~ ✨I write; Sins, Tragedies & Trash✨~

Mercya🌻 26 | 🇩🇪 Writer for Male Reader—Request your wish 📝 • This was all a Cruel Angel's Thesis from the start • • Sasageyo! Sasageyo! Shinzou wo Sasageyo! •

[sunny-mercya]

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[sunny-mercya]

Sunset Encouragement

Heiji Hattori x Male Reader

Fandom -> Detective Conan/Case Closed

Based on Movie 10

Dividers made by -> @strangergraphics , @dividers-are-us

Masterlist

The sudden chills which runs down his spine—despite and although it's mid spring, the warm afternoon sun still shining brightly enough—makes Heiji let go of your hand and stopping abruptly in his tracks.

But you didn't seem to notice and continue to walk further—steps towards the next location which might gives some new insight to solve this case—and seeing you walking away with the ID-Watch, which thank goodness was still on green, around your wrist, ignited an heart shuddering feeling inside him.

Heiji's stomach drops heavily and sudden—as if someone had filled him up with rocks or if he had eaten too much and way too fast—making him nauseous and, for a second too long, Heiji does feels like as if he actually was about to puke right onto the pavement.

It was only for a moment, but you're still walking nonetheless, haven't turned around yet—blissfully unaware of the life threatening doom you wearing, which shackles you and everyone else Heiji and Conan holds dear as hostage—and something else of an feeling tugs at Heiji's heart.

Heiji, impulsively, stumbles forwards—one step, two steps—till he jogged towards you, grabbing your wrist and tugging you a step back around—getting a glimpse of your face, before pulling you into his arms.

You returned the hug—arms around Heiji, patting his back as he bends downward a bit and laid his head down against your shoulder—you always do, but the hug this time comes with a bit of diffidence from you.

Something was off and you could tell whatever it was, was bothering Heiji deeply—who, in contrast to his usual thoughtfulness during cases, was at this moment unusually quiet and stiff.

»You okay?« you ask, rubbing his back, but Heiji stays unresponsive, only tightening his hold around you as if he fears you would fade away from his arms any seconds.

»Heiji.« you tried again, loosen the hug, »C'mon, talk to me. What's wrong?«

Heiji sighs, straighten his posture again, looking at you—into your (e/c) eyes—and it makes his legs feel like jello, as if they're about to buckle in, because your eyes shone with so much life and love—and Heiji knows, which makes him swallow hard, if he doesn't solve this case before the deadlines ends—which is soon—the light in your eyes would diminish.

And there it was again, in the back of his mind—ever so slowly sneaking forward to get louder and louder—these nagging little voices of doubts and uncertainty which keeps haunting him since the morning, since the start of this damned day.

For a moment his chest felt so tight that Heiji had to take an audible big intake of breath—because if he hadn't, Heiji was sure his lungs would have stopped working.

»[Name], what if......« Heiji doesn't know how formulate his sentence, the words keeps twisting around his tongue—drying his mouth out.

Perhaps this clammy feeling Heiji feels at the moment must be the same feeling you get whenever you're about to have an anxiety or (close to) a panic attack.

Heiji takes a moment, another in- and exhale of deep breath, »What if I'm gonna fail and can't solve the case this time?«

»Hey,« you said, eyes softening with empathy—after all it's so utterly rare for Heiji to share, even admitting, his thoughts of doubt and insecurity with you out loud—cradling his face gently in your hands, »don't think such things now. You will solve this case and do you know why?«

»Why?«

»Because you're the Great Detective of the West and I truly believe in you.«

Heiji smiles, »Damn right! I am the greatest.« now he boasts, but you know Heiji only does it to appear strong—too mask his own fears till the case was over.

Placing his cap onto your head, Heiji removes your hands from his face—taking them into his, giving them a long squeeze.

Heiji takes the first step, resuming the walk, tugging you forward—still holding your hand, not wanting to let go of you—Heiji truly doesn't know, he won't tell you though as he still has some doubts, if he is able to solve this case—but Heiji knows as long as your with him and believing in him, he can do anything.

You're Heiji's motivation, his reasons to always give his best.

[sunny-mercya]

Three Days

Heiji Hattori x Male Reader

Fandom -> Detective Conan/Case Closed

Dividers made by -> @cafekitsune / @dividers-are-us / @strangergraphics

Masterlist

It's around late afternoon by now, the remaining—but ever so slowly fading—rays of the descending sun peaked through the small window, giving away their last bit of summerly warmth.

Warm it was indeed, more than just that—the summer heat had dammed-up so much inside the attic that it felt akin to an overheating oven, so unbearable hot and dry.

It had been already three whole days—with the upcoming night, it would be the fourth—since you and Heiji were tightly bound together to a beam and locked up in the attic.

Heiji and you had been on the way back after an two days trip in Kyoto to Osaka—where the others; Conan, Sachiko and Ran, along with Kazuha would have waited for them, for their planned meet up—but Heiji hadn't anticipated to first crash into another motor-biker and then—right after the guy got back up and drove off as fast as he could—to get abducted.

But that had been, like said before, three days ago and it either gonna be more adding days of enduring the tedious, stale summer heat and getting more beatings—till they hopefully might get found—or the both of you getting shoot down soon.

A whimper pulled Heiji away from his thoughts—thoughts about how to break out from the restraints and getting outta here with you.

You were awfully quiet ever since the last threatening and after Heiji had gotten another round of beating a few hours ago.

»You okay sunshine?« honestly the question, considering the current situation, was stupid—but Heiji needed to hear your voice.

»Yes.« your answer, a mere dry whisper was barely hearable.

Heiji knew that's a lie, you're far from fine, he felt how your body trembles against his own—he felt it all, every tiny tremor and intake of breath from you—, »Don't lie, [Name].« Heiji, despite being bound, wrists already rubbed bloody and raw from the futile attempts of breaking free, moves his fingers towards your own.

Heiji knew you're strong, weren't one to cry easily—neither in a tight situation like this, where being kidnapped and held hostage seemed much harmlessly than getting a headshot right away, nor of fright and fear—but sometimes even you would come across one of the breaking points.

It took few minutes, but Heiji was able to get an hold of your fingers—holding them and giving a squeeze of reassurance, »Everything's gonna be alright. You hear me [Nickname], it will be all okay. I promise, yeah?«

»Yeah.« you croaked out, throat closing up—feeling tight as you hold in another whimper and your spilling tears, shoulders shaking already—slumping your head sideways against the beam, you closed your eyes and taking in a deep breath.

Oh god. Oh god no. Not now, please.

You drew a shaky breath, holding it in before you exhaled slowly—hoping it would pass in the next minute but that wouldn't be the case, because you knew your luck—you felt it; this tight pressure and slight tensional sensation of pulling, the growing pounding behind your skull—a migraine.

»Heiji,« you whisper, »I think....I'm getting a migraine.«

Heiji gives your fingers another squeeze, »A minor or major one?« he asked.

»I don't know.....I think a major one. I'm feeling nauseous.«

Heiji was about to say something, but before even one word could leave his lips, the attic hatch snapped open and the lady—boss of the little criminal gang—along with her three lackeys came upstairs.

»Well,« she smiles, arms crossed and tapping her red manicured fingernails against her upper arm, »Would you two now be so kind and tell me where you hid the diamonds, Danzo has given you?«

Heiji had figured that Danzo must been the other motor-biker he has crashed into, but it's still beyond Heiji why this lady believes you and him are having the diamonds now.

It's always the same question and every time Heiji has given the same answer; No.

She hummed—stepping closer to them when she heard a whimper from you—, »Well, I think it's time we do some separate questioning now. Don't you think so boys?«

»Roku, Rikki.« she snaps her fingers, »You take the other boy down into the bathroom, get him to talk. While Goro and I stay with Mr. Loudmouth.«

When Roku and Rikki starts to unbind you and Heiji, but only sizing you up to stand—dragging you towards the ladder—a surge of panic strikes Heiji's senses.

»No!« Heiji shouts, lurching forward with his body despite being tied to a beam—trying desperately to break free from the ropes—, »Don't! Don't take him! Leave [Name] alone!« but his demands were being ignored.

She crouched down next to Heiji, »Awww,« she cooed, ignoring the glare she was given to, »Don't you worry about your friend. My men won't kill him, not now at least. It's not the right time for it, but it certainly won't hurt to give him a little bit of water dunking.«

It's three hours later—Heiji had lost all sense of time at the moment, so he wouldn't know, but Goro liked to announce, either out of tease or boredom, the passing hours—when you emerged back in the attic, stumbling your way from the ladder and towards Heiji.

You looked utterly exhausted, the last bit of remaining sunshine—through the dirty little window at the far end of the attic—and the two dangling lights bulbs above gave your appearance an awful shimmering glow.

Besides your obvious exhaustion—eyes dropping every so often and you're barely able to stand on your own anymore, swaying for- and backwards, Roku had to hold you steady—you looked beaten as well.

Probably just as much beaten up as Heiji himself now; busted lips, nose still bleeding—dripping onto the wooden floor below—cheeks marked with scratches and bruises and one of your eyes looked swollen blue.

Seeing you like this makes Heiji's stomach churn uncomfortable—he doesn't like to see you in any kind of way hurt, he rather take your beatings—which he had done before in the last days—than letting these people laying even one finger on you.

Roku pushes you down next to Heiji, bounding yours and his already tied hands together and around the beam once more.

»Well?« she ask, looking expectantly—one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised—at Roku and Rikki, »Did he talk?«

»No Boss, he didn't. Keep repeating he doesn't know—even started to cry when we started to twist one of his fingers a bit.«

»And you dunked him in both hot and cold water repeatedly?«

»Yes!« Roku sounds proud, he probably was, »Separately for six minutes each on repeat. The boy lasted almost five minutes underwater, before he started to trash around for air.« he laughed, so does Rikki.

Mariko—Goro, by now Heiji had also figured was the righthand man, dropped her name once when he asked her if she wanted something to drink as well—looks at them with a thoughtful gaze.

»That's a bit unfortunate, isn't it?« muses Mariko, patting your cheek—harshly—to wake you from your short dozing.

Heiji, for a moment, felt anger breaking out, »Don't touch him! Don't you ever dare to touch him again!«

She glances at for a moment, lips twitching upwards into a smile, »Protective aren't you? Isn't that sweet Goro?« he doesn't answer her, already loading up his gun.

»Listen,« she says, moving her hand from your face to Heiji's—grabbing his jaw forcefully—, »All you need to do is to simply tell me what I need to know and I let you two go. You understand? So, I'm gonna ask you once more—rather kindly I do say so myself—where are the diamonds?«

»I. Don't. Know. And even if I would know, I wouldn't tell ya!«

A sneer swipes across Mariko's face, standing up, »That's it! Goro, give me the gun! My kind hospitality ends now. If Mr. Wannabe Hero doesn't want to tell me, he'll get the bullet then.«

Heiji sucks in a tiny breath—because being held at actual gunpoint is always a uncertainty moment of fright, even for him—when Mariko places the barrel of the gun against his head, finger already on the trigger.

»NO!« you cried out, »Please. Please. Please,« you beg, lips trembling and tears running down your cheeks as one after another sob stumbles out from your throat, »Please, don't kill him! Just....we really—really don't know anything about any diamonds. I promise you! So please, please don't—don't kill Heiji!«

God. The sole thought of Heiji getting shot—of him being dead—sends your heart into a cardiac arrest, making your chest so tight you could barely wheeze out a whiff of air—just the sole thought, this image and what's about to happen within the next minutes is so unbearable painful

Mariko tuts, »You two had more than enough chances to tell me the whereabouts. Now a price is to be paid.« then she moves the gun towards you, looking down at you and cooed again as if trying to comfort a child, »But if you so much insist that I do not kill your hero, how about I just put a bullet through your head instead.«

She places the barrel against your forehead and for a moment—despite the fact that you felt as if your heart had stopped beating—you found some strength to puff out your cheeks and looking directly into her eyes.

»But,« the gun moved again to Heiji, »I personally prefer our little hero here to be dead.«

The doorbell rung—once—halting Mariko in her movements of pulling the trigger, she waits just a moment—finger placed back—then the doorbell got rung again, twice—longer.

»Well? Why you all still here?! Go down and check who it is! Make them go away!«

Mariko has gotten impatient after 30 minutes, when neither Goro nor Roku or Rikki has come back up again—she inhales and exhales deeply, tapping her shoe against the floorboards.

The doorbell rung again and Mariko clicks her tongue, groaning in annoyance, »Are they so incompetent now to chase one away from the doorbell. Do I have to do everything on my own? Apparently I do.«

Without another word to either Heiji or you, Mariko goes down the attic stairs.

You slumped sideways into Heiji's lap, sobbing uncontrollably now—chest heaving heavily with every shaky intake of breath.

You wanted it to be finally over, to have someone come and getting you out of here—to be back in your hotel room, laying in the comforts for the bed and just forgetting about these awful days.

Heiji bends forward, nose touching your hair—he shushes you gently, trying to comfort with whispers and ghosting kisses and promises—although hollow they appear now—of how everything will be alright.

You don't response, way too exhausted now.

Heiji looks up when he heard a loud crash from downstairs and grinned brightly once Conans head appeared from the hatch.

»My! Kudo! It's good to see ya my friend. I hoped you would come. How did ya find us?«

Walking towards them, Conan goes behind Heiji, »I asked Haibara to track down and pinpoint your last location on the phone.« cutting open the ropes, »Police is already on their way.«

»Clever girl.« Heiji praises, shaking his wrists before pulling you up into his arms, holding you close, »How angry is Kazuha? Since we kinda wrecked the schedule.«

»At first she was mad, cursing you out. Sachiko had trouble calming her down. Now she's just worried.«

Heiji—after picking up two of of clothed items from an corner—only nods in response as he helps you standing up, attention fully on you now—putting his jacket on you and placing his cap onto your head, cradling your face into his hands.

»Hey, hey, hey,« his thumbs rubbing slow circles over your cheeks—which are still blotchy red and tear stained—your glassy eyes looked into his and for moment you two just breathed.

»See? I told you, everything will be okay. Didn't I?«

»Yeah,« you rasped out, »you did.« and for the first time in these last three days, you're able to smile.

After another breather and finally getting down from the attic and out of the house, you turned to Conan, »Where are the others?« you ask, couldn't spot neither Sachiko nor Kazuha anywhere.

»It's only me, [Nickname]. And now the police as well.«

You huffed out an exaggerated sigh of exhaust, looking at Conan unimpressed—of course he would do such, you should have guessed—why even bother to wonder anymore—he's just as terrible as Shinichi himself—some brothers you're having.

»How many times did I told you not do such reckless things alone?! You've could have gotten hurt! Damnit Conan! Don't be like Shinichi.«

Heiji chuckles as he retrieves his motocross from the bushes.

Conan only smiles sheepishly at you and you don't had the heart to be anymore chastity towards your little brother, »Come here!« you say, bending down to engulf Conan into a hug.

»Thank you Conan.« you say, hugging him tighter, »Thanks for being so brave and saving Heiji and me.«

[sunny-mercya]

Bartolomeo Headcanons

Fandom -> One Piece

Requested by -> @shunkaidojetblack

Masterlist

Relationship with Bartolomeo

First meeting -> Probably trying to intimidating you at first.

It doesn't matter if you're a Marine, Pirate or just (unlucky) civilian—Bartolomeo takes the chance to show that he's also a big shot of fearsome pirate.

Although his intimidation was rather badly—compared to other pirates, Bartolomeo resembles more of a Golden Retriever trying to act like a Kangal or Rottweiler.

You either having a fright reaction (genuine or not it doesn't matter) or you don't—take your pick.

Whatever reaction you have given, you have piqued his interest either way.

Second meeting -> He's all sheepish around you, but at the same also boastful.

If it comes to causal meetings with you, he's the one who will ask first.

During such causal meetings, Bartolomeo tries every chance he gets to get to know you.

Favourite song, drinks, food, colour and all the other favourite etc. and likings of yours—Bartolomeo will definitely try to store them in his mind.

It does take a bit of time for you to warm completely up to him.

After a while—and making sure you're still single—Bartolomeo would like to ask you out for a date.

The problem? Bartolomeo gets the jitters—all shy and flustered, nervous even.

Whenever he tries to ask you out for a date, he stumbles after his words, stutters and twist his tongue.

It takes a month—and lots of encouragement from his crew—to finally, still a flustered and stuttering mess tho—till Bartolomeo actually managed to ask you out.

When you said yes, Bartolomeo yahoos loudly—proudly, because he scored himself a date with the hottest person (obviously you) in the world.

During the first few dates, Bartolomeo tries to impress you with every- and anything.

When you, yes you, had asked Bartolomeo if he likes to be your boyfriend, Barto has happily died that day—face flustered red and barely able to say the word yes.

When being in a relationship with Barto, be prepared to get compliments every single day.

Total simp for you.

Totally yapping proudly his crew's ears off about you.

Still trying to impress you.

Getting flustered by your mere touches.

Totally lets you top him.

Likes to boast you around proudly.

Likes to be the little spoon within your arms.

If you ask pretty please, he'll be big spoon for you.

Morning kisses nonstop.

Asking him for a shower together and he's about to faint.

He also gets flustered when you're the one giving him compliments—Bartolomeo is week in the knees for these.

Lots of hugs and physical contact.

Not a big fan of cuddles tho—he does not find it manly.

Neither is he a fan of holding hands.

If he's involved in a fight, he gets all hyped up when you tell him he's the best.

Always trying to show off his devil-fruit abilities and moves.

Sometimes gets a bit insecure about his looks, but when you kiss him gently and tell Bartolomeo he's the most handsome man for you—confidence boosts 1000%

Protects you whenever he can, but also swoons like a simp when you're the one protecting him.

[sunny-mercya]

Burgers, Milkshakes and ER at 4A.M.

Francis Wilkerson x Male Reader

Fandom -> Malcom in the Middle -> 🔏

Dividers made by -> @cafekitsune

Masterlist |

The call came around one or two in the morning—the ringing obnoxiously loud and Francis, good at turning out and ignoring specific things when they annoy him, simply turns around in bed—draping an arm over you again, pulling you close—snuggling into your warmth and continuing to sleep.

Hushing you loving back to sleep, when you started to stir minimal—a sign of you slowly waking up.

The resuming silence lasted for about twenty minutes—enough for Francis to fall back into a bliss of deep sleep—before it got disrupted, more like shattered, with another round of howling loud telephone ringing.

It wouldn't have been a problem, Francis would have easily ignored the second round of obnoxiously—middle nightly disturbance—ringing again, if it weren't for two facts of why he couldn't.

Fact one; whoever that asshole was—who had decided it would be such a perfect time to make an call in the middle of the night—choose not only to call the kitchen landline but also the hallway, livingroom and bedroom line—and all of these lines, with different types of ringtones and volume were eardrum splitting screeching.

Fact two; you shrieked upwards—widely awake now—and that's makes Francis more pissed than this current nightly calling itself, because it had taken—after a whole week of you not being able to sleep at all—Francis four hours to finally get you to sleep and now this asshole with their damn calling had ruined it all.

Francis sits up, switching on the nightstand lamp and taking the phone, »This better be someone from our family or whoever it is will get a verbal beating from me.« he grumbles out, accepting the call.

»It's two in the damn morning, who is it?« it's blunt, voice still rough from just being woken up.

Turning his head—while trying to listen, more like deciphering, to the overlapping voices of Malcom and Amanda—Francis watches how you rubbed the remaining cluster of sleep out of your face.

Francis pats your thigh, gaining your attention; you groaned out an hum, looking at your boyfriend with bloodshot eyes and Francis makes a face—frowns—you look even more tired than before.

»Who's....« you interrupt yourself with a yawn, head rolling to the side, almost dozing off in sitting, »Who's calling?«

»Malcom and Amy—Yes, I'm still listening—hey, go back to sleep love, I'll handle—damnit Malcom! I'm talking with [Name]!«

You were actually about to go back to sleep—having laid your head on Francis shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, eyes already closed once more—but then you heard Amy screaming and you shoot upwards, head butting Francis in the chin.

Francis loud curses mixed themselves with a new batch of Amy and Malcom's screaming—and if Malcom was screaming as well, it meant serious trouble.

At first the idea of going to an University party as a sixteen year old—and the thought of experiencing that kind of slice of life which comes with being an adult—sounded super fun, but now—Malcom admits—it really doesn't.

It started all good; going there, splitting up in pairs—Reese with Kylie and Malcom with Amy—enjoying the music, snacking on the food and taking little sips from the alcohol here and there.

Malcom couldn't even exactly tell during which part of the night the party had gone from good to—in his opinion—disastrous, but perhaps it started when Reese tumbled down the stairs and Kylie started to cry after getting—as a none swimmer—thrown into the pool and, that's the part when it actually started to get downhill, Amy getting cornered by some men.

After finding the others, regrouping and staying in a—for the moment—safe corner, it was time to call for help—for an trusted adult, but calling either of their parents was probably not a wise choice to do and so, after counting on their fingers who would be left to call, they came to the conclusion; Francis and [Name] were the best and only option.

