General Synopsis: Sneaking into the grand kitchens under the cover of night, with four children in tow and a baby balanced on your hip, mischief is inevitable. The thrill of it all brings back memories of your own childhood, slipping into the kitchens of Winterfell alongside your brothers. You want your children to have those same stolen, magical moments…even if it means risking trouble. But the adventure comes to an abrupt end when your husbands catch all of you in the middle of devouring freshly made blackberry tarts.
pairing: Husband!Baelor Targaryen x Wife!LS!(fem)reader x Husband!Maekar Targaryen
word count: 9.5k
content: Fluff, lots of it! Sweet family moments, a grumpy Maekar being his usual self, and Baelor as gentle and warm as ever. Slightly suggestive
Writers note: English isn’t my first language, so please excuse any mistakes. This LS! story is loosely connected to my main series, The three headed dragon, feel free to check it out!
Today was an exhausting day.
The Red Keep was packed with guests, visitors and courtiers from all over Westeros in preparation for the King and Queen's wedding anniversary, now only four days away. Everyone was stretched thin and fraying at the edges, desperate for the day to go perfectly.
You couldn't remember the last time you had felt this bone-deep tired, perhaps the birth of baby Aemon, not even six months ago. That had been exhausting in a different way, more than your previous births.
Thankfully, both your husbands had been as supportive as always, but still.
There was a six-month-old Aemon who demanded your full and constant attention.
There was Aerion, who followed you everywhere like a small, extremely confident shadow.
There was Matarys, who always had something to show you and dragged you everywhere, trying to outbest Aerion in that regard.
And then there were your eldest, Valarr and Daeron, who were at that age where their fathers had become the whole world, gone before you'd finished your morning tea, swallowed up by training yards and council antechambers and whatever else their fathers deemed important for the making of men. You were proud of them. You also hadn't seen them since breakfast, and you missed them with a dull, quiet ache you hadn't quite expected motherhood to produce.
You stood near the window of your shared chambers, little Aemon cradled in your arms, bouncing him gently in the way that seemed to please him.
He squealed and you looked down at his round, cherubic face, wrapped in soft northern linen, a gift from Benjen and his wife, pale blue and so light that the southern heat wouldn't trouble him and felt the tired loosen slightly in your chest.
His small arms reached toward your face and you caught both his little hands and pressed them against your cheek, kissing them. He squealed again.
The chamber doors opened and Aerion strutted in, his short hair bouncing with each step, the full weight of his nearly six years of life behind him. He moved like he owned the palace.
"Aerion, my sweetling, what did I tell you about knocking?"
"I know, mother, but I had to show you something." He opened his cupped hands. Inside sat a beetle, its shell a deep, jewel-bright blue.
"Aerion."
"I know you said no insects inside." He looked up at you, utterly unrepentant. "But it looked very pretty. Like a dragon scale."
"My sweet little pup." You looked at the beetle seriously, giving it its due.
"I am very impressed with your find." Aemon squealed upon hearing his brother's voice and stretched his chubby hands toward him, grasping at air.
"Look, mother, even Aem thinks it's a dragon scale."
Aerion stepped closer and held the beetle up toward Aemon's face. Aemon went very still for a moment, studying it and then squealed so enthusiastically that you had to tighten your hold on him.
You shook your head softly.
"Aerion, my sweetling, put the beetle back outside before your father sees it." You fixed him with the look.
Aerion pouted magnificently. It was a Targaryen pout, you had decided long ago. No Stark had ever looked quite so aggrieved at being told no. "But mother—"
"Outside. Now. And gently, it hasn't done anything wrong."
The pout deepened, but Aerion cupped the beetle carefully and shuffled back toward the door. He pulled the door shut behind him with a decisive little click, not quite a slam, but close enough to make his feelings known.
Aemon made a sharp, displeased sound at his brother's retreat and you bounced him once, twice.
"He'll be back," you promised. "He always comes back."
Aemon did not seem convinced. His little face scrunched magnificently.
