Hi, this is Julianna. I am 25, love reading and work at a bookstore. English is not my first language.
Below is my work on Tumblr and AO3. Thank you so much for your interest and support! Hope you'll enjoy my fanfics.
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Of Sea and Sky | Chapter One
Targaryen Men X Fem!Reader
Warnings: fluff, angst with comfort, mild smut, enemies to lovers, original characters included, no use of y/n, kidnapped, i haven’t decided which prince reader will end up with yet (so sorry T_T)
Summary: Ashford tourney was nothing more than an unnecessary waste of people’s money. To deny and defy the abuse of power, a group called Grey Cloak planned an attack during the tourney, or to be more specific, the trial of seven. At first, they meant no harm. The ultimate purpose of this attack was to make the Crown Prince - Baelor Targaryen - aware of what’s happened to poor folks outside his castle’s wall. Then the plan didn’t go as they had expected, forcing them to take prince Valarr Targaryen - Baelor’s eldest son and heir - hostage. The Grey Cloaks had no idea that Valarr wasn’t an easy hostage. And the young prince himself was completely clueless that among these strange people, he would find something more than just disagreement and hatred.
Ocean Embracing Wind | Chapter One
Baelor Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Warning: Flirting, age gap, drunk sex, virginity lost, suicidal intention, no use of y/n
Summary: Your stepfather passed away, and the step-siblings agreed to share the inheritance only if you agreed to get married off. The family fell into poverty, and your mother desperately sought a good match for you. She managed to secure an invitation to a feast where nobles and wealthy men would be present, urging her useless daughter to quickly find a man and become engaged. Little did she expect that the daughter she deemed so disappointing would capture the attention of the heir to the Iron Throne.
Warning: Flirting, age gap, drunk sex, virginity lost, suicidal intention, no use of y/n
Summary: Your stepfather passed away, and the step-siblings agreed to share the inheritance only if you agreed to get married off. The family fell into poverty, and your mother desperately sought a good match for you. She managed to secure an invitation to a feast where nobles and wealthy men would be present, urging her useless daughter to quickly find a man and become engaged. Little did she expect that the daughter she deemed so disappointing would capture the attention of the heir to the Iron Throne.
Word count: 6.5k
Every morning when I wake,
Dear Lord, a little prayer I make,
O please do keep Thy lovely eye
On all poor creatures born to die
…
We are not wholly bad or good
Who live our lives under Milk Wood,
And Thou, I know, wilt be the first
To see our best side, not our worst.
(Under The Milk Wood - Dylan Thomas)
CHAPTER 1. One Night, One Life
Whenever people are compelled to obey a common custom without complaint, yet can offer no reason for it other than the fear of seeming strange, they call it an order of nature.
Marriage and reproduction could be considered as some of the oldest orders of nature, though no one is able to tell for sure if gods truly told them so or they just made it up in their narrow mind.
Some saw marriage and offspring as the fruit of love. Some might argue that marriage is just a financial and social alliance which costs them less money and brings them more benefits.
You had doubted yourself a thousand times, had wrestled fiercely with the choice between a life of your own and the weight of your parents' hopes. Yet still, those rules they called 'natural' felt anything but. And you suffered, agonized by the realization of your solitude, and by how achingly small you were in the face of it all.
At some uncertain points of your teenage years, you realized what you had in yourself and what you wanted for yourself weren’t the same. And based on what you had with you since birth, people usually expected you to become someone that might be totally different from your wish.
In the cold and dim house, silent men and women were invading corners that had once been private and warm. They walked from the front door into the living room, drank wine in the hallways, or chatted in the garden corners. Men wore a melancholy mask on their face. Women covered their mouths or dabbed handkerchiefs at the corners of their eyes, as if tears were actually seeping from their dry eyes.
In the room illuminated by the dancing flames of the fireplace and candles that had nearly burned down, a wooden coffin lay silent at the center. The man inside was in only skin and bone, his eyes closed and hands folded, he would never wake again.
Around the coffin, the stones on the walls seemed to have grown strangely grey and somber. Each time you looked up at them, a question you could not answer surfaced in your mind. To distract yourself from the torment, you turned your gaze to the guests gathered in small groups throughout the room. They huddled close together, trying to lower their voices as much as possible. But judging and probing glances could not hide their true intentions. You felt as though you were surrounded by a vast, dark ocean. No matter which direction you turned, you couldn’t see the situation differently. Even breathing had become so hard. The black dress you wore only sank you deeper. A sense of alienation and bewilderment burdened you. The fire in the hearth warmed your skin, but it couldn’t drive away the chill in your heart. You held your little sister tightly, like two lost lambs with no one to rely on but each other.
They say that a young lady of blooming age would have no trouble finding a suitable match if your family is decent enough. You could be motherless that mattered not, for a man is pillars and roof of the house. Whatever a mother could not teach her daughter, a handmaid could. You’d still be wife material. But when your father passed away, your value would plummet like a stone rolling down a mountain. After all, what could a wife and daughters do without the man who had always carried the family? Without property, they could only survive on sympathy, clinging to the fragile remnants of honor like an anchor keeping them from sinking into society. For this reason, widows and daughters were the most vulnerable to oppression. Unprotected, unrespected, unfeared - they were like donkeys sold at a lower price yet expected to work harder.
"It's all your fault! If you hadn't been so stupid, everything would be fine now. Your sister and I could keep our heads high and live with dignity. Why wouldn't you just shut up and marry into the Jewerry? They made their intentions perfectly clear, they wanted you as a bride for their second son. What more do you have to be dissatisfied about?"
After your step-father's funeral, the concerning letters from his two children by his previous marriage had become a real threat to your life. Their family had never truly got along. The two oldest children were both grown, fulfilled and married. They lived in manor houses not far away. The eldest son was a wealthy merchant, and his twin sister had married a nobleman. They had set a condition: they would only send money to support their stepmother and little sister when her eldest daughter - who shared no blood with them - married properly. As long as you refused to wed, your family would have to live in poverty and fear.
"How come you only care about reputation, about money, Mother! What about me… about my happiness? Have you ever considered that I would live in hell with a husband who frequents brothels and squanders wealth?" you looked at your mother through tear-filled eyes, your voice choked with emotion.
Instead of listening, your mother completely dismissed your anguish and distress. She stomped angrily across the floor and shouted at you. Blaming her daughter didn't make her feel any better, but she did it anyway. She needed a reason to explain her current circumstances. She was a woman of schemes and calculations. She would never admit that she could be wrong, but her plan could not fail without cause, so she had to find someone else to blame. Or at the very least, she needed to know how to deal with her youngest daughter if she followed in her sister's rebellious footsteps.
"Stop your useless whimpering! Even if that were the case, so what? What woman doesn't suffer? Endurance is all you must do. At least you'd live a lavish life, better than marrying some peasant. But now? Because of your ignorance, your stepbrother has every excuse to withhold our share of the inheritance. He uses your shameless lifestyle as a reason to starve us. And what about your sister? How will she ever find a husband?"
Your mother was exhausted from anger and from pacing the room endlessly. She collapsed into a chair and took a large gulp of wine. The liquid seared her throat but also clouded her mind, helping her avoid facing harsh reality.
