouth to a feigned smile. Nodding with a sardonic scrunch of his nose.

Edina breathes a smile, her eyes in your direction, “The Queen has also extended an invitation, the children desire to see little Alysanne.” She speaks, with adoration in her eyes on Alysanne.

Before you can speak, Vaemond interrupts. “Ah, yes, the king’s children shall see their niece,” He boasts. “We’ll present Alysanne after our fast.” Vaemond turns swiftly in his seat, almost lifting his fork, but your hand-maiden stammers.

“The Queen has not requested your presence, Ser Vaemond.” Edina’s voice lowers to an anxious stammer.

Vaemond’s mouth wrinkles, limbs frozen stiff. He slowly turns with a sharp shark eye. “I am their brother by law.” He says matter-of-factly. His eyes narrow a little, small and spiteful.

“Yes, of course, Ser Vaemond—-” she’s flushed with embarrassment, you nod your head that it’s okay, she hasn’t spoken out of turn. “But, Queen Alicent has only requested our Princess, and Lady Alysanne.”

Vaemond brews in silence, his eyes pierce and burn into the void. His breathing became heavier. Anxiously with a brave face, you instruct Edina to take Alysanne to your quarters, and give her your thanks for the delivery of the news.

Edina whisk away with Alysanne, patting her little bottom, exiting the shared room, leaving behind Vaemond, yourself and the cooked food that now grows cold.

A pregnant pause earns a tired eye roll from you, you can feel the vibrating stewing.

“When will this madness end?” Vaemond speaks, staring into his porcelain plate. You turn your eyes to him, your mouth hitches up for a moment in confusion, “What do you mean, Vaemond?”

His eyes look upon you desperately, “Alicent…” He says, shaking his head in disbelief, “She always meddles. She is a thorn upon me.”

Vaemond’s fingers grip the cloth of his stitched clothing, his fist poking at his chest. You roll your eyes in annoyance, a placid sigh, just hoping he can drop this.

“Do not speak of her in such a manner.” You spread through gritted teeth. “Alicent does not bear any ill will.” Your resonance is firm, no budging can waver it.

Your fingers curl in a gesture for him to stop. Jaw clenching, opening your napkin, just wanting to eat, and move away from this useless conversation.

“She prides herself as if she carries the cock!”

“Vaemond!”

“It is true!” He points at you with such fury, his eyes blood-shot red, “I cannot even hold my own blood without Alicent hovering!” Vaemond nips, his hands shaking, thrashing in the air.

You shush him again, his rising voice grating your ears. “Alicent is good, and kind. I do wish you could be respectful—-” Vaemond’s scoff interrupts you. Your face contorts with offense.

Vaemond’s face softens, furrowing in desperation.

“If you carry any love for me, you will distance us from Alicent.” Vaemond pleads, his hands clasping over yours, his voice irks you, it’s so pathetic.

“Tell her to go, flee from our presence.” Closing your eyes, your face resolving to an exhausted state, you shook your head in defiance, not even daring to look into his gaze, restraining to wretch your hands away.

“I will not.” Your voice is low, and firm, with your dead shark eyes. It’s been like this for the last two years, Vaemond complaining about Alicent, and as usual, your response defies his wishes.

“I understand Alicent was your childhood companion, but—-” Vaemond tries to ease the burdensome tension.

“Is. She is, Vaemond.”

He hums with annoyance, head nearly falling in exasperation, “Do you love me?” Vaemond asks in disbelief, questioning your faithfulness.

He leans back, offended and forlorn that he must ask such a question. You shake your head, with a sympathetic strained smile, “I care for you.” Patting his hand, a gesture often used to calm whining children.

“My wife does not harbor love for her husband?” He speaks through his teeth, wrenching his hand away from your touch.

A scoff escapes your lips, inhaling deeply, with a harsh swallow. Why must he make matters so difficult?

“This is an arranged marriage, marital vows spoken for the sake of allyship between our two houses. I care for you, Ser Vaemond, but I do not love you.”

“You love another?”

”No.” You spoke too quickly.

A pregnant pause.

Vaemond’s anger dissolves, fading to a blank stare, his breathing becomes shallow. His burning stare earns an uncomfortable shiver, uneasy in your own seat.

Jagged puzzle pieces twisting, slowly forming together —- all the times of Alicent’s shadow lingering. Whenever he dares utter a mention of Alicent, all you do is brush him off, as if he was the mere nuisance.

“You do.” He speaks in a hush, bolting to his feet, he huffs under his breath, such a petulant child. Stepping back a few steps, sneering.

As if the pieces finally shape and move, the thought pushes through the crevices of his mind. A deadpan chuckle scuffs from his mouth, his eyes just staring into you.

“The Gods made man and woman….” Vaemond trails off, unflinching, boring into you. No, no, no… your throat clenches in a swallow. Your brows compress into what seems as hurt and confusion, but truly it is fear.

“A man and woman shall share thou bed, and—” Vaemond’s eyes widens, motioning you to finish the well-practiced verse.

“And?” He prodes, he tilts his head, clicks his tongue. Your face morphs to silent anger, staring up at him with lavender daggers, breathing harder now.

“You are well taught of this verse. Have you forgotten your teachings?” Vaemond mocks you. Your glare at him through your lashes, your nose flaring into a snarl, muttering a spiteful whisper.

“One shall not lie with the same sex.”

Vaemond nods mockingly, his eyes never leaving yours. Muttering under his breath, “ Yes, yes. ”

Violet optics stare with fury.

A screech of a chair follows.

Vaemond begins chanting, spewing zealot verses, as a delirious septon. Pacing back and forth, hands twirling into the air.

“A sin against the Gods!”

A crack of a slap echos, so hard his face is swacked to his side, his mouth pouted. The sting of your rings vibrates against his cheek. Vaemond stares at you in disbelief, but your spine straightens, what once was gentility in your eyes, is now just disgust.

“I am your wife.” Your throat tightens, unable to swallow down the tears. No tears wasted on your husband —- no, never. Tears for that the truth could bleed out, such a scandal it could be!

The Princess and the Queen in a twisted love affair—- the shame it would bring to the names Targaryen, and Hightower.

“And you will respect me as such.” You spoke with an edge, with a firm finality. You whisk away from him, Vaemond believing that this was the end to the conversation.

The rough edge of the wooden table digs into the heels of your hands roughly. Tinkering your body back and forth by the grip, yearning to scream. Throat burning raw, splintering.

But the longing inside of you is violent, changeling. To vomit the ache that has been brewing —- Vaemond’s foot has been tinkling the pot, and now it has spilled.

You just want him to understand —- that a young girl to be married to her cousin, a cousin she has no grown affection for, to be ripped from her autonomy, to have hidden her true love secretly—- that this isn’t what a girl should be subjected to.

Your fists bang against the dining table, stinging the wound tight flesh. Twirling so fast, it startles Vaemond in a flinch.

“I have only been dutiful, sacrificed my body… for you. ” Your voice in a hoarse whisper. Peering at him over your shoulder, nearing a sob. Dutiful not in the traditional sense, but you have defended him, even when you couldn’t stand the man.

“I am a second born, but I am a princess, no less. My title is your prize.” Heavily restraining your breathing, the sorrow transforming into anger.

“I am merely a token for your status. A pawn for the purity of your bloodline.” Speaking through tears, frustration from your wounded core spewing. “Yet, I have not begrudged you, nor humiliated you.”

Vaemond flinches back, his pride stomped on under your pretty foot. Grinding the heel into the splatter.

“I have done what was expected of me!” You shrill, your breathing becoming haggard, “And here you stand, demanding me to throw away the only companion I have!”

“You have me, darling.” Vaemond’s faux sweet tone does nothing but disgust you.

“You’re more like my father than I thought.” Your nose recoils in shame. That left a sour twang on your tongue. “I had no say in this— this —” you’re stammering, dry-heaving as tears collide down your cheeks, but the fury is boiling over.

Murmuring under your breath, ‘I didn’t want this. I didn’t desire you.’ Vaemond huffs a breath, stepping closer, his presence suffocating.

Vaemond goads you, ‘say it, say it!’ Nearly hovering over you, his nose inches away from yours, but the blood of the dragon that soars through you snips back against the weak feeble sea snake.

“—- THIS MISERABLE CHARADE OF A MARRIAGE!”