The chamber settled into quiet then, briefly, the way it only ever did in the stolen moments between one small disaster and the next. You pressed your lips to Aemon’s temple and breathed in the warm milk-and-soap smell of him.
"Your brothers cause so much trouble, little one," you whispered.
Aemon cooed softly in response, and you turned to look out at the afternoon sun, burning bright and golden over King's Landing the way it never quite did up north.
The gardens were visible from your shared chambers, and you watched a procession of courtiers and planners making their way along the paths below.
At their head walked Baelor, composed, calm, every inch the prince with Valarr close beside him, eagerly drinking in every word. Daeron walked to his left, and even from this height you could tell he was somewhat less enraptured with the proceedings.
Baelor stopped and gestured toward a cluster of trees, said something, and walked on. Then one of the planners stopped in front of the weirwood tree, the one both your husbands had gifted you on your wedding day, still small and slender, but its leaves already red as fresh blood and lingered there a moment too long.
Baelor turned back and shook his head with quiet, unmistakable disapproval. Both your sons fixed the man with identical glares before falling back into step behind their father.
You laughed softly to yourself.
Then, as though you had somehow sensed it coming, the chamber doors flew open and Matarys and Aerion crashed through them, hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs, Aerion's fist knotted in Matarys's dark hair and Matarys's fingers digging into his cheeks, both of them shrieking at each other in High Valyrian.
A chambermaid stumbled in after them, flushed and desperate, and dropped into a curtsy while simultaneously attempting to pull them apart.
"Y-Your Grace, I am so sorry, they were, I couldn't— "
Your sons continued to brawl on the floor, indifferent to her efforts. You caught fragments between the screaming, you put that in my hair and other things rather less fit for polite company.
You looked at them and looked at Aemon, who was watching the chaos with wide, violet fascinated eyes.
I wonder how mother put up with my brothers and me.
"Boys," you said. Softly. Evenly.
They stopped.
Matarys's dark hair stood in every direction, his nails were dirty, and his robes were half pulled from his shoulder.
Aerion had scratch marks across one cheek and looked no better.
They both stared up at you from the floor with the particular expression of children recalibrating very quickly.
You said nothing. You simply looked at them.
"What happened?" you asked, when the silence had done its work.
Matarys scrambled upright and immediately levelled a finger at Aerion, who was gingerly patting his scratched cheek. "He put the beetle in my hair. He knows I don't like them."
"Matarys was being mean to me first! He made fun of me for catching it."
"He's lying!"
"He's lying!"
You sighed, quietly, to yourself. Aemon had begun to fuss at the screaming, his small face crumpling with displeasure, and you gestured the chambermaid over and settled him carefully into her arms. Then you crossed to your boys, crouched down, and let your linen dress pool around you on the floor.
"Boys."
They both turned away from each other simultaneously, arms crossed, chins lifted, pouting in a way that was so perfectly matched it almost made you smile.
You waited.
The silence stretched. And then as it always did when you simply stayed close and said nothing, the argument began to lose its shape. Aerion slid a sideways glance at his brother. Matarys kept his chin up a moment longer, then let it drop.
"I did not mean to put it in your hair," Aerion muttered, grudgingly, at the floor.
Matarys considered this with great seriousness.
"You still did. But I accept your apology."
He extended his arm, and Aerion grabbed it, and they performed the northern clasp with all the solemn ceremony of men three times their age. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
They had watched your brothers do it so many times, and they had never once done it without looking deeply, earnestly proud of themselves for knowing how.
You looked at them both and felt something soft and tired move through your chest.
"The last few weeks have been very hard on everyone," you said gently. "I am sorry, my sweetlings, that I haven't had more time for you."
They both turned to you with identical expressions of outrage, as though you had said something deeply unreasonable.
"Mother—" Aerion began.
"Don't be silly—" said Matarys at the same moment.
And then Aerion's arms were around your neck, warm and a little too tight, and Matarys piled on top of him a second later, and the three of you swayed together on the floor in a heap of rumpled linen and unwashed little boy smell, and you held them both as tightly as you could and breathed them in.