"I would rather work to feed myself than live as a parasite clinging to my husband's family. Mother, do you understand the misery behind those stone walls? I thought at least you would know and wish for something better for me!"
You didn't want to argue with your mother. Endlessly quarreling with someone you loved and respected so deeply was a terrible torture. No one could force themselves to believe something just because it was supposedly beneficial. Was there truly no other choice for women in this world besides marriage or dying in disgrace?
Your words enraged your mother. She rose from her chair and slowly approached like a lioness on a hunt. She pointed directly at her daughter's face and snarled.
"I don't wish for what's best for you? You ungrateful wretch! I have done everything for you! Because of you, I left my homeland and wandered. I gave you the best of everything. I agreed to marry a man old enough to be my father, with a brood of treacherous children, all to give you a home! And now look at how you repay me. From now on, stay in your room and reflect on your behavior. You'll eat one meal a day, at noon. If I catch you sneaking out, don't expect even a single piece of bread."
You stumbled toward your room. Each step was as heavy as if weighed down by sacks of sand. Your chest tightened. Every breath was agonizing. You took off your mourning clothes, thinking it might somehow free you from the burden you carried. Wearing only your shift, you walked to the window in your room. You leaned half your body out, inhaling the cold air. Sobs were swallowed back down, and tears silently fell upon your cold cheeks.
You gazed down at the dark garden below your window. It seemed as if a hand was reaching out from darkness, inviting youto dance. youheart pounded wildly; your fingers clutched the window frame. The night wind swept through your hair, wrapping your body in a chilling embrace. Trembling, you placed your foot on the windowsill.
You wished you could fly, even into the endless night. Even if your wings grew weary and you never saw land again, at least you could touch the sky, if only once.
The moonlight that night was bright and infinitely clear. But its pure, lofty light did not reach you. It slipped past your body, and only the darkness stayed.
That was six months ago. And now, you wished you had jumped from the window that very night. With just the right tilt and a little more determination, you wouldn’t have to endure this hell.
More than anyone, you knew time couldn’t be reversed and you blamed yourself for it. It was just one night of reckless fun. You had been so naive to believe that when dawn broke, everything would return to normal as if that wild, passionate night with a man you should never have approached had never happened.
To refuse a marriage arranged by your mother, you had purposely fallen from a horse and sprained your ankle. That allowed you to stay in your room to recover for a long time, and you took full advantage of it to avoid your suitors. Instead, they decided to torment you with foolish, clumsy, and even somewhat crude love letters. You could only kill time by pointing out their grammatical errors and making caustic criticism on what they considered poetic imagery.
At first, you was still able to laugh at those ridiculous verses. But by the time you received the tenth letter with yet another nonsensical poem inside, you no longer had any patience left and became utterly irritable and harsh. You wished you could smash your right hand just to be excused from writing replies. But your mother watched you closely and forced you to respond with at least one page of writing. And you truly thought you were going mad.
A few lines from the poems you hated most went something like this:
Your eyes are as cold and troubled as the Shivering Sea
Urging me to dive deep inside
Your smile flashes like a thunderbolt
Yet you still don't know how it makes me feel.
”Oh Seven Above, what the hell is even this? Where did he find the confidence to send this crap to any woman?”
Another time, he wrote that your eyes were so beautiful that he thought they were borrowed from a portrait of some beauty he had seen in Lord Hayford's treasury. You truly didn’t understand why he had to be so elaborate when he could have simply said your eyes were beautiful and been done with it.
Men and the way they view women are absurd. Now, if there were a man who didn't send youhis self-composed love poems, you would accept his marriage proposal immediately, just to be free of this torture.
So when your mother invited a seamstress to the house and prepared new dresses for you to attend a feast, you agreed without giving it much thought. You knew your mother had also grown fed up with that incompetent man just like you. The last of their family's savings were poured into new jewelry and gowns, so you understood that your mother had decided to stake everything on this gamble. You didn’t dare to utter a single word in response, for you knew your mother had already chosen her prey and would stop at nothing to make him marry you. At this point, you began to feel sorry for the man your mother had set her eyes on.
The night of the feast had come. They hired a carriage to take them to the manor where knights, nobles, and their children were gathering. Along the way, your mother instructed you everything you needed to catch a fish tonight.
"I sacrificed what little dignity I had left to secure us an invitation. So don't you dare disappoint me. We have nothing left to lose. You have to make the most of this opportunity and leave a good impression, understand?"
"Yes, mother. I understand.” You replied wearily, just to get it over with.
Your mother shot you glare. "Hmph. If only you had behaved like this, things would have been so much easier."
Their home was not far from the feast. When the carriage stopped in the manor courtyard, you almost tripped and embarrassed yourself from the extravagant sight in front of you right now. Massive, magnificent carriages lined up in long rows. A servant approached, urging the three of them to alight quickly so the carriages behind could proceed. You knew you must have looked foolish, standing there gaping at the towering walls that seemed to pierce through the night sky and the thousands of blazing torches illuminating the entire manor. The air was laced with the scent of wine and flowers. The stream of guests was gradually making their way into the hall, each draped in silks and gold, furs and jewels. The unfamiliar faces smiling at one another made you deeply uneasy. Everything was too brilliant, too far beyond your reach.
Ever since your mother got married and you were allowed to live in a spacious house with your own room and servants at your side, you had felt perfectly content. The house fitted you perfectly. It was where you believed you truly belonged. But in this hall where meats and fruits were continuously brought out on large silver platters, where music played all night long, where wine and laughter never ceased; you suddenly felt lost and deeply unsettled.
“Mother, are you sure we’re not in the wrong place?” You asked your mother nervously.
She ignored your question to greet the man who threw this feast. Since the hall was too noisy, you could vaguely hear his name and wasn’t so confident about it.
The man was in his mid-forties, short and pot-bellied. He had curly reddish hair and was nearly balding. His eyes were very large, but the drooping corners made him look as if he had drunk too much and could barely stay sober. He had a low, broad nose, while his lips were thin and red as wine. On his sagging cheeks were speckles of crow's feet. When he smiled, he revealed teeth that were not very even. He wore a black cloak adorned with patterns embroidered in gold thread. On his pudgy fingers were gleaming rings. Beside the man stood his wife and little daughter. you did not see any son standing with them, so you assumed this family was not your her target.
Throughout the feast, your mother introduced you to several other noble families, but none left any particular impression on you. In those social exchanges, your mother was the only one who seemed enthusiastic, chatting animatedly with anyone who would listen. Meanwhile, you simply stood obediently to one side, smiling and drinking wine. When the feast was about halfway through, you found yourself far more drunk than you had intended. You asked for her permission to sit and rest in a quiet corner, and she did not object. You cast your weary eyes upward, gazing at the magnificent chandeliers on the ceiling, unaware that your step-siblings were also present at the feast. They came to greet and converse with your mother for a while, and the chatty woman suddenly no longer appeared as cheerful as before. She stomped over, pulled you up, and whispered urgently into your ear.
"Stop wasting our time! Go show them what I taught you!"