Both of your voices shrill higher, mangling over each other in volume, alarmingly. Vaemond screams that he is your husband, to obey his word as law, but you follow no man. Vaemond corners you into the wooden table, trying to scare you, but you bark right back at him.

The roaring echos so badly, it may have reached all through King’s Landing.

Criston barges inside the chambers, the carved doors nearly thrashing against the wall pavement. Bolting towards Vaemond, thrashing him by the jut of his arm, standing in-front of you as a shield.

Vaemond shrills, “How dare you lay your hands on me?!” Criston seethes his sword, the sharp steel’s reflection blinking at Vaemond, catching his eyes within the reflection.

“I will not permit insults upon her grace.” Criston’s teeth are grinding, he hissed through his clenching ivories.

“No offense has been made, Criston.”

Criston’s face peeks over his steel shoulder, you assure him with a smile. “I am quite alright, thank you.” The warmth in your eyes melt to cold ire regarding Vaemond.

“My husband lost himself briefly, I assure he will refrain himself from a spectacle.” Cold, dead violet eyes blink at him, Vaemond hums with disbelief.

Criston lowers his sword, swiftly into its leather sheath. His rich brown eyes never leave Vaemond, as he walks back to his post.

The doors shut.

The silence hangs tightly.

“Vaemond, I don’t desire an argum—” You sigh, turning around on your heels, but your words die in a gasp, his hand grabs your jugular, a weak attempt of intimidation by a small man.

Vaemond’s fingers clutches the terrain of your throat, pulling you into him by his grip. A startle overwhelms you. Your fingers hovering over his wrist, gripping onto him. Offense melts into mockery.

A small laugh leaves you, tittering at Vaemond. Snide eyes blankly stare at him, daring for him to continue. Embarrassment floods him, releasing your throat.

“Such affections will not be tolerated.” Vaemond hisses, his face morphing between stoic and hostile. His ego is bruised and bitten off at the edges.

“Will it? ” A soft insulting chuckle emits from your lips, your face cold yet devilish. “Who will believe such tales?” You breathe another chuckle, more harsher now, your lavender eyes leering at him.

“My father will never believe such fabrications . His dear wife, and his daughter—”

“Soiling each other. ” Vaemond’s voice grats, and gruff, his voice looms low. You shake your head in disbelief, your pale curls bouncing against your cheekbones.

A sick, derisive smile, “You will become ill with your unfounded paranoia.” Coyly your hand plays with his cloth that rests at his shoulders.

“Why do you insist on such vile lies?” You ask him, your hand rests upon his shoulder. Caressing his shoulder through his luxurious vest.

“By the Gods, Vaemond—- why can’t you see that Alicent means no harm?”

The shells of Vaemond’s ears burn, his voice cracks into a groan, he refuses to submit to your ‘seduction of sweetness’ . Twirling his body in a circular pacing —- as if he was possessed by unholy madness. Your feet peddle backwards, rather smug at his insolence.

Vaemond turns his body, composing himself.

“We will leave for Driftmark.” Vaemond’s index finger menacingly pointed at you. “By the morrow.”

His hand strikes the air with every word he utters, “That is my word. ” And another, “ That is my law. ” Vaemond spins in haste, his heels clicking against the marbling with vigor.

You watch him depart and disappear, your head held high indignantly, but as he disappears through the chamber doors, you nearly collapse to your knees.

Your fingers fidgety and twirling the gold bands of your jeweled rings, clutching your belly —- your torso nearly hunching over from the rush of anger, and fright. Your belly is trembling.

The familiar emerald gem resting on your marital finger, fiddling your fingers against each other. You kiss it to ground yourself.

Criston waltz back inside your chambers with an irate gait.

“Princess, are you alright?”

You nod hastily, clearing your throat, already hoarse from the screaming. “Yes, I am quite fine.” You hesitantly move back and forth, feet bobbing from toe to heel, not sure if you want to sit for a moment or run to get Alysanne.

Criston steadies you, before you fumble to pieces from the overwhelming stress. He guides you by the joints of your elbows, seating you down on the velvet dining chair.

Criston’s admiration bleeds profusely. A rarity these days to acquire a male companion, who doesn’t yearn for your womanhood, but seeks out your mind—- and approval.

Criston mounts Alicent and yourself on a pedestal akin to those carved idols in the sept. A peculiar affection, Criston seeks to mold himself to be worthy in your eyes. As a pleading mortal prays to the Mother.

Beyond his rich brown eyes, he sees a being holy. A girl, who accompanied Alicent, saved him from the edge of his own sword, from the filth of his sins.

Your sworn shield since you were a young girl. A bond built on the fragments of trust, and pain.

“Does he often yell at you?” Criston asks. His eyes shadowed under his dark brow. Big brown oculus glistening with newfound frustration.

Your mouth gaps open, trying to find the words, but Criston is bristling as the hairs of a cat’s spine. “He dares abuse you?”

An airy inhale catches your throat, as tears sheen your eyes. “Abuse, that word weighs too heavy—- he’s an entitled man, who believes a woman should kneel in obedience.” Shaking your head, with a forlorn smile.

“In all the Targaryen bloodline, has there ever been a mousy woman?” You giggle, shoulders shaking. “He prides himself as a conqueror.” A boisterous laugh escapes Criston.

“A conqueror? Barely a knight.” Criston speaks cruelly, a mean smirk curling at his lip. “In the battle field, his armor is polished.”

A moment as this, a wife should display shame to discuss her husband with disdain, but Vaemond is not a man. Your hand was forced to wed a spoiled brat—- your father has no qualms on arranged marriages.

The Red Keep has many secrets. A plethora of hidden away chambers —- fit for two people. Alicent’s chambers were your favored choice of solace.

Alicent entrusted you with her secrets, and her fears, as you have done as well.

Her fingertips graze against your skin, tracing softly against the curve of your wrist, to the underside of your palm. Stroking the healed scar, the very one Alicent gave you many moons ago.

Just two bodies lying together, in bliss. The warmth of the fire pit and body heat encases you both. Flesh dew and scented from a shared bath of oils and soaps.

It wasn’t always so pleasant through the early years of shared girlhood. The guilt, the shame of harboring such affection for a woman. There isn’t a word in the western tongue for this affection.

There were days as young girls, Alicent would lock herself away, reading over verses, deep in prayer. As you spent hours with septas reciting prayers in unison, under the cloth of your dress, pinching and scratching the flesh of your thighs till splotches of deep purple formed.

Alicent mutilating her fingernails, gnawing or pinching away the redden cuticles.

Many suns and moons passed in the early days, but the love kept growing. The perpetual denial, the discreet glances, the graze of fingers tantalizingly touching—-ever so close, ever so far. How lost you become in Alicent’s moon-brown eyes.

The guilt was far too great, keeping distance between each other, but the ties thread only stretched painfully. A desperate longing, a raw human feeling.

Harbored tenderness finally exploded, blinding tears, and dashing feet carried you through the corridors of the sept, one day. There, as a holy vision, Alicent knelt in prayer, crying silently.

Clicks of hast feet alerted her, turning her watery gaze over her shoulder, as her fingers rested interlocked. A lost little babe under the towering marbling of The Mother.

This separation was a death sentence, vile and cruel. No longer, could you stay away, you needed her touch. And she did too for yours.

Without a word, you collapse to your feet before her, as you would in worship. Kneeling against her green silks, sniffling as your head falls against her thighs, her gnawed fingers wove themselves within your pale tresses.

‘Why did the Gods sew my heart to you?’

Alicent’s lips peppered kisses on your scalp, sniffling as her hands clung onto your back, cradling you. Rocking you back and forth, a rhythmic cradling, as a mother would.

If you were born a son, perhaps life wouldn’t be so cruel, so unfair.

Haunted by then the guilt of loving one another when your father took Alicent as his new bride. By the eyes of law, Alicent is your step-mother, but she never was, nor ever will.

The rings you both bear, is a reminder that your union isn’t recognized by the law of man, but the law of the Gods. Biting down on your bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth as a child, you couldn’t bear to stomach today’s charade.

“He suspects.”

Alicent’s head rises from your shoulder, confusion and fear creeping into her brown eyes. Her brows pinch, her fingers stroking the silk of your nightgown.