"You are the best mother," Aerion announced into your shoulder, with great authority.
"The very best," Matarys agreed. "Better than anyone else's."
"You haven't met anyone else's mother," you pointed out.
"Doesn't matter," said Matarys firmly. "I know."
You laughed then, quietly, your face pressed into the tangle of their hair, one silver-pale, one dark and for a moment the exhaustion lifted just enough to let the warmth underneath it show.
Then you became aware of a presence in the doorway.
Maekar stood there , in his dark robes, watching the three of you with an expression that was something close to tender.
By the time Aerion and Matarys noticed him and scrambled upright, straightening their backs with the automatic posture of boys who knew better than to slouch in front of their father, it had already settled back into its usual strictness.
"I wondered where the two of you had gone," he said, his eyes moving over them both with the calm, unhurried assessment of a man cataloguing exactly how dishevelled his sons had managed to become since he last saw them.
"I lost you in the gardens."
He crossed the room and took your arm and drew you to your feet with a firmness that allowed no argument. "And do not kneel on the cold floor," he added, directing this at the boys rather than you, his tone making it very clear whose fault your kneeling had been.
Aerion and Matarys looked down.
"Husband," you said mildly. "They were simply keeping us company." You nodded toward the chambermaid, where Aemon had spotted his father and erupted into immediate, happy chaos, both arms outstretched, grabbing fistfuls of air trying to reach him.
Maekar looked at him, something in his expression shifted, that same softening, there and gone, like light moving across water.
He lifted Aemon from the chambermaid's arms without ceremony and settled him against his chest, and Aemon immediately seized his beard with both hands and pulled at it.
"Their septa could not find them this afternoon," he said, looking at you. "Apparently they missed their lessons."
You turned to your sons slowly.
Matarys and Aerion were both suddenly discovering something very fascinating about the pattern on the floor.
"You had lessons today?" You let the words sit for a moment.
"No wonder the two of you have been causing mischief since midmorning." You shook your head, pressing your lips together to keep the smile from showing.
"What do you have to say for yourselves?"
Aerion looked up with the expression of someone assembling a very reasonable explanation. Matarys, wiser, said nothing at all.
"We were going to go," Aerion tried. "We simply... forgot. Briefly."
"Briefly," Matarys confirmed.
Maekar looked at them over the top of Aemon’s head, and the look alone was enough. They both straightened another inch.
"You will apologize to your septa in the morning," Maekar said, "And you will attend every lesson this week without fail."
"Yes, father," they said, in unison, with the particular tone of boys who were very relieved not to have received a worse verdict.
You caught Maekar's eye over their heads. He said nothing. But there it was again, that brief, quiet softening and you knew it for what it was. You turned away before he could see you smile.
"Now. Return to the library." His voice dropped half a register. "Or I will take you there myself."
They nodded, inclined their heads with the hasty propriety of children who had pushed their luck far enough for one afternoon, and fled. Maekar watched them go, then turned to the chambermaid. "See that they arrive."
She curtsied and followed without a word, pulling the door shut behind her.
The chamber settled into quiet again. Maekar turned back to you, Aemon still bundled against his chest, and the baby celebrated his father's full attention by lifting both hands and patting Maekar's jaw with the confident imprecision of someone who had not yet mastered the difference between a pat and a slap.
Maekar did not so much as blink. After four children, you suspected very little could rattle him physically anymore.
He studied your face with the same attention he gave everything.
"You look tired. Have you seen the maester today?"
"I don't feel unwell enough to trouble him."
He made a low sound in his throat and reached out to tilt your chin, turning your face one way and the other, closely examining you. "If you will not go to him, I will bring him here."
"That is completely unnecessary—"
"Then go to him."
"Maekar—"
"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known."
"You say that as though it surprises you still." You laughed softly and stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest, careful of Aemon between you. You could feel the steady warmth of him through the fabric.
"You worry too much."
"I will always worry." He said it the way he said most true things, plainly, without decoration, as though it were simply a fact of the world.