And now Francis and [Name]—with Eric and Stanley as backups—are here and Malcom thinks, they just should have phoned their parents in the first place instead, because than it might not have escalated this far.

With escalations Malcom means; bloody noses, ruined furniture, a backyard fire and the police pulling up—but let's backtrack for a moment here and maybe taking a breather as well.

When Francis and you finally appeared—although Francis looked rather annoyed and you exhausted—finding and gathering Malcom and the others were easy—but getting out of the house was an hassle.

Just as you were halfway through the mass of drunk, loud, sweaty and perhaps horny as well young adults—holding tightly Amy and Malcom's hands, Francis, Eric and Stanley not far behind with Reese and Kylie—someone grabs your upper arm, pulling you backwards and spinning you harshly around.

»Yeah?« you ask begrudgingly the guy who grabbed you.

God, with the loud music and these bright lights, you felt a headache pounding.

»How about« the guy drawled, obviously drunk, »you and me having some fun in bed and I show you big i am.«

You frown in displeasure, »How about, you kindly fuck off.« trying to free your arm from his grip.

His grip tightens only, pulling you near him, »Now, now, don't be like that. Come one, it's gonna be pleasurable fun!«

»And I said, fuck off asshole!« you shoved away with your shoulder.

The next thing you knew—and Malcom and Amy saw, before you let go of their hands—the guy punched you hard across the face, making you crash into some furniture.

You moan out in pain, barley able to sit up—head hurts, you're sure the headache exploded into another, bigger headache and everything around you seemed spinning—tasting the irony and warm flowing blood on your lips.

Malcom hadn't even noticed when Eric appeared at your side, helping you up and holding you steady.

Meanwhile Stanley was holding Francis back, who never looked more furious than at this moment and Malcom was sure his older brother is about to beat that guy damn bloody.

»Francis, let it be. C'mon man, let's just get out of here.« —for a moment Stanley thought, it really looked like it, Francis would leave without breaking the other guy bones, but than the guy had to run his mouth loose.

»Yeah! Listen to your buddy here! Get outta here and take that bitch with you!«

Francis roared, »What did you just said asshole?!«

»Didn't you hear? Take your little bitch and—«

Oh well, Stanley thought—letting go of Francis—the guy has his, well deserving, broken bones coming now.

»Better or too cold?« Francis asks you, holding the icepack carefully against the swollen side of your face.

The nosebleed had thankfully stopped half an hour ago—leaving your nose stuffed up and you felt as if you're barely able to breathe, but besides that and your still pounding headache, plus the pain—cold numbed at the moment, but still there—in your cheek and busted lip, you had been able to leave the ER after an hour.

»Probably not cold enough, judging by his grimace.«

»Shut it Reese. I'm so telling mom—I don't care! That's the most dumbest thing you two have done!« Francis directs his attention back to you, »Hey babe, look at me—yeah, just like that, gonna readjust the icepack a bit.«

You flinched, jerking your head away, which was a mistake—because now you winced in pain, »It hurts!« you whined, still trying to get away from the icepack.

»Shh babe, I know it hurts, but it's gonna help.« Francis leans down, giving the most gentles nip of a kiss onto your lips—ignoring his younger brothers fake gagging and your siblings giggling teasing.

Eric and Stanley, coming back from Burger King, grinning brightly—»Who wants some big fatty burgers with fries and Milkshakes?«

You raised your hand, »Hope you guys brought me (f.flavour).« letting Francis guide your face back so he could place the icepack against your cheek again.

»Don't worry [Nickname]! We even brought you an extra milkshake and double the burgers!« Eric tells you, handing you the cup holders of milkshake, cola and (f.soda) and the two paperbags to Francis.

[sunny-mercya]

Stand by me, when Lightning strikes Us

Laxus Dreyar x Male Reader

Fandom -> Fairy Tail

Dividers made by -> @cafekitsune

Masterlist

The air around them, buzzing crackling high with unreleased pent-up energy—so heavily coated it's almost an visible mist if polluted any more—was thick with such a pungent, bitterly, smell that if anyone, who has not been around since the start of what occurred all these hours ago and which is still ongoing, would—upon stepping into the mist—gag their guts out.

The smell itself was a grotesque combination, at least for Laxus—and Laxus himself, when he had regained consciousness again, wishes, pleading out a small rasp towards the—still shimmering brightly like a prism of all rainbow colours—which you have conjured with Fairy Hope, Great Fairy, when this is all over to never smell such smell again.

There's a rumoured saying which goes along the lines of; when you're dead—even if it's just for a few minutes—and come back to life, you will feel like as if your senses are highly advanced and taking everything in a way too hyper-realistically way and Laxus thinks, such must be right—than despite his Dragon-Slayer senses, which are already advanced to begin with, everything felt even more intense.

To simplistic describe it, since it's forever etched in his mind from now on, it's like as if burnt flesh meets a dripping pool of blood and then getting evaporated into ozone.

And Laxus also begs—another voiceless praying plead from his chapped, dry bleeding lips—once he had opened his eyes, heavy his lids felt, turning his head and glancing towards you—to never witness so helplessly the sight of your beaten up but still, stubbornly and nearly unconsciously, standing form.

Laxus, if he could without feeling like his lungs were about to explode whenever he tried to take a deep breath, would have scoffed; so damn fucking stubborn—like your annoying brother Natsu—you could be for sure.

Sometimes, during any battle or whenever there's a fight—doesn't matter if it's either a friendly sparring or a serious one—Laxus wishes you wouldn't be so stubborn and just have you stay behind (him) or be at the Guild where you're protected.

But perhaps, Laxus realised in these moments—a realisation he should have gotten much sooner—such stubbornness comes with being part of Fairy Tail and that being part of said Guild means; protecting what's dear to someone—Family.

Just seeing how the blood, your blood, runs down your arms and drips from your fingers onto the ground below—darkening the earth even more than it already was—and how gasping ragged your breathing had become, makes Laxus heart ache painfully.

Laxus's heart which beats—barely—so agonising slow that he feels the thumping, leaping stutters its does, whenever it stopped beating for just a mere second—an irregular heartbeat it is for now, but since he had been actually dead for few minutes it might be forever irregularly.

In this peculiar moment, Laxus—who lays on the ground, few meters away from you and were only able to gaze at you from afar as if it's a stage play he was watching—felt so utterly helpless and weak—reminds him of the time when he was younger and couldn't stand up against his own father, or that one time where Laxus—for the very first time—got beaten up whilst trying (miserably and failed) to protect you from some Dark Wizards.

It should be him! Him fighting against Nokka and not you! But here there are as if the roles were reversed—as if Laxus needed the protection now—in this case he might do, considering his current injured state now—and you're being his shield and knight.

Laxus admits, taking—despite the stale air around him—a few deep breaths, getting electrocuted—a shockwave after another shockwave of lightning coursing through his body and striking his heart deeply into a moment, minute, of flatline—wasn't, it definitely by the Great Fairy wasn't, pleasant to experience and as a Dragon-Slayer of Lightning it definitely wasn't easy to admit out loud he had been defeated by his own element.

And now, while sitting up—rips aching, lungs barely expanding for breathing and heart throbbing way too sowly but agonisingly—Laxus knows now how it must have felt for you, when he—back then, when he himself had been a opponent against his own home and Guild, Fairy Tail, two years ago—has strike you violently with lightning as well.

There's a tiny rustle of movement next to him—turning his head and glancing down—Laxus see's a, wrapped up like a baby in a bundle, tiny kitten head peeking out of your sweatshirt and staring up at him with its bleary, sleep dazed, big brown eyes.

Sammy.

The little kitten—Exceed Kitten to be precisely—you have found and nurtured, not completely but for a while it should be sufficient enough till they're finally off from Tenrou Island and back in Magnolia, back to health during the short few days you had been separated from Laxus.

»Hey,« Laxus croaks out, voice scratchy and throat aching with an slight burn, »you okay?« he asks, voice soft—taking gently the tiny bundle up in his arms.

Sammy only blinks up at him owlish, still not fully awake from his nap, but coherent enough to request something, »Dada, wa!« small paws wiggling out and reaching towards Laxus.

Laxus nicks seriously, »Yeah, figures.« he agrees, dipping his head down—letting Sammy patt his face while the kitten starts to babble out sounds with no real context behind, but Laxus nods along anyway.

»Your papa,« Laxus starts, when Sammy—after not seeing you anywhere near him—begun to tear up and sniffle out the first wails, »is right there. See? So everything is alright.« Laxus reassures, turns Sammy towards your direction, pointing at you—and little Sammy reaching his tiny paws out towards you.

You were clearly seeing through the water wall—a wall you have conjured up once you reanimated Laxus back to life and decided that you will fight personally against Nokka.

Laxus, sitting now cross-legged, holds Sammy close, bouncing the fussy kitten on his knee, »Don't worry, Sammy. Your papa is, just like your daddy here, one of the strongest fairy in Fairy Tail.«

Lucy, Wendy and Gray—after skidding down the hill—crashed into Natsu, who had stopped to walk any further from his current spot.

»Natsu, why did you stop?« Lucy asks, getting up—helping Wendy as well—and dusting herself off, but when she look at Natsu and following his line of directions—she too, would probably have stopped abruptly in her tracks.

Lucy as an only child doesn't have any siblings, so she never could properly—on a emotional, personal level—understand nor relate to what siblings might feel when it comes to one another—but Lucy knows if she would have a sibling as well, she would react like Natsu does at the moment; shocked.

It was Natsu who had been—despite these harsh, painful and heart clenching words he had said to you weeks before the departure towards Tenrou Island—for once—after sensing a sudden drastic shift in the atmosphere and smelling the sharp and prominent, mingling, bitterly scent of Laxus and you—so uncharacteristically unlike of him, very pushy and adamantly about to go and search for you instantly.

The worry in Natsu's eyes with the etched—frantic growing—panic across his face, when they're still hadn't found you despite following your scent, had been as obvious as the sky being blue on a sunny day.

Lucy's eyes widen upon seeing the sight of you, »His....his back!« she muttered out in disbelief, slapping her hands against her mouth, because you're already battered and bruised bad enough—but your back? Your back looked so, so much worse that Lucy felt a sicking tug inside her stomach.

»What happened?« she asks, in a meek whisper—more to herself—although she doesn't want to know the answer at all.

Gone was the sweatshirt you had been wearing on the first day of arrival—Lucy had asked you about why you're wearing such clothes, when you're obviously, from how humid it was on the island, not feeling well with it.

And the tanktop—which you had wore beneath your sweatshirt and it's now a mere ripped piece if clothing only half its length—you had, like Lucy had done with her top as well, now tied around your upper body—not to hide your chest, but to try and cover, which was futile to begin with, at least a bit of your back.

Your back, right in the middle and next to all the various sliced cuts everywhere on your skin, shows—over your Fairy Tail tattoo, which is now nonexistent—deeply engraved, as if following a already existing inked line beneath it, a branding mark and sigils of dark magical use.

And not just a simple branding mark it was—no, it was one of those kinds for a summoning or ritual, a kind of sinister meaning and of possessive purpose.

Lucy, when freshly joining Fairy Tail, hadn't known much about you, besides the fact—but only because Natsu couldn't stop himself from mentioning you every so frequently—that you're the younger brother of Natsu.

So in her first few weeks Lucy, out of sheer curiosity, asked Mirajane about some more information about you, but much it wasn't as well; only that you're an Water Dragon-Slayer, but inactive member of Fairy Tail who always either tags along on Quests with either Laxus or Natsu.

And there's also the fact, which Lucy never had understood—till now in this current moment perhaps—that you're on the same power level as Titania, Queen of Fairies; Erza Scarlet.

Because when people utters in hushed whispers of awe and fright Erza's name, they also utters yours within the same breath—Oberon, King of Fairies; [Name] Dragneel.

But how, Lucy always wonders, can you be on the same level as Erza, when you never actively fought?

The air crackles around them again, louder—and Lucy, despite standing behind a water wall, swallows hard—her body trembling from the sheet weight of magical energy you're radiating off—it's frightening, so very frightening that she feels as if she's frozen on the spot.

Looking to Natsu, she asks, »Natsu? You okay?« because her friend is so oddly quiet—expression still wide eyed in shock as if Natsu was trying to comprehend what he's seeing in front of him.

Lucy muses, she too would probably be just as equally locked up in a stupor as Natsu was—and maybe even panic, considering the fact that they couldn't help you if you're in need of it, since you barricade them behind a tall wall of water, which is so solid rock hard like cement.

Your anger wasn't like Natsu's—heated and emotional—nor like Laxus or Gajeel's—smugly, prideful arrogant—and neither was it like Erza's—steely calm—no, you're anger was an opposite.

Your anger was a quiet upbuild—like a tsunami, slowly retreating back to form itself into this massive and gigantic, destructive wave, before crashing down with all its merciless might—eerily cold with a wrath in it to cause berserker'ing havoc.

With every step you're taking forward, the earthy ground beneath your feet splinters into small cracking craters—and then with an raised fist you leapt forward, only to vanish within one blink and reappearing in front of Nokka again, sending him with your punch a few meters away.

For a minute Lucy just watches you fighting, then she snaps her attention to Laxus—who gets healed by Wendy, pushing back her upcoming question why Happy was holding a kitten and Carla checking over it like some doctor—looking at him sharply.

»I want to know what the hell is happening here. Now! Laxus.« she demands, bending forward—trying her utterly hardest to glare at Laxus like Mirajane and you do from time to time—hands on her hips.

Laxus, way too calm in Lucy's opinion—considering that, just like Natsu, he wouldn't be able to help you—only states it as if it's something obvious; »[Name] is about to go berserk.«

»Huh?« she blinks, »What do you mean, going berserk?!«

»It means,« it's Gray this time who answered, sitting down as well now—taking the kitten from Happy and holding it, after Laxus gave an scrutinising but approving glare, gently in his arms—, »that something must have happened that [Name] chooses to actively fight and unleash his water magic.«

Right. Lucy remembers that you, despite being an Dragon-Slayer as well, refuse to use your water magic—hence why Nokka had gotten so mad about it and forced you to perform such, only to get his ass beaten by Laxus back then.

»Then....« Lucy trails off, eyes glancing back at you for a moment, »what has happened?«

Laxus inhales deeply, »Nothing you guys need to know.« crossing his arms, closing his eyes for a minute.

»But, Laxus!«

»I said, no.«

»This asshole Nokka has done something, didn't he?« Gray said, not in a question but in a conclusion and with how the way how Laxus—jaw clenched tensely—chooses not to answer, Gray knew he was right.

»I—« Laxus hesitate, licking over his lips—he shouldn't tell them, they—especially Natsu—doesn't need to know the cruel details of what had happened, what has been done to you, the night prior—so Laxus opted to only tell them one necessity, a singular fraction, of why you're about to go through berserk.

»Nokka shocked me with lightning and I died. Was dead for a few minutes and [Name] reanimated back to life. That's the only things i will tell and you all need to know.«

There's a following silence; Gray and Natsu—who seemed to have, perhaps just in this moment, gotten out of his stupor—looks at Laxus impressively, Carla gave them disappointing glare—and they knew so would you as well—while Lucy and Wendy shrieks loudly.

Laxus—ignoring Lucy hysterically probing and Wendy's whirlwinding concern over his health—takes Sammy back into his arms again, after all Daddy's arms are much secure, only focusing on keeping his fussy little baby—who's definitely such a papas boy—calm, because if Laxus doesn't he might lose himself in emotions he isn't ready to acknowledge at the moment.

Natsu clenches his fists—there's an insatiable urge of untamed and wild flickering flames inside him, roaring to be let out—seething, »I will burn this fucker down.«

»Wha?—Natsu?« Lucy watches, dumbfounded at first before horror struck her expression, how Natsu—his fist sparked up in a bright flame—tries to punch through the water wall, only to have his fire evaporated into sizzling steam.

Laxus was certain that Natsu—finally out of his stupor—has pinpointed it himself, perhaps not completely but entirely enough as it is, after an realisation—past, long ago buried, unpleasant memories resurfacing—struck him, what has been done to you.

There's sizzling, something akin to an hiss, followed by skin hitting skin and a thud.

»[NAME]!« their voices overlaps with one another as they had to watch as bystanders how your knees buckled and sagging to the ground, kneeling in front—it wasn't Nokka, but he stood next to you and grins smugly—triumphantly—at them—of someone.

Nastu roars, punching even more—desperately and urgently—against the wall of water, doing everything in his strength to break through it.

»YOU BASTARD! GET AWAY FROM MY BROTHER! YOU HEAR ME?! DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HIM! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE TOUCHING HIM AGAIN!«

Natsu knew this men—his face engraved in his memories—he would never forget the asshole who had makes you cry through every night after abusing you into using your water magic.

Natsu had sworn to Igneel and Aquania—before they had disappeared—that he, as your older brother, would always protect you from harm and he also, during one of these nights—where you, only five years old, would look at your brother and asking for death—made the same promise to you.

You whimpered out, (e/c) eyes turning dull, clutching your head.

»Make it stop. Please! Make it stop! Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!« you screamed out, back glowing—pulsing painfully with magic.

When this is all over—Laxus thinks, given Sammy into Wendy's care, standing up—it's time for an overdue vacation; just you, Sammy and him, somewhere relaxing and quiet, somewhere where there are no Quests and certainly not whatever the fucks happening on Tenrou Island at the moment.

Just that one moment of your body hitting the ground, reminds Laxus, his breath hitching up and he swallows thickly—it's like a cold whiplash—of last night.

Last night when Laxus—unable to move, completely paralysed—was forced to watch how Nokka had you, face down, pinned on the ground—moving your tanktop upwards—and digging with a drag the tip of his knife, deeply, into your skin.

Tearing open your skin, letting your blood flow as Nokka craves lines and symbols onto your back.

Last night when Laxus—it still echoes through his mind, makes his ears ringing in a haunt—could do nothing but listening to your pain filled, throat ripping screams and how you begged desperately, under tears, Nokka to stop—sobbing in between, gut wrenching, Laxus name out over and over again for help, Laxus wasn't able to give you.

Laxus still hears it clearly; your terror screeching, when Nokka turned you around—pinning your wrists above your head, pressing himself down against your hips—and pulling your pants down, unzipping his own.

You're voice had died, stuck in your throat—no screams, no pleas anymore, just ragged, shallowed breathing—your head lulled sideways—tear stained your face was and yet you're still crying—dull (e/c) eyes glancing into Laxus's greyish-green ones.

You had given up, didn't you?

Laxus feels a twitch in his muscles, flexing his fingers to see if he was able to move again—which he was—and with a groan Laxus sits up.

When Nokka starts to lick his tongue against your face and all way down to your stomach, going lower and lower—something snaps inside Laxus and with an uproar Laxus jumps up, lurching forward and pulling Nokka off from you.

And that's had been the start of how it leads up to the current here and now.

And then, Laxus muses—cracking his neck and knuckles, itching to beat someone bloody—during the vacation he will propose to you.

Once back in Magnolia, back at the Guild, no one questions—at least not publicly—the rings on Laxus and your finger, but the bright, teasing smiles of the other said it loudly enough for all.

And also the fact that Natsu, after Lucy told him what these rings meant, had started right away a fight with Laxus—and if it weren't for you, sending Natsu off with a flicking wave—pinching his cheek and giving your brother one of these specific glares—the Guild would have been, once more, destroyed.

Laxus lays in bed, still awake in these long hours of utter deep night, having you securely and tightly tucked in his arms, holding you close against his chest—beneath the warm blankets of embrace.

You're already asleep, breathing evenly into the crook of Laxus neck, having at some point—when conscious finally teeters off the edge—nuzzled your face against the spot.

And so is Sammy, out like a light, content—pacifier in mouth and holding his little plush fish which Happy had gifted him—sleeping for the first night, instead of being cuddled up in Laxus an your arms, his own crib.

Laxus was a bit bummed that he couldn't take you on vacation as he had planned to do so, but maybe during the Grand Magic Games there might be some free time to take you out on a date.

[sunny-mercya]

Too Much—But Not Your Love

Jon Snow x Male Reader

Fandom -> Game of Thrones

Alternate Universe -> Modern Time & A/B/O–Verse

Indirect and Interlaced Connected Crossover with -> What Blossoms After by -> @serotoninandespresso

Dividers made by -> @cafekitsune

Masterlist |

I'm not so good in writing A/B/O like Sero and Rome does, but I'll try,

Warning : Mention or/and description of -> sexual harassment and advances, (possible) rape, stalkerish and obsessed behaviour, omega (female and male) anatomy

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When you, in amidst the late hours of sun sinking afternoon—temperatures have gone significantly down into a colder whiff of breeze, but sun still shimmering strong enough to grand a bit of leftover warmth—had come home, you couldn't help yourself but to take a deep breath of relief.

It's friday and thanks the heavens above you didn't have to work till the week after next, which means—besides doing the daily tasks and constant routine of household chores—you could, once again, get some much needed rest and relaxation.