“Your father?” She asks in a whisper, so hushed as if scared anyone could hear beyond the walls.

“Vaemond.”

“How?” Alicent shakes her head, her beautiful face morphed with concern.

“As we were breaking our fast, he threw a fit, that your invitation didn’t extend to him.” You wearily laugh, “He went mad, raving on about how you seek to keep me from him.” Alicent sits up, her hand sinking into the mattress, darkness enveloping her eyes.

“Did he strike you?”

“No, thank the Gods. Criston came to my aid,” You wipe the tears that spill over your eyes by the back of your hand, “If he were to strike me, I would’ve gutted Vaemond as a fish.”

Alicent became quiet. “It worries me, so.” She says. Her thumb flicks against a cuticle. Quickly, you cease the harm, engulfing her hand in yours.

“My love, please.” You whisper, tapping her fingers gently. A sweet whisper stops Alicent’s assault.

“He will not have us seperated.” Alicent swallows, her face shrivels, the mere images of you being whisked away —- as she would be left behind to drown in this loneliness.

Shaking her head, speaking through wet inhales, “The Gods answered my prayers as a child,” Alicent’s head fell in a bow, her forehead connected to your knuckles, “I will see to it that you shall stay.” Alicent spoke through her tears, muttering now as a prayer, you must stay.

Rocking back and forth, hunched over as she would be in deep prayer—- stripped raw for you to see.

Alicent holds your inner wrist, kissing it against her lips. Her eyes were dilated, stammering under her breath. Your arms encase Alicent in a tight, warm hug. Cradling her as a babe.

“Oh, my love,” You croak, voice hoarse, laying your head on her spine. “The Gods have blessed us to still have one another, I have no doubt that I shall stay.”

“You have blessed me with a daughter.” Alicent says in a hush. “In another life, she is ours.” Her eyes gaze upon you.

Cupping Alicent’s cheeks into your palms, leaning for a kiss. Kissing her eyes, the bridge of her nose, between her eyes getting a titter from her.

Alicent strokes her nose against yours, her lips capturing yours. Lips melting, wet tongues fondle —- Alicent suckles your tongue, her milky fingers untying the cotton, slithering fingers underneath the flaps, cupping your swollen breasts.

One of Alicent’s hand trickles mischievously down your belly, caressing your sore mound, through the white night wear. A gasp slips from your lips. Her teeth nip at your cheek, open wet kisses trail across your skin down the slope of your throat.

Flesh singing alive, and Alicent whispers to be gentle, a little fondling, but no penetration. Unlike Vaemond, who sought for your body just merely days from birth.

Intertwining bodies cast shadows by the dim candle light, and girlish giggles echo against the chamber walls.

The hour is late.

Alicent and yourself departed for the night, begrudgingly to upkeep the reputation of dutiful wives.

In comfortable silence, Edina helps your achy bodice, in your night routine. Brushing your hair, and assisting you with Alysanne. You bathed her, and clothed her. As you held her against her chest, Edina brushed your hair.

It’s restful, and Vaemond isn’t near to ruin such bliss. You weren’t sure where he had run off to, but you didn’t muster the strength to care.

A quiet knock on your chambers alerted you, and for a moment, a growl nearly slipped. “Edina, can you please see who that is?” You ask sweetly. She mutters, Yes, princess.

Edina opens the door gently, with only a silver opening. As you rock your daughter against your breast, Edina breathes in a relief, turning back to you. You stare at her through the reflection of your mirror.

“It is Ser Criston, Princess.”

You sigh with a smile, grateful it isn’t your husband. You shuffle carefully in your stool, “Please, let him in.” Patting Alysanne’s little bum.

Edina moves the door wider, and Criston bows his head respectfully. “Hello Criston.” You greet him with a hum, “Is everything well?”

“A meeting has been called, Princess.” He says, almost with a tone of urgency. Your brows pinch in confusion, “The hour is late, why has the council been summoned?” Titling your head, eyes tired.

“I saw Alicent, and Otto accompany your father in the council chambers—-” Criston exhales with frustration, “— along with Vaemond.” His jaw clenches.

Stoned fury cements itself on your face, swallowing down, breathing becoming more heavier.

“Edina, please take Alysanne. I must tend to my imbecile of an husband.” The courtesy of graciousness, and taught manners are long gone, seeping out of you with the urge to bark.

Edina shuffles with quickness at her step, her hands out-stretched for Alysanne. Carefully Edina took your little bundle in her arms, you kissing her little furry head, as Criston helped you get to your feet.

“Criston, please take me to see Vaemond.” Your hand cupping Criston’s extended forearm, guiding you, his other hand on-top of your fingers.

A malicious smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, as you mutter obscenities under your breath along the path of the keep.

A meeting has been summoned.

An invitation only for Viserys to join Vaemond in the council room, but Alicent and Otto have come forth as Viserys’ shadows.

“I see your grace, and the Hand has come.” Vaemond says, rather annoyed. Alicent’s gaze subtly searches the room, but you are nowhere in sight.

“Whichever you must say,” Viserys says with a smile, “can be spoken among my wife, and my hand.” Viserys limply walks to the council table.

“Of course.” Vaemond strains with a formal smile. He clears his throat, his hands behind his back. “It’s time for my wife to reside in Driftmark.”

Silence commences. Alicent’s eyes widen.

“My daughter has just been born, and I would like my blood to enjoy her home.” Vaemond continues. A sullen look drags on Viserys. “So soon, my granddaughter has just been born.”

“Of course, not yet. Out of respect, we will stay for a little longer, but once we are ready—” Vaemond’s words are snuffed out, by Alicent’s scoff.

“No— - she cannot leave. King’s Landing is her home.” Alicent speaks anxiously, turning to Viserys. Vaemond scoffs under his breath. Alicent’s head twists in his direction with such haste, any faster her head would have spun and fallen off her shoulders.

“Two years we have stayed, not once has my wife visited Driftmark.” Vaemond puffs his chest, “She has not seen the seas of my home!”

Alicent chortles, a wet growl. “Viserys, please see to this.” She turns back to Viserys, “The children will miss her, you won’t see Alysanne for a time.” Alicent’s slender fingers grasp Viserys’ clothes forearm with a tightness. An exhausted sigh escapes him.

“Or you will miss her.” Vaemond spits.

“She is my friend, of course I would.” Alicent hisses through her teeth. Vaemond’s feet walk one by one, with sardonic thumps; leaning into Alicent’s space.

Alicent’s eyes squinted, “And where is she? It would be preferred to have her presence.” It didn’t feel right to not have you in this meeting, yet Vaemond is here overseeing a decision on your behalf.

“It is her right to choose where her home is! This should be her decision!” A vein slightly protrudes at Alicent’s neck, her throat straining.

“Your peculiar need for my wife is —- disturbing.” He says spitefully.

“Enough of this!” Viserys shouts, shutting both Alicent, and Vaemond to silence. “Two moons of this insufferable fighting—” He wheezes, “from the both of you!” He clicks his cane against the marbling, declaring his authority.

Vaemond towers over Alicent, nearly cornering her, but she doesn’t back down. Holding her head up high, staring back at him with such hate. A vision of silver, and a shuffle of metal enter the room.

Criston wedges himself between the two, his feet in stance for a brawl, but Vaemond only chuckles at the notion.

“Alas, the sworn mutt has come to protect his consort.”

“Must we have another go?” Criston asks, his dark brows shadowing his eyes. Venomous snake eyes, as his hands itch to slice Vaemond into an carasses.

”Would you liken I tell the king how you disrespected the princess?” Criston’s throat is hoarse, vein bulging. The seething rage within him is reaching a high.

Vaemond sucks his teeth at the notion. “My wife and I merely had a disagreement.” Alicent leans into Criston’s side, her lowered eyes twitching in a hooded glare.

Viserys shouts your name, his voice echoes within the room, beckoning you to him by his shaky hand. He caught you peeking from the chamber doors, watching the speckable.

Alicent’s eyes flooded with relief at the sight of you. You waltz inside with a determined gait, but as Vaemond opens his arms for an embrace, you swiftly pardon him with a worried smile, for Alicent and your father.

Vaemond’s feet bobbles, rooted into the marbling, still staring at the direction you walked through. Criston laughs to himself, at the pitiful sight.

Alicent holds you by the shoulders, shielding you away from your pestering husband.