You tilted your head and looked up at him. "I remember a time when you told me you would never love me." You let that sit for a moment. "And now look at us. Five children. Two husbands who cannot seem to let me out of their sight for more than an hour."
"We have obligations to you," he said. "It is our duty to—"
"The last time you told me it was merely duty," you said, dropping your voice, "little Aemon was born."
The tips of his ears went red.
You remembered that afternoon in vivid detail. The solar of the Hand of the King, the late light coming gold through the narrow windows, both your husbands with their careful composure thoroughly dismantled, and you pressed between them with absolutely no complaints about your circumstances.
Aemon was very much a testament to how little duty had to do with it.
Aemon blissfully unaware of the subtext, slapped his father's chin again and cooed with satisfaction.
Maekar's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "See the maester tomorrow," he said, his voice returned to its usual steadiness, "and I will stop fussing."
"You will never stop."
He said nothing to that, which was as good as an admission.
He turned and carried Aemon to the crib at the foot of the bed, settling him down with a gentleness entirely at odds with the rest of him, and drew a soft linen blanket over the baby's small, round body.
Aemon blinked up at his father and decided this was acceptable.
Maekar straightened and turned back to you. "Rest. And if he gives you trouble," a small tilt of his head toward the crib, "call your lady-in-waiting. You are no use to anyone if you run yourself into the ground."
"How very romantic," you said.
The look he gave you was deeply unimpressed. Then he crossed to you, tipped your chin back with two fingers, and kissed you, deep and passionate. You sighed into it and brought your hands to his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the soft scratch of his silvery beard beneath your fingertips.
He pulled back. Pressed his lips once to your temple, firm and brief. And then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
You stood in the warm afternoon light for a moment, your fingers still resting at your lips, and smiled to yourself like a complete fool.
The sun set quickly after that. Little Aemon fell into a deep sleep, and you used what remained of the afternoon working through a considerable pile of letters from the northern houses. Questions about grain stores, disputes over borders, requests for guidance that only you could answer in the particular way they needed answering. The north had not forgotten you were theirs, and you had not forgotten either.
Your lady-in-waiting helped you dress as the last of the light left the sky, easing you into your nightgown. A gift from a Lyseni merchant, silk so soft it felt like cool water against your skin, in a deep, warm red that pooled around your feet when you stood.
You had settled back at the writing desk with the last of the letters when a knock came, and Baelor stepped in. He had changed from his day clothes, his beard freshly trimmed, dark red robes falling neatly around him, and he looked at you the way he always looked at you, like finding you in a room was the best part of whatever he'd been doing before.
He crossed to you and pressed a kiss to your hand with a small, courtly little bow that was entirely sincere and entirely him.
"My love." He dropped into the chair across from you, "How are you faring? Maekar said you felt unwell."
You gave him a look. "Maekar decided I looked unwell. The conclusion was entirely his own."
Baelor smiled, warm and slow. "Ah." He reached across and plucked one of the letters from the pile, turning it over idly. "So you are well."
"I am tired. There is a difference."
“Hmm.” He didn’t comment further, but you immediately sensed the same worry your other husband shows, only softer, more gentle in its expression.
He set the letter down and leaned back, watching you with that particular fond attention of his.
"I heard a whisper this afternoon. From several very curious sources." He folded his hands. "That Aerion and Matarys were seen causing what might generously be described as a scene somewhere in the east wing."
"They argued over a beetle," you said, without looking up from your letter.
A pause. "A beetle."
"Aerion caught one. It was, admittedly, very beautiful. He put it in Matarys's hair. Matarys took issue with this." You set down your quill. "By the time they reached me they had already conducted a full trial by combat on the floor of my chambers."
Baelor pressed his lips together very firmly.
"And what became of the beetle?"
"Released, unharmed. Aerion was very careful about that part, at least." You shook your head, but you were smiling.
"He is so rough and then so gentle, that boy. I never quite know which one I am getting."
"He takes after you," Baelor said.
"Everyone keeps saying that." You gave him a look. "He takes after Maekar in that regard and you know it."