Once your youngest child Astarion had turned three you had decided to start working again—which you didn't actually needing to do as Jon was earning enough money to provide for the family without having one thought of worry, but you wanted to.

There hadn't been many jobs to apply for, which would be able—or agreed—to arrange your schedule and shifts in a way that it would be compatible with your family.

But you found a job to your liking and appreciate the arrangement of only having to work either every second week or once a month—it benefits you and your family; you're getting out of the house a bit more often without feeling so clammy stuck inside and at the same time you're at home enough so that your husband and children won't felt neglected.

You would never, god forbid, purposefully neglect your family, but you do fear that it might could or would likely appear as such and you don't want that.

Not because of holding up a prestige image for others, but because you know—from personal experience—how it is to grew up in a somewhat distant family, where there was the occasional neglect.

Well, that was before—two years ago—when you had freshly started, when your job was making fun and you still enjoying it—nowadays you dread it whenever it was time to go to work again.

Walking into the livingroom, after getting yourself a cup of cold stored coffee from the fridge, you let yourself relax onto the couch—switching on the television, zapping through the channels till you stopped at some children show; Pingu.

The house felt awful quiet, normally Jon and your children are home when you're coming back from work—not to today it seems—than it struck you, it's friday! And not just any friday, but Family Friday and you couldn't be with them because of your stupid work.

No, no, it wasn't because of your work—you could still join them, calling Jon and asking at which fast-food restaurant they're are—but, if you're being honest, you didn't want to go today and neither the upcoming ones.

Actually—as you put your coffee down and curled yourself up on the couch—you don't want to join anything, which is remotely close to some kind of outing or gathering or meeting up.

All you want was to just lay in bed for hours and hours and hours and never getting up—just laying and sleeping till this constant exhaustion you're feeling, which tugs you down like heavy weight, finally goes away.

Maybe, you mused—unlocking your phone and typing into Google; how to write a job termination—you should quit, but if you're quitting Jon has to shoulder everything, when it comes to paying bills, once again and you don't want that either, not finding it fair towards your husband and yourself.

Your phone vibrates in your hands—chiming the sound, out loud which you have set for notifications—and upon seeing who had texted you, your mood soured and the bit of relaxation had instantly disappeared.

You opened the text messages, glad you have opted for only giving him your phone number for the general texting service—like Instant Messenger, WhatsApp and Chatter Chat—and not your iGo-Number as well, skimming over the few messages he had texted you.

From Co-Worker Emery Salten :

Hey, [Name]!

You left a bit earlier than usual, so I missed my chance to wish you a good long weekend.😔

So, I will wish it you now, have a nice weekend ❤️ And don't miss me too much 😉

I will come by next week, visiting you 😊 Since you weren't there that week, when Cynthia had handed out the new pamphlets and some other information sheets.

They have some important highlights to know and what is about to change in our work and system over the next months, but it's bit hard to understand, so I'll help you reading over them and explain if you might have questions about it 💪🏻

Get some rest ❤️ While I endure a week without you once again 😫 After all, you're my favourite Co-Worker 😘

Your face scrunched up in disdain, it always does, whenever you have to read one of Emerys messages.

You don't know why, but Emery's texting has always been off putting for you—giving you taste of something unhinged and discomforting.

Compared to Jon's texting, who barely uses any emoji's at all—or your children, which are using emoji's, gifs and memes all the times—Emery's texting felt too much, too pressuring and inappropriate—in a way you can't explain—invading.

Your upper teeth scraps over your lower lip, biting onto them and gnawing some skin off—contemplated with yourself if you should text some sort of reply back or not.

In the end, with what little mental energy you still have left in you, you decided to grant him out of politeness a respond.

To Co-Worker Emery Salten :

Hi Emery, thanks for the update about new system changes and the such.

Next week I probably won't be home much. Lots of Appointments and some other things I have to take care off.

So in any case, it might be better to read over these pamphlets when I'm back at work.

Wishing you a great weekend as well.

You hoped that Emery would not make it true and actually comes by to visit you next week.

You really weren't in the mood to face him nor do want having him near you around in your own house, not when it's your free week—not when you're supposed to rest.

Maybe you could ask Aerys and Robb to watch over your children and persuade Jon to drive into another city or town and just stay there throughout the next week.

Without any further thought and consideration—that either Jon or your children or anyone else from your family, might text or call you as well—you switched off your phone completely and leaving it on your sofa, when getting up.

You went upstairs and instead of going into the bedroom, you went straight—like on autopilot—into the nesting room.

Taking one of Jon's old, but heavy reeking, hoodies and putting it on, you crawled into your nest—not your personal private one and neither the big family one, but the one you shared with Jon—curling up beneath the blankets and laying there till sleep overtook you.

When Jon had stepped inside his house, after being out with his children and getting home around 10 P.M, his nose instantly picked up your scent—not this old, constant scent of yours—which has settled down through the years and mingles itself with the scents of your children and the smell of the house, lingering around like a second layer of skin—but the daily fresh one.

You're home, Jon could tell, not only because of your fresh scent—although it there's a slight difference type of smell to it—but also of the few facts; that your car is parked outside, the television still on and your half full cup of coffee on the livingroom table.

Despite you not answering any messages or calls over the last few hours, Jon wasn't worried—but he could sense something was off, or more, you weren't feeling all too well.

»We should greet Pa and tell him we're back!« Maellore was about to sprint up the stairs, but Jon had called his son back with a click of tongue.

»I will check on your papa.«

Maellore protested, »But,« he starts, lips going into a pout, »what about the nuggets I've brought for Papa! He needs to know that we also brought him something from Wendy's! I don't want him to go hungry.«

Jon chides, »Maellore. Inside Voices.«

»Sorry. I still want to greet papa though.« insisted Maellore.

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose—something he does occasionally from time to time and whenever he does it, no one could tell if he's doing it because; A–he's annoyed, B–exhausted, C–trying to be calm before he snaps in anger or D–resigned to save his irritated nerves.

»It's late.« he states, matter of fact, »If you're ready for bed and after I've checked on your papa first, you can greet him. Does that sounds good?«

It wasn't directed at only Maellore, but to his other children—Athena, Cassian and Astarion, although the latter was too young to answer for himself—as well.

There was simultaneous chorus of »Yes, Dad!« and then they scattered themselves around the house, while Jon went upstairs.

Jon, automatically, goes into the bedroom, expecting you're laying in bed—but the bed, still unmade and messy since the morning you two had woken up—because you believed it's unnecessary to always made the bed representable—held no traces nor sight of you.

So Jon checked the nesting room and once he had opened the door, he instantly recoils from the smell inside.

Jon takes a step forward, closing the door behind him and walking towards you—or more, the lump of blankets you're currently representing.

Besides the unruly high temperature, it feels so warm—way too warm and suffocating, almost boiling hot—like dry dreading summer, but it's only March—the scent you're emitting was anything but pleasant.

It's not a foul smell, far from it, but neither is it a pleasant one—it's somewhat in the middle, a mix of something not really quite to decipher nor define rightly into one of the many known categories.

If Jon had to describe your current scent, he would say it's something along the mix of sour milk—when it's about to start the staleness process—heavy rain and over salted soup with a bit of drenched wool and burnt toast in it.

You weren't upset nor angry, but something must have happened today—during work presumably—that you're feeling so gloomy.

Jon crawls inside the nest, he doesn't need to ask for entrance permission—not when it's the shared or family one—sitting next to you and unravels the blankets from you, exposing your sleeping face.

You don't look peacefully and Jon's pretty sure you weren't having such a good sleep at all—not with how scrunched up your face is and the way you curled into yourself.

Jon decided it's better to wake you, sleeping for too long isn't something good to do.

»[Name], love,« Jon shook your shoulder gently, getting a groan from you, but Jon continues to nudge you awake, »hey, wake up.«

You murmured something incoherently, cracking open your eyes and squinting at your husband.

»What is it?« you ask, voice still heavily laced with thick sleep—making your voice sound hoarse—but it comes more out slurred.

You sat a bit up, rubbing your eyes—trying to clear them from the bleariness and slight burning, which comes from tears you had yawn.

Jon pulls you into his lap, back pressed against his chest, engulfing you in a hug with his strong arms—bringing you to instantly melt in his hold, letting out a sigh of relief and a slight purring—and nuzzling his face into your neck, grazing your scent-glands.

You stayed lax in Jon's hold as he begun to scent you—your hand goes over Jon's, taking his hand into yours, holding it tight.

»What's wrong, Snowflake?«

You stayed quiet for a moment of few minutes, inhaling Jon's scent—fresh, cold snow and pine trees resin with an undertone of crisp firewood and a little bit of fresh sage—deeply, letting your shoulders sag.

»I want to quit my job.« you said at least, moving in his lap to sit sideways now and letting your head—after the scenting was done—fall onto Jon's shoulder.

»Why? You don't like it anymore?« Jon ask, noticing—once you uttered your wish of quitting—the exhaustion on your face and how withdrawn you appeared.

You shook your head, playing absentmindedly with his fingers, »No. Not because of the job itself. I like the work I do, it's just....«

»Just what?«

».....too much.«

Jon looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, not quite understanding, »So the work is too much?« he ask again for clarification.

»No, no.« again you shook your head, »just too much.«

»I don't get it, love. You need to elaborate more.«

You only sighed as if saying, you don't wanna talk about it anymore.

Jon kisses your cheek, then the corner of your lips, »C'mon, tell me what's wrong.« he urged.

»Remember this Co-Worker I've told you about?«

Jon hums, »Yeah, this Emery guy right?« and you nodded, »What about him? He gives you trouble?« Jon pressed further.

»Not trouble per se, but having him around me is too much......«

Jon clenched his jaw, his hold around tightens and his scent turns up a notch—the smell of crisp firewood getting more intense, dominant, evolving into a whiff of burnt and charred wood.

»[Name]. Is he harassing you?«

»I don't know.« you whispered, unsure yourself.

A tiny growl, »[Name].« voice firm, demanding strong.

»I don't know! Okay?! All I know is, that when he's around me I feel uncomfortable and everything's getting too much! Too overwhelming for me!«

Your voice not only rises an octave and gets louder with every word you said, but it also cracks in distress—breathing getting faster and your scent turns ever so slightly into a sour note.

Jon hushes you gently, nuzzling his nose against your cheek in a attempt to soothe you back into a calm state—it worked semi well.

»Hey, hey, it's alright. Everything is alright, love.«

»It's not! It's too much! Too much!« you cried out and then, like a waterfall you spilled everything out what's been bothering you.

Jon wished he had asked you sooner and much often if everything is alright and how you're feeling, instead of letting you bottling it all up—these dragging emotions and burdens—till to the overflowing point of breaking down.

The door burst open with a force—slamming against the wall—and Maellore, dressed in sleepwear and grinning brightly, stands in the doorframe—his siblings behind him.

»Papa! Papa! We're back home and we've brought you some dinner!« he exclaims, proudly and a bit too loudly perhaps—given the fact that his dad is giving him a curt look and the reprimanded chiding of; »Inside Voices.« again, just like half an hour ago.

For being the middle child, Maellore acts like as if he was the firstborn—which he was not, Athena and Cassian are.

And sometimes Maellore acts with his head held too high as well—the self-confidence and little bit of arrogance he possesses, just dripping from him.

Cassian rolls his eyes, muttering an hearable; »Dumbass.« under his breath and nudges his brother away, so he could step into the room himself—because Maellore didn't seem as if he wanted to move from his spot at all.

Athena followed behind, holding Astarion in her arms—the little pup already dressed in his Onesie, happily waving his arms out once he spotted his parents, especially you.

Athena looks at her parents, noticing the position her parents are in—which she doesn't mind, they can be as much lovely dovely and affectionate touching as they want as long as it's GA or PGR.

»Are we intruding a moment?« she ask, her voice soft but yet firm, handing Astarion—her baby brother was getting fussy, not wanting to he held by her anymore—over to her Papa and once Astarion was in your arms, the pup lets out an delightful squeal.

Jon waved his hand, »No, you don't.«

No, no, her parents being affectionate with each other wasn't what bothers Athena—it's the sight of her papa being in obvious distress and having cried, that's what bothers her.

It does bothers Cassian as well, her brother has crossed his arms—one eyebrow arched and lips drawn tight.

Cassian was next to ask, »Everything alright?« voice was deep and crisp, rich in roughness—something he got from Jon, but Jon's voice was tad bit rougher and croakier.

At this point Maellore had finally decided to join his siblings—not wanting to be left alone nor does he want to miss something out and neither not able to have a moment with papa—a pout on his lips once more, the pout he either had gotten from Jon or copied from his Cousin Jacaerys and from whomever Maellore had gotten it, he mastered it pretty well.

»Papa!« Maellore gaps, »are you okay? Did Dad bully you again?« there's hearable teasing in it, with the way Maellore was grinning, teeth showing, like a cheshire cat.

Jon eyes twitch, looking at his son in annoyance, »Don't be a little shit tonight, Maellore.« there was no serious bit behind it, just the empty faux jest of a men, not backing down.

Maellore shrugs his shoulders, grinning, »Can't promise ya anything, old man!« then he glanced back at you and his grin dropped.

You still haven't said a word since your children had entered, only looking at Astarion—letting his tiny hands hold onto yours, moving them up and down and around as he pleased, finding simple enjoyment in it.

But not even little Astarion brought you to smile even a tiny bit.

»Your papa is just exhausted. Long day at work.« by the mere of work, you flinched—Jon felt it literally.

»How about, you all cuddle with your papa and give him a big scenting and many, many smooches while I get the food and order some more to devour.«

Without waiting for either an reply or protest, Jon stands up with you in his arms—Astarion happy to be carried as well—carrying you into the family nest and putting you down, giving a round of kisses to your face and lips.

Before Jon went completely out, he lingers for a moment and watches how his children hops into the nest as well, huddling around—starting to yap and squabble with one another as they're retelling you about their day.

And Jon huffs, happily, the sight of his family brings a smile tugging on his lips.

It's a few months after Jamie Lannister—the asshole Ex-Husband of your brother Aerys—with a pregnant Viserys—brother of Aerys and you as well—has crashed the home welcoming party of your older sister Daenerys and attempted to serious harm Aerys.

And it's weeks later, when Emery Salten's inappropriate behaviour and advance towards you has gotten so much worse and far, that he too had attempted to harm you.

But Emery never got the chance to strike you personally—how wanted, how planned—because in his attempt to do so, he had managed it that Jon was the one to injure you.

And Emery in this moment, felt more than just satisfaction—than, even though he wasn't the one to hurt you, witnessing how you beloved alpha husband had punched you across the face and giving you a bloody nose and busted lips, was like the euphoria Emery felt every time whenever he dreamt of you.

The dreams Emery had whispered into your ears that night, when he finally got the chance of holding you close—pressing kisses and teeth scratching bite marks along your neck, rutting against you, one hand sliding into your jeans, grabbing your semi-hard erection.

These dreams, tongue swiping across your fave and lips—pulling them into a kiss—of you moaning his name beneath him, while he fucks you—mercilessly—pounding hard with his steady knot into submission like the good little obedient omega you're supposed to be.

These dreams where his semen covers your naked body, after—once he had instantly pulled his interlocked knot out from you—giving you countless and countless creampies, letting it dripping out from your hole—filling you visible up—stomach bulging now, even without his penis penetrating deep inside you, making you swell with potential future children.

These dreams and Emery.

Emery.

These dreams.

Emery.

»NO!!«

You screamed, screeching shrill and throat scraping raw, a heart flinching mewling within it.

Bedroom turning, because of your scent, into a batch of gagging—stomach cramping—sourness; the type of sourness which resembles bloated, stale milk and rotten eggs, with an unpleasant undertone of mold pasta in it.

Jon—once the first sound of your scream rips through your throat—wakes up instantly and abruptly, sitting up and reaching towards you—instinct taken over, his inner alpha on high alert and the only thought, which runs through his mind was you.

His lips pulling back into a snarl, baring his fangs—ready to rip apart whatever threats looms around and anyone daring to come close to you.

Jon—after detecting that there was no threat around and just you waking up from a nightmare—holds you tight in his embrace, despite you're flinching violently from his touch alone.

Jon's glandular system were working on overdrive now, pumping out pheromones in major waves—desperately trying to soothe his mate and making [Name] understand he is safe.

Your only response was more distressing mewling—trashing around in Jons hold, wanting to break free and get away from the alpha—and Jon, in return, reply's with rumbling crooning.

Astarion wails echoes loudly in distress and panicked fear.

Six pairs of hurried feet's stamping through the hallway, stopping a moment at the door, before bursting through door—like a bundle of tight pressed bodies and limps—and stumbling inside, crashing down onto the floorboards.

»We're here! We're here!« they chorused loudly, their own pheromones of soothing mixing with their Sires—engulfing the whole bedroom in thick musk.

Getting up, Athena, Cassian—with Astarion in his arms—and Maellore hasted towards the bed—getting onto it—surrounding their parents, trying their uttermost best—as growing alphas and beta—to help soothing their dame, their papa, into a state of calm as well.

It had taken the whole rest of night to calm Astarion and you down—and while Astarion had been finally successful with getting some sleep during his nap time, you had no such luck.

Your own exhaustion has made you so restless that you fumbled around the house, just to be on your feet and moving.

It's around after lunch, when Jon—despite being utterly exhausted himself—had command you, couldn't continue to watch you without an grimace, to go upstairs and just lay in bed to rest.

An hour later, the doorbell had rang and Cassian, i his usual stance of arms crossed, appears in the living-room—looking at his father with an tried, still nonchalant, stone faced—or also called by kindly words from Athena and Maellore; resting bitch face—expression.

»Uncle Robb is here.« he states, moving aside to give his uncle space of entrance.

Robb grins, waving—in a way to cheerful manner—at his best friend and brother-in-law.

Jon looks at his friend with a raised eyebrow—Cassian long had disappeared—, »Why are you here?« he asks bluntly, voice hoarsely thick with exhaustion.

»Ouch,« Robbie still grins, feigning hurt, »can't I just visit my favourite brother-in-law?«

Jon shrugs his shoulders, a scoff of a laugh coming over his lips, »Suit yourself. Robbie. You know where the tap water is.«

Robb rolls his eyes, walking towards the sofa, »Wow! Such a great host you are Jonnie, aren't you?«

Jon makes a silly face in return, »I know! Aren't I?«

A silence settles in between them—Jon stays seated on the sofa and Robb moves into the kitchen, making himself and Jon a cup of coffee.

Robb had been in your and Jon's house often enough by now, to know his way around.

»So,« Robb begun, serving Jon the cup of coffee—once it was finished brewed—setting the cup down onto the table and taking a seat across from Jon on the other sofa.

»How is it going?«

It's a placeholder question, but Robb didn't want to jump the gun at Jon first thing first with the news he had to tell, when he might could ease his friend a bit into a conversation.

»The same as when we had saw each other just last week.«

»Oh! That's great. That's great isn't it? Well, Rhael has currently a new word, he definitely had heard it from Baelon, but our growing pup likes to say with delight; poop-face. Ah! And Aerys is currently working on trying to get our twins saying their first words!«

Robb continues to ramble off whatever he has to share from his week, be it from diaper changes all the way to how started to do some garden work.

Ah, Jon muses—head moving a bit to the side—watching his friend, Robb resembles at this particular moment a gossiping woman.

»Robb.« Jon interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose, »You know I like ya, because from all our in-laws you're my favourite as well. But, why exactly are you here?«

But Robb drinks his coffee steadily without any haste as if he had all the time in the world.

»Just checking in.«

Jon narrows his eyes, »Robb.«

»Okay. Just.....try not to get all too pissed, please.«

»Depends entirely on what you're about to tell me.« Jon crosses his arm.

Robb takes a moment, not knowing how to break the news to his friend without reopening still healing wounds.

»So, you know how Daenerys and I have some friends in the police and justice department, right?«

»Yeah. What about it? Did I got a speeding ticket with some hefty fees to pay?«

»Eh, no. The thing is, we've heard from that Emery's attorney had asked for an earlier release.« Robb felt as if he had dropped a bomb.

Jon, with an hardened stare, starred at his friend for a long, solid minute—jaw clenched tight and lips drawn into a pressed line.

For a moment Jon thought he might have misheard, but there was certainly nothing to have misheard—still he asked for a rhetorical repeat; »I beg you, pardon?«

Robb didn't repeat, bracing himself ready for Jon's fury in the next upcoming seconds.

Not every alpha possess the so called “Alpha Wrath” trait, but the few which does were not pleasant to have around once furious wild with beast like, scorching hot anger.

Robb could only a name a countable handful; Your older brother Rhaegar, your cousin Jacaerys, his cousin Cregan Stark and, of course, Jon Snow.

Jon sneers, ugly, expression twisting—taking his still full cup of coffee and throw it, with a force of an baseball player, against the wall.

»He's fucking what?!« Jon roars and Robb rubs his face, sighing out deeply.