She pushed you into a crowd of strangers. Everyone turned to look at you with strange eyes. Once again, you had to endure that suffocating feeling like you did at your stepfather's funeral. Dazed, you stumbled forward, though you had no idea where you were going or what you were supposed to do. Before you appeared a vast, dark ocean. Moving forward or backward would lead you to the same fate. Unconsciously, you dropped your glass of wine, staining your expensive dress. In your dizziness, you felt someone approaching. When you lifted your confused eyes, the very person you least wanted to meet was standing there, grinning with the most despicable smile. It was that prodigal son of the Jewerrys, the one you had almost buried your life in the marriage with him. He was a dissolute, ill-mannered rake. He was tall but very thin, probably from excessive debauchery. His face bore mischievous, mocking features, nothing like a man ready to carry a family.
"I heard your mother has been running all over the city trying to marry you off after your refusal to my family. Oh, stupid little bird. Who do you think you are, acting so high and mighty?"
"Let go of me! Or I'll tell everyone how filthy and shameless you are!"
You threatened him. But contrary to your tension, Jewerry only sneered. He touched your shoulder with his grimy fingers and said.
"Relax, darling! Behave, and I'll go easy on you. Or the whole city will know how much of a slut you are. How do you think your mother would react to that? I hear she’s quite frustrated with you already."
Every word escaped his foul mouth filled with disgust. You pushed him away with all your strength, but the more you struggled, the tighter he held on.
"You pig! Let me go!" You cried out in despair.
Just then, a man appeared behind Jewerry and yanked him away from you. Jewerry was lifted like a dog by the scruff of his neck and thrown aside, feeling both furious and bewildered. He looked up, about to shout, but when he saw the tall, broad-shouldered man who was clearly far stronger than him standing protectively beside you, his limbs went weak with fear.
"This lady asked you to keep your distance. Be a gentleman and leave her alone. Understood?" The man spoke, his voice gentle and calm yet somehow full of authority.
Jewerry stammered something, then scrambled to his feet and fled. you stood there dumbfounded, looking at the man next to you. He was even taller and more imposing up close. He was quite older than you, perhaps close to your mother's age. He had short, silver-flecked hair and beard. His eyes were incredibly gentle yet utterly captivating with one brown and the other blue. As he spoke, you noticed he had a canine tooth you secretly thought was rather endearing. The thought startled you back to your senses, and you quickly greeted him.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I-I'm fine. Thank you for your help."
The man nodded and said, "You don't look well. Shall I send someone to seek your family for you?"
You shook your head. "No, thank you, my lord. Please excuse me, I just need a moment outside to catch my breath."
"Of course."
You thanked him again and quickly left the feast. Somehow, you followed the scent of flowers and the breeze to find the garden. The clamor of the feast grew increasingly distant. Around you, only the crackle of torches and the hurried steps on stone remained. You greedily inhaled the cold air, as if you had been suffocating for too long. When your feet touched the lush green grass, you nearly collapsed, had it not been for a steady arm catching you.
The man had followed you until you stopped, reaching out to catch you the moment he saw you stagger.
He said, "And yet you told me you were fine. Poor birdie… What did that wretch do to you?"
"My lord, may I sit down?"
"You wish to sit here, right on the grass?"
"Yes, if you'll allow it," You whispered in reply.
The man helped you sit, then settled down beside you. Beneath the moonlight, with flower petals dancing in the wind, you lay back on the grass. The cool, fragrant air brought you peace and made your breathing easier. You closed your eyes, slowly savoring this rare, tranquil moment. The man remained beside you, watching your exhausting, tense face gradually grow serene.
"You know," You suddenly whispered, "sometimes I just wish I were a wind and disappear without any trace. I would fly through fragrant pine trees, dance with clouds, and kiss tiny flower buds. Everything would be so easy, so free. That would truly be living, not this constant torment."
"Would you allow me to ask why?"
"Because wind doesn't need to attend a feast full of strangers, exhaust herself listening to tedious stories, or be put on display like an object."
Somehow, your lament struck the nobleman as unusually amusing. He let out a soft laugh and said.
"That, I understand. I've lost count of how many times I've felt exactly what you're feeling now. But I know how terrible it is. In fact, I'm always looking for an excuse to escape that chaos myself."
You sat up and pointed at the garden around you. "This garden, too. So ostentatious and cluttered. If only those wealthy people understood that throwing money around doesn't prove one's nobility. I look at this garden and see nothing but vulgarity and garishness. Don't you agree?"
The man laughed and nodded in agreement. "You're right."
"What is your name? Please, tell me." You leaned closer, looking at him with sparkling, expectant eyes. Your voice was soft, half shy, half curious.
The man reluctantly shook his head. "I cannot tell you my name just yet.
Disappointment showed on your face as he refused to tell you his name. You wonder what prevented this man to introduce himself to you. Was it because you were not a high-born as he was? Something about him told you otherwise. He seemed like an honest and honourable man. So you told him your name anyway. It was rare and pleasurable to meet a man like him.
Perhaps feeling a little guilty for not letting you know who he was, the man said. “But I have a nickname. People call me Breakspear."
"Why do they call you that? It doesn't sound lovely at all!" You tilted your head in puzzlement.
"Lovely? You think they should call me something more endearing?"
"Yes!" you exclaimed enthusiastically, lifting your arms as if to express your impression of the man before you though somehow, you looked like a child reaching out for a hug.
"Breakspear sounds so frightening. And you're not frightening at all."
"Really?" The man raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," you nodded. "You're very gentle, very trustworthy… And you don't take up too much space, either."
For the first time ever, Baelor “Breakspear” Targaryen - Prince of Dragonstone, hand of the King and heir to the iron throne - found himself amazed and even dumbfounded by a little bird. You seemed lost and scared at first, but now, when you finally relaxed around him, you started to talk a little too much for your own good.
“I’m not talking about physical space, you know. You’re a tall, broad man but not like a giant. Somehow, I feel like you’re a man of authority, or a warrior. And you’re not loud. You speak gently, like everything is fine and there’s nothing to worry about. You are here and constantly make me feel safe and sound. Some men try to prove their power by speaking loudly and slamming the table. I don’t think those men are as great as they think they are. If one is truly powerful, one doesn’t need to remind people with such unnecessary behavior. One’s physical body is here, but when they speak up, their voice travels farther and reaches more people. That’s why I say you don’t take up a lot of space.”
“You have very intriguing ideas in your head, you know that?” Baelor praised.
“I think creativity is born out of pressure and boredom. It’s a gateway to escaping a harsh reality.”
For a moment, Baelor didn’t have any idea of what to say next. He was a mature and experienced man. But when it came to advising a young lady, his mind went blank.
Obviously, you didn’t expect him to empathize with a woman’s struggle. So you stood up by yourself and cheerfully asked.
“Will you help me get out of here?”
Baelor nodded without a second thought. Of course he would help you and ask for no payment. He just found you interesting and wanted to mess with you a little bit. Escorting a lady out of a feast would do him no harm, right?
“In exchange for what, my lady?”
“Well, I know a tavern with better ambience. How about I show you?”
Baelor should know better that an unmarried lady walking in a tavern like a patron was not a normal thing. Perhaps he drank more than he thought.