Baelor smiled and said nothing, which meant he agreed entirely.
He stood then, unhurried, and crossed to the crib at the foot of the bed. He stood over it quietly, watching Aemon sleep, the small chest rising and falling, the baby's lips slightly parted, one fist curled loosely beside his cheek.
Baelor's face in profile was still and unguarded, that particular proud softness he never tried to hide the way Maekar did.
You watched him for a moment. Then you stood up and went to him slipping your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He covered your hands with his without looking away from the crib.
After a while he turned, and took your face in both his hands, his mismatched eyes warm, the way they always were when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else either of you needed to be.
"Has he been giving you trouble?"
"Never," you said honestly. "He is the easiest of all of them."
"Don't tell the others that."
"I would never."
Baelor kissed gently the tip of your nose. Then he drew you close, tucking your head against his chest, your hand pressed flat over his heartbeat.
"How have Valarr and Daeron been faring?" you asked against his chest. "These past weeks must have been a great deal for them."
"They have been exceptional," Baelor said, and you could hear the quiet pride in it, "Better than I expected, if I am honest. Valarr has taken to everything with that terrifying focus of his. He asked questions today that made two of the council's planners look at their feet." A warmth crept into his voice. "I was very proud of him."
"He gets that from you," you said.
"He does," Baelor agreed easily. "And the charm he uses to soften it, that is yours."
You smiled against his chest. "And Daeron?"
Baelor was quiet for a moment, "Daeron keeps pace. He always keeps pace. But he is quieter than usual these past days." A pause. "His headaches have been troubling him lately but he does not speak to me about it. "
You lifted your head to look at him. "You noticed too."
"I notice everything about our children," he said simply. "I simply don't always say so."
You held his gaze for a moment, something settling between you, that quite understanding that didn't need words, the kind that came from years of watching the same people and loving them the same way.
You opened your mouth to answer but was interrupted by the chamber door opening.
Maekar came in like a weather front, already unbuckling his doublet, muttering something under his breath.
He shed the doublet, then his outer shirt, until he stood in only his linen shirt and trousers, and ran a hand through his silver hair with the expression of a man who had spent the last several hours in the company of people he found profoundly trying.
"Absolute bloody fools, the lot of them—"
"Brother." Baelor's voice was perfectly pleasant. "Trouble seems to follow you as well this evening?"
"Shut it, Baelor. I didn't ask." Maekar crossed toward the hearth, paused, and looked at it with an expression of fresh outrage. "And which one of these useless servants—"
"Maekar." You stepped forward, your voice firm, "Aemon is asleep."
He stopped. Looked at the crib. Looked back at the hearth. The outrage didn't leave his face entirely but it compressed itself, folded down into something more manageable. He crouched and began building up the fire himself.
A beat of quiet. Then his eyes landed on your writing desk, and the considerable stack of letters still waiting there.
"Seven hells," he said, with feeling, though quieter now. "I will personally write to every one of these lordlings and explain, in plain terms, that you are not their personal—"
"Maekar," you said again.
He pressed his mouth shut. The look on his face suggested the letter-writing remained very much on the table.
Baelor caught your eye from across the room. His expression was one of deep, barely contained amusement. You pointed at him once in warning and he looked immediately at the ceiling.
You shook your head at the both of them and crossed to the bed, pulling back the covers and settling in with the particular relief of someone whose body had been waiting for this moment since approximately midmorning.
You pulled the blankets up to your chin and watched them from the pillows. Baelor had taken the chair by the fire, one leg crossed over the other, perfectly at ease, a letter from your desk open in his hand. Maekar was still standing, because Maekar always needed several more minutes of being upright and aggrieved before he could contemplate sitting down.
"Do you know what one of them asked me today." It was not a question.
"I imagine I'm about to," Baelor said, without looking up from the letter.
"Whether Aemon could be dressed in red lamé and placed in a basket." A pause that contained multitudes. "To look like a dragon egg."
Baelor lowered the letter.
"I nearly relieved him of his head on the spot," Maekar continued, with the tone of a man who considered this response entirely proportionate.