“My sweet girl,” Viserys says, “Vaemond is declaring for you to leave.” He’s wounded. Viserys truthfully doesn’t want to see you depart, but you are a wedded woman now.

By law, a wife must accompany her husband, and it is two years late for your leave for Driftmark, such as Rhaenys had when she became lady of the sea.

“Yes, my love!” Vaemond says with a sardonic boast. “Our daughter has been born. It is our time to depart for home.” He steps closer, preparing to pry you away.

“The decision shall be done, only by my daughter’s permission.” Viserys casts a gaze at you, with such a kind smile, entrusting you to choose the ‘best decision’, to tame this spectating chaos.

Vaemond is repulsed at the notion of Viserys allowing you to make a decision on such matters.

You nearly stutter as a jester before everyone, terrified. Out of nature, your fingertips fidget with your ring. Not the ring bestowed to you by Vaemond, but the very ring shared between Alicent and yourself.

Blinking tears back, all eyes fall upon you. Alicent’s distressed wet eyes stare into yours, silently pleading with you.

You do not wish to prevent your daughter the opportunity to enjoy Driftmark, it is her home just as King’s Landing, but your heart is torn —- to be separated from Alicent is a murder.

Your soul won’t bear it, it would be felt as death. Worse than the pain during the wedding between Alicent and your father, the grief caused you to nearly fall ill. To separate the children—- hopes of being a family again shattering before you.

Hesitantly, your mouth quiver, but your mind was set. Driftmark is simply just a dragon’s ride away.

“I wish to stay here,” you proclaimed, standing with a firm posture. Vaemond’s eyes wide and enraged, gawking at you.

“Alysanne has just been born. There is no need for hast, I shall stay here in King’s Landing.”

A weak smile stretches just a little on Alicent’s face. All the fury seeps away from her face. Vaemond sputters in disgust, and rage. Nearly foaming at the mouth as a rabid dog.

“Then so be it.” Viserys proclaims, walking towards you with his cane, the ache of his body weighs on him, causing a limp, and a cough.

With no hesitation, you dash to his side, as does Alicent. You whisper to your father with a kiss to his cheek, a firm yet gentle ‘thank you, father’.

The pin drops. The hinges snap.

The Sea Snake breaks through the bubbling sea foam. A man cannot take anymore of this.

“ Viserys,” Vaemond pleas, shoulders shaking, fingers curling, “she plays you for a fool. Don’t you see that Alicent has bewitched your daughter—”

“Enough!” Viserys stomps the end of his cane, the clank startling you, as a frightened little girl, you cling onto your father’s forearm. His aging face distorts, his eyes leering into Vaemond.

“I respect you, Ser Vaemond, but you shall hold your tongue.” Viserys waddles closer, “Alicent is your queen, and respect is in order.”

Otto leans by the pillars, arms crossed against his chest. A spectator enjoying a theater play.

“Alicent is my daughter’s childhood companion, and I will not see them separated.” Viserys declares, stomping his cane onto the ground, echoing against the keep, its thud emphasizing his decision.

His word is law.

“I love your daughter, Viserys—”

“Then act as such!”

Vaemond sighs loudly, nearly stomping his feet in defeat.

“Vaemond, for the nearly twelve moons, you have made me mad with your judgment.” Viserys huffs. Shaking his head at Vaemond’s childish attitude. “Ridiculous bickering with my wife.”

Viserys softly tilts his head, “No more of this.” He whispers to Alicent. She swallows down, holding onto Viserys’ arm, mouth wrinkling into a frown, as if reprimanded as a child.

“Alicent ploys against me—-” Vaemond’s words die into a groan as a fist punch at his chest. A series of grunts and thrashing. You bellow for them to stop this thrashing.

Vaemond and Ser Criston tussle on top of each other, Viserys declaring for both of them to cease. Your pleas fall onto deaf ears. Your feet carry you near them, trying to tug Vaemond off of Criston, fruitlessly.

A clash of limbs, a tug of war. With one miscalculation of his elbow, a crunch and airy gasp of pain breaks. A collision against the floor, you softly whine in pain.

Shouts of your name, and feet running.

Nose welting as a smashed berry, seeping into the cave of your mouth, copper embedding on your palate. Your vision is blurry, colors of fabric and candle flames are translucent murky strings before your eyes.

Sensations of hands picking up your limp body in marital fashion, your mind too deep in a daze to connect with reality. Not sure who has you, muffled shouting becomes clearer.

Your lavender eyes are blank, and unblinking, as your vision begins to unclog the fog—— auburn hair stands before you, and trembling fingers caress your swollen lip.

Out of habit, your tongue glides over the top cage of your teeth, stinging the swelling flesh of gums, but you don’t stop the brushing of ivories.

“Fetch the maesters!”

You inhale a small gust of breath, a deep one that fills your lungs to an odd relief; as if you haven’t breathed in ages. Such vacancy etched in your pupils, gazing through your lashes to witness a faded vision of Vaemond staring in surprise.

He tries to come near you, but your father barks in his face. You don’t seek his affections, he has committed enough damage for a fortnight.

Sweet palms encase your cheeks, dabbing the spilling blood that coats the bridge of your nose, its sticky. Scared breaths escape Alicent, hyperventilating, as your eyes become loopy, one closes slowly after the other. The maesters all encircle you, muttering that your nose may be broken.

A wounded dragon rests upon the shores of Oldtown, crying for help. A roaming sea snake is lurking, snipping. The tower shines green. Alicent’s eyes catch Criston’s spare dagger —- the banners have been called.

Alicent charges at him, hatred and spite feeding off of each fiber of her being, taking the dagger that was seethed in Criston’s satchel, woven in her grip.

Dashing feet clamor against the flooring —- an ungodly manic shout roars from Alicent, frightening all men. Viserys haggers a few steps back, calling out to Alicent.

“Have you gone mad?!” Alicent’s voice is hoarse, snarling at him as a devilish beast. Her arm raises up, ready to strike through his flesh.

Quickly, Vaemond’s arms fling high, freeing himself, catching Alicent’s wrist in his. Alicent can’t even hear pleas from her husband, nor her father —- the stain of red has engulfed her vision. All shouts for her died in the distance, as blood rushed to her ears.

Murderous thoughts plague her mind as grave rot, to gash Vaemond’s skull open, feed his torn limbs to your dragon, imprison him as a suffering lame —- his delayed death will only sedate her fury.

Harming the only soul she can confide in, the only being who understands her fears, who shares her guilt for possessing love for another woman, but oh —- such a sin is delightful.

You’re the only one who can hear her voice in this wretched hell procreated by the Gods —- you can still hear her heart-beat in a crowded room.

You see her, as she sees you.

Not as your step-mother, more than a childhood companion, but as your lover, another-half of your soul. Stolen moments when the realm is asleep, both crying, laughing as if the world outside doesn’t exist—- ushering fantasies of traveling on dragon’s back to East, exploring the colorful lives of the Free Cities, as young girls again.

Praying on your knees, caressing each other.

Love, this is her love, to be seen in a room of shattered shards of glass that reflect the children you both once were. You won’t leave her alone, to slip away from each other. To be inside each other’s skin, to be inside each other.

Two women tangled in the realms’ webs. Forced to marry men who make their skin crawl. A matrimony in misery together.

“Alicent, put away the dagger!”

“What have you done for her?” Alicent’s whispers, with malice. Her eyes wet with an unshed sheen. Her voice is so low, just enough for Vaemond to hear, as a chorus of shouts fade in the distance.

“Besides take her body as ownership?” Alicent’s voice cracks into a broken wail, “Wedded her to claim her nobility as yours.” Her nose scrunches as a hound, “She is not a pawn in your games.” She hisses through her canines.

“Own her? I, a man, cannot even enjoy his marriage without interference. Meddling in affairs you have no qualms with.” Vaemond’s thrashing causes a slip of fingers.

His veiny hand tussles with Alicent’s arm, a futile attempt tugging by the jut of her elbow, to try to take her to safety, but she doesn’t relent. She thrashes her arm away, with a grunt.

The dagger’s sharp curved tip inches hairs away from Vaemond’s exposed glossy ocular.

“It is my right to be concerned.” Alicent’s teeth bore into a scowl. She’s unrecognizable, edging on her last thread of sanity. “Who will care for her?” Her voice carries the weight of concern, affection, a crack of desperation.