If Jon doesn't start to calm down anytime soon, Robb fears these reeking pheromones will drift through the house till they reached you and makes you squirm in discomfort—after all, since last year, you're not doing well when it comes to an alpha being angry.

»Hey,« Robb tries, »calm down. It's not even sure nor finalised that Emery will get an early release. His attorney just asked for a new pledging.«

»I don't fucking care what his damn attorney asking for! This motherfucker should rot in jail where he belongs to! I swear I will shred him to threads if he dares to come near [Name] again!«

Jon's voice rose, a guttural growl emits from his throat and there was another spike of spice—charcoal burnt wood and ash turned sage—reeking pheromones.

»Jon, please. You promised not to get angry!«

»How can I not? Huh?! The fucker is the sole reason for what happened and why [Name] is hurt and I should be calm?!«

Robb hissed, »Jon.« growling ever so slightly in a warning as well, »If you don't stop right now and get your ass calm, you're gonna scare [Name].«

That does the trick, Jon inhales deeply through his nose—falling down back onto the sofa, his shoulders sagging in a defeat, »It just.....« Jon swallows, »isn't fucking fair.« he mumbles.

Just remembering gives Jon a headache and makes his fangs ache to tear something apart.

Hospital were always so whitish and sterile clean—drained from any colours, just naked and balding blank—staring too long at such whiteness makes the eyes go sore and the mind a bit jumbled, clammy.

Jon remembers the very first time he had been at the hospital; he was 15 and, during some dumb dare of courage and strength, broke his arm—Jon couldn't play football for two months, Coach wasn't amused and neither his parents, but Jon back then, because he felt utterly cool, snorted.

The next few times, when Jon was in the hospital again, was when he had accompanied you during every birth you had given—holding your hand in support, standing tall and proud.

It wasn't the first and neither would it be the last, but this time felt different—because it was.

Jon sits in the waiting room—hunched forward, head placed down on his folded hands, appearing as he was praying, but Jon wasn't praying, just hoping or maybe, he does pray.

It hadn't been all too long, one hour perhaps m, since you had been admitted into the ER, but for Jon—despite time ticking away so slowly as ever—felt as if he had been sitting here for days.

Jon takes a deep breath, trying to calm his own jittery nerves and his way too fast beating, almost aching, pain squeeze heart from going into a possible cardiac arrest.

The nurses are passing by, occasionally—sometimes checking in on him and his family, giving updates on your health status—but Jon swore, they only doing it so they could look—with heated glares of glances of judgement—at him like he was a criminal.

His children, the oldest at least—the youngest was with you in the ER—trying to occupy themselves and their mind with anything, they're just as anxious as Jon himself was—after all their dame, you, was in an critical, live threatening condition.

A Drop.

You had a drop and Jon, your own mate, was the sole cause for it.

A drop was the most fatal thing an omega could experience and, depending on the severity and circumstances of the cause, could leave grave marks—mentally and physically, both even—of lasting damage behind.

Jon had sworn, vowed it on his wedding day, that he—as your Alpha and bonded mate—would always protect you from any harm and danger coming your way and nor would he never hurt you mentally or physically—and yet, yet Jon had managed to cause you such harm in both.

»Jon,« Robb calls his name out, getting no reaction if Jon head heard him, »it wasn't your fault.«

Jon moves his head, looking at his best friend and brother-in-law.

»Don't tell me that it wasn't my fault, when I was the one who had hurt [Name].«

»Yes, you've hurt [Name], but it wasn't on purpose. So it isn't your fault.«

But Jon only shook his head, »No.« he croaks out, voice thick and cracking, refusing to acknowledge it—the guilt bubbling up in him, tears gathering in his eyes, on the verge of crying.

Jon didn't want to cry, not in front of his children—he's supposed to be their strong, fearless dad and not some emotion weakling!

»Hey, love,« Robb calls out to Aerys, »why don't you take the kids and get something from Wendy's or whatever you're all hungry for.«

Aerys understood what his mate was trying to suggest, »Sure! C'mon, let's get something to eat!« he agreed, ushering his own and Jon's children out of the waiting room.

Robb chides, giving Jon a nudge to the shoulder, »Don't you dare and start with this, I have to be a strong Alpha bullshit! Cry if you need to. Just cry.«

And Jon cries, letting out one choking sob after another—letting Robb pat his back in brotherly comfort—till his eyes were swollen red.

Jon flinched, recoils back harshly from the memories.

While Robb still reassures him that what had happened wasn't his fault and just a miserable coming together of terrible timing during that particular night—Jon, who hadn't thought such outcome would happen when had tried to defend you and his pup, still felt the pressuring guilt gnawing at him and occasionally gets haunted by Emery's laughter.

It might had been a year since that night, but it still feels as if it had happened yesterday—so fresh in mind like a healing scar, which occasionally bleeds from time to time.

You still hadn't come back from the grocery store—just wanting to make a quick trip and get some things you had forgotten to buy—and by now Jon and Aerys were getting worried.

Despite having successfully pledged an restraint order against Emery Salten, you and your family were still cautious—feeling, especially you, still not safe enough to really feel at ease outside without having to fear Emery could pop up anywhere near you.

Before Aerys could voice his mind, how you're probably just stuck in traffic—despite rush hours being already over—Jon's notification sound pinged up.

A loud warning sound, coming from an App—which shares the location in need of SOS Emergencies—Robb has installed on everyone's phone.

Jon scrambles to get his keys and barks for Robb to come along with him.

Once at the location—a park, one of many in the city—where you supposed to be, Jon and Robb jogs through it till they could sniffed out your scent.

Jon pales, goes ashen white—in the misty illuminated light of the park lamps, he appears as more ghostly—breath taken from his lungs—upon seeing you and what position you're in.

Astarion sat crying a few feet's away from you and you? You sat there completely naked, covered in bodily fluids—blood dripping from you—sobbing as Emery had a tight grip on your hair, forcing you to look at him.

Jon felt it before he knew what it was—the wrath if an alpha—a loud, furious snarl rips over his lips, sprinting towards Emery and body slamming into him with shoulder—sending Emery crashing against the ground.

Jon lunged at Emery, eyes wide with blind rage—because no one fucking dares to touch you like this without consequences—throwing the first punch, hitting Emery successfully square in the face.

While Jon was keeping Emery away, Robb had jogged towards you—meanwhile you had crawled towards Astarion holding your baby close to you, trying to scent him a bit—kneeling down before you.

»[Name]?« Robb reaches his hand out towards, touching softly your shoulder—you flinched, shying away from Robbie till you picked up his scent and realising who it was.

You looked at Robb, »Robb?« you whispered his name as if you're unsure as if he's actually real.

Robb takes of his jacket, gently and with slow movements placing it over your shoulders, »It's alright [Name], you hear me? It's gonna be alright. We're here, Jon and I are here. We'll get you and Astarion into safety.«

Upon hearing the name of your alpha, you whipped your head towards his directions—sucking in a breath.

»No!« you shouted, given Astarion in Robb's care—despite his protests of wanting you to stay put—standing up on shaky legs, wobbling towards Jon.

Wide eyed panic set itself aflame inside of you—Jon will get hurt! Jon will get hurt! Emery will kill Jon before your eyes, just as he told you he would do!—grabbing Jon's arm in a weak attempt to hold him back.

»Jon, don't!« you cried out and Jon, for a split second halts to a stop, turning his head towards you.

Jon's jaw clenched, pressing through his teeth a hiss, »This asshole touched you.«

»I know!« you sob, still holding onto his arm, »But he will hurt you as well! So please, stop!« you beg.

What happens next, had happened so quickly in a flash that Robb himself couldn't even recall the remembrance completely when asked.

Emery taunting Jon—telling him about the pretty time of enjoyment he had spent with you—pulling out a switchblade from his pocket and was ready to stab Jon.

And Jon was ready to throw another punch, but in that moment you skidded in between them—the tip Emery's blade ripping through Robb's jacket, grazing your hips and Jon couldn't stop himself in the right moment anymore, punching you square across the face.

The rest was a blur of even more unpleasant memories.

In the aftermath and afterwards, Jon and his family had all different reactions.

His children, for example, has their own opinions and voiced whatever is on their mind, pretty loudly—unfiltered and brutal honest—a trait which seems to be shared through your and his family.

Athena and Cassian had been at first, justified, angry at their father—but then, once the anger had evaporated into nothing but a mere huff of breath, they shrugged their shoulders and either said; »It was an accident and you apologised. So it's fine.« or »It happens.«

Maellore took it the most by heart, feeling betrayed by his father—gave him the cold shoulder and silent treatment, more than often an angry snarl or growl—flashing his fangs—whenever he was forced to exchange occasional a few words with his Sire.

Astarion, who had been a witness to everything what had happened with you—having enough nightmares as you were having—was a real papa's boy, clinging to you even more than he had before and making a fuss if anyone tries to separate him from you.

And you, who had been the unfortunate victim of Jon's alpha wrath and Emery's rape, still suffers from the mental infliction of emotional scarring.

There were days, where you would flinch—even shrieking in distress—whenever he was Jon touches you.

And there are also days, where you getting all skittish—anxious even—being so on over edge, ready to bolt away into the safety of your nest—which is still located inside a closet—when Jon placed something down with a bit too much force or when you believed someone else was in the house.

Besides such days, there are also hours where you couldn't stand Jon's alpha pheromones and neither his scent—during the first week of you being back home, you vomit throughout the whole week when a waft of Jon's scent drifted into your nose.

Those were the bad days, but there are also good ones.

Days where you carved any form of skin contact with Jon—staying bundled up in his warm embrace of his strong arms and nuzzling into his neck, purring.

Days where you pulled Jon eagerly into the nesting room and demanding to build another nest with you, having everything scent by him, so Jon and you could lay in it together afterwards.

And what were Jon feelings through all this?

Jon, after that night, howled in agony—had felt through the mated bond the phantom feeling of what you're going through.

Even though it were just needle prickling tingles; the overwhelming distress, the panic and angst and uncertainty of not knowing what's about to happen now and your aching, throbbing pain of where had Jon had strike you—Jon felt it all.

The guilt had immediately tore into him like a serrated knife, ripping his heart apart with shame of what he had—even if it had been an unfortunate accident—done to you.

Jon had always been a man of pride and self-confidence, but after that night he felt so utterly worthless—believing he's nothing but a disappointment and unfit to be (your) Alpha.

»Jon, the chances that Emery is getting out of jail is pretty nonexistent.«

»But the chance is there.«

»I want you to divorce dad.«

Maellore said it so strongly and in such a serious manner, that you stopped in your motion of folding the laundry.

»And why should I?« you ask, turning towards Maellore, raising an eyebrow at your son and looking at him in expectation for an logical conclusion.

»He hurt you.« is all Maellore said as if this would explain everything.

It doesn't. Far from it.

Though for Maellore it was a justified reason, after all he had learned that Alphas who hurt their mates are terrible human beings.

Best example for learning who's a terrible alpha was Jamie Lannister, the Ex-Husband of Uncle Aerys.

And since his sire had hurt his papa, Maellore had the right to deem his dad a terrible alpha as well.

»That's not even a remotely good explanation.« you stated, crossing your arms.

»It is! Dad's an asshole who had hurt you! You deserve better!«

»Maellore.« a tersely chirp of warning, »I forbid you to speak so rudely like this about your Sire.«

»No!« Maellore shouts, stomping his foot, »He's just as bad as this Emery guy and grandma!«

You inhaled sharply, couldn't believe—looking at Maellore with disbelief—what your son is saying.

»You!« you started to raps out, more like a stutter, pointing your finger at him, »You—you have no—you have no fucking right to compare your such terrible humans with your own Sire! Your dad is a hardworking man! A good man and father! I love your father with all my heart! He's my Alpha and you as my son has absolutely no right to judge and decide what's the best for me!«

By now you were screaming, disappointed in your son for not only thinking such outrageous bullshit, but also daring to utter something so hurtful about his own father.

Your pheromones flared up, a mixed foul smell—sour milk and mold pasta, hint of phosphorus in it—of distress erupts, engulfing the bedroom in a chokehold and Maellore staggered backwards, almost gagging.

»Uhm, Athena?! Cassian?!« Maellore calls for his siblings, waiting serval seconds—watching how his Papa works himself even more and deeper into distress.

Maellore swallows thickly, bolting out of the bedroom, »Dad! DAD!« he screams, the panic in his voice evidently.

When Jon had hastily informed his children, that they will stay two weeks with their Uncles, Athena wasted no time and slapped Maellore hard across his face—screaming at her brother, chiding him in reprimanding, how he had no audacity to say the things he had said.

You little outburst of distress had triggered your already irregular heat much earlier than anticipated and Jon had to call Robb to pick up his children.

Your body and inner omega itself was fighting against your upcoming heat, yelping out whines of discomfort—ever since that night, since Emery had touched you so violently and Jon accidentally striking you down, your body—after the drop recovery—refused to take part in heats.

You're still getting your heats, but irregularly and with longer duration nowadays.

Sometimes you actually wanted to have sex—either on your own, or because you forced yourself to do it—but it's an insatiable hunger for weeks.

And sometimes, when you're having your heat, you're getting such agonising, gut ripping cramps—the same type of periods woman experiences—and leaking blood and clots from your uterus canal, which wouldn't be happening if your heat was in a regular cycle.

But the latter wasn't just because of your irregularly heat—the main reason, why you're experiencing periods, was because Emery had inserted himself into your uterus canal and tore it open.

The Uterus canal on a male omega was just a tiny hole—which rips itself, it's called ripping, open in the puberty of between 15 or 16—below the penis and had its only purpose of solely being there to give birth.

Doing any sexual actions—which, if being reported, could get someone into prison for more than just a year—with it would cause serious harm.

Jon lets out a soothing rumble, whispering sweet comforting nothingness into your ear as he, apologetic, preps your face and lips with kisses while undressing you and himself out of the clothes.

The doctor had advised, that even if your omega is refusing to participate in any sexual heats, Jon should still stay by your side during such week and help you through it if needed—otherwise it might could hurt you, psychologically speaking, even more than the harm you're currently experiencing mentally and the chance of getting another, much severe, drop is high.

So Jon, as advised—and with the knowledge he had gathered while reading through some guidance and help books during his own therapy sessions—holds your naked body against his own, pressing himself, like a heated weighting blanket, against you.

It's a missionary position, but without being in use—only acting as an temporary position to share as much skin contact and warmth sharing as possible in the first hours, before Jon could switch to a much comfortable position.

Sharing skin contact and warmth was one of the few important factors during the an omegas recalibration process period of getting a regular heat cycle again—as it shows the bonded mate was still there and not gone, preventing further mental damage and a potentially cardiac, dissociation of the omega itself.

Laying in Jon's arms, the two of you lazed together on the sofa—watching in lovely content how your children, even though the television was on, played eagerly their board games, while devouring their second delivery of Fast-Food.

They definitely have inherited this gluttony hunger from Jon—because Jon too could devour three full meals and still wouldn't fill satisfied full.

Jon nudges you, leaning his head down towards your lips, pulling you into a deep and sweet long kiss.

»I love you, Snowflake.« Jon whispers against your lips, after having pulled away—just slightly—leaving you breathless.

»I, too, love you, My Lord Commander.«

And in the end, when everything seemed too much, there was Jon and his endless, undying love for you.

Special Extras : My Face-Claims of the Children

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Athena Snow

Alpha

Cassian Snow

Beta

Maellore Snow

Alpha

Baelon Targaryen-Stark

Alpha

(From “What Blossoms After” by Sero)

[sunny-mercya]

Breakaway—So I can show you, how a home with love truly feels like

Jacaerys Velaryon x Male Reader

Fandom -> House of the Dragons

Alternate Universe -> A/B/O–Verse

Thank you Gift for -> @serotoninandespresso

Masterlist | Hey, it's me, your 🌻

The sole and only, goal minded, purpose of the upcoming arrange marriage between the royal houses of Velaryon and Rosevale of the northern sea, was to bound two strong family into one—fulfil this need of thriving to create a even much greater, higher bloodline than Targaryens were and overshadowing them.

To ensure that neither chosen candidates of each side would break off the marriage through the first whiff of pheromones—before their hands could even be sealed in blessing—Queen Rhaenyra has come to an agreement with High-Queen Coralion, that Rhaenyra and her family would live for half a year with the Rosevales.

Now, Jacaerys does not feel the slightest delight about his new situation, when he had been chosen—though as the firstborn, he should've guessed it—by his mother to marry the youngest son of the Rosevales and neither does Jacaerys wants to even get to know all his new in-laws nor even consider them remotely close and akin to something like family even—but, like said before, he's the firstborn prince and with such comes duties and responsibilities.

So here Jacaerys was, after landing on the neat, ice covered tiles—sandstone, a bit unusual to have in contrast to the standard stones, then again it's probably something normal in the north—with Vermax, his mother on Syrax following right afterwards in landing next to him, almost slipping on the ice when getting down from his dragon—and Jacaerys, while spotting the bright, polished, polite smiles of his soon to be in-laws, already wished to go back home.

»Be polite, Jace. This marriage is of political importance for us.« reminds his mother, when she herself had gotten down from Syrax and standing besides him now, a slight reprimanding in her voice—Jacaerys only nodded in reply, taking a breath through his nose and stretching his lips, till his cheeks ached, into a bright smile as well.

»Stref'voja! We, of Rosevale of the northern sea, greets you with breezing welcome!« Queen Coralione's voice was as shrill and audible—from probably three sea miles—loud as a twittering bird in the early rising hours of morning and greets them with high enthusiasm and thick accent.

»I do hope so lovely, that the tedious journey to our frosty residence wasn't too exhausting for the two of you! Stomach of yours do have an appetite for a grand meal tonight?« the High-Queen asks, stretching out her arm and showing, like a offering, her open palm.

Jacaerys was impressed that his mother—laying her own palm onto the High-Queens and only moving her head into a small bow—knew what to do, then again she, in contrast to him—because Jacaerys had deemed other things much more of importance—did some research and etiquette training about the do's and don'ts about Northern sea and its kingdoms.

And Jacaerys, mentally—as he do a slight bow towards Queen Coralione—applauds his mother, that she could still keep her own facading smile of politeness, when the High-Queen smile was so obviously false.

»Thank you for the upcoming hospitality, your highly highness.« Queen Rhaenyra begun, hands patting down onto her dress to gain a bit of warmth into them, »Prince Jacaerys and I do greatly appreciate a grand meal, such a great gesture. Thank you, but if I could ask first that someone of guarding trust tend to our dragons first and bring them to a preferred warmer location?«

»Of course! Of course! One of our Shepherds will tend to them, Miss Toyja, get either Mr.Hildsom or Mr.Rumsom and let our guests dragon be brought into the fire caves.« with her thick accent, Coralione's orders to one of her servants sounded much harsher than it was probably was, then she clapped her hands together, »My, my, these dragons are truly magnificent! They're a true beauty just as our sea serpents.«

Both, Jacaerys and Rhaenyra, thought that Queen Coralione would wanted to go a bit nearer to their dragons—perhaps even given them a pat—but she didn't moved one foot forward from her spot, instead she clapped again in her hands and ushered them inside.

Sea serpents and polar bears had been the only thing which Jacaerys had remembered from his—one and only, because afterwards he had skipped every other one—lesson about the Northern sea kingdom and the notable fact, that the house of Rosevale are the only ones who were to tame these mighty beasts of the sea.

That's like the only similarity which Rosevale shares with Velaryon and Targaryens—more with the latter than the former one—to be able to tame and befriend, which Jacaerys believes all three families prides themselves with great swelling proudness, make them like part of the family, such mighty—in the eyes of others—beasts.

While Jacaerys follows behind his mother and Queen Coralione, through the corridors of the castle, he barley listens to whatever the tow women are currently talking about—it's probably just some courtesy smalltalk anyway, but occasionally, when something of interest being mentioned, he does listen in.

Like now, when Coralione mention her youngest son—his soon to be spouse—and how they gonna meet him before dinner time, although the sun just has begun to set down into a pallet of various colours, before night starts to sweep in—but perhaps early dinner time is something of a mentality here, honestly Jacaerys doesn't know, questioning as a prince was out of order—it would shamefully expose him, that he indeed has not cared to learn about northern sea traditions and culture, mother would surely behead him with a headlock if she knew—he just scrape it up as a guess, but if early dinner comes just a few hours after lunch and afternoon tea, Jacaerys or his stomach to such matter would certainly not survive it.

»Now,« Queen Coralione voice brought Jacaerys attention back, making him stumbling into his mothers back—he wasn't aware that they have stopped in front of a door—and the two Queens turns to him, giving him a look, indirectly asking if he was okay and still intact with his mind—Jacaerys shrugged his shoulders and the women returned back.

»Now, as I was about to say, I do beg for forgiveness from you, your highness, that my youngest child could not be an omega in the offering of blessed marriage with your son, nor that our house could offer any omega at all. Like told in my last regarding letters to you, house Rosevale is simply not meant or able to birth omegas.«

Queen Coralione laughs a bit as if the mere thought of having an omega in her bloodline was something silly to think of—and Jacaerys frowns, finding it odd how her voice—the slight difference in tone was barely noticeable, but for him, as an alpha, it was—changed, when she said the last sentence.