"That does sound like something Desmor would suggest," Baelor said, after a moment. "That man has always had a weakness for the theatrical." He folded the letter and set it down. "Though I will say, in fairness, that Aemon is round enough to pass."
"We are talking about our son, Baelor."
"Yes, I know. I'm simply saying—"
"Not a decoration."
"Agreed. Completely agreed." Baelor pressed his lips together in a way that suggested he did not entirely disagree with the visual, but had the good sense not to say so.
Maekar resumed pacing. A full circuit of the room, then half of another. Then Baelor spoke again, his voice dropping to something more measured.
"I was asked today by one of the planners whether the weirwood tree could be moved." He let that sit for a moment. "Aesthetically inconsistent with the rest of the arrangements, apparently."
Maekar stopped pacing.
"I will personally relocate his hands," he said, "if he goes anywhere near that tree." Maekar spat.
"I thought something similar." Baelor's voice was mild. "I told him it was not open for discussion." A beat. "Valarr, for his part, found the man in council this afternoon and embarrassed him rather thoroughly in front of the others."
Maekar's expression shifted, the hard lines of it easing into something that was not quite a smile but was adjacent to one. A short exhale through his nose. "Good boy."
"Very good," Baelor agreed, and there was real warmth in it.
Maekar finally dropped into the chair across from Baelor with the heaviness of a man setting down something he had been carrying since dawn. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Have you spoken to Merser about the seating arrangements?"
"Not yet."
"Half the lords are refusing to sit within ten feet of the other half. It landed on my desk this morning as though I have nothing better to do than arbitrate the wounded pride of men who cannot manage a banquet without supervision." He leaned back. "I told them to sit down and be grateful for the invitation."
Baelor considered this. "How was that received?"
"Poorly."
"Mm."
"Baelor, these people have been in this Keep for four days." Maekar looked at him with complete seriousness. "I have aged four years."
"You look the same to me," you offered from the pillows.
They both looked at you.
"You are supposed to be resting," Maekar said.
"I am resting. I am resting and listening. It is entirely possible to do both."
He made a sound that communicated his position on this without requiring any further words. Baelor looked back at the fire, the corner of his mouth tucked in with quiet amusement.
They kept talking for a while after that. Maekar listed all the annoying things that had happened to him that day, and Baelor listened with his usual calm patience, occasionally offering a dry observation that made Maekar's mouth do that thing it did when he was trying not to find something funny.
At some point the fire became embers.
Baelor set aside the last of the letters. Maekar rolled his shoulders and both stood up.
They went to the crib first. You watched them from the pillows, this thing they did every night without discussion or ceremony, each of them leaning over to press a kiss to Aemon's small head, careful not to wake him.
Maekar straightened and looked down at the baby for a moment longer before stepping away. Baelor tucked the corner of the blanket back with two gentle fingers.
Then they came to bed.
Maekar settled in front of you, solid and warm. Baelor curved in behind you, and for a moment you were simply aware of being entirely enclosed, the warmth of them on both sides pressing out the last of the noise and the endless weight of the day.
Maekar said something low and indistinct. Baelor made a sound of agreement.
Then Baelor's hand settled over your hip, his fingers drawing slow, idle circles against the silk of your nightgown. He pressed his lips once to the back of your neck, warm and unhurried.
Maekar found your hand beneath the blankets and lifted it, kissed your knuckles, and tucked it back down again, his fingers loosely threaded through yours.
Both of them stilled.
"Goodnight," Baelor murmured.
You closed your eyes and let the warmth of them pull you under.
You surfaced from sleep gradually, pulled up from the dark by something quieter than sound. A moment passed before you understood what had woken you.
Then you heard it.
The small, fussy catch of Aemon's breath from the crib at the foot of the bed, not yet a cry but heading there.
You were already moving before you were fully awake.
Both your husbands hands were on you, you noticed it as you began to stir. Maekar's hand lay heavy across your stomach, and Baelor's rested just below it, their fingers nearly touching. As though even in sleep the two of them had known you might try to leave and had unconsciously, decided against it.