Disoriented voices fade in and out from the distance, a stand-off brewed from loathing, and jealousy. As many try to break apart Alicent and Vaemond—- others flock to your limp body, and the sprinting maesters.

Vaemond leers through his lashes, turning his attention away. Your ichor staining Alicent’s fingernails, and wrists in splatters. Vaemond’s venomous spite inflates akin to spikes, his eyes daringly bore into Alicent’s, sneers low under his breath, ‘suffocating’.

A disgruntled growl slips from Alicent’s lips. “ I am her companion. Her only friend. ” Alicent inches closer, nearly barking in his face. Such a declaration in her bellowing voice, her brows pinching in sorrow.

A moment stills.

He smirks, nose flaring.

“The very friend who bedded her grieving father.”

An ungodly screech rips from Alicent, raw and animalistic. Strength and sheer adrenaline. A scream that echoes the thousand unheard cries of her depraved girlhood. A release of her festering sorrow all in one strike.

By the Gods, what a fleeting delight.

With a swift glide of her wrist, the dagger just inches from the bridge of his nose, but the sharp tip rips a slice on his cheek.

Clamor of voices die in the silence.

Alicent slowly backed away, with such wild rage glistening in her eyes, her fingers trembling loose from her grip. The dagger clanks at her feet, her breaths are haggard.

Vaemond’s fingertips dab against the bleeding slash. Stricken with astonishment at the drips of ichor —- and great offense, Alicent has gathered the nerve to commit such a heinous act.

A suffocating figure comes near as a shadow.

Otto comes to his daughter’s side, his shoulder patting her shoulder to quell the tension that tightens her muscles. His vacant palm grips her wrist, softly squeezing, comfort? A warning.

Towering behind her, with such an ominous categorical glare, Otto breathes through his nose, a frustrated sigh. If no one will take the reins of this masquerade, he will. He always prided himself to be the solver of any problems.

Calculating his next move, to not only pacify Vaemond down, but to not frazzle the feathers of his child.

“Let us handle this bickering with grace.” Otto’s head tilts down, gaze downcasted at his daughter's dome, caressing her thick waves—- whose face was still twitching with lingering tears, exhaustion draining from her.

“We will all discuss our —-” Otto pauses for a second, turning his sight to Vaemond, feigning an inch of sympathy, “troubles in the morrow.” As a master manipulating the strings of its puppet, dancing to his rhythm.

Dull pain weighs on the bridge of your nasal, the milk of the poppy soothing most of the inflamed ache. The maesters claim it’s the luck of the Gods that your nose wasn’t shattered, with being the brunt of brute strength.

Resting in your chambers, deep in the massive blankets, boneless bodice sinking into the mattress, but your hooded eyes never leave Alysanne’s cradle.

Even in a moment of enduring the strain of this wound, the motherly instinct within you is overtaken. Awaiting any gurgle, or cry, any excuse to hold her in your embrace.

An uncomfortable whine vibrates low in your throat, nearing a snort, by the joints of your elbows into the mattress, you lift your heavy body up. Groggy muscles tighten and burn as you dig within yourself any inch of remaining strength.

Slow steps inch closer —- one and two, one and two—- your fingers grip the cradle. Carefully, your open palms dive into the blankets, grasping Alysanne’s little neck, and back; by the bent of your knees, you hoist her up.

Small gurgles emit from her heart-shaped mouth, you coo her, connecting her small body against your chest. Rocking her back to slumber, you shuffle back to your bed, hawking your balance, so that your feet don’t catch the loose end of your silk night-gown.

You gaze at her, what a beauty she is.

Despite loathing her father, the miserable masquerade he performed not only before your father, but to the sworn shield, the king’s hand to bear witness —- and above all else, in-front of your dear Alicent.

Vaemond’s outburst of demands, proclaiming you to be taken by his force, to reside the end of your days in Driftmark.

Aware of how tedious Otto is upon his reputation that extends upon his daughter, he will chastise any witnesses to keep tight lips. No whispers of this dreadful night. For once, you hope Otto weaves his fingers —- there is no need for anyone to speak such haughty gossip about Alicent.

‘My love has suffered for too long.’ You mull quietly. Softly grazing Alysanne’s button nose. Alicent doesn’t deserve to be the subject of the talebearers—- to be humiliated as such.

Alysanne mewls in her sleep, but your essence lulls her, caressing her cheek with your nose. Tracing the bridge of her nose with the grace of your finger, admiring her innocence.

“I will not let him have you,” You whisper in a hush, “And I will not have him take me away.”

“A mere scratch.”

The head maester dabbed Vaemond’s cheek, as the white cloth soaks in splotches of his blood.

“If it was closer, it would have been a gash, and the loss of an eye.”

Vaemond sits with his fingers digging into his clothed knees, as an insolent child. Vaemond is marinating in his seat, brooding in his pathetic defeat.

His fingers clenching onto the arm-rests, the intricate gold dragon engraving digging into the flesh of his fingers.

A handful of maesters flocked to Vaemond’s aid with haste, as Alicent was whisked away without a word from her father.

Humiliated, that his own wife would not defend his honor, that he was cut down by a woman’s hand, that the king himself would not see the impending shambles of his house.

A shush falls upon the maesters, quietly bowing.

Vaemond’s eyes gaze up to see Alicent at the doors. Mute, and regal, despite losing herself in her anger. The maesters all bow, one after another, taking their leave — all scurry out of the door, as rats.

Alicent walks inside, stoned silent, her palms clasped on top of each other against her belly, her lips pursed — restraining herself, her eyes still red at the rim from dried tears.

No less, her father sent her to mend the peace. Alicent stares Vaemond down, even through her display of vulnerability, she sees him as nothing. As if he is the dirt beneath her feet.

Vaemond stiffened his spine, his chest puffed out to ready brace himself against her wrath. But Alicent doesn’t move… her feet stay rooted. Her eyes are distant, as if reflecting quietly.

She hums.

“His grief doesn't bear a flame to mine.”

#chaosfae writes #alicent hightower x reader #queen alicent #Alicent Hightower fanfic

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zorosbeau33 · 2 months

Text

You get sick~ Omegaverse One Piece Headcanon Part 1

❖ Todays stars: Sabo/Luffy x Omega gender neutral reader

❖ Headcanon, fluff, comfort

❖ Tw: Illness

❖ wc: 1100

❖ Part 2 Coming soon! ❖ Masterlist ❖

. ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

I hope this brings you a little bit of laughter and a smile!

. ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ ⋅˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Now then, this alpha baby gumgum drop button over here…so many people think he would miss the signs at first. And perhaps he’d miss that you are slightly quieter than normal. Or that your sneezes are a bit more frequent. Maybe even that you slept in way later than you normally would have.

EXCEPT this man is enamored with you, and one of his favorite things is burrowing his face into your neck to take deep breaths of your scent.

The moment you get sick your scent betrays it, and his frown shows he has noticed before you even feel any symptoms. Thus despite you having assured him you are okay Luffy is secretly on guard.

Its not obvious to anyone really unless like Robin they analyze every bit of his body motions.

He has a hand or arm around or on you at all times

Constantly checking his volume isn’t too loud for you with subtle glances

He is paranoid a little and keeps snuffling your throat far more than usual

Once your symptoms hit he is wrapping you up in his arms and carrying you quickly to Chopper. All previous consideration for his volume level gone as he screams for the medic and for Nami.

He holds your hand the entire time (unless you and Chopper allow him to wrap himself around you like a boa constrictor. Clinging out of worry and need to protect).

If its to soon to tell what you have he gets slightly distressed. He doesn’t want to wait for you to possibly feel worse in order for you to be able to get treatment. His whining will know no ends

If they do figure out what is wrong he for once will listen to every word Chopper says and try to stick to them to a T in order for you to get better

If Chopper mentions a warmer climate or cooler climate will do you good he instantly commands Nami to find the safest path to such a climate asap

Yes safest, the need to ensure you can properly rest, swaddled up in your nest out of a possibly dangerous path is tantamount to him

He does leave your side often. To spare with the others or check with Chopper if there's anything else he can do for you. His boundless energy needs to be let out, but the minute he feels he can he rushes back to you for snuggles

You have never smelled more like Luffy a day in your life

He is constantly nuzzling and scenting you to assure you of his presence and care.