»While it is indeed a bit disappointing not to wed my alpha son with a suitable omega, I do forgive your highly highness. I'm sure your son will be a perfect match to fit anyway.« Queen Rhaenyra was ever the diplomat, because if Daemon would be here and speak on behalf for the Queen, Jacaerys was sure, his stepfather would bash Queen Coralione into a heavy heated discussion as of why there are no Omegas in a royal bloodline like theirs.

Of course Alphas being with another alpha or beta does not meant they wouldn't be able to produce a child, but with an Omega—they're much more fertility—such chances are higher and makes securing a bloodline lot easier.

When they stepped into a small hall, a guest hall for greetings—that's what Coralione had said and Jacaerys wonders how damn big this castle actually is and how much walking is done per hour in a day—confusing settles in, when they spot a girl, instead of the supposed son, was sitting on a bench in waiting for them.

For a moment both Rhaenyra and Jacaerys believed that Queen Coralione might have confused her own children, but when she introduced her child—the confusion didn't cleared up, only deepens further.

But would either of them questioning and ask for clearance? Perhaps not, not when there is a slim chance that they could accidentally offending the High-Queen and risk a political break up to the upcoming wedding.

»This, my dearest Queen Rhaenyra, is my youngest child and only son, [Name] Lujonesskosch of Rosevale.« Queen Coralione claps her hands in calling and the boy, dressed in a dress meant for princesses and definitely a size or two to big for him, stands up—doing a courtesy bow as greeting, before stepping nearer to them.

»A pleasure it is to have in meeting you today, your Highness Queen Rhaenyra and her noble son, prince Jacaerys. I do welcome you as well into our noble house and wish a lovely stay.« you spoke eloquently, parroting the lines and words how they taught you to do, doing another bow of courtesy.

Jacaerys, when he inhales a small whiff of your scent—which smelled sweetly, just faintly but noticeable strong enough for any alpha to pick up—looks at his mother and Rhaenyra too gives her son a knowing glance—something doesn't seem to be right here.

»Now! Let's all have some enjoyment with tonights meal and declare a future celebration of upcoming friendship!«

~~~•~~~

Its a few weeks later, when Jacaerys finally seemed to have been found by some time alone with you—and it's not because he doesn't try to spend some time with you, but because he mostly couldn't.

Let us rephrase this into a bit deeper explanation; whenever Jacaerys has tried to approach you, with just the simple intention of only talking and getting you to know a bit better—and while you and him are to be wed soon in a few months anyways, courting you without manners is not in his mind—your siblings are guarding you like a dragon would do with its hatch of eggs.

Not only that, but your siblings—and you do have a quite a damn lot, all of them females by the way—were quite the raging, protective alphas and Jacaerys got more than once threatened—with sailor like cussing, an provoking raise of fits or simply bared fangs and heavy reeking, dominating alpha pheromone—Jacaerys was sure, he once heard you whimper in submission that one time, when one of your much older sisters showed off her protective alpha—by them, not to come any closer to you.

Female or not, they're Alphas and if it weren't a risk of potential causing a rift between the upcoming friendship and political alliance between the houses Velaryon—and, in his mothers name, Targaryens—and Rosevale, Jacaerys would have challenged most of your siblings to a fight by now.

You and Jacaerys are outside, some good foot march into the forest—still on royal grounds, but not somewhere near around the castle—sitting on a bench near a frozen lake, a silence between you two as neither could find the right words to say for a proper start into conversations.

»It's.....it's cold in your country, isn't it?« there, Jacaerys has made an effort to start and break the, literally, ice.

Huddled up in the thickets winter clothes your household could offer and yet, Jacaerys still felt the cold sweep into him—his face felt already frozen, face pinched red from the frosty air, lips probably already shivering blue—with every intake of the dry icy air, which feels stabbing inside his lungs, his breath was an visibly fog for a moment, before it slightly crystallise into—pricking needles like—snowflakes.

Glancing at you, Jacaerys wonders how you're not cold at all—after all, you're way much less dressed in warm clothing than he was—and he surely, if he might gonna ask you about it, does not want to hear from you, that it's something which comes naturally to folks of the northern lands.

»Indeed it is, but since we're in the beginning of the colder months, it does will get much frosty icier later on than what current temperatures we have now.« you say, scratching one of your polar bears—which are here to keep protective watch over you, instead of an actual (human) guard—behind its ears.

»That sounds, actually, more unpleasant than I thought it would be. I mean, i know your country has a rather cold climate to begin with, but if it's the beginning, I fear for the actual winter.«

»We're not immune to our own icy climate as well, we just, over the aeons, has adapted to it. Don't worry, I'll try to help you through it.«

Jacaerys was thankful when you said, your folk wasn't immune to the cold—because if you had, Jacaerys wasn't sure......he wasn't sure what he would thought of such outcome, maybe—perhaps—that if you're immune to cold, you probably aren't actually human like? Or something along those lines.

»Thanks. That would sound good, i don't wish to become some decorative ice statue for your family's castle.« Jacaerys jokes and you breathe out a small chuckle—to which Jacaerys alpha yips in delight.

»Oh! I think, you, my dear prince Jacarandas, would make a fantastic statue, such a good looking one like you, all the other statues will melt in shame,« you add your own jest to Jacaerys joke, chuckling even more now.

Jacaerys thought, with how thick your accent is, he might have misheard his own name, »Say my name again.« he ask.

»Jacarandas«

Yep, definitely not misheard, »Who told you, that's my name?« apparently, with the way how Jacaerys asked, your polar bear—who's named puddles—thought he was trying to intimidate you and bears its fangs, snapping towards his hand in an warning.

»It's your name, is it not?«

»No,« Jacaerys laughs, »it isn't. It's Jacaerys. Ja-ca-erys.«

»That's quite the mouthful of a name you have.« you told him, taking puddles by the cuff of his neck—holding him away from Jacaerys, before he actually do get a bite mark into his hand—cooing at your polar bear, praising him and telling him that Jacaerys means no threat to bare fangs at.

«Oh?« Jacaerys raises an eyebrow, a tease of sarcasm in his voice, »and your first and middle name, [Name] Lujonesskosch isn't a mouthful as well?«

Shaking your head, »No, it isn't« you snicker in denial.

»Fine. Call me Jace or find another nickname for me.« Jacaerys let puddles sniff his hand, after the polar bear seemed to be a bit calmer now, pleased when the bear licked his hand in acceptance, »Anyway. And what your sea serpents? How are they able to live in such climate? Don't they freeze into death or something? I mean, if my Vermax has to live in such conditions of environment, he surely wouldn't live long.«

»Aah, during the icy months our serpents will mostly hibernate in the deepest depths of the sea. We do have some hot springs and the fire caves, where our serpents like to occasionally, even throughout the whole icy seasons, lounge around.«

Fire caves, which Jacaerys has learned—when he had asked one of the servants, where they have brought Vermax—are caves where an enormous hot spring is inside and boils it up with such scorching hot warmth, that it feels like a dreading summer.

»Say, could I perhaps,« you start, fiddling with the furred garment of your jacket, feeling a rush of nervousness to even dare to ask your soon to he husband such intimate question, »if you would give permission to let me see Vermax once?« your voice, hesitation clear, got smaller at the end.

Your scent has gotten sweeter again, it definitely wasn't your nervousness which turned it so sweet—it was more as such, this faint sweetness was part of your pheromones from begin on—and Jacaerys couldn't get behind why, because as a fellowing alpha, your scent wasn't supposed to have any kind of sweeting note in it.

But besides that, Jacaerys feels happy that you wanted to see his beloved dragon Vermax—that's like asking, if you and him wanted to hatch a batch of eggs together.

»Of course!« Jacaerys shuts up as quickly as he had shouted this, feeling embarrassment—wouldn't even be noticed on his already reddened cheeks—and shy himself now, about his sudden outburst of excitement.

Coughing, to gain a bit of his composure back—glancing at you, but there's no scornful reaction from you—Jacaerys continues, »I mean, if you wish to see Vermax, I suppose we shall find some time to give him a little visit.« Jacaerys nods to himself for the answer he gave.

»How about, my dear Jay,« you blinked, batting your eyelashes—something you definitely has picked up from your sisters or got taught by them—, »now?«

Jacaerys alpha was close to let out an rumble, hearing his new nickname from your lips, brought his heart into a flatter—sending a flush of warmth into his stomach—but he withheld it, would make him appear as an easy swayed, weak minded, alpha, which he isn't, »Sure, but only if i can see your sea serpent, if possible of course and if they not hibernating in the ocean depths, as well.«

You chirped, even when it was for a moment of second, Jacaerys was sure you did—but again, that's not something an alpha is supposed to do and as far as Jacaerys had been told, many times, you're an alpha as well.

»That won't be a problem, Jukoschka resides in the same fire cave as Vermax and Syrax are in.«

~~~•~~~

Dimitri's birthday—which is how the folk of the far north, in their mother tongue, calls the last month of winter—is cramped with so many holy dates and celebrations, that cake is a constant part on the meal plan.

Jacaerys swears, taking another fork full and dragging bite of his wedding cake, if he has to eat or see in the next few remaining weeks—before the annual new year greeting—another damned cake, one more time, he won't stop himself from vomiting his guts outs.

»You doing so good Jay, my strong alpha.« you coo, praising Jacaerys—making his inner alpha, especially when you chirped in response, rumble in content—»just one more.« you whisper in encouragement against his ear, feeding him another piece of your own cake.

Jacaerys swallows down the last bits of the sugary dessert, tightening his arms around you—giving an possessive glare over your shoulder to everyone who might dare to look your way, while you nuzzle into his neck—after the honeymoon night, which is to be participated one whole lasting month before the actual wedding—such strange (and harmful) traditions—you have gotten much more affectionate with Jacaerys.

From the first month to the current one now, Jacaerys and you had gotten close—so significantly close that the mere thought of not being near your or smelling your scent somewhere, would send Jacaerys into a feral state of cardiac arrest—and it's obvious, like the stars in the night, that you're and him are meant to he fated mates.

»Still hungry, my love?« Jacaerys ask, position you a little better on his lap, watching—only with a slight disdain towards the sweet lacing baked goods—how you devoured another after another slice of cake till the plate was empty and then you moved on to next, not cake but filled dumplings and fried bread—you're eating as if you had been starved of food for months.

»It's just...« you chewed first, swallowing second, »just so good tasting! Especially (least f/food).«

Now that's surprising, normally (least f/food) was something you barley liked to eat—always, when it's been served, not every time but often enough, pushing the plate away with an distasteful frown and sometimes, when it's been the only dish during lunch or dinner, you wouldn't eat at all—but now? Now it seems (least f/food) was your new favourite meal.

Jacaerys let his eyes wander through the grand ballroom, the guest—high nobles from your country and distant relatives of the Stark household—were having their fun—either eating, chatting with each other, drinking, playing games of cards or dancing around—while his own family interacts with your own.

His mother, when she had looked at Jacaerys for a moment as well, smiles at him warmly, proudly even—his dear mother-in-law on the other side, gives Jacaerys an harsh glare, which makes her look wrinkly like worn out parchment, probably because with how openly you currently display affection.

Jacaerys at some point, while you still stuffed yourself contently full with the goodies of food, conversed with one of your older sisters—which took Jacaerys a bit by surprise, he never thought he would share more words than just the occasional courtesy ones—like a mere greeting for example—with your siblings, because your sisters always carries an icy, unapproachable and arrogant aura of supposed personality with them.

»[Name]?« Jacaerys, after your sister chuckles and points at you, calls out your name in questioning whisper—but there's no response from you as you had fallen asleep admits your eating.

Jacaerys lets out a sigh, glad that you didn't fall asleep with food still in your mouth—he didn't want you to choke on bread while you sleeping—but really, have you eaten so much that you had gone into a food coma? You aren't, when it comes to eating, like this but since the start of this month you do behave out of your ordinary self.

»I suppose, it's time to bid farewell and retire back for the night. Tani, it was pleasure to have talked to you and I wish you a good night. Could you please, if so kind, excuse us towards our families if they ask about our whereabouts?« Jacaerys stands up, adjusting you so that he could carry you with ease in his arms.

»Of course I can do such. Don't worry. I wish you a pleasant night as well, my brother-in-law.« Tani smiles, giving a slight wave and starts a new conversation with his brother.

God, Jacaerys thought—walking through the corridors towards your and his bedroom chamber—he can't wait to undress you from your damn traditional robes, it adds much more weight to your actual one—making you appear heavier than you are.

Opening the door was a bit of a hassle, but Jacaerys had managed it, closing the door shut afterwards with his foot—walking towards the bed and laying you down, before getting you out of your robes.

When you were clad in nothing but one of the wooly warm tunic, which Jacaerys had dressed you in, Jacaerys—after changing into night robes and making you the first in your chimney will burn strong through the remaining night—climbs into the bed next to you as well.

Sneaking his arms around you and pulling you close towards him, Jacaerys holds you close—placing gentle kisses along your neckline, giving a few extra more onto your scent glands—and again this, heavenly, almost hypnotic drunk like dripping, sweet scent of yours, which resembles close to honey and boiled orange tea with a bit of cinnamon and anise stars—and the bite mark.

Jacaerys has to admit, when his hands had wandered under you tunic and caressing over your stomach—he just has this, almost desperate, need to always have skin contact with you, which he just couldn't explain why but if he doesn't—at least once per day—his inner alpha would howl—you has gained, at least around stomach and hip area, much more weight.