Both of you were drunk enough and drawn to each other enough to remain entwined throughout the night. The two of you wandered together through quiet, misty streets of the capital, talking and laughing like kindred spirits. You felt as if you had known each other for a thousand years and longed to stay in each other's company even longer.
The tavern you led Baelor to was the very place where your mother had once worked as a barmaid before marrying a wealthy man. People there welcomed you like a regular since they had watched you grow up. Here, you could be yourself, and be happy without worrying about tomorrow. The tavern was small but vibrantly lively and warm. In the glow of the red fire, laborers enjoyed hot food and drink after a long, exhausting day. They chatted and laughed casually. They were poor, humble, and rough people. But deep in their souls lay kindness, and they wished for nothing more than a peaceful life. All they needed was no war, no tyranny just to work to feed themselves and their families. That was enough.
They might fight and spit in each other's faces. That was because if they didn't brace themselves against life, life would trample them into mud. Occasionally, these people also liked to cause trouble or harass someone on the street. But that was because no one had ever taught them to be polite. Sometimes, they themselves saw no point in behaving like lords or ladies, for they would never live in luxury like those people. They would go home and shout at their wives and children. Yet these same men would continue to bear the burden of feeding their families. Their wives, in turn, would vent their frustrations with their husbands onto their children or other women. “If I suffer, then you must suffer too.” Hardship was a medal they pinned to their chests with pride because they found no way to escape that suffering. They believed that endurance was all they could do to get through. And only once they had overcome so much pain did they dare hold their heads high enough to welcome something better.
But tonight, melodious music made them want to dance. And dance they did, as if they had no pain or exhaustion of making a living. They danced through all their quarrels and disagreements. They danced and laughed until they could no more, finally collapsing onto the floor in exhaustion.
Baelor and you held hands, leaned against each other as you two danced, listening to the rhythm of your hearts. You two sat beside weathered men and women, hearing them cry about life and share their hopes for tomorrow. You drank again, intoxicated in each other's company. You let yourself drift, allowing yourself one night to cast off all rules and shackles, just to be yourself.
After all the drinking and dancing, you led Baelor to your home. By this hour, the servants were all fast asleep. You and him slipped in through the garden and crept into your room without anyone noticing. Your laughter warmed the chamber. And you two held each other tightly, craving each other's touch and warmth more than ever.
His wet tongue pushed into your mouth, entwining with the sweet taste. But his tender kiss gradually became more passionate, relentlessly penetrating deeper and more forcefully sucking on your tongue. You craved more and more.
Baelor showered your face with kisses, then buried his head in your fragrant hair. His hot tongue nibbled your earlobes and neck, while his hands swiftly removed your elaborate dress. Kisses scattered from your neck down to your breast. His unfamiliar, masculine scent filled your mind. His hot breath on your nape sent shivers down your spine. Below, his long, slender fingers stimulated your softest spot. His touch is rough at first, calloused fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh, but he quickly learns what makes you arch and whimper. You trembled slightly, trying to adapt to the burning pleasure rising through your body. The heat between you two increased with each passing moment. Whispers and breaths mingled, filling the quiet space of the room.
Your clumsy hands unbuckled Baelor's belt and pushed him down onto your bed. He drew you into his arms, devouring your lips as his hands slid beneath your dress. Baelor’s hand wandered higher, his fingers trailing over your bare hip and around to the small of your back. He slowly slipped his hand between your thighs, gently touching your cunt. A strange, burning sensation coursed through your body. Your back arched, your hip unconsciously pressed against his fingers to feel more of him inside your cunt.
"Such a good birdie," he crooned, bringing his face closer to yours, his lips just barely brushing your ear.
Desire surged like powerful waves, rising from your lower body. Your eyes were tightly closed, soft moans escaping from your beautiful lips. Your fingernails dug into his shoulder and your legs trembled violently. Just as pleasure was about to reach its peak and your insides were frantically contracting, swallowing his fingers deeper, Baelor suddenly pulled out. The emptiness below made you sigh in discomfort.
You moaned. “Why did you stop?”
“Baelor, birdie… Call me Baelor,” He lifted his head up to look at you and said. “Let me hear you say it, birdie.”
“Yes, Baelor… my Baelor!” You said through your giggles.
“You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you, birdie?”
Baelor kissed and sucked along your alluring bare breasts, leaving bright red hickey marks on your smooth skin. He laid you down on the bed, then undressed himself.
Thinking about the lewd things that a respectable man like Baelor was doing to you, you felt like crying from shame. But the embarrassment didn't last long as his lips relentlessly kissed and sucked on your cunt. His tongue slipped into your wide-open, inviting hole, igniting the most primal and wild desires in your body.
Baelor rubbed the tip of his cock against your clit, then asked, "Will you allow me?"
You looked up at him with eyes full of adoration and nodded in agreement. He crushes his mouth back to yours, kissing you with brutal hunger as one hand fists in your hair while the other yanks down his trousers just enough to free himself - a thick, heavy length that throbs against your heat. Your hips rose, a mixture of nervousness and anticipation.
With a single rough thrust, he buried himself inside you, claiming what’s been offered so sweetly. His cock gently widened your entrance, penetrating the most sacred part you had always guarded. A tearing pain overwhelmed you. You breathed heavily, tears silently streaming down your beautiful face. Cold sweat poured down your small forehead. You clenched your hands, trying to endure the uncomfortable fullness as you took him without uttering a single cry.
Baelor brushed your hair behind your ears and stroked your head, gently comforting you.
"It's going to be okay, birdie!” Baelor placed your hand on his back and said, "Let me feel all the pain with you... Don't suffer alone!"
Tears rolled down your face, but not from pain or fear. Your hurt suddenly felt incredibly warm. Your small hand slowly reached out and placed itself on Baelor’s large, strong shoulder.
"Good girl!”
The wet sounds of your bodies intertwining filled your ears. Your mind drifted into a dreamy haze. Instead of the intense fullness from before, a sensation began to spread below. As you unconsciously arched your hips to receive Baelor’s thrust, he sighed softly and stroked your waist.
Baelor smiled and kissed your head. His skin felt a burning sensation under your butterfly-like touch. He kissed you deeply and continued to caress you. You could feel his body trembling above you. Baelor moved slowly in and out, drops of sweat from his neck dripping down your chest, his forehead furrowed in patient endurance.
"Look at you," he murmured to your mouth, watching your face twist with pleasure beneath him. "So eager for my touch…"
But you couldn't restrain yourself any longer. Your hips writhed, eagerly pushing his hard erection deeper inside. Both your mind and body were filled with desire and longing. You wanted Baelor to do the most intimate things to you, no matter how depraved or shameful it might be. Your body was demanding more of the strange pleasure he brought you.
"Baelor... please, give me more. I want you so!"
Baelor growled. Your soft moans traveled straight to his cock, making it so difficult to restrain the beast that was frantically devouring you.
"Baelor... Faster!"
You pleaded, your hands gripping his waist tightly. You gasped for breath, struggling to inhale the thick, rich air infused with the scent of lovemaking. A deep, guttural sound teared from Baelor’s throat at your moans, raw and unfiltered. His control snapped.
Baelor groaned into your mouth at the feeling of you wrapping around him, your legs locking tight, your hands fisting in his hair like he’s yours to hold.