Nothing will stop him from this unless it causes you actual pain (maybe the illness gave you sensitive skin)

He understands that you need a certain diet of food too to get stronger and he’s trying to understand it. Hounding Sanji to make you “CHICKEN SOUP WITH LOTS AND LOTS OF GINGER CHOPPER SAID BLAND FOOD AND LOTS OF THINGS LIKE GINGER AND TUMURIC-”

Thank gods for Sanji, because Luffy doesn’t in his panic comprehend that putting five pounds of fresh ground ginger into the soup would in fact make it not bland

Overall Luffy is very tender and loving. He looks like a lost puppy the entire time you are sick and tries to talk quietly for you even if you say it's okay to make noise.

He doesn’t get sick with you but goodness if he doesn’t feel awful seeing you suffer

GOD FORBID someone outside the crew/pack gets too close to you during this time. Luffy will either knock them out with his Haki or if they withstand that, the savage alpha growl that leaves his chest and the look of murder in his glowing eyes will have them peeing themselves

This happy-go-lucky Alpha? His professional smile falls immediately

The guilt of holding you in his arms nearly crushes him. Heart sinking into his toes as he gently cradles you into his chest, rushing you back to your shared nest. Gloved fingers suddenly bared as he blames himself for your current state.

He is so tender and gentle regardless of how well or bad off you are. This isn’t like when you get wounded in battle, this hurts him in new unforeseen ways.

His scnet muddled with worry as he whispers soft promises to make you feel better as quickly as he can.

Sabo’s mind is full of self doubt and blame. Maybe if he was home more, or if he hadn’t taken you on that mission to the Icy Plains of the Northern Isle. But he just feels this is all his fault for being far too busy all the time. Maybe he would have noticed sooner and been able to stop it before this point if he had paid a bit more attention?

Even if you assure him it's not his fault. These things just happen sometimes he is still frowning fingers trailing gently down your cheek, he doesn’t recall getting sick like this, that is after he Ace and Luffy learned how to cook and no longer gave themselves food poisoning.

If you are ill with something he doesn’t know how to treat then he will enlist Koala and Dragon. Not one or the other both, you are too important to risk any more details being missed or possible treatment options.

He is so delicate when he treats you, loving to hold you in his arms as he helps you bathe. And no you can’t talk him out of this, it's his way of atoning for not noticing sooner.

The best food and medicine he can get his hands on will be yours. He curls around you and watches you rest, ensuring you are comfortable and his soothing scent is right here for you whenever you want a whiff.

He doesn’t scent you too much, he doesn’t want to rub all over you and jostle you.

However, if you ask him he will push his scent out and tuck your face into his neck right against his glands. There is never a moment before this that his scent ever smelled so tender.

Koala took several photos before his growls turned into fiery glare and she ran away.

He does still ask her for help, calling it an equal exchange for her snooping. She’s a good friend and does take on a huge chunk of his work so that he can be with you.

She and Hack are both secretly glad, because even though he’s fretting he is also finally getting some rest

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politemenacephd · 2 months

Text

Arachnophilia: (Part Twenty-Six)

Drider!Miguel O'Hara x Reader (+18)

Chapter Masterlist 🕷️

Content: Mostly fluffy and plot updates + character building with Miguel. References to oral sex and PinV sex.

One month later

---

You woke to the sound of rustling. You were almost passed out in the comforting silk sheets of yours and Mig’s bed, your hair tangled and rough and your eyelids heavy. God, what a night.

You weren’t even in heat right now, what compelled you to act like that? Well, you knew what. It was him, obviously. That beautiful, irresistible monster you now called your partner.

You thought back to last night, when you’d lit the fire outside and danced together as you often did now. Whenever you got a day free off of work you got to enjoy Miguel’s old habits; hunting, preening, singing, doing his little mating dance to entice you.

And entice it did. You’d danced until the grass was flattened, moving in and out of his arms. He’d grab you, sway you, kiss you, then throw you free to lead him on again. He liked to follow you around the fire, creating a rhythmic beat with the tapping of his paws for you to follow.

You weren’t the best dancer, but he didn’t notice that. He wasn’t looking for grace or poise or actual moves, he just wanted to see the joy in your face as the fire lapped around your skin.

You’d started out innocently enough, but you’d gotten a little too playful. You must have done something to arouse Miguel’s gaze because you remember his tapping becoming faster, insistent, almost like a chase, as he followed you around the glowing fire.

You remembered those beautiful eyes burning, that deep red reflecting the flames back at you like an inferno. You remember the sound of his breathing getting heavier. The flash of a fang, of a wet, lurid tongue, the sight of his chest heaving. The drumming growing louder, louder, as your body grew lewder with its movements. The soft bounce of your body, the giggling and smile, the subtle gyrating, it was too much.

You tempted him to you, and he took the bait.

You remember how he’d bound you up like a fly, like prey, and how he’d taken you right there in the dirt. God, the size of him still made you tremble. The memories of hot breath on your neck as he fulfilled some carnal need, a mixture of deep primal hunting instinct mixed with his human desire for you, the desire to eat and be eaten.

He’d ended up thankfully just eating you out instead, gushing over you with another saliva to quell the fire still burning at your sides, illuminating your conjoined bodies.

You could still feel him inside you now, or at least, what he’d left there. The ghost of that man’s shaft was imprinted on you like a finger. You smiled to yourself. You hoped it stayed there forever.

You almost immediately drifted off again until you heard that same rustling. You forced yourself awake then, purely because you assumed it was Mig rustling beside you and you wanted to cuddle with him again, but as you opened your eyes you realized it wasn’t him.

A rabbit had scuttled into your giant nest. It snuffled at your sheets, clearly curious, but as you reared your head it bolted. You sat in the silence and darted your head from side to side.

Mig wasn’t here. You could still feel his warmth on the bed, and you could see the little indent his body had made on the mattress overnight, but he himself was gone. You frowned and called out.

“MIG?”

No response. Odd. You called again, louder. “MIG?” you cried, your voice echoing through the dirt corridors, but again there was nothing. You awkwardly glanced around the room instead, looking for any sign of where he might have gone.

On the earthen floor beside you was a plate, and on it was your favourite breakfast. You noticed a note tucked beneath the mug, and sleepily yanked it up to your face.

'Mi tesoro! I know you are off work today, but I wanted to run some tests. It broke my heart to think of waking you when you looked so comfortable, so I have left you this note! So you know where I am, and also to say you are my heart. I hope to see you later! p.s I made you breakast!'

You found yourself giggled at his note as you went through it. God, what a sweet, soppy idiot Mig was. You turned the note only to find a scribbled extra note on the back.

‘p.p.s I just wish to reiterate again that you are my heart.’

You felt your chest grow warm and fuzzy as you watched it. ‘Oh Miggy’ you whispered. With no one looking you gave the note a kiss before tucking it away. If only the sweet fool had realized food got cold if left out all morning. Oh well, cold breakfast was still breakfast.

You pondered over the note as you ate, re-reading the sweet little P.P.S on the back. At this point your inability to admit that you loved each other had become a running joke, a kind of admittance by itself.

You held no animosity to him over it. Despite some wavering concerns you’d had at the start, you understood how scary relationships were to him, and this was the longest he’d ever been with someone before. There was a trauma induced fear in him that stepping too close to the sun would cause everything to collapse in on him again. He was so happy, he was terrified of losing it. He was terrified of change.

The desire for stability, for safety, it meant a lot to him, and he meant a lot to you, so you accepted the status quo.

You just had to put up with all the little ways he said he loved you that weren’t specifically saying love. You were his heart, his treasure, his life, his partner. You were precious. You were handsome. You were beautiful. You were home.

He’d spill these words every chance he got, and you ate them up. It was almost more romantic in a way. He had to find creative new ways to express his feelings that didn’t contain the ‘L’ word.

As you thought of Miguel, you were reminded that you probably ought to check the time. You always spent lunch with him and Miguel now as you knew without your input they’d never eat. With a soft yawn you pulled up your watch.

11:50:am.

You had exactly 10 minutes before the HQ lunch rush absolutely crushed any chance of getting the boys their favourite meal.