You gaining weight wasn't even something bad, Jacaerys just notice it—especially since it happened rather shortly after the first few weeks during the honeymoon month and now, almost near the end of the current month, you seemed to have gained the double amount, making you appear swell like good filled dumpling.

~~~•~~~

It's after your third pregnancy, or more during the birth, when Jacaerys realised—albeit much to late now, it would have prevented more than one complication and distressed situation for you and him, if discovered sooner—you're aren't, how many times it had been assured with big emphasis by your mother before, an Alpha like him, but a Omega.

After all, Omegas in contrast to Alphas had much more, successfully, higher fertility rate—which always ensures instant pregnancies during every knot and the more an Alpha knots their Omega during sex—especially when it's either during a rut or heart cycle—more than one pup are being guaranteed to be birthed.

Which had been the case in your first pregnancy—six years ago—when you, to Jacaerys sole shocking surprise had given birth to twins and Jacaerys, when the maesters—in the mother tongue of the far north, they're called Jowaschkas—had announced your pregnancy, was absolutely thrilled with jubilant delight about it, but when one of the midwives had told him you had given birth to twins—Jacaerys thought he would faint any moment, because that had been (positively) unexpected.

And the only reason they even found out that you're a omega, was during the birth of your third child—when you have let out such an distressed, high-pitched mewl, which sounded so distributing and disorienting broken—a banshee like scream, ripping through your chords—that it had not only alerted Jacaerys, who already was about to burst through the door and probably ripping the maesters apart—your scent wasn't sour, it was spicy and such indicates pain and dangers, Jacaerys was ferocious growling by now—but also his family and he never had seen his own mother, the strongest alpha he had ever known, seen so distressed herself like on that day.

Because the sound, this gut ripping mewl, you have emitted was not alpha like, nor will it ever supposed to be one, but of a omega in so much death threatening pain and overwhelming, suffering distress, that they're calling out to their alpha and pack in desperate need of comfort and familiar sense of secure safety.

Afterwards, when the maesters had come out the healing chamber with you—the main midwife right behind with your newborn son—Jacaerys had guided you back to the bedroom, helping you lay down onto the bed, you had been advised to strict bedrest—a necessity, so your current condition of fragile health wouldn't have a dip towards either a bedridden fever or an potential coma drop—and scenting you in reassuring comfort as well as the baby, who got blessed with the name of Sylvain.

Much later during the same day, night had already come by, Rhaenyra and the others had a small family council meeting, after all they had been lied to—though when they all thought about it, there had been signs—always there, visible right under everyones nose and yet none of the Velaryon-Targaryen household had noticed, despite knowing something was odd, as they had been blinded with a false truth—small but significant, which indicate your actual second gender is omega.

But they wouldn't get any answer till Cregane Stark, far distant cousin of yours—who is counted as close family though—had come by a week later for a short stay of visit, which the young Lord Stark always do whenever a new nephew was on their way to have their first breath of life.

»My Aunt, High-Queen Coralione, is an alpha woman in the Rosevale bloodline.« said Cregane with no further added informations behind it, as if this would explain it all—but it doesn't, only raises more questions.

»Young Lord Stark, I ask kindly once, explain exactly how that's relevant to the fact, that we've obviously had been lied to about the importance of one's second gender. I will throw you into the dragon pit if you dare and try to sell us even more lies.« there's a threatening hiss from Daemon, giving a warning glare towards Cregane.

Surprisingly enough, in the eyes of Rhaenyra and Jacaerys, Daemon has taken quite a liking towards you and perhaps it's of his own Omega—which might have already sensed your omega nature during from the first meeting—that he feels drawn to you, like a dame to their pups and flaring up his protective instinct.

»As you wish, your highness. I'll try to explain as best as i possibly can.« and Cregane did explain, but none of them had thought, that behind the lie lays such a state of extent inhumanity.

It begins with your fourth great-grandmother Milalione, who had been born as the very first alpha woman—after aeons in a bloodline of only omegas—and had developed, in the early years of her childhood, a strong hatred towards Omegas.

Milalione despise Omegas, she sees them as nothing but weak minded lowlife—a pest which should be eliminated from society and making royal bloodlines clean again—with no right to live and if they, humbly, had been graced by the High-Queen to have a chance of life, it would only be for the sole purpose of being a breeding machine to birth many more alphas and the occasional betas.

Milalione, when she was crowned High-Queen during her time of reign, had created new laws which strips Omegas of all their rights and privileges—ensuring they're now property of the royal court, so they could be enslaved as servants with no freedom.

Now, because of these Laws and regulations—regarding how Omegas are to be treated in the far northern kingdom—and the way how, fear inflicting and iron gripping strict, Milalione had raised her own children and grandchildren—it's no wonder why High-Queen Coralione had lied.

»Although this is certainly a terrible and immoral, inhumane way to treat fate blessed Omegas, it's still not a valid excuse to lie so shamelessly about something so of importance during a securing of merging two royal bloodlines.«

Don't get Rhaenyra wrong, as a Queen she's an active speaker against Omega mistreatment—after all her beloved, second, husband is one and so is her son Lucerys as well—and if she had known beforehand how, inhumanly, Omegas are being treated in the far northern kingdom, she would never approved of the request to give Jacaerys hand into marriage.

»It doesn't. Indeed it doesn't, but it's explain the fact of why.« Cregane neither agrees nor disagrees, keeping his own answer as neutral as possible.

»No. It still doesn't.« argues Daemon.

»It does. Former High-Queen Milalione had, to make her stance crucially clear, killed a few of her own children, when they have presented as an omega, in front the eyes the others.«

»Why?«

»Because,« drawls Cregane, »She was a vile woman and my aunt, High-Queen Coralione, is just as vile. When [Name] had been born, thankfully the law, within the royal household, to kill of any royal born omegas had been repealed before, Auntie was so enraged that she let [Name] be raised as an alpha and having his omega nature be suppressed.«

Jacaerys swallows thickly, the mere thought of you—his fated mate, the person he love unconditionally the most—being killed, send shivers down his spine and makes him visible flinch.

Rhaenyra gives Jacaerys a comforting rub on the back, sensing her sons discomfort—the little drop in his pheromones, which oozes with jittery fear and worry for his mate, could be sniffed out—as a mother and wife she sympathy with her son—if someone would tell her, Daemon or Lucerys could be killed due their second gender, she too would feel an ounce of fear, panic even.

»So,« Jacaerys begun, licking over his bottom lips—they're feeling so dry all of sudden, but his hands were clammy—a audible stutter in his voice, »basically the only reason why High-Queen Coralione had lied is so [Name] wouldn't taint the the Rosevale bloodline?« asking with disbelief.

Cregane nods, »To sum it all up, yeah that sounds about right.«

Rhaenyra emits a sigh, under any other circumstance and if it weren't for the fact that Jacaerys and you are fated mates, she would have annulled the marriage right away, even sending a letter of upcoming threats, perhaps having their dragons spew a bit of fire cause some destruction as well—just to make it clear, that lying towards a Targaryen means a death wish—but that's no option anymore.

It's weeks later, when Jacaerys—after having a few private lessons about Omegas and getting some helpful advice from his younger brother Luke, who volunteered to repeat some of his lessons again, just so you wouldn't be alone during your own—was trying helping you building a nest.

It would be your first nest, since throughout your entire life till now—with the way how you had been raised and the sole, added fact that your inner omega had been constantly suppressed, dulling your natural and basic instinct—you never had the chance to even experienced this urge, bliss like feeling which comes along with it when nesting for the first time.

»See! It isn't so complicated, is it? Now you place this blanket–« Jacaerys gets interrupted by Tahaerys, one of his sons, who proudly presents him a pillow, »Yes, bravo and thank you Tahaerys. Why don't you give your papa one of your pillows as well?« praising the young, mere six year old child, Jacaerys ruffles through the black tuff of curls.

Tahaerys and Feyeaerys, fraternal twins and your firstborns, are a splitting image of Jacaerys—sharing the same luscious, raven black curls and deer like brown eyes as him.

»It's......it's not easy.« you huffed out, halfheartedly arranging the blanket in this messy pile you're supposedly have to call a nest.

A nest you have to build, what a joke—for what reason even? You don't need a nest, you hadn't need one before and you won't need it in the future, you're fine without one and why a nest when there's a big bed?—you're only doing this for Jacaerys sake, he had asked so sweetly if he could help you with building a nest, you couldn't deny his request—especially not when your children had joined as well, wanting to help.

»Here papa! I've scented one of my pillows for you, so you always have our scents around you!« exclaims Tahaerys proudly, almost stumbling over another loose laid blanket.

Taking the small pillow from your son, you smiled softly at him, »Thank you, Tae, my sweet little boy.« you tell him, placing a kiss upon his head.

This action of Tahaerys receiving a kiss from you, caused an uproar of upsetting protest from your other children; Feyeaerys pouted, crossing his arms, not liking how his twin—doesn't matter that Tae was only three candles older—was getting all of your attention, »Not fair! Not fair! I wanna have a kiss from papa too!«

»Hey, and what about me? Is a kiss from daddy not good enough?« Jacaerys ask, lips twitching up into a smile, holding in a chuckle, finding his children jealously against each other amusing.

Feyeaerys shook his head, standing up and moving from his position next to his dad, going towards you, »No! Only papa's kiss!« he said, frown—more a cute looking pout—crossing his face and if he could, he would have tackled you into a hug, but he couldn't—not when his younger siblings occupied the spot in your lap—and decided to sit, like Tae, next to you.

»Ouch, Feya, this really does hurt daddys heart,« placing a hand over his heart, feigning in a extravagant manner pain, Jacaerys pouts—a pout, which you often have said looked quite handsome on him.

All of your children had managed to perfectly impersonated Jacaerys pout as well, knowing pretty good—they figured it out on their own—how easily it would make you sway and give in to their wishes.

Heinrich and Sylvain, your youngest—barley a year and few months old—children as of current, huffing as well, pulling at your arm and clothes, needy for wanting your sole attention, cuddles and scenting only for themselves, »Now, now, I have enough kisses for all of you. There's no need to be getting jealous,« you laugh, giving each of your boys a kiss and good round of scenting, till they're satisfied enough.

Jacaerys believes himself to be pretty territorial, when it comes to you, but his children—they're papa boys since the very beginning of their birth—outdo him in that category; there had been plenty moments where he got growled at by his own children, because he was too close to you for their liking.

Tahaerys and Feyeaerys were by far the worst, when it comes to you—there had been a few times, where the twins had decided to sleep in the grand bedroom with you and when Jacaerys—after returning from a long council meeting—wanted to simply join you for sleep, just holding you close, his boys had actually managed to kick him off the bed—snarling their tiny fangs at him, growling and, visibly by the small chimney fire, glaring at him—their own sire—rather nasty, a glare which they have gotten from him.

Whilst Jacaerys find it admirable how protective the twins are of you, he doesn't—when his sons are going to continue with their current behaviour—want to asserting dominance over them and having to do some roughhousing just to make it clear that he's the patriarchal Alpha of the family.

»Can we do something else now?« you ask, not out of particular boredom—despite you probably appearing as if you're bored—but because this nest, which is supposed to be your personal nest, looks so meekly, measly and ugly compared to what you have been told by your tutors and Luke.

Compared to Luke's nest, which he had allowed you to see—and that was also the first time, you even had saw a nest at all—yours looks clumsy cluttered.

Jacaerys shook his head, »No, [Name]. We have to finish this first.« there's a slight sternness in his voice.

»Why?«

»Because, it's an important necessity for you.«

Jacaerys mother and stepfather had told him with enormous emphasis, how important it is for an omega to build their (first) nest—after all, nests are there to be a safe haven for them, a place to ground them and make them feel secure.

»It isn't. I don't want it. I don't need it.« there's annoyance in your voice, face scrunching up into a frown, »I don't need it! I don't need it!« you repeated in frustration, throwing a pillow far away, tears welling up in your eyes—chest heaving heavily with the few deep breaths you had done.

»Hey, hey,« Jacaerys calls softly, crawling towards you and behind you, arms around your waist—pulling you flush against his chest—dipping his head down and nuzzling his nose against your scent gland, before giving you a row of scenting kisses.

Jacaerys could tell you're getting upset and before you're about to throw a tantrum out of frustration, Jacaerys decided ease you into a state of calm before coaxing what's bothering out of you.

»My love, tell me what's wrong. What makes you so upset?«

Feyeaerys gaps, »Papa upset?!« climbing over his dads long legs, pushing them aside to have some space, to stand near you—patting his tiny hands against your face, »Papa! No crying!« he barks it like an order, coping his dad and trying to scent you in comfort as well.

Tahaerys, just like his twin brother, does the same, with the slight difference that his expression was stoic—showing no profusely emotions, he's the more mature twin after all—except for the tiny narrow of his eyes towards his dad, believing his dad was the one who had upset his papa.

»It's just....« you breathed out, huddling Heinrich and Sylvain closer towards you, but your voice cracks already—lips quivering, inhaling sharply as you felt a thick lump in your throat, feeling close to break down any mere second.

»Mhm?« Jacaerys hummed, indicating he listened to whatever you would be telling him.

»Just....how can I be your omega when my nest looks so, so ugly! I don't want to build a nest, when it's always gonna turn out so messy and building them is so exhausting and I don't want to be an omega anymore!« you spilled all your frustration like an open barrel of wine and Jacaerys listens patiently till your finished.

Dear god of the fates above! You thought—it strikes you like lightning into your heart, or resembles how mother would slap you as punishment for misbehaving or doing un-alpha like things—you're an embarrassment, aren't you? How can you be an omega when you couldn't even build a proper nest for your alpha—your mate—to impress him?

Your nest, giving it another glance around, doesn't look messy anymore in your eyes but dirty and unattractive—just like you—and there bubbles shame in you, ready to burn you.

»What are you even saying, my love. Do you hear yourself?« ask Jacaerys, ghosting his lips over your cheek and near the corner of your lips—grazing his fangs softly down your neck and along your claim mark afterwards.

»No! No! You don't understand!« your scent spiked up unpleasantly into a sour note.

Your children flinched, Heinrich and Sylvain sniffing, about to let out a loud whine if it weren't for Jacaerys softly hushing them—pumping out some of pheromones to overpower your own, sour ones and to cease some up building tension—and Tahaerys and Feyeaerys were startled, because never had they heard your yelling like this before.

»[Name].« a tiny growl rumbles escapes through Jacaerys throat, making you instantly whine in submission—turning your head to nuzzle against his face, a tiny lick over his cheek in a gesture of apology—normally, under no circumstances, Jacaerys likes to use such dominance over you, but he had no other choice.

»Now, [Name], I want you to listen to me.« said Jacaerys, »Do you understand?« he ask more forcefully, when you haven't given any kind of response before—and when you nodded, Jacaerys guide your head with his hand so that you're looking into his eyes.

»It's your first nest. It's supposed to look so messy at the beginning and even if all your next nests will be looking like this, messy and clumsy put together, I will always and I repeat, always find your nest the most prettiest perfect one.« Jacaerys pulls you into a kiss, ignoring the grumbling huffs from his children—because he's stealing your attention from them again.

Parting away, to regain breath again, Jacaerys leans his forehead against yours, »And do you know why?« he ask in a whisper.

»No. Why?« you ask back, in the same whisper—nuzzling into Jacaerys hand, which he placed onto your cheek.

»Because you've made it. And I'm so proud of you for trying it, the best you can.«

~~~•~~~

It's been a few years and while the maesters had told Jacaerys, his mother and brother occasionally reminding him, that it would take a bit of time for you to fully recover your inner omega and mental headspace about it, you still weren't adjusting well.

Being an omega stresses you more out than it should and more than often throughout the day, Jacaerys finds himself laying in your nest—still messily and clumsy, but now put together with love instead of just repeating a motion of whats being taught to you, although you still cry out of embarrassment and shame whenever you rebuild or build a new nest in your nest chamber—with you in his arms, your children joining the cuddle sessions most of the time as well, because you don't feeling well enough.

Scenting your children was easy to do—it's something you do without thinking twice about, a primal instinct—but scenting Jacaerys? That was like a battlefield, more than often you had knocked your head against his nose, causing a nosebleed a few times—and whenever you couldn't scent Jacaerys properly, like he does with you, you felt disappointed with yourself.

Jacaerys knew that some nobles of the court were gossiping behind their hands of false smiles about you—scrutinising and judging you about how unfit of a mate you are for him and how you aren't a proper omega—and Jacaerys also knew that you have heard some of these nasty gossips about yourself as well and how it stirs up waves of insecurity in you, bringing you to retire back into your former shell of shyness and hesitation.

Now, Jacaerys does hope, with you being pregnant again—child number five it is, just a few months away till they're born—it will bring a bit of balance to you once more, after all Jacaerys has read that omegas or parental alphas—which are not in sync with their second gender—will get more balanced out, when having more children.

Although, considering how painful it was for you the last time when you had given birth to Sylvain, Jacaerys fears for your health—especially considering, what Cregane is currently telling him.

»I don't understand. Why does [Name] have to stand when giving birth? It sounds very painful.« neither Jacaerys nor the rest of his family had heard of such procedure.

The topic—which Cregane, after having arrived for another visit, had brought up a reminder—of which Jacaerys never had been informed about—to make sure, you won't lay down when giving birth—didn't rose out of total nowhere, but it sounded random if someone would enter amidst such conversation.

»[Name] had been pregnant after the twins and before Heinrich, but because he laid down to give birth, he had lost the child.« explained Cregane, spilling a information which they never got a share of.

»What do you mean, [Name] had been pregnant?! I would have known if this was such truth!«

»How do you know?« ask Rhaenyra, holding Jacaerys back by the cuff of his neck—her son, who snarls in anger and flashing his fangs in a threatening manner—ready to rip Cregane apart—was about to attack his cousin-in-law, only because Cregane knew about such, personally, information first instead of Jacaerys—but she could understand her son, she too would be angry if Daemon was in pain and only someone else instead of her would knew about it.

»The head midwife told me. The maesters told [Name] it was a false pregnancy and I do believe it would be best to keep it this way. Otherwise I fear, my cousin will spiral into a despairing drop.«

»I understand. Could elaborate how laying down is dangerous for a child? That's something I haven't heard of before.«

»In the bloodline of the Rosevales it is. Everyone in the family has to stand during birth and indeed, it is painful, extremely suffering exhausting. Though if otherwise it's an instant and inevitable child loss.«

Mere fifteen year old teens like Tahaerys and Feyeaerys weren't supposed to walk their papa—having your arms around their shoulders, aiding you with walking, while carrying their younger brothers as well—all the way from the garden and into the birthing chamber.

Inside the twins brews a storm of panic, because at first they've thought—when you complained about sharp pains—the baby might have kicked too hard or you've exhaust yourself too much when playing with Heinrich and Sylvain, but when you sat down in the nest—moaning a howl of pain out—and Tahaerys and Feyeaerys saw the puddle of blood, the smell so prominent strong—the younger children letting out whines of discomfort—your sitting it, they knew what it meant.

Tahaerys doesn't even knew what to do, feeling just as panicked and helpless as his brother—who was shushing their younger brothers.

»Feya, take Heinrich and Sylvain and bring them to uncle Luke. Then go and get father.« Tahaerys orders, crawling into the nest next to you.

You howled in pain when another wave of contractions came, whimpering and trying to curl up—heaving out another deep breath—god, are you exhausted, so damn exhausted and all you wanted at this current moment was to just lay down, but Tahaerys keeps nagging not to do so.

»I don't.....i don't wanna stand. Just.....let me lay down, just for minute. I'm tired.«

Laying in bed is so much comfortable than having to stand and you never understood why you always, during every childbirth. had to stand hours longs, whilst everyone else was allowed to lay down.

»No, no, Papa. Please, you gotta have to stand up! Please, c'mon papa, please stand up!« pleads Tahaerys, managing to pull you at least into a seating position once more.

Tahaerys doesn't know the reason behind, why you aren't supposed to lay down—the maesters and midwives never attempted, when he had asked, to explain properly as why you shouldn't—but he knew enough that's not something good for you.

»Jacaerys......« you whimper out, hugging your stomach, bending forward in hopes of lessening the pressure.

It hurts so much, why does it hurt so much again? The last time you had such pain, was when you had given birth to Heinrich and during your two false pregnancies.

Where's Jacaerys? Where's your mate? He's never here, when you need him! Throughout all the childbirths you had given before, Jacaerys was never even once present during these time when you needed him the most and today wouldn't be any different, but you still longed for Jacaerys to be here with you anyway—to hold your hand and giving support, whispering sweetheartly words of reassurance into you hear.

»Dad will be here soon, papa. I promise, just hang in a there a bit more.« Tahaerys didn't knew what to do at all, expect for staying by your side—offering his hand in support and hoping the bit of small pheromones waves he keeps producing, wafting through the room, providing enough familiarity for you not to drop—whilst waiting until Feyeaerys comes back with their Sire.

The door, with a burst of force, swings opens »Tae!« shouts Feyeaerys out of breath,

»Where's.....« Tahaerys waited a second, trying to see a glimpse of his father, but there wasn't any—»where's dad?!« he ask, flinching when you gripped his hand—almost crushing it with how tight you grip is—and letting out another ear piercing mewl.

»Alpha!« you plead out in a moan, all you wanted was Jacaerys.

Feyeaerys was reluctantly to answer—shoulders hunching up, trying to appear a bit smaller than he was—his twin could be quite brooding when something was about to upset him and Tae was also the one, who would snap and snarl first when provoked or angry—»Dad, he doesn't.....he doesn't want to come in...«

»What? Why?!«

»He can't.....something about privacy and uhm....uhm.....« Feyeaerys hum and haw around, kneading his hands into the hem of his shirt—shuffling around, couldn't stand still for a moment, not with how nervous he felt—shyly looking anywhere but at his brother and papa—especially his dear papa, Feyeaerys couldn't stomach the miserable expression and tear filled eyes, his papa probably has by now.

Tahaerys growls, »Feya. Spit it out. Why doesn't want our father want to come in. Tell me. Now!« and Feyeaerys lets out a low whine, craning his neck a bit—showing submission.

»Dad says, it's not.....it's not his place as an alpha to give an omega company during childbirth!« Feyeaerys almost shouts, trembling and on the verge of tears himself—it's too much! His papa being in so much distress and pain, Tae about to rip and snarl something apart—Feyeaerys was about to have his own breakdown by now.

Glancing up at his twin brother, Feyeaerys emits an high pitched sound from his throat—Tae's expression, that deepen scowl and the cold glare—never at Feya himself of course—was just too scary.

Tahaerys roars, »Oh, for fucks sake of the holy!«

Fine. Fine! If his Sire doesn't want to come at his own free will, then Tahaerys will make his father to do so! Because, how dare his father even to let papa bear such pain alone?!

»Feya! You stay here with Papa! I'll go and get our damned Sire!«

»The fuck is your problem?!« Tahaerys, at this moment, doesn't care—he really doesn't—that he might have interrupted in the middle of some conversation or meeting between his father and the rest of the family.

His grandfather clicks his tongue, »Watch your mouth, my grandson.« Daemon reprimanded, displeased with the way of foul language his grandson—next heir to the throne—was speaking.

»I don't fucking care! I want to know why father isn't with papa and what his fucking problem is!«

»Tahaerys. You do not speak like this to any of us.« Jacaerys warns, he too reprimanded his son—giving a stern look.

»Fuck you!« and Tahaerys lungs towards his father, barring his fangs and snarling in threat—when he got held back by his uncle Cregane.

»Tahaerys!« that's his Grandma who shouts his name in absolute disbelief at the behaviour and action he just had committed against his father.

»Woah, hey.« Cregane, still holding his nephew aback from Jacaerys, tries to appease the upcoming situation, »Calm a bit down and tell us what's gotten you so angry, Tae.«

»It's Father. Father got me angry!«

»Why?«

»The fucker knows why!«

»Tahaerys! That's certainly enough!« Rhaenyra grabs her grandson by the nape of his neck, holding him in place—adding a bit of pressure, when Tahaerys snarls again.

The council room reeked of alpha and it's not a smokey scent like chimney fire or strong whiskey, but the kind which resembles iron or burnt flesh and bones—showing just how strong the anger, the taste of aggression is.

»Tae, my boy. We can't be of help, if you don't tell us what's wrong. Calm down first, take a breath if needed and then speak.« says Rhaenyra, only loosing a pinch of her hold on her grandson, »Speaking in civil manner and no more fangs and snarls towards your Sire.« she adds, letting go completely—but still near enough, just as Cregane is, to step in again if needed.

»Why aren't you with papa?« the anger had long blown out of Tahaerys and his question sounded more defeating as if he had given up to argue.

»Your papa isn't due till in a few weeks.« says Jacaerys in a matter of fact, crossing his arms.

»Who told such?«

His grandma answers, »The Maesters.« and his father adds, »Maesters are never wrong.«

»Well,« starts Tahaerys, irritation starting to rise up in him, »than this once, they've informed you all wrong. Papa's due date is now and the puddle of blood he's sitting in, proves that.«

Cregane drew in a sharp breath, looking at his nephew with wide eyes as if he hadn't heard it right, »What? Repeat that. Blood?«

»Yeah, blood. Large puddle and I know papa isn't supposed to lay down and I've tried my best to get him to stand up, but he's so exhausted, I barley had managed to make him sit up at least.« Tahaerys shoulders sacks a bit, feeling drained himself—sure, his father needed to know but at what cost? He had left your side, Feyeaerys with you of course, but Tahaerys had promised to stay with you as well.

Blood (and the fact you're sitting) meant you're about to lose your child, another child, if they don't get one of the maesters and midwives soon—real soon, because the longer they wait, dragging the time out, the more you're suffering in pain.

Cregane swallows, looking at Jacaerys and then, as if the roles are reversed, Cregane starts to snarl, »Why the fuck aren't you at [Name]'s side?! Huh?!« he snaps, face morphing into a sneer—anger radiating off him like grand flame.

»Alphas aren't supposed to accompany their Omegas during childbirth. It's a matter of privacy.« Jacaerys repeats, what he has already told Feyeaerys.

Cregane clench his hands, raising a fist—couldn't believe what bullshit he hears from his brother-in-law, what kind of rule is that even? Who had decided it's a wise idea to leave their, any, omega alone during such a suffering time?

»I'm close to just punch you straight in the face.« Cregane was seething by now, understanding why Tahaerys was so angry moments ago.

»[Name]'s about to lose the baby and you're an asshole for not being there for him, when he needs you the most!«

Jacaerys looks confused for a moment and Cregane swears, he would break Jacaerys nose if he dares to utter one stupid question now.

»Are you that insensitive towards your own mate or just not capable of listening? I highlight two words, sitting and blood.«

Before Jacaerys could answer, Queen Rhaenyra's voice cut thru like a sword into human flesh, »Go.« she orders and when Jacaerys wasn't moving, she repeated it one more time, harsher;

»I said, go! Go to [Name]!« Rhaenyra was disappointed in her son, hugging her grandson close—it's better for Tahaerys to stay here and asking her husband to get Feyeaerys, Heinrich and Sylvain as well.

How could Jacaerys, who she had raised with the mindset to always be there for his Omega, just leave you all alone during such crucial moments?

And why does Jacaerys even believe such old fashioned nonsense about how Alphas aren't supposed to give their support when their Omegas goes through childbirth.