Baelor leaned forward, his chest brushing against yours as he towers over you, one hand braced beside your head to keep him steady. The weight of him was like a heavy blanket, enveloping you in his presence. He looked down at you, the dim room lit by moonlight from the window, his eyes gleaming.
With a sharp shift of his hips, he grinded down hard against you. You bit down your lips to lower your voice, yet it was impossible to conceal the whimpers.
“Don’t hurt yourself, birdie. Let me hear you sing!” Baelor pressed another kiss on your lips and drank your sound greedily before breaking away just enough to watch your face as pleasure rippled through you again and again from friction alone.
Baelor growled, his hips driving forward with a relentless rhythm, each thrust deep and stretching you around him. He gazed at the flush creeping up your neck, the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath him, intrigued by your beauty. He palmed your breast fully, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger with growing pressure, watching every twitch of pleasure on your face.
"Good girl," he snarled against your ear between ragged breaths. "Taking me so well… clenching like you were made for this."
He pounded into you harder, chasing that primal need.
"Such a pretty birdie," he muttered darkly. "Sensitive… responsive."
Your mind went blank, and your vision blurred. The sounds of your bodies colliding filled the space. You could even feel his balls slapping against your ass, incredibly stimulating. You felt soft and melting with each thrust of Baelor’s hips. The bed shook with each of his movements. The man craved you, desired everything about you. His lust filled you, extreme pleasure coursed from your lower abdomen to the top of your head. You let out a moan, your body convulsing. Your eyes closed tightly, slowly savoring every bit of the swirling pleasure from deep within you.
”Baelor… give it to me, please!”
Baelor’s eyes blazed at the sound of your plea, your voice trembling with need, body clenching around him like a vice. He knew you were close. He wanted to watch it happen.
"Yes, birdie…" he growled, thrusting even harder, deeper as his hand slid down. His thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed in rough circles: not gently, just pressure where it ached most. "Come for me," He commanded against your lips before biting down your neck, marking what’s his.
Baelor felt your climax hit you like a storm. Your body tensed as wave after wave crashed through you. Your moan echoed softly in the steamy air. But he didn’t let up until every last tremor had passed through you, until your thighs were slack and shaking around him.
Your walls convulsed around him as you screamed. Your body shattered in his arms, and that was all he wanted.
With a feral groan, Baelor buried himself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside you as his own release teared through him. Hot and thick, he filled you completely, claiming every inch like a conqueror marking conquered land.
He rode out the waves of pleasure with slow, grinding thrusts until there was nothing left but heavy breaths and tangled limbs beneath moonlight.
Only then did he collapse slightly over you, not gently but possessively, his face buried against your neck where sweat glistened on your skin.
“My pretty birdie... It’s been so long since the last time I felt like this.”
Baelor scattered sweet kisses upon your face, your shoulders, and your hands. He let your fragrance fill his chest. He drew you into his arms, tenderly holding you against him after your passionate sex.
If it had happened only once, you could have claimed it was a mistake. But throughout that night, the two of you clung to each other without parting, bringing each other from one climax to the next until both bodies were utterly spent and you finally drifted into sleep together.
The next morning, your drained body and mind lazily savored the warmth and steady heartbeat of Baelor as you rested your head on his chest. Pure morning sunlight draped over your naked bodies like a thin veil. Suddenly, urgent knocking came from outside your door. You startled, lifting your head. It was only then that you realized with horror the situation you were in. Your clothes were scattered haphazardly on the floor. Your body was marked everywhere with traces of Baelor. And the way your bodies were still intertwined at this moment was undeniable proof of your madness the night before.
"My daughter, are you awake yet? There are some people who wish to speak with you!"
Your mother's voice came from outside the door. The gentleness in her tone seemed to conceal a terrible, simmering rage. The pounding of your heart merged with the frantic knocking. You trembled, stammering, unsure how to respond.
Baelor seemed to have been woken by the knocking as well. He sat up, squinting against the bright light. He rubbed his face to shake off his drowsiness, then drew you close, kissing your shoulder and your hair.
Suddenly, a second voice came from outside the door - not meant for you, but for Baelor.
Warnings: fluff, angst with comfort, mild smut, enemies to lovers, original characters included, no use of y/n, kidnapped, i haven’t decided which prince reader will end up with yet (so sorry T_T)
Word counts: 3.2k
Summary: Ashford tourney was nothing more than an unnecessary waste of people’s money. To deny and defy the abuse of power, a group called Grey Cloak planned an attack during the tourney, or to be more specific, the trial of seven. At first, they meant no harm. The ultimate purpose of this attack was to make the Crown Prince - Baelor Targaryen - aware of what’s happened to poor folks outside his castle’s wall. Then the plan didn’t go as they had expected, forcing them to take prince Valarr Targaryen - Baelor’s eldest son and heir - hostage. The Grey Cloaks had no idea that Valarr wasn’t an easy hostage. And the young prince himself was completely clueless that among these strange people, he would find something more than just disagreement and hatred.
“There was a Knight, a most distinguished man,
Who from the day on which he first began
To ride abroad had followed chivalry,
Truth honour, generousness and courtesy.
…
And though so much distinguished, he was wise
And in his bearing modest as a maid.
He never yet a boorish thing had said
In all his life to any, come what might;
He was a true, a perfect gentle-knight.”
(Canterbury Tales - Geoffrey Chaucer translated)
CHAPTER ONE. Smoke, fire and blood
Valarr Targaryen was never a man of madness. That was what people call his cousins, not him. Yet when he spent too much time with those people, he couldn’t help himself but change. The prince was unconscious at first. And it was too late when he realized how far he had gone.
Ashford tourney was just an ordinary series of activities that Valar had done all his youth. His great and honourable father - Baelor Targaryen, first born son of King Daeron the Good, Prince of Dragonstone, hand of the King and heir to the iron throne - had given a handful of advice and lectures on tourney and battles that strategies, horse riding, jousting, sword fighting, and all had become his body’s instinct. But there’s one thing he must always keep in mind, which is to choose wisely over whom and when to win or lose. Sometimes, after careful consideration, Valarr came to the conclusion that he must win to teach a spoiled brat a lesson. But under certain circumstances, he had to put on a show and let his opponent win, so that relations between families would not destabilise.
When Valarr handed his amour to his father and wished him farewell, he understood that Baelor had thought it through. The Trial of Seven wasn’t just a combat to secure honour for an incompetent, spoiled prince, it was a real battle to gain balance between royalties’ power and people’s trust. Every mind with just enough intelligence to buy a loaf of bread knew for a fact that House Targaryen was no longer favorable or threatening to the people of Westeros. It was dangerous to not have the masses to like you or fear you enough.
When Valarr was little, his father once told him the story of a merchant who forced his horses to work, even though they were all exhausted, thirsty and hungry after a long journey. His voice was deep and melodious, as soothing as the crackle of burning wood in a hearth, calm but filled with wisdom.
“The cart was the sort that’s usually drawn by great horses. You know, they were huge, strong cart-horses with long manes. They pulled an immense load effortlessly, moving at a relaxed and steady pace. It almost seemed like they found it easier to haul something heavy than nothing at all. We use those horses for transporting goods and wine-barrels.”