When you moved it was in a blind panic, scrambling and stumbling out of bed to find your suit. You didn’t even bother showering; you could use Miguel’s laser dirt remover if you had to. He’d complain but he always gave in to your requests now, as he wanted to seem cooperative.

You scarfed the last of the breakfast Mig had left until you felt sick, before unwisely leaping headfirst into a portal back to Nueva York.

When you tumbled out the other side you were free falling, your body somersaulting down through the honeycomb centre of the HQ at rapid speed. Fool, you must have put the coordinates in wrong. Oh well. No loss. Your adrenaline allowed you to web your way out of a sudden death before storming up the beams to the cafeteria like a rabid dog.

When you finally slammed your card down on the counter you were sweating like mad, eyes wide like they were about to explode from your head, lips parted to pant. The poor girl behind the counter went utterly rigid.

“Please… Give me the empanadas” you wheezed. The girl just nodded and hurried off to fulfil your request; they knew what you meant.

She came back with three boxes of to-go orders, all of which had the usuals in them; yours, Migs and Miguel’s lunches. Miguel was trying to watch his diet after being Peter complained about him doing nothing but drinking coffee all day, but you knew he liked the empanadas here so you snuck him one every so often.

Turns out that was something Mig and Miguel also shared, and so you eagerly bought up their entire stock nearly every other day so Mig could enjoy himself. He had a big body that needed a lot of fuel, and he was so used to nothing but deer meat and forest berries it was nice to see him get excited about eating more complex dishes.

You gleefully made your way up the HQ, swinging from beam to beam, only to nearly fall to your death for the second time as a violent explosion erupted out of the corridor above you. You were saved by a split seconds decision to web yourself to the wall, allowing you to catch your breath while everyone else screamed.

Your head shot up, your eyes scanning the plume of deep red smoke floating out of the darkened space above. You felt your heart sink.

“Oh, shit- shit, SHIT, shit” you stammered. That was Miguel’s office.

‘Mig?!’

In a panic you webbed up to the opening, shoving past other spiders as they ran through the smoke coughing and wheezing. You barely had the thought of mind to cover your nose and mouth as you pushed through the smoke towards their office, shoving old bits of equipment aside as you went.

‘MIG?!’ you screamed. No reply. Your heart was pounding so hard you felt sick. Oh god, was he okay? What had happened?

You stumbled up to the main door leading into Miguel’s lab. At this point the smoke had mostly cleared outside but was clearly lingering within, and you could see the flash of a red light inside indicating a failed experiment. You squinted, trying to see more clearly, only to jump as something moved in the dark.

‘M-Mig…?’ you stammered.

Through the pluming smoke an enormous, morphing shadow appeared, its features entirely obscured as it made its way towards you. Through the red mist it seemed to shift in deeply unnatural ways, causing the hair on your nape to stand on end.

You stumbled back in panic. ‘Miguel?! Mig, are you—’

On the cusp of alarm a voice finally reached you through the chaos, echoing over even the blaring fire alarm above.

‘ESTUPIDO—’

‘Chinga tu madre-!’

You watched, dumbfounded, as the horrifically deformed shadow slowly transformed before your eyes, shifting back into its true form; a giant spider and an enormous man, both wrestling and childishly shoving each other as they tumbled through the smoke.

The moment they got out Mig began hissing at his variant, shouting down at him with his legs raised.

‘¡No fui yo! Tu—’

Mig paused midsentence to cough, which Miguel used as an excuse to stand on his tip toes and yell right back.

‘¡Eres tonto-!’

‘HEY!’

The two men froze and turned their heads towards you. Mig remained fixed, his eyes lighting up at the sight of your horrified face, while Miguel just grunted and used his variants distraction to slap him on the belly. Mig immediately turned back and hissed.

‘Hey, HEY, hey! What happened?!’ you snapped.

You’d hoped that would calm them down, but it just made it worse. The two of them started yelling at each other even louder, so loudly in fact that you couldn’t make out a single thing they said.

‘The DNA splicer needed THREE WIRES—’

‘And I did that and it EXPLODED—’

‘BECAUSE YOU PUT THEM IN WRONG!’

‘The accelerator needs—’

‘Ay Dios Mio- I’m not in charge of the accelerator! I’m in change of the converter—’

‘SHUSH!’

The two men once again fell silent, their chests heaving as they stared each other down. You ran a hand down your face and sighed. ‘You- look. The longer you fail to work together, the longer this takes. Its counterproductive. Right?’

Mig immediately nodded in agreement, eager to please you, while Miguel whispered ‘suck up’ beneath his breath. You rolled your eyes. You knew what would fix it.

‘Okay. Instead of, talking about who did what, just… Explain to me, what were you attempting to do? Not what happened, just- what you were attempted to do.’

It worked. Like clockwork the two men fell back into their nerdy obsession, eagerly explaining one over the other how the machinery functioned and how the genetical splicing was so difficult when dealing with universal DNA code. You had no idea what it meant, but it was easy to make the two bond over their scientific interest. Soon, all that animosity was forgotten, and they were babbling about trying a new solution.

‘Oh my god. You dorks’ you snorted.

Miguel broke his concentration and scowled at you while Mig remained unphased, his wide eyes fixated on your face. ‘Dork? What—what does that mean?’ Mig asked, whispering the last part to Miguel.

‘They’re calling you smart but socially inept’ Miguel explained gently.

‘No! No, not him, both of you’ you added. Miguel scowled deeper, but you caught his lips twitching into a smile.

Despite Miguel’s dour explanation, Mig immediately perked up. He even padded his feet in that sweet little rhythmic dance he did when excited. ‘Oh! Ah, you are calling me smart? Thank you, Arañita. You’re so kind’ he purred.

‘It—it’s not a compliment!’ Miguel snapped back.

‘It is if he wants it to be’ you giggled. You pushed past Miguel to snuggle against Mig’s fluffy little underbelly, and he cheerily returned to affection. ‘My smart, smart boy’ you crowed, gently scratching his abdomen before leaning up to scratch behind his ears, noting the way his little feet began stamping like an eager rabbit.

‘Smartest boy’ you cooed. ‘Smartest boy.’

Miguel’s smile was so wide, so endearing, he looked flushed with pleasure. He wriggled a little and began to let out a soft clicking noise. ‘Mm… your smart boy’ he repeated.

‘You know we’re doing this 50/50, right?’ Miguel added from the side. You glanced at him from beneath the fluff and allowed a smile to fill your cheeks.

‘Mmhm.’ You leaned and grasped Miguel by the arm. ‘Is that you fishing for compliments, Mr?’

He curled his lip as Lyla appeared in the air beside his face, slyly fixing her glasses as she poked Miguel on the nose. ‘Oh, he is. He’s starved for them. He tried fixing my code so I’ll say nice things to him sometimes, without prompting—’

‘Lyla don’t—’

‘I managed to stop him in time though. So I can keep being as mean as I want’ she drawled, swishing her hair before vanishing again. Miguel tried to throttle the air around her but she was already gone.

You sighed and leaned back, gently waving your hand. ‘Okay. Yes, you are doing it 50/50. You are clearly very smart too, and we appreciate your help, Mr O’Hara.’

Miguel grunted, appearing annoyed, but you knew he was satisfied.

Things had definitely been weird with Miguel since his apology and everything that came after it. He was genuinely trying his best to help, and that had helped heal over your suspicions and deeper distaste for the man, but he was clearly still stubborn.

He didn’t like that he’d been wrong, and seeing you both every day was a reminder of how he’d messed up. You’d both agreed that’s why he remained so stiff in your presence.

You’d learned a few things, though. It was clear his temper came from a need for perfection, for peace, to see everything right in its natural and comfortable place. You and Mig had felt like a threat to that, at least for a while, but now he was seeing things different you were seeing a different side to him.

You saw how he was with Peter, how soft and polite he was until the man messed something up and he’d start dramatically monologuing at him. You saw how stoic but supportive he was in front of the younger spiders, or how he’d made sarcastic, dry quips to Jess when they were going over work.

Every lunch time you saw a slightly different version of him, and as time passed that version of him seemed easier to let out. It was certainly curious.

It was then that you remembered why you’d come here in the first place.

‘OH! Ah- right, if we’re done fighting- I brought lunch’ you said, quickly lifting up the boxes you’d brought. Mig began salivating the second he saw them, while Miguel just gave a grateful grunt.