Rhaenyra fears, if Jacaerys has done such through all of your four pregnancies than he would face now a bitter realisation of consequences for his actions.

~~~•~~~

Daemon had gone in first, carrying Feyaerys out—the younger twin and much smaller teen was bawling his eyes out, sobbing into his grandpa shoulder, because he believes his papa was about to die any minute soon—and given Jacaerys a nasty glare.

Jacaerys enters afterwards, almost recoiling backwards from the intense smell of blood and distressed, sharp scented chili and lemon sour, almost foul, pheromones you're given out.

»[Name]?« Jacaerys calls out, uncertainty in his voice as he stepped near towards the nest.

Crouching down, Jacaerys takes in your current state—besides the obvious puddle of blood between your legs, you're drenched wet in sweat and you're shivering tremendously, breathing ragged.

»[Name]?« he asks again, reaching a hand out to touch you and when he barley grazed your skin, he couldn't believe how you flinched back from him as if he's a stranger you doesn't know—or worse, an Alpha you're feeling threatened by.

»....Alpha? Where.....my alpha?« you moan out, pupils dilated—gaze unfocused, out of it

For a moment, Jacaerys thought, you're looking at him, but that wasn't the case—your pupils are dilated, gaze unfocused.

»Please....« you beg, »I want my alpha......Jace....where are you?« you ask—so out of it, that you don't even notice Jacaerys being here, a sob racking through you—a moan of pain leaving your lips—and you let yourself fall onto the side, curling up—closing your eyes.

Jacaerys pales, drew in a sharp inhale of breath—his inner alpha howls in agony and his heart breaks—as he quickly crawls into the nest, moving behind you—his arms going under yours, around your chest—pulling you upwards and close against his chest.

»[Name]?! Hey! Hey, [Name]! Open your eyes, please, c'mon love!« he repeatedly pats your cheek till you let out a whine and bleary opening your eyes again.

What has he done? Oh, by the holy above, just what has he done? He had left you alone, always during such crucial times and now you don't recognise him—as a human and neither his alpha—anymore in your haze of pain,

»Your highness, we had been informed–« one of the Maesters begun, but Jacaerys interrupted him, »Out!« he snaps.

»Pardon, your highness?«

»I said, get out!« a snarl, but the Maesters did not leave, raising an eyebrow—stepping one step forward and Jacaerys snarls again, a warning.

»With all due respect, your highness, but as a Maesters I'm required to–«

»No you aren't! Get out. I want the midwives and only the midwives!« it's an order and the maester, with an grumbling, nods his head—walking out and ordering a guard to get the Midwives.

Jacaerys gently licks over your scent gland, nuzzling you, engulfing you with his pheromones as he holds you close, holding your hand in his—hoping to bring you out of your haze and make you recognise him again.

»I'm here, [Name]. I'm here.« he whispers over and over again, rocking you back and forth—grewing anxiously himself the longer he has to wait for the midwives.

»Jace.....?« you mewl—god, you're mewling and Jacaerys is the sole reason for it.

»Yes, I'm here. [Name], I'm here.« he says and when you let out another pained moan—a small cry, more like a scratching scream, toppling from your lips—as more blood gushes out from below, Jacaerys heart almost lurched itself into a stop, Jacaerys starts to ramble.

Jacaerys felt himself tear up, clenching his eyes shut for a moment—letting his own tears escape and dripping down his cheeks—body trembling and heart aching in emotional pain.

»I'm sorry! I'm so sorry for the pain I've caused you. I'm sorry.«

It's hours laters, the sun has set down into a sunset by now, when the wails of a newborn—mixed with jubilee shouts of joy from the other side of the door—chorused through the castle.

You can't remember much of what happen, besides the gut brutal pain you've felt, but when you heard Jacaerys voice—which you thought to have imagined in your hazed mind—close to you, praising you for doing so well and blessing him another son, you felt happiness flooding through you—letting out a minimal chirp of greeting.«

»Jace, you're here?« you had to ask, couldn't believe it that Jacaerys was really here with you and not just after birth hours afterwards, when you're back in the bedroom to recover.

»I am, my love.« Jacaerys leans down, pressing his lips against your forehead, »And I promise, here and now, with all my heart, I will never leave you alone again during such times.«

You smile, cradling your newborn son close to you, nuzzling your nose gently against his tiny head—he's so precious, of course all your children a precious to you, but he's the most precious one.

Jacaerys too has leaned down to his newborn son, doing the same as you, »How do you wanna name our son?« he ask, looking at you.

»I think....« you pondered for a moment, »Aelexaenrys,«

Jacaerys laughs, »That's a mouthful isn't it?« remembering how you have mispronounced—and butchering up—his own name back than.

»Then his nickname will be, Alexei,« you simply said, smiling even bigger now.

»I like it, it's a wonderful nickname for such a great blessing like our son.«

Ignoring the moment when his four other children had bursted through the door like a hoard of little dragons and being just as loud as them, when they demanded attention from their mother—Jacaerys leans towards your lips, placing a long lasting kiss on them.

»Ijah luvoima [Name].« Jacaerys has practiced hard with Cregane to pronounce these two words in perfections, after all your native language wasn't so easy to learn, but these words Jacaerys wanted to know.

»I love you too, Jace.«

[sunny-mercya]

Book of Oneshots 8

House of the Dragon & Game of Thrones

Jacaerys Velaryon

Breakaway | Male Reader

Jon Snow

Too Much—But Not Your Love | Male Reader

Robb Stark

Vatanim Sensin—Wounded Love

Leonidas Papadopoulos

Between the Words You can't Read—I love you | Male Reader

Medical Series

The Pitt🔏

Dennis Whitaker

Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

Frank Langdon

Jack Abbot

[sunny-mercya]

Between the Words You can't Read—I love you

Leonidas Papadopoulos x Male Reader

Fandom -> Vatanim Sensin—Wounded Love

Masterlist

Leon wished that your family, or even you personally, had told him sooner—either right from the start, when you and him had started dating, or at least after the marriage—about your reading and writing impairment, because if they had than the small argument Leon had with you this morning, wouldn't have happened.

It wasn't even an actual argument, just you trying to explaining yourself—with skimpy excuses—how you accidentally confused sugar with salt again and Leon not believing it, when it's visibly big written label.

And while it has happened quite often before, that you confused sugar with salt—pastries and baked goods had been always the victims of it—this time it was the final drop which broke the camels back.

Leon prefers to drink his first morning coffee—coffee which you always prepare for him in the early hours of dawn—black and freshly brewed, with just a few teaspoons of sugar in it, but when Leon had taken the first sip today, he spit the liquid right back into the mug—face morphing into an expressional mix of furrowed brows and a grimace of disgust.

»My dear, did I have upset you?« Leon had asked, licking over his lips—once, twice—trying to get rid over the unappetising, salty flavour which lays upon them now.

»Not that I'm aware. Why?« turning around from the corner, your own mug of coffee in one hand and in the other a plate filled with crispy fried, smeared butter bread and ham and cheese topping—which you placed onto the table.

»Because,« Leon than had drawled out for an upcoming statement, placing his mug down and pushing it a bit further away, to visually where the problem was, »my, coffee is overly salty.«

Salt in coffee (or any beverage) usually meant that someone—in most cases the spouse or a dearest partner—is upset with their significant other and the amount of salt, from a pinch to more than just a few tablespoons, shows in a direct manner how gravely the cause of upsetness would be.

And Leon did actually racked his brain for a good moment, recalling the best he could the last few weeks, if he—unbeknownst to himself—did actually something to upset you or having forgotten an important holiday, maybe even a planned night out—but Leon came up with the following conclusion, that he hadn't.

»Oh! I'm sorry 'eoni, here take mine than,« you offered him your mug—which had seen much better days, rim chipped and handle almost nonexistent, but there was either not enough money or time to buy a new one—and when Leon took a sip, he grimaced grimly, almost retching, because your coffee was even much more salty than his had been.

Leon wanted to fault the coffee for what occurred next—for the insensitive remarks he had thrown at you and the way he laughed shamelessly, calling you too dumb within the next breath, when you—under upcoming, spilling tears—admitted you couldn't read.

But he couldn't, it's not the fault of mere coffee after all, when Leon's the one who had upset you—although, to a lesser degree you're at faults as well, because if you had been honest from the beginning, it might never would have gone that far.

~~~•~~~

Hours later, it's lunch now and Leon thought about bringing you something to eat—he isn't the best cook, but he definitely could manage sandwiches or something light, like scrambled eggs with ham—but Leon supposed, you might don't want to see him for the rest of the day.

Even if Leon decided to cook something, he wouldn't be able to do so—not when Eliza, your sister, had stormed in and furiously dragged him, from the living room of yours and his separate home—connected by one corridor—into the small library of your parents house.

»You sit and you're gonna listen.« a direct order from Eliza with no greeting or the normal start of smalltalk to dive into a serious cover later on—and Leon listens, does what he's been told

Eliza takes a seat on the second sofa, sighing softly—looking so exhausted now as if she carries a weight too heavy for her own good—»There's another reason, why [Name] always confuses salt with sugar.....but it's a bit of a longer story and I'm not sure if you, my dear brother-in-law, would be willing to still stay with him afterwards.«

»Are you doubting my love for him?« Leon narrowed his eyes, not liking Eliza's tone and her implication that whatever she's about to tell him, would want to make him leave you.

Eliza shrugs her shoulders, »Depends.« she says, »Depends how well you gonna take the truth about us, our origins. I once had a fiancé and when I told him, he broke off our engagement and run away, because he felt, for his high ass standards, embarrassed and disgusted by me. Now, my current fiancé doesn't know as well and I probably won't ever tell him, but [Name] doesn't deserve to be treated like this, when it's not his fault that he can't tell the difference between salt and sugar anymore.«

»So really, it depends.« she repeats once more, examining her fingernails.

»Tell me, but I beg you to differ, I won't leave [Name].«

Eliza raises an eyebrow at Leon, looking at him doubtful, not believing him and his empty promise one bit, because when it comes down to the darkest secrets a person decides to share with someone they trust with all their heart, mankind will always act the same—cowardly and intolerant cruel.

»Well, if you believe so. Suit yourself.« a short pause, then Eliza continues, »[Name] and I are not our parents children. We're adopted.« she stops, wanting to see Leons expression, before she reveals the second part of their origins and robbed heritage.

»Okay and? Some people are, but I don't see how that's a relating issue to [Name]'s writing and reading impairment. Your parents might not be the richest, but they're financially stable enough to have granted him some education, could they not?«

»Then listen further, mr. wannabe soldier, before you run your little mouth into more misery.« she hiss, glaring scornfully at her brother-in-law, because how dare he to accuse her parents of not treating them well, when they did everything they could to make life a bit better for you and her.

Eliza tells Leon, how her parents were only able to adopt them—back then she had been merely fifteen, while [Name] was only ten—because there had been a opportunity, a small thanks goes indeed to some turns of events during the war, to escape from their shackles of slavery.

»Slavery? In a century–«

»Like this?« interrupts Eliza, scoffing, »now, don't get your pants in a twist, just because you can't stomach truths like these.«

»Don't be ridiculous. In times like these, slavery does not exist anymore. Don't spin false narratives to excuse that your parents simply failed to get [Name] proper education.«

Eliza stands up—her once calm presence turns into one of anger, expression morphing into an ugly sneer—she couldn't believe the sheer audacity from her brother-in-law, to dare and paint her as a liar, »Oh,« she laughs, »Oh! You think that's some fairy tale I've just created to have a plausible excuse why my dear, little brother can't neither write nor read, while I on the other hand can? You think it's all a lie?«

She clicked her tongue, »I beg to differ, Mr. first Lieutenant of a turkish army.« mocking Leon, »It's the truth and if you can't handle it, go back to your folk which scarred your husband.«

»What has my former army affiliation to do with all this?« Leon couldn't follow the line of plot anymore, even though he had come clean with his past—how he still consider himself a traitor to the greeks, his own folk and homeland, because he switched to the turkish side during the war—to you and your family, he couldn't understand what this has to do with your issue.

»You having served your loyalty to the turks has everything to do with it! Be glad I never once saw you during one of his grand balls or little parties, otherwise I would have personally shoot you dead!« Eliza had raised her voice by now.

For a while Eliza shouts every possible cuss words, she has learned in her twenty-five years, at Leon and Leon keeps his mouth shut till Eliza had calmed down enough.

»Pardon me, Eliza, but would you please be so kind and elaborate how all this is supposedly, as you claim, faults for [Name]'s educational impairment?« maybe, Leon mused, that was something wrong to say, because Eliza whipped her head towards Leon and starred at him, with wide eyes as if he had grown another head.

»Don't you want to understand or are you just playing clueless?! What, so pray and tell me, is so hard for you to understand Leonidas! Huh?!«

»Eliza. Perhaps you should calm down–«

»Calm down?! Calm down, after you dare to accuse me of lying?! After you dare and say it's our parents fault and of no proper education?! Oh, no, I won't! You find it hard to understand? I will make you understand!«

Eliza retells how you and her had been taken from their former family—perhaps even got sold by them on purpose, something Eliza would never know and she certainly doesn't care anymore—and traded off into slavery to an rich and high ranked officer from the turkish army—and while Eliza had gotten a much better treatment, education and etiquette training, so she could be a potential future bride for his harem, you on the other hand had been treated like trash.

Treated in such a way, that you believed for a long time, your life was meant to be worthless if you're not a good servant and serving your master well.

»And you want to know what they did to [Name], when he had made mistakes? They punished him! And you know how they punished him?« it's a rhetorically question, Eliza asked—not waiting for a response as she's the one, who will give answer—»There was that one time, [Name] accidentally dropped some expensive tea-set and this asshole....this asshole of former master broke both his hands, so [Name] would always remember to never drop something again.« the anger in Eliza's voice is long gone, replaced with sadness now.

Leon never once asked you, why your hands looked so deformed—one of your fingers, you could barely move and another constantly locks itself into a bend position—perhaps, because you never gotten the chance to have them properly healed.

And neither did he question why you always had trouble to hold or carry things for a longer period of time nor why you always would deny his request to help you or the way you getting anxious when your hands starts to tremble—and so he also never once wondered why you had constant wrist aches and cramps, or complained about a pressure like pain in your hands.

Eliza continues her telling, how they burned your tongue with cigarettes—using it like a ashtray—because you dared to talk back once or that one time, a few months before Eliza and you had been able to escape, when you had said something in your former, not the language you and Eliza are speaking now, mother tongue—they turks didn't like that, as they wanted you and her to only speak turkish—and to make their point very clear, in form of another punishment, so that you never dare to utter even one single word in your native language, they smeared something acid like onto your tongue.

»You know,« Eliza adds, after a moment silence to gather her own thoughts, wiping the tears from eyes—which threatens to spill over—she didn't want to cry, not in front of Leon, »it's not only [Name]'s impairment of writing and reading which causes problems for himself and his surroundings, but also the fact that he can't taste a difference between salt or sugar anymore nor any other kind spices, if it isn't something absolutely spicy.«

~~~•~~~

Leon, after going back and entering the bedroom, lays down next to you—the bed seemed to appear way too big and spacious now, for only two people, but maybe that's because you've decided to curl up, like a child trying to protect themselves by appearing smaller and hidden, on the edges—your back was facing him, but Leon takes you into his arms anyways, holding you close.

He knows, despite the late hours of the day—sun has already begun, long ago, to settle down and letting the night morph up into the sky—you're still very much awake.

If you were asleep, your hands—it's something they do on their own, at least Leon had believed that before, but now he doesn't think so anymore—would have been in a tight fist, but they weren't—still uncurled your hands are and you wringing and kneading them for some pain relief.

»Eliza told me.« Leon states, his hand going to yours—holding it tight, thumb rubbing circles into your palm.

»Told you what?«

»Everything.« just one word he said, with no further explanation to it, but that was enough to make you stiff like a board and taking in a sharp inhale of breath.

Now that Leon knows what had happened to you—and while he wished you would have told him sooner, although he could understand why you wouldn't dare to tell anyone, not even him who you trusted with all your heart—he felt even more worse than before, with the way he had reacted.

»My love, I'm sorry I laughed. I shouldn't have and neither should I have called you dumb for something you're not at fault.« underlining his apology, Leon casted kisses along your skin.

Leon turns you around in his arms, bringing your hand—which he holds—up to his lips, placing a gentle kiss onto them, »You're always in pain and I caused you more.« he whispers, »could you forgive me?«

»You staying?« there's hesitation in your voice, a underlying fear in it—a fear that Leon would leave you just like Eliza ex-fiancé had done to her.

»Of course I will stay. Always.«

»Then hold me through the night.«

[sunny-mercya]

Mother Knows Best

Falko von Falkenstein x Theo von Rosenau

Fandom -> None / My own (name tba)

Dedicated to -> @islesantuary & @reallyromealone

Masterlist | Meet the Characters

There are some days, where Falko really has the wish—more like a primitive urge, but such is not becoming with a status like his—to just throttle his dear mother-in-law—because if it weren't for her, his beloved husband wouldn't have such deteriorated critical image of himself.

With a suppressing sigh, Falko watches how Theo—in nothing clad but boxers and an oversized, which had been gifted by their sons during christmas, silly printed shirt—looks at himself in the mirror while testing out which skirt to wear today—skirts, Theo certainly does not have and neither need to wear them like he once used to—since he isn't living with his family anymore—but thanks to Duchess Johanna, Theo once again starts to reverted back into one of these old harmful habits.

»My dearest beloved,« Falko begun, stepping closer to Theo—standing behind him—arms sneaking around his waist, giving a gentle but firm squeeze and Falko, pressing a soft kiss to his husbands cheek—a second morning greeting—before he placed his chin on Theo's shoulder is relieved that Theo hasn't lost anymore weight since the last time.

»what are you doing?« Falko could guess the answer, but he asks anyways,

Through the mirror they looked into each other eyes and for a moment Theo relaxed in Falko's arms, loosen the tight grip on the skirt just bit.

»I can't decide on a skirt to wear today.« there's a hint of dejection in Theo's voice as if not finding todays perfect skirt would cause a misery—and while that's, for someone else, would be something laughable, Falko knew better than to laugh and discard his husbands worries.

»Mhm, i see. And what speaks against pants today? After all you got some lovely pairs in this spacious dresser and some of them makes you look marvellous attractive, my dearest love.« Falko continues to prod with his questioning, still holding Theo close.

Theo plucks out another skirt from the closet—discarding the former one onto the ground as if it was a way too old and used towel—»These pants, they....« his voice trailed off as he holding the next skirt against his lower half for only a few minutes, just to discard them as well and pulling the next one out.

Falko nudges Theo to continue with what he was about to say, raising a brow at the ever more piling mountain of skirts which surrounds around their feet now—at this point and rate, Falko muses in slight amusement—holding his tongue off to tease Theo about it—there won't be any skirts left to wear at all.

A sigh, more like a huff of annoyance, bubbles over Theo's lips—throwing yet another skirt aside, moving up his shirt and taking an, almost scornful—close to critical disgust—glance down at his stomach, moving Falko's arms a bit higher to have a even better look at himself, fingers prodding against his skin and pinching into it.

»I'm getting fatter. My pants don't seem to fit me anymore, like they used to and Mother always says, skirts compliment my body much better anyway.«

Turning Theo around in his arms, Falko leans down and presses a few fleeting kisses along his husbands bare skin—from the neck, to the jawline and onto the cheek, till he reached the lips, »Is that so?« murmurs Falko against them, a mock surprise lays in the whisper.

Ignoring the comment about mother, because in all honesty this woman—which Falko has to, by the Lord above, condolencely call Mother-in-Law—knows, pardon his crude use of words here, absolute bullshit.

Of course would Grand Duchess Johanna say to her own son, that skirts and dresses compliment his body shape much better than pants and shirts would do—but she's also the one, who points first and tells Theo, in such a harmful and ill-mannered way, that he has gained weight.

So please excuse him, when Falko certainly doesn't care about whatever supposedly false fashion talk his mother-in-law babbles about—not when it's only under the pretext to use Theo as an dress-up mannequin for her own twisted—malicious—sense of humour and causing through public appearances, long suffering lasting insecurities for Theo.

Picking Theo up, who lets out a startled yelp—arms flaring up, going around Falko's neck to have something to hold onto—Falko walks towards their bed, letting himself fall backwards onto the mattress and having Theo straddling his lap.

»Then how about,« Falko starts his proposing of idea, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles onto Theo's hips, »after breakfast we do a trip into the city and buy you some new pants?«

»I'm not.....not so hungry« mumbles Theo, face morphing into a frown, his only answer to a question which was not the question being asked—but just the mere mention of having to eat or just a fleeting thought of food, makes his stomach twist painfully into cramps.

There's a pointed look from Falko, »Nonsense my love, you know what the Doctor had ordered. You must eat breakfast.«

Falko was as disciplinary strict as an army captain, when it comes to Theo's diet—not for him to lose, but to gain much more weight than what current little kilos Theo shows on the scale—as he didn't want a repeat of last time, because Falko just couldn't be witness nor feel the emotional pain again, if Theo ever were about to fall back into these deathly behaviours of starving himself into a walking skeleton.

»But what will I wear? I can't go in pyjamas. That would be an insulting embarrassment.« and then Theo starts to babble, like a bubbling spring—which sounds more like a mindless parroting parrot—about how mother was right, she always is—and that's reasonable enough as to why he should start to wear skirts and dresses again, after all these types of clothing are the only ones which doesn't makes him appear ghastly.

»Well,« interrupts Falko, his lips curling up into a teasing smile, »why not? That would be a sight, wouldn't it? If i recall correctly, our boys do occasionally go into the city in only pyjamas.«

Theo gaps dramatically, »Falko!« he says in a chastisement manner, »this is a serious matter!« but there's no bite in Theo's voice, not when he laughs airy.

»Aah! Of course it is, forgive me my prince, would you?« and for a moment there's laughter between them, after all it's just jesting and nothing to consider seriously.

And while their children could mostly dress how they want—they've made sure the upbringing of their own children wasn't as formal and strictly tight as their own had been—Falko and Theo couldn't, not when there's an reputation to their names and noble houses to maintain.

»If you're worrying so much about which skirt to wear, I will pick one out for you.«

»You would do that?« Theo was surprised by his husband offer, Falko is always against the idea of Theo (still) wearing skirts and the occasional old century dresses.

»For you, my love? Certainly.« Falko's hands wanders from Theo's hips to his bare thighs, rubbing them up and down, occasionally grazing his fingers along the skin.

Even though Falko, from the deepest core of his heart, detests it with so much insatiable disapproval, when Theo wears skirts or dresses—and it's not because such types of clothes itself, which Falko hates, but the mere fact that Theo had been forced and beaten into submission to wear them—he would not be an impolite ruffian towards Theo, when he requires help.

»Oh, thank you!« Theo leans down, grazing his husband lips with his own—and Falko, through the kiss, could taste the peppermint once more and while such pastilles are usually meant to freshen the breath—till teeth could be brushed after breakfast—for Falko it's a sign, that Theo starts to curb his hunger.

[sunny-mercya]

Book of Oneshots 7 —

The little Tales & other Stories of my OC's

The Falcon and the Rose

Falko von Falkenstein x Theo von Rosenau

Mother Knows Best

Oh England, My Lionheart

[sunny-mercya]

Pumpkin Pies and Spiced Rum Kisses

Edmund Pevensie x Male Reader

Fandom -> Chronicles of Narnia

Masterlist

Spiced Rum—only the kind with extra double loaded added sweetness of sugar and swirls of honey, maple and cinnamon cream in it or the one with tongue bursting flavour of dates and figs and few drops of orange juice—had always been a rarity to buy—only be sold during the few months of starting mid august, september, october and till the beginning of november—and if someone was lucky enough to still find a bottle or two in the store, it only would ever cost a week's worth loan—and Edmund thankfully got lucky.

It really was pure luck, because Edmund had long given up—even though you still ask him to keep an eye out for these bottles of Rum, whenever he goes to buy groceries—to even be able to get a bottle of Spiced Rum in the first place, not when it always feels like a bawling of fists—actually it resembles more of a pub fight than just a few swinging fists and rips hitting elbows through a crowd—and makes getting groceries like a tedious chore.

The spiced rum, which was being labelled and also orally shortened to Ember Rum, is not meant to be consumed for drinking—I mean you could do that as well, but it really wasn't suitable for it, not with such specific flavours in it—but rather well used in baking and occasionally, depending on the dish, for cooking as well.

The only downside and it's not the price, when buying Ember Rum is that they're absolutely stone fucking heavy to carry all the way back home—the bottle is much rounder, chubbier and close to chunky even, bigger than the average glass bottle and resembling more a jug—given a week's worth of shoulder ache and in the worst case, neck pain even.

The damp air of October, which sweeps through Edmunds jacket and pullover—and although he's currently sweating as he carries the loaded grocery bags and the bottle of ember rum—there's still a grazing, breezy touch on his skin, giving him goosebumps.

October, Edmund muses—lips etching into a small smile, although huffing out a breath as he readjust the heavy load he still has to carry the last few meters till home—is such a wonderful month and while he always would favour the winter months over any other season, Edmund admits that in autumn does lay a certain beauty—it's just, watching how all the colourful leaves would slowly turn in a brown and falling from the tree, emits something pleasant to watch every year anew.

Or perhaps—when the sunset comes by earlier in the late afternoon and nights getting chillier bit by bit—it's simply the coziness, which autumn brings along with its damp weather and foggy mornings and the stark lingering smell of wet, fresh earth, mixed with a whiff of freshly baked goods.

And Edmund couldn't wait to see your surprised face, when he shows you the bottle of ember rum he fortunately was able to buy today, after all it had been so long since you had such rum standing in the kitchen—the last time was when the two of you had been twenty and Peter gifting you a bottle as a welcome home gift for the flat.