“I saw them pulling massive carts of goods to our castle, papa.”
“Yes, my boy. You did. One of the enormous carts was hitched to a small, scrawny, brownish horse. These nags often struggle when pulling heavy loads through mud or ruts, and their owners often beat them brutally with whips - sometimes right across the face and eyes.
One time, the cart's wheels were deeply mired in the mud, and the front half of it was pitched sharply forward. The owner shouted for all the drunkards inside the nearby tavern to come out. Among them were shopkeepers, craftsmen, knights, lords, and their ladies. They clung to the rear of the cart to lever the front end up. Meanwhile, the owner whipped the horse relentlessly. He screamed himself hoarse, spit flying everywhere, but the horse could not lift a single hoof. The more he beat it, the more exhausted the horse became. The reins could not withstand the strain and snapped in an instant. The cart toppled backward, and all the goods tumbled down onto the noble crowd. Freed from the traces that had bound it tightly, the horse reared up violently and struck out with its hooves, crushing the owner's skull.”
It was disturbing to hear how Baelor described the whiplash, the scream and savage laughs of the owner. Valar wanted to pull his eyes shut and cover his ears so the sight could not reach him. But Baelor had his way to keep his son focused on the point of his story. The more horrible and disturbing it was, the better lesson his son learned. Sooner or later, he had to face the ugly side of the world, and it’s a father’s job to prepare his son for the worst scenarios.
Baelor didn’t like that story either, but it worked. He knew it when he saw Valarr’s teary eyes. The crown prince tugged his son under his arm, soothing his back and said.
“My boy, you see - the ruler is the rider, and the people are the horse. The rider can use the steins or even whips to steer the horse along the right path. But if the rider is too cruel or incompetent, the horse may throw them off and trample them.”
”Never, ever push anyone to their limits. Because that’s where they have nothing else to lose. But you, you still have lots of things to be taken away. Injustice and cruel oppression don’t bring you more power and property. The only thing they bring you is rage and resentment.”
“You got it, dear?” Baelor asked, shaking his son to lift his morale up.
“Yes, papa. I’ll never forget what you taught me.”
“The crown gives you no power, it’s you who must hold enough power to keep the crown.”
Up to now, Valarr kept his words and remembered very well his father’s lessons. But this whole tourney clouded his mind so bad, he was unaware the real threat to his honour and self-actualization was not one those lords and knights but hiding among commoners, waiting to drift his whole life to a different route. As he was watching his father fighting on the field, some were keeping their eyes on him as well.
A foggy day was far from ideal for a seven-a-side tournament, at least for the spectators. Those seated in the modest stands of House Ashford could rarely see the full match. They heard the clash of metal, the neighing of horses, and the grunts and groans of men. But the actual collisions were almost entirely obscured by the mist. The audience leaned forward, peering left and right, trying to make out who was dueling whom. Everything became a big mess of mud, blood, and shouts.
"You see, Alder? This may be the shabbiest stand at the most boring tourney in Westeros’ history, but somehow, we're watching The Trial of Seven that no one alive has ever witnessed. We weren't even born when those seven warriors dragged themselves out to a field and beat each other to death."
"Hey, I bet Lord Ashford must have dumped his entire purse into this tourney. It won’t surprise me at all if his whole household only has bread and soup for dinner after this."
"Funny, but the people on his lands will be the ones to pay for it. If this happened to me, I wouldn't let him polish his reputation with this legendary trial."
"So, what's your bet? Who's going to win? Ser Duncan or Prince Aerion?"
"I don't care about the trial, I only care about our plan. When the time comes, we'll act. For now, let's keep our eyes on those nobles watching the fight. They might be useful somehow."
The two of them - one male and one female - both dressed in completely plain clothing like any other ordinary spectators. They conversed quietly, using the most measured words they could muster. Their laughter was swallowed by the shouting, sighing, and murmuring of awe from the crowd. The man, perhaps in his early twenties, was a lean, sharp-featured fellow. His jet-black hair was coated with cold, white mist. His cheekbones were pale and chilled. His eyes were deep-blue like an ancient trench. Thanks to that pallid look of a sickly nobleman, he easily blended into the crowd of spectators without anyone stopping to question him.
Beside him was a young lady of about the same age, her curly hair covered by a blue silk scarf. Half of her face was carefully concealed, leaving only her captivating eyes exposed. Those eyes were clear and wise, like a summer night sky filled with countless stars, having witnessed the tremors and conflicts, the prosperities and downfalls of humanity across millennia. A single curl fell across her forehead, lightly brushing against her skin, soft as a petal. Her voice was very gentle, yet exceptionally clear. She always seemed to understand everything she said and the weight behind each word.
They watched the battle like genuine spectators. They joined in with the crowd when needed, then carefully observed their surroundings, waiting for a signal - one that was right and perfectly timed. No swing of a sword or thrust of a lance could disturb their composure.
Ser Duncan was the first to fall. He lay like a horse, motionless in mud and blood. The glances and murmurs of the crowd barely reached him. But that was not how a man who dared to challenge the royalties to protect the weak was meant to fall. He only needed a stronger push, a louder call to awaken the warrior spirit still smoldering within him. Though she did not want to get too caught up in this fight, the lady in a blue silk scarf kept her eyes on Ser Duncan. She bit her lip just enough to keep a nervous breath from escaping through her mouth.
Opposite him stood Prince Aerion, trembling on his own feet and struggling to draw each breath. His face was already covered in blood. There was no smugness or bloodlust on his face. He was simply too exhausted from the battle.
Just then, a child's scream rang out - very young, yet piercing. All spectators turned their eyes toward where that cry came from. Prince Aegon, the youngest son of Prince Maekar, was pouring all the strength from his small chest into rousing Ser Duncan. How strange it was, that the little prince was not cheering for his father and older brothers, but for some lowborn, unfamiliar knight. That was what an ordinary spectator would think, not understanding the bond between them. But the young lady had heard their whole story and understood Aegon's reasons completely.
"Get ready, Alder. The time is near." She commanded clearly.
Just as the war horse lifted himself from the foul mud to continue his fight for what was right, solitary cheers began to rise from among the crowd of spectators. The two opposing sides charged at each other once more, and the battle grew fiercer than ever. Amid the enthusiastic shouts of the crowd, a thunderous, earth-shattering sound, like the roar of a dragon, suddenly tore through the air. The crowd trembled in fear. They did not know what the explosion meant; they only saw a thick cloud of white smoke billowing up like a heavy cloud falling from the sky. Guards shouted from afar that a fire had broken out. Before guards could arrive to help, the nobles had already begun pushing and shoving one another to flee. Lord Ashford desperately tried to calm people down, like there was no fire coming at them at all.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats and remain calm. My men will ensure the safety of both the warriors and all spectators. There will be no harm done. The trial will continue until its conclusion. I beg of you. I swear it on the honor of my house."
The spectators seated around Lord Ashford and his family, though utterly bewildered, hesitated to make a decision. The crowd fell into a dilemma - some wanted to flee, others wished to stay - arguing and shoving one another.
At that moment, a clear shout rang out amidst the chaos of countless sounds.