You smiled in the dark and began the careful work of extracting yourself.
Maekar had rolled onto his stomach at some point in the night, one arm flung wide, his face pressed into the pillow, breathing with the deep, slightly aggrieved cadence of a man who even in sleep managed to be annoyed. You lifted his hand by the wrist, slow and deliberate, and set it gently down against the mattress. He didn't stir.
Baelor had stayed exactly as he'd fallen asleep, on his side, his expression smoothed into something younger and unguarded. His hand you moved with equal care, and he made a small sound, his brow creasing briefly before releasing. You held your breath. He settled.
You slipped out from between them, bare feet finding the cool floor, and stood for a moment in the dark making sure neither of them had woken.
Maekar snored once, softly and with heavy breath, you moved to the crib.
Aemon's eyes were open and fixed on the dark as if he was searching something, his mouth was working.
Another few moments and he would have announced himself properly, but for now he only looked up at you as you leaned over him, and his whole small body seemed to relax at the familiar shape of you against the dark. He smiled at the sight of your face and softly cooed.
"Hello, little one," you breathed. "I heard you."
You lifted him with effortless care, settling his small weight into the crook of your arm before lowering yourself into the chair by the window.
When you loosened your gown, he latched at once at your breast and the quiet rhythm of his feeding filled the room.
Your gaze drifted upward, past the glass, to the sky beyond. It was impossibly clear, one of those deep, breathless hours of night when the world seemed to pause, when even the city surrendered its noise.
Nothing stood between you and the stars. They burned sharp and steady, scattered across the dark like something eternal and watchful.
And just like that, you were thinking of Winterfell, of home.
The cold came first, not just the bite of it, but the way it settled into stone and bone alike. Grey walls rising stark against the sky. In winter, sound behaved differently there, softened and drawn close, as though the castle itself were holding its breath. You could almost walk those halls again; the vast stretch of the Great Hall, the quiet hush of the godswood, the warm, waking scents that drifted from the kitchens at dawn.
You saw your mother in motion as she passed through torchlit corridors. Heard your father before you ever saw him, his heavy steps echoing through the stone, as if the walls themselves knew him and answered back.
You had been five, perhaps.
Benjen eight, already carrying himself with a kind of quiet responsibility. Rickon seven and utterly chaotic in all matters. It had been his idea, of course. He’d shaken you awake in the middle of the night, finger pressed to his lips, eyes alight with the fierce excitement of a plan long decided.
The kitchens, he had mouthed. Old Nan made blackberry tarts today. I saw them.
You had been out of bed before he’d finished.
At night, the kitchens felt cavernous, strange and unfamiliar, swallowed in shadow in a way they never were by day, when they roared with heat and voices. The three of you had paused in the doorway, small and silent, simply staring into the darkened space as if you’d crossed into something sacred.
Then Benjen spotted them, the tarts, set out along the long table, hidden beneath a cloth and that was the end of hesitation.
You’d eaten them sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. By the second, Rickon’s face was stained deep with blackberry juice, his triumph as vivid as the mess. Benjen had tried, with grave seriousness, to portion them out evenly, calculating what could be taken without notice. And you had eaten yours slowly, carefully, stretching each bite for as long as you could. You always did, when you loved something.
The stone had been bitterly cold beneath you. The air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and sugar. And you had felt it then, with the fierce, unquestioning certainty only children possess, that this was one of the best nights of your life.
Your father had known, of course. He always did.
He said nothing the next morning. Only looked, across the breakfast table, at Rickon’s still-stained mouth with an expression of deep, enduring patience.
Benjen had bent over his porridge.
And you had found the ceiling endlessly fascinating.
Aemon’s suckling slowed, softened, until it became little more than a drowsy rhythm. You looked down at him, eyes fully closed now, his cheek warm and heavy against your arm, the small fist at your breast finally loosening, uncurling. Something in your chest shifted, slow and deep, a warmth that settled and stayed.
You bent your head and pressed your lips to his hair, breathing him in.