~~~•~~~

Stirring todays dinner—a delicious creamy beef stew with pieces of pumpkin, potatoes slices, snippets of carrots and caramelised onions in it—you sighed heavily, only half listening to whats being played on the radio's afternoon program.

It's a shame—you mused in a pity to yourself—it really is, taking a look at the only pinned recipe on the wall next to the stove, that you wouldn't be able to bake the Pumpkin Pie this year, like all the years before, again.

Well, you could bake it anyway, but without ember rum in it, the pie simply wouldn't taste good—leaving more a dragging bland taste on the tongue behind, with only the tiniest hint of pumpkin in it—because ember rum is a secret, though well known, ingredient to really bring out the richness and flavour of a pumpkin pie and without it, it's just a mere pie.

Leaving the pot on a low flame to simmer into a good tasting flavour, you walked out of the kitchen and into the livingroom—switching on the television, skimming through the program and switching it off, when nothing catches you interest.

Laying on the couch, you decided to wait for Edmund and his return from the small grocery trip—to which you had send him off to in the first place, because you craved for a big peanut-butter jar and a batch of butter with roasted corn in it and a few semmels.

A chilly breeze, with a slight dampness—it's only a drizzling of rain—comes through the open window and settles around the livingroom, bringing you to snuggle into the woolly thick blanket and taking a big in- and exhale of the fresh air.

Somehow today, the clock ticking time away—there's a bell dinging, somewhere in between the low humming radio and its songs, signalling the late afternoon—you didn't feel like doing much anymore, not when the sun starts to settle down into a ocean of bursting colours and giving autumn this longing, nostalgic like, feeling of something only the heart itself would know to ache for.

Sure, you still had to set out two bowls and finishing up the stew with a few last added herbs, but this barely counts as something to do—so with that in mind, you made yourself even more comfortable on the sofa, thinking about the movies which would be shown tonight on the television and which of them sounds appealing to watch.

~~~•~~~

When Edmund had, after his third attempt, successfully managed to unlock and open the door, he had been greeted with the strong smell of your—his dinner request for tonight though—homemade beef stew.

Closing the front door shut, Edmund calls out an, »I'm back home!« and making his walk into the kitchen—setting the grocery bags and the heavy bottle, with one swing of heaving breath, onto the counter.

Opening the bottle, thankfully these kind of bottles had an filling valve—because if they didn't, half of the liquid would have been a waste on the floor—Edmund, after getting a cup from the cupboard, pours a tiny amount into it.

Having walked into the livingroom, spotting your cozy form on the sofa, Edmund holds the cup towards you, but you only look up at him.

»Here, take a sip.«

You shook your head, »If it's beer then I declined your request.« a grimace pulls onto your face—beer just wasn't your liked liquor, not in the slightest.

And Edmund feels bold, devilish audacious, taking a sip from the rum itself—letting it lingering inside his mouth a few seconds, before gulping it down—tongue licking over his lips, to let the taste lasting longer, before leaning down and kissing you on the lips.

The cup falls from his grip—landing on the blanket and leaving a seeping spot of rum behind—when you pulled Edmund closer, on top of you, deepen the kiss till the two of you had to gaps for air.

While there's a visible redness on Edmund cheeks, he grins—with a bold smugness—down at you, leaning in towards your lips once more, meeting your lips with his for another kiss and pulling away afterwards, just to place fleeting kisses along your jawline and neck, nibbling onto your skin as if was a sugar cube or turkish delight—and returning once more to your lips, for one final kiss.

»My, my,« you begun, voice low, »how bold from a king like you.« teasing him—and then you sucked in a breath, realising the taste on your lips—which Edmund so shameless had shared with you through a kiss—eyes going wide, not believing that you would ever taste such specific, spiced taste ever again.

»Is that really......?« you didn't dared to end your question, fearing the answer might be a different one than you hoped for.

»One bottle of Ember Rum in our kitchen. A splendid surprise, isn't it?« he laughs as he watches how you tumbling off the sofa, giving him a quick kiss on the lips and jogging into the kitchen.

Getting up from the sofa as well, Edmund closes the window—watching the clouds and dark turning sky, before closing the curtains—thinking if he would be able to convince you to skip dinner and share some more rum filled kisses, preferably in the bedroom and staying in there till the next morning.

Though when Edmund leans onto the doorframe, watching how you rummage through drawers and cabinets to get everything you needed for baking an upcoming Pumpkin Pie—he knew he wouldn't be able to get you out of the kitchen till that Pie is finished.

Although, come to think of it, as Edmund keeps watching you—occasionally being of help during the baking process and in between getting tasked with setting the table and stirring the stew—till you're final finished, getting behind you and sneaking his arms around you—tasting the pie filling directly from your lips—pumpkin pie kisses are much better to enjoy.

[sunny-mercya]

Snowflake Waltz under a soft dim

Tumnus x Reader

Fandom -> Chronicles of Narnia

Requested by -> Anon

Masterlist

You sighed out through your nose, huffing a breath within the next second afterwards as you hauled in another basket of logs into the house—with the front door being opened—you're not finished, far from it, of bringing in the rest amount of good chopped logs inside—the cold breeze started to sweep in, threatening a fight with the ongoing chimney fire.

You felt proud, the egoistical and smug kind, of yourself for chopping wood and providing a furnace warmth for the house—for your husband and yourself—during such cold season.

Even though it's the season of Mistletoe, this years cold, in contrast to the last few ones, was much harsher and bitter lasting—frosting up, like a wild untamed and swirling snowstorm, everything with one single touch of their boney clutches into a frozen, snow clad, land of a mirroring winter wonderland.

Season of Mistletoe was meant to be a joyful month, it had been a blessing gift from Mr. Santa aeons ago, but thanks to the damned White Witch—Queen, as she likes to be called, Jadis—such joyfulness had turned sour, somber muddy—despite the sparkling snow, which reminds of fairy kisses, an beauty in itself, if Jadis hadn't grazed it with falsely gleaming.

Even the festival day of Holly and Poinsettia—which is about to be in less than three nights away—and is meant to be celebrated with the family and loved ones, might turn—no mights, it surely will be, it's obvious just as the delaying spring and summer seasons—into a sour dough day with no joy to celebrate and no love to share.

»Dear, either close the door and stay inside or get the rest of the logs quickly. The chimney is about to be blown out soon.« the soft voice, quiet like a lull, of Tumnus pulls you out from your thoughts.

Your basket of logs slipped from your hands, landing with a thud onto the wooden floor below, like a spooked deer you looked up—blinking owlish—at Tumnus, »Yes! I'm sorry my little lamb, I'll try to finish up as quickly as I can.« sheepishly you rubbed the back of your neck and walking out of the house—returning back to your work.

Tumnus shook his head like a disapproving Faun mother and in this moment, he did silly like felt like one—after all he did told you many times before, every mistletoe seasons—a repeat of the same and same as if your head is flocking out like dear Mrs. Mother Holle pillows—not to leave the front door open, when you're bringing in the logs.

For a moment Tumnus returns back into the kitchen, getting the steaming cups of (f.flavour) tea ready and finishing up the plate filled with pastries goods, before walking into the living room—setting it down onto the table and tending to the fire once more.

Tumnus father—his soul resting in the leaves of the old forrest garden—had once told him in a kind voice of teaching, when he had been a little chubby faun, that a chimney would only radiating off a good and healthy warmth if the chimney is being taken care of with gratitude ans respecting love—so Tumnus tends, very seriously and well, to every chimney fire like how a mother faun would do and care for her children.

»TUMNUS!«

Tumnus, when the front door has been slammed open—letting in much more than a simmering breeze of cold winter—jumped on his hooves, got just a tiny bit, embarrassing tiny, spooked by you and your loud proclaiming of his name.

»Dear.« Tumnus sighed, the fire had gotten out instantly with the second blow of frosty breath, turning to you, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue ready to be said, »The fire–« further with speaking Tumnus couldn't come, yelping out in surprise when you—with a few strides inside—grabbing his hand and pulling him outside into the white landscape.

»Tumtum! Tumtum look!« wildly like a flapping bird you made gestures around you, showing something off to Tumnus, who isn't deciphering aware of what exactly you wanted to show him.

And then, when the first flock of many dances down—like glittering kisses of fairies—in front of his eyes, Tumnus realised what has gotten you excited like a honey bee in the glowing summer.

»Is it really snowing?« there's hesitation in his voice, when he asked timidly for a validation from you.

Although the lands of Narnia resembles a wonderland of winter now, such seasonal change had not come normally as it should this year—within one single night the colourful scenery of autumn had been turned, with a raging blizzard, into the current sight of snowy white.

Normally, if the white witch Jadis isn't fumbling around with mother natures clock and covering the other seasons with her own icy one, the beginning of mistletoe season would be started with the very first snow fall—though since that got skipped over, it's a wonder, with how thick the clouds are being, that a flocking of snow was still possible.

»It really is, Tumnus!« you take his hand once more in your, a smile on your lips, twirling your husband around in the snow.

And for a moment, as Tumnus and you waltzing through the snow—joined by the snowflakes within their own ambience—humming a jolly song in tune together, the cruel frozen winter is being forgotten and all that remains, what really matters in a moment like this, was Tumnus and you—feeling a rush of nostalgia and love, because this glows like a reminder of your first snowy dance with Tumnus and dancing here with him, under snowflakes, is better than any present to be might given to you.

[sunny-mercya]

Air Bubbles

Percy Jackson x Male Reader

Fandom -> Percy Jackson

Unfinished Draft

Masterlist

After getting out of Tartarus, barley alive and body littered with cuts, bruises and a few limps more than just broken—mingled even—Percy had not spoken with anyone, about what had happened down there—in the clutches of void and corrupted darkness.

Percy knew he probably should have, freeing his already clustered mind—which was full from all the stress of being a leader, an role model, from the past events which sometimes—more than once, when he believes to be safe in the comfort of his bed—haunts him in the nights and bringing another wave of troubling emotions over him—but he didn't.

He didn't want to burden the others and after all they had more important matters at hands to do. Silly discussion—trauma dumping is what Mckenzie would've said to be the right term—about his fears and anxious insecurities and all that nagging anger he feels, isn't such a good topic starter during a crisis and mission of saving.

Yet, here he was outside his room—in the middle of night—on the deck of the Argo II, letting the chilly air graze his bare skin—cooling it down as he felt like as if he had a fever, but that was due the body heat he had shared with you just minutes ago—leaning against the railing and talked his mind and chest off to Annabeth. The stars their only witness—or so they thought.

»Do you know how I even survived this?« Percy asked a question Annabeth had been dying to ask, had it on her tip of her tongue—but hold back and now she didn't want to know its answer at all. She shook at head.

»I let [Name] sacrifice himself–«

»Percy–«

»No, no. Let me just talk, please,« Percy begged, sounded desperate to tell this new added Tale of forsaken dooms;

~~~

They had tumbled down the hole, which sucked them in like a vacuum, resembled a Rabbit hole—reminding of the nonsense obscure tale from Alice in Wonderland—which goes deeper and deeper in darkness and something akin to a soul sucking and breathtaking—though not one of adoration and awe—void.

Hitting the hard ground with a thud—[Name] had managed to slow down the fall with his wind abilities—and sliding, more slithering on the moist ground, a few meters ahead—they've received their first sit of new forming bruises.

It wasn't long, but it felt like it—tedious and dragging—till they've reached an fire broiling river. Probably the Phlegethon River. Dropping down next to it, the exhaustion in their bodies had settled instantly in and [Name], after coughing his lungs out—not literally—saw just how badly Percy was looking at the moment.

Percy's skin was blistering with red irritation, itching dots—which already draws blood from the scratching he had done to—body trembling visibly from a invisible coldness, though his skin—when you had touched him—was burning high with a fever.

You wasn't in the best shape either, hadn't been for the past year—you're basically a broken wreck without repairing, which you wouldn't going to admit truthfully—but in this moment, in this situation where you both are practically in the depth's of hell, Percy's health and wellbeing was priority over your own—because you could be easily replaced, Percy not.

Percy groaned in pain, clutching his stomach and you racked your brain for any helpful information Annabeth might have told you during her greek history and mythology lesson—but your brain blanked, till you accidentally dipped your hand into the river.

Yelping out loud, withdrawing your hand—skin so blistering red and stirring with burning pain—quickly out of the river, you halted in the motion. Glancing at Percy first, then back to the river, then towards Percy again—telling him to lay down and open his mouth—and making a rather impulsive decision as you dipped both your hands into the river, cupping the water in your palms and pouring it into Percy's mouth—telling him to swallow and mumbling vaguely about a healing myth—repeating the process three times.

»While we walked along the river, he never have taken a sip himself, waving my worries about him off,«

At some point when you both had ventured deeper through Tartarus, the air to breath had became visible colder—puff of white escaping their mouths—and any intake of breath in their lungs, which would become thinner and thinner, was hurtful.

»If it was hard to breathe, then how?«

»Air bubbles. I, I have zero knowledge about how it works, because that's such as complex as mathematics and physics and science—ya know, but he basically gave me his own breath...«

»

[sunny-mercya]

Christmas Swing

Edmund Pevensie x Male Reader

Fandom -> Chronicles of Narnia

Masterlist

The lyrics of Silent Night with the captivating voice from Frank Sinatra was echoing through the old crackling Radio, adding a final ambiance touch to the following holly jolly season and its minimal Christmas decoration inside the flat.

Even though Edmund—who loved Christmas as much as he loves Turkish-Delights, Tales of Peter Rabbit and you, which could be considered, all together, as lots—wanted to decorate more, overfill the house with all the sorts of decorations and ornaments—be it from the overly kitschy ones, to the common or high quality expensive ones—he had gotten and brought over the last few years.

But Edmund had decided to decorate this year on a minimalist base, out of consideration towards you as he didn't want to overwhelm you—knew all too well what personal vendetta you had against Christmas and the fear—which ever so slowly seems to vanish into a distant memory of moody swings from time to time and sometimes a week—which had broke into your soul like a frostbiting stigma.

So a surprise, a pleasant one, it had been for Edmund to see you—cladded in one of his fluffy thick pullovers—curled up on the sofa, heavyweight blanket covering your legs, while the warmth of the crackling—flame licking—fireplace embraces the livingtoom and being immersed in Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol.

It wasn't like as if you never had celebrated christmas before—you did, back then, in your childhood when everything was still normal in your life—almost considered plain and boring, a simple beauty in its own mundane way—but with how your first experience in Narnia had gone, you opted not to celebrate Christmas anymore at all.

And it warms Edmunds heart, how you tried—with small gestures and steps to coordinate—to get back into the gleam of christmas, a season Edmund loves and means, just like you (and his siblings do) much to him.

»C'mon my woolly sheep, let me have some space as well.« there's a slight tease in Edmunds voice, when he rounds the sofa with two steaming mugs of tea in his hands.

Placing the right side of the book between the space of your index and middle finger—holding it shut with your thumb—you moved from your position of cozy laying into a sitting one, bringing the blankets with you.

Edmund sits down next to you, »You enjoy the story, my love?« he asks, handing you one of the mugs.

»Thanks. Quite yes, so far I like how Scrooge's journey with the ghosts through his past is going.« you told him, marking the pages one handed and closing the book—blowing down on your steaming mug, inhaling the smell of (f.flavour), before taking a sip.

Edmund saw the shivering tremor in your hands, but he couldn't do anything about it, because Narnia—not Narnia itself, but one of its inhabitants—had given you a unpleasant reminder of your first stay in Narnia and no matter the amount of thick huddling warmth you tried to get, you always would feel, during winter, a constant—shivering icy—cold.

»Would you join me later to bake some cookies with me?«

People always—even Edmund siblings had once—assume that you're the one who does the baking and Edmund the cooking, when in reality it's the other way around—Edmund loves to bake and you enjoyed cooking, because in your opinion, cooking—in contrast to baking—requires less work to do and wasn't so messy coded.

»Only if I can decorate them after« you asked almost shyly, leaning your head against Edmunds shoulder.

Decorating, when Edmund asked—every once in a while, during the week or weekend, when Edmund carves for something sweet and has the itch to knead and whisk out his frustrations—if you would join him on his baking trip, was the easiest thing to do and you, with your not so patiently hands—at least when it comes to baking—enjoyed it the most.

Edmund put his arms around you, pulling you more closer to him than you already had been, »Of course you can, my love« gracing the crown of your head with a kiss.

Though with how the coziness starts to settle in—like a fluffy blanket being placed over you and a alluring warmth, which lulls you intoxicating into a dowsy state—neither Edmund and you made any movements to get up anytime soon at all, simply basking in the moments of togetherness.

[sunny-mercya]

Various Gimmicks

Headcanons 🗃️

Miscellaneous bits and pieces

Batfam

Batfam #2 -> My Fancast's

Batfam #3 -> Participating in the Metropolian-Gotham Olympics

Various Characters 🗃️

Souya Kawata

Falling in Love

Bartolomeo

Relationship

Female!Reader

Detective Conan / Case Closed

Shinichi Kudo

Denial and Acceptance | Soulmate AU

Tranquility

Kaito Kid

Hearts Thievery | Soulmate AU