"Prince Aerion is about to win! Do you truly want to stop now? If you claim to be a dragon, don't be anything otherwise! Fight like one!"
Aerion, provoked by these words, turned to look at the entire crowd and the warriors on the field, then spoke resolutely.
"No one is leaving. This trial must continue!"
Despite Prince Baelor's objections, he raised his weapon and charged at the nearest opponent. The other warriors immediately resumed their fighting stances. Just then, another piercing sound rang out once more. Another explosion, though fainter than the previous one, but its shake was immense, more considerable. Smoke poured down over the blood-soaked and mud-filled Ashford meadow, carrying a pungent, acrid scent that invaded their lungs. At the same time, it seemed as if rain was pouring from the sky. But instead of cold droplets, what fluttered through the air before gently landing on Ashford ground were still-warm sheets of paper.
The crown prince was the first to take off his helmet. He dropped his weapon and grabbed one of those pamphlets. His eyes skimmed quickly through the treatise on it. In front of all watching eyes, he shouted.
“Stop the trial. Find me where these papers came from.”
The crown prince's command rang with authority and was perfectly clear. No one dared to voice any objection.
By now, the two suspicious spectators had draped themselves in grey cloaks and merged into the smoke. Guards of House Ashford, along with royal knights, were about to encircle the field. If they did not quickly find a way to escape, they would soon be cornered like rats before the sharp claws of cats. And not just them - their brothers and sisters still hidden outside were also trying to ensure the plan's success while preserving their own lives.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from within the white smoke, raising a steady and resolute voice. He lifted both hands high, demonstrating his peaceful intentions.
"Hear us out. We are not here to harm anyone! We have something we wish to say to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar-"
Before the man could finish his words, or his face could even emerge from the smoke, a lance pierced his shoulder. A cry of pain rang out, and his figure crumpled into the mud. A group of knights rushed over, pinned the man down, and held swords to his throat. He was a man in his thirties, his face weathered and wrinkled from a life exposed to sun and wind. Grey streaks on his beard beared witness to years of hardship. Though pressed into the mud, his eyes still gleamed with hope and determination. Amidst his pained, ragged breathing, he tried to speak. But before his words could reach the princes' ears, they were kicked away by a white boots.
"The rebels are here! Protect Prince Baelor at once!" A shout rang out, drawing the crowd's attention.
Grieved by this failure, the young lady was even more determined to carry out the plan. Having come this far, they could not retreat in vain. She could not let her friend’s sacrifice become mere dust beneath the feet of authority. She had to keep fighting, to keep raising her voice for those silenced in pain. She turned to look at her companion, eyes burning with determination.
"Proceed with the alternative plan."
Alter took out the whistle hidden beneath his collar, which resembled a necklace. He blew it three times, signaling the implementation of the alternative plan for escape. At this moment, the entire grounds of Ashford were covered in pamphlets. But most common folks were illiterate. They needed the most straightforward visual image to stir the consciousness of those ordinary laborers. That way, even if the nobles wanted to prevent information from leaking out, they could not, for information had never been in their hands. This attack was merely a strong signal aimed at Prince Baelor, the one in whom they still held some small faith in his integrity and honour.
Another resounding blast rang out, this time a real explosion. Dirt, stones, and wood splinters flew in all directions. Guards panicked and broke formation. Nobles screamed in terror and fled for their lives. They clawed and clung to each other's clothing and hair to stay upright, then unhesitatingly shoved others down to clear their own path. The unfortunate ones were trampled all over by the crowd. Their hair torn out, their clothes ripped apart, their chests and stomachs kicked. Prince Valarr seemed to be one of the rare few who remained calm amidst the chaos. He pulled up those who had fallen, shouting orders for the knights to assist. But the young prince's voice was nearly drowned out by the cacophony of sounds. At some point, he had been pushed to the edge of the stands. From afar, two knights in white armor were trying to reach him. But their huge armor prevented them from pushing through the crowd, nor did they have enough authority to override the public's fear and demand they clear a path.
At the same time, the two figures in grey cloaks were also closing in on Prince Valarr. Their intention did not escape the knights' sight. The blood in their veins boiled. They pushed aside those blocking their way, shouting for the prince as they lunged forward. Prince Valarr always kept a sword at his side, but he couldn’t draw it for defense among this jostling crowd. Before he could see those approaching him, a gloved hand seized him tightly by the collar. A cold blade slipped through his cloak, pressing against his upper abdomen. With a single thrust, she could pierce through vital organs and go straight into his heart. A soft breath whispered against his ear, as delicate and cold as falling snow on a winter night.
"You don't want your father to mourn you, do you? Then come with us quietly. Understand?"
Valarr nodded in acknowledgment, accepting his fate at the hands of strangers. Behind them, others had already cleared a path. As those helpless knights lunged forward, the grey cloaks had vanished into the smoke.
By now, they had left the battlefield. White smoke still drifted lazily over the ground and curled around the tree trunks. To preserve their forces, they did not gather at the same location but chose to split up and retreat in different directions. The place where Valarr was led already had six other cloaked figures waiting. The cloaks easily allowed them to blend into the mist and hide without trouble. Before the young prince could resist, something round and hard like an apple was shoved into his mouth. They carefully tied a strip of fabric around his mouth to prevent him from spitting it out. Then they threw a sack over his head. The prince's arms were bound tightly behind his back. They draped a grey cloak over him and pushed him onto a horse's back without uttering a single command. The young prince of Westeros, heir to the heir, was now laid across a horseback like a sack of potatoes. Valarr faintly heard the scream of a child, sounding very much like Aegon. But the boy's voice grew increasingly faint like his own, unable to resist.
The horses galloped across damp grassy grounds of Ashford, vanishing into the intertwining mist and smoke.
Enemies to Lovers! Spiderpunk Hobie Brown x Policewoman!Reader
Another day, another riot. That was how we could describe life in London right then and there. All spotlight was on the one and only Spiderman of London - Hobie Brown. Wherever he went, he created a big scene. Though Spiderman was the hero of his people, he was nothing but a pain in the ass of the city’s police. Even a newbie like [...] could tell how terrible the bad blood between that dude and the police force was. Her seniors always talked about Spiderman like he was kind of a lawless villain and their biggest target was to kick that asshole into jail. Sooner or later, [...] had been growing a deep hatred toward the vigilante.
It was another “normal” day in London; a stream of people flowed in the streets, yelling, throwing petrol bombs at the force while they were protecting some dignitaries inside of a fancy building sipping their red wine just like how they were sucking the blood out of poor people’s veins. The sky was burning and [...] could hear woeful cries from every corner of the city.
A fellow officer was helping with her body armor, making sure that she had all necessaries before getting down to the streets. Everybody knew that it was a tough mission but they were all determined since once in the blue moon, they would have the biggest chance to catch Spiderman in the toils of the law. However, [...] didn’t seem to be as excited as she thought. She was following her train of thought, doubting about all those things they had been doing ever since. But the young officer didn’t have much time to think clearly before being pushed down to the streets.