‘I told you I don’t need lunch— OOF!’ Miguel was silenced by you shoving his box into his chest before swinging past him, hurrying back into the lab with Mig scurrying at your side.

‘ENJOY THE FOOD’ you called over your shoulder.

Miguel grunted, angrily shrugging his shoulders, but the moment you were gone he softened a little. He opened the box just an inch to see inside. Empanadas, his favourite kind again. He let himself smile a little bit before drifting in after you.

For just a short break all the animosity and science took a side-step to your new norm: your group lunch breaks.

You’d never have done this originally, but Mig had been so insistent on doing little of bits of work while he ate that you agreed to sat in there with Miguel, and over time that inevitably broke some boundaries. You got more used to being in there, being around him, and eventually it just became routine.

You all sat down in your usual spots to eat. Mig settled beside the giant floating desk with you clutched in his paws, allowing you to eat beside each other while using the takeout boxers as plates, and Miguel sat on his floating desk with his legs dangling over the side.

He used to keep it way, way up in the air when he did to get some space, but now he kept it just a little higher than Mig. You knew he just liked pretending he was taller than him for a bit.

While Mig remained busy with both hands on his empanada’s and his foreleg gently stroking your back, Mig scrolled through messages he had to catch up on. It was strangely peaceful in here.

‘Mm- how is it?’ you asked, breaking the silence to check in on Mig’s meal. He gave you a soft purr. ‘It is- lovely, mi Arañita, as always. Did you get a different kind this time?’

‘Oh, ah- I was getting beef, but, I figure you might like to try something new. Those are cheese.’

‘Mm… Ogh. I missed cheese’ Mig replied through a mouthful of the stuff as he struggled to contain it in his mouth. You giggled as he let crumbs hit your head.

‘Oye! Be polite or I’ll sit somewhere else’ you chided, and immediately he put the empanadas to the side. ‘No! No, no it’s gone, see? I’m sorry mi tesoro, forgive me please.’

‘Oh my god, just use their name!’ Miguel called from his perch on the desk. You noted how awful his posture was as his ate, with his spine curved in and his neck out like a watchful bird. He noticed you watched and quickly tried to fix it, though he only lasted about a minute before sinking down again.

‘What do you mean, use their name?’ Mig queried.

‘Mi tesoro this, Arañita that- we’re in public. Just use their name.’

‘But I don’t want to. Anyone can use their name, only I can say Arañita’ Mig rebutted gently. You felt his forelegs tighten a little. ‘It is our special, thing.’

‘Ay Dios mio- just, to a minimum then, please, before I throw up my meal. We’re a professional establishment. Speaking of which… Ah- god damn it.’

You heard Miguel’s griped turn into soft grunts of annoyance and turned your head. ‘Hey, what’s up?’ you called over. He waved his hand dismissively.

‘Ah- Jess keeps, demanding I help out with this, uh- society Halloween party.’

‘Oh, wait Halloween party?’ you said, nearly spitting the mouthful of food you were eating. You rush to politely swallow it behind your hand as Miguel grumbled.

‘Yes. I thought it was a fine idea’ Mig added on. You looked up to see him eagerly purring as he tore his empanada apart like deer meat, something you always found strangely adorable.

‘Oh yeah, I wonder why the giant spider would be a big fan of Halloween parties’ Miguel replied in a sarcastic drawl.

‘Oh! It is because I think it will be fun, for mi Arañita, and also because I will fit in more’ Mig replied, missing his counterpart’s sarcasm. Miguel bit down the urge to correct him and just rolled with it. ‘Oh, oh really. Wow. That makes a lot of sense. Thanks for letting me know’ he said in a fake cheery voice. Mig either didn’t catch on or willingly ignored him.

‘Alright, come on Miguel. So what’s the issue?’ you asked, trying to steer the subject back. He shrugged.

‘Just that its unnecessary. There’s too many important things going on right now. The fate of the multiverse is on my shoulders, and—’

‘I mean is it though?’

Miguel turned and glanced over his shoulder at you as you stared up at him with Mig at your side. ‘What… What are you talking about?’ he grunted back. You swallowed the last bit of your meal and shrugged.

‘Why do you have this ginormous group of multiverse heroes if the universes fate is just gonna be on your shoulders alone?’ you asked. ‘Right? Like, there’s other people here. Everything seems pretty stable right now. Right…?’

Miguel didn’t respond. For just a moment you saw a hint of something in his face; something dark, something deep, something cold. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge. He just shook his head and turned away.

‘Look, you should be in my corner on this. The longer I go doing other, pointless stuff, the less time I have to work on your very important project.’

‘Oh! Oh, right, how is that going?’ you asked, turning your head between Mig and Miguel. Mig hurried to swallow his fifteenth empanada so he could respond. ‘Ah! Well, mi Arañita, its—’

‘Going to take a long time’ Miguel interrupted coldly. Mig huffed a little, his abdomen rustling.

‘It is… Going to be difficult, yes, but we’re making progress. It will just need some time to figure out.’

‘What’s the going plan right now, though?’ you asked curiously as you nestled into Mig’s soft fur. ‘Like, what are you guys trying to do?’

‘Ah, well…’ Mig pulled you closer as he tried to think of a way to explain that wouldn’t be too convoluted. It’d taken him a while to learn that particular part of socializing, but he was getting it slowly. ‘We believe that, using the technology he used to create the watches, we may be able to develop a serum which allows someone to contain DNA receptors from two universes. Their original, obviously, and… another.’

You nodded along to show you were following so far, and Mig purred with delight. ‘So- its theoretical, but we could allow for one person or two to be perma-fused into one other specific universe, so they can exist their permanently without the watch. Their DNA wouldn’t fall apart. Then…’

‘Then, we could be together’ you said softly, wistfully, and Mig’s sweet smile confirmed it. ‘And, have a family, if we wanted’ he replied.

It was a beautiful idea. A comforting idea. You felt your heart beating a little faster as you reached up to touch his cheek. ‘Yeah… We could—’

The three of you startled suddenly as a small red light began blaring on Mig’s watch, following by Lyla slowly materializing in front of them while mimicking the beep in her most grating, high pitch voice.

‘ALERT! ALERT! ALER—’

‘YES, Lyla, we heard it!’ Miguel drawled, gently swiping his hand over her figure. She disappeared at his touch, but only for a second, as she immediately re-materialized on Mig’s shoulder.

‘Jeeze, you made me to do my job, I’m doing my job! I’m alerting!’ she drawled back, making a big fuss over Mig’s hair as she did so. Miguel ground his teeth in annoyance.

‘Just- ah, just, tell us what the alert was for’ he grunted.

Lyla finally settled and agreed, slowly materializing in a flash of orange pixels in front of Miguel’s screens. She turned all the holograms into the same image: a live-feed camera pointed at the outside of yours and Mig’s home.

‘Wait- wait you have, cameras outside our house?’ you exclaimed. Miguel waved away your concerns with a soft flick of his wrist. ‘Yes, I have cameras everywhere, calm down’ he grunted.

You very much did not want to calm down, but something drew your eye away before you could complain again. You noticed that on the grainy footage, someone appeared to be moving around the outside of the nest. ‘W-Wait… wait, who is that?’ you asked.

You could feel Mig had his full attention on the screen now too. His eyes were wide, his body tensing and bristling into a defence position.

‘Mig? Uh- Miguel, is it—’ You turned and froze.

Miguel was also in a defensive position, his eyes fixed on the screens. All that sweet, quiet ambiance was gone, replaced with a growing, choking tension. You glanced between the two as Mig slowly approached the screens.

‘Mig? Miguel? Guys, what—’

‘It can’t be.’

Mig’s words caused you to stumble again. He sounded… scared? Shocked? Something was wrong, that was for sure.

‘Mig?’ you whispered.

‘He… He’s alive?’ Miguel stammered, his voice betraying a cocktail of emotions you couldn’t even begin to pick apart. The two men stared into the holographic video until the image was imprinted onto their eyes, both fixated on one thing: the figure moving across the screen, slowly roaming the woods in search of something.

‘In my universe…. Yes’ Mig said, his voice wavering and cracking. He put his claws up to the screen.

There, in tiny pixels so clear and yet so distant, was his brother. Their brother. Gabriel O’Hara.

‘Gabriel… What are you doing there?’

Link to next part

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