The people who they were supposed to protect now screaming at them angrily like there was a blood debt needed to be paid. [...] and her colleagues were divided into teams trying to find any sight of Spiderman. At first, [...] accompanied her team closely but the crowd was eager to mess with them; they started stepping in her way. When [...] finally got out of the crowd, she lost sight of her colleagues. [...] had no choice but to turn into an alley to call for help. She pulled out her walkie - talkie; before she could turn it on, she heard a familiar voice from the nearby alley. [...] decided to go check it out first, her hand was on the gun.
There was a masked guy with punk clothes over what appeared to be a red suit standing next to the motionless body of [...]’s fellow officer. He was knocked out by the guitar on the hand of who seem-to-be Spiderman.
“Here comes another one.” Spiderman sighed out as he lifted his guitar up on his shoulder. “What d’ya want, piggy?”
[...] tried to get closer while assessing the situation. She felt her heart racing in her chest since standing in front of her was the scandalous Spiderman that police from the whole city were chasing after for months. [...] couldn’t tell exactly her feelings. Nervous, excited, or scared… She had no idea. The only thing she cared about was her friend lying there on the ground while the deadly vigilante blocked the way. She had to get to him out of there or he would die in any minute.
[...] spoke up to him, doing her best to stay as calm as possible. “Sir, I need you to drop your guitar down and put your hands up where I can see them.”
“That’s what I expected… the attitude. But sorry, miss piggy; I obey no one.” Hobie replied, moving forward a little bit.
[...] didn’t see any of his expression since his face was covered under the mask. However, she surely knew that he was smiling sarcastically at her. She pulled herself together and repeated the order.
“My colleague is lying there half dead and you’re the only suspect here so I have the right to arrest you for better investigation. Now, do as I said or else.” She said as she pulled out the gun and put her finger on the trigger.
“Wow... That's tough.” Hobie looked at her as he said in a condescending tone. “Whatcha gonna do? Shoot me? If you want to lodge a bullet in my body, you should do it fast.”
“I'll do what I have to do for the safety of London’s citizens.” [...] stayed still, not even taking a step back. She took a glance at her friend seeking for any sight of his movement then took her eyes back to the vigilante.
“Oh, you mean safety for the rich?” He chuckled.
Hobie got even closer to her, lowering his head to see her clearer.
“The man over there is protected by law with regard to his life, health, honour and dignity. You've broken it so there’s nothing illegal with arresting a suspect.”
“You gotta be joking! You and those stupid governors take away people’s rights and now you’re talking to me about laws?”
“The law doesn’t protect people. We use it as a weapon against crimes and a shield to defend decent people. Now, put the guitar on the ground and your hands up in the air."
"Or what?" Hobie asked sarcastically. "Are you gonna shoot me and prove my point that cops are just as authoritarian as the government?" He stared at the gun in her hands a little bit more, waiting.
[...] had no chill for that. She immediately fired a shot in the air as the threat. She hoped that it would be a good warning for the vigilante before he went further but she was totally wrong about that punk-head. He just let out a laugh which immorally humiliated her as a cop.
“Wow, what a big shot!”
[...] try to keep her cool while aiming for the point. Her hands were shaking extremely. She had never shot a living thing, she didn’t want to hurt him. As he walked closer to her, she fired another shot aimed at him. It missed. The bullet had gone somewhere she didn’t know. [...] freaked out and it caught into Hobie’s eyes.
“Come on, is that all you’ve got?” Hobie laughed. He slowly leaned his head into the gun, putting on a little brave show. “Show me how powerful you are with that gun they gave you.”
[...] looked him in the eyes and said. “Why don't we just make it easy for both. You step aside and let me bring my friend to the hospital getting his treatments. I'll pretend I've never seen you.”
“And what does the law say about this?” He asked with amusement. “You'd be committing a crime, wouldn't you?” The punk said, chuckling a little bit. “Well, turns out you’re not a good cop as you always believe.”
“You wanna get shot that bad? Go get a gun and do it yourself. I ain't gonna waste my friend's life for this shit.” Out of the blue, [...] hit him in the face with her gun's handle. Somehow, she successfully took the man down and got to where her friend was lying unconscious. Thankfully, he seemed to be fine. [...] let out a sigh of relief before realizing that the vigilante got up on his feet and he was coming for her.
“That’s decent, I gotta say.” Hobie said jokingly, as he got up after the impact. He rubbed his cheek, tasting the blood on his bruised lip.
“This is the last time I give you a warning.” [...] grunted. “Step out of my way.”
“oh, make me then.” Hobie smirked.
[...] couldn’t hold her temper anymore. Though she knew it was his trap, she was so frustrated that she lost it. [...] raised her gun and let a gunshot broke the silence in that dark alley. The bullet grazed Hobie’s arm, blood fetched out from his flesh. He couldn’t help letting out a small whine, touching his arm where the bullet landed. [...] had no idea how it hurt his ego even more than his physical body. When she was around, his spider-sense just malfunctioned. Hobie finally took a step back as he heard the siren from police cars become louder.
“Bloody hell…!” Said Spiderman, before he started running away.
[...] followed him to where she didn’t know. He was fast, but [...] wasted no time in police academy. She was better than anyone could ever have expected. She saw him turning into a corner, standing there like he was waiting for her. "You fucking coward. You think you're better than me with that vigilante shit and a stupid guitar?” [...] went on at him like she’s taking it personally. No more cop, no more vigilante, just a hot-headed woman and an untamed man. “Now, surrender.”
“If you want me to surrender, then come and get me." He said, turning around to face her.
For the first time of that day, [...] smiled. Actually, it’s more like a smirk.
“Are you trying to charm me or threaten me? It's not working. I don’t have mercy for such a scoundrel like you. You'll pay in jail.”
Hobie sneered. “Just another puppet in the system…”
“Uh huh? You think you know better than anyone? You think you're the hero that people need? No, you bastard. No one wants your help cause it’s just as useless as you are. And you can't save no one. Naive!”
“I know better than you and that’s enough.”
Hobie wanted her to prove him right but [...] wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. She took off her badge and threw it to the ground. Hobie was kinda surprised that without a gun, she’s actually better than he thought. An idea came across his mind but Hobie snapped it away immediately. Though she got some moves, Spiderman still overpowered her. It was too fast that before [...] could react, she had laid on the soggy ground.
“See you around, little piggy.” Hobie said, ironically, with a little laugh. He swung away, disappearing from her eyes.
The mission was obviously a failure. [...] came back to the station with nothing but shame and humiliation. She managed to keep her job by luck but was still demoted. That only made her hate Spiderman more. To get her badge and gun back, [...] had left no choice but to arrest Spiderman herself. Week after week, she had been investigating him. Each time she saw Spiderman swinging between blocks, she would note it down and make it a map of his pattern. Spiderman was smart enough to get around the city in different ways, making it more complicated to figure out his tendency. However, they only led to one particular neighborhood.
[...] bought herself some beer. She left from work, waiting for Spiderman for a whole day in a dank, stinky corner. The mantle of night fell on London. Sounds of sirens were coming from afar. When Spiderman finally showed up, it’s almost midnight. He swung into a window, then shut it down.
“Gotcha, Spidey…” [...] whispered to herself.
However, [...] knew she shouldn’t kick on his door that night. She left the neighborhood and got back to her place, knowing that sooner or later, she’d put handcuffs on his wrists.