And then a thought rose, clear and sudden.
A memory from only a few days past. A kitchen maid, flour on her hands, curiosity bright in her voice:
“My lady, why blackberry tarts specifically?”
“There will be many northern lords present. Blackberries are something of a delicacy in the North. Hardy fruit. They thrive in the cold.”
Your gaze lifted, drifting to the bed where your husbands slept, two shadowed forms, their breathing slow and even in the dark. Then back to Aemon.
Half-asleep as he was, he seemed determined not to be entirely forgotten. A faint shift, a soft sound, as though he sensed your attention slipping.
The corners of your mouth curved.
“What do you say, little one,” you murmured, voice barely more than breath. “Shall we go and find your brothers?”
Aemon blinked, slow, uncertain, but present.
You gathered him closer, snug against your arm, then reached for the robe draped over the chair by the door. The fabric whispered as you pulled it on. Carefully, quietly, you eased the chamber door open.
The guards outside startled.
One of them actually stepped back.
“Y—Your Grace.” The taller recovered first, though his voice came out a touch too loud for the hour.
You lifted a finger to your lips and inclined your head toward the chamber behind you.
Both men stiffened at once, voices dropping to urgent whispers.
Their eyes flickered downward and then snapped resolutely upward again, fixing somewhere far above your head with the rigid concentration of men who valued their continued existence.
You suspected, with amusement, that if either of your husbands stepped out now and found their guards looking at you, there would be fewer guards come morning.
“My lady,” the shorter one said carefully, gaze anchored above your left shoulder, “where are you going?”
“I need to walk a little. Stretch my legs.” You shifted Aemon lightly on your hip, offering a pleasant, untroubled smile.
They exchanged a look.
“We cannot leave you unguarded. If either of the Princes were to—”
“I order you to remain at this door,” you said, gently but with a finality that had stilled council chambers. “If anything happens, I will scream. You will hear me well enough.”
Another glance passed between them. A conversation entire in its silence.
And then you turned the corner, moving just quickly enough that neither could gather a proper objection before you were gone.
You made your way down the long corridor, your steps soundless against the stone. Aemon gave a soft, pleased coo, catching your finger in his small hand and promptly guiding it to his mouth when you brushed his chubby cheek. You huffed a quiet breath of laughter and let him have it.
The keep slept around you. Tapestries loomed in shadow, doorways dark and still, the air cool against your bare feet as you passed.
At the first door, you paused.
The guards there reacted much the same as your own, startled, eyes widening before darting anywhere but at you once they registered the nightgown. You lifted a hand at once: stay, quiet, not a word. They obeyed without hesitation.
You slipped inside.
Valarr’s chamber was exactly as it always had been, orderly, composed, every detail in its proper place. Even when he was very young, he had kept his space this way. You had always found something quietly endearing in that.
He was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face, dark hair loose across the pillow. That single strand of silver lay against his temple, catching what little light there was.
You crossed the room and rested your hand lightly on his shoulder.
He woke slowly, gently, as though rising through water rather than being pulled from sleep.
He blinked once, then focused on you, taking in the robe, his little brother, the hour. His mismatched eyes, so like his father’s, the very thing that had made half the court catch its breath at his birth, were soft with sleep, warm and steady.
“Mother… is everything all right?”
“Everyone is perfectly well,” you murmured, smiling. “Get up. Put something warm on.”
He studied you for a moment.
“Are we doing something we shouldn’t?” he asked, his voice threaded with genuine curiosity.
“Absolutely not,” you said lightly. “We are simply going for a walk.”
The smile that spread across his face was so entirely his father’s that, for a moment, it caught at your breath
"Give me a moment," he whispered, already pushing back the covers.
He crossed to the chair where his linen clothes were draped and pulled them on, his arm catching in the sleeve. You reached over and guided it through without a word, and he gave you a small, grateful smile.
Leaving his chambers, he simply fell into step beside you as you slipped back into the corridor. Aemon reached out to his brother and Valarr took his small fist and held it for a second. Aemon happily bounced at his brothers attention.
The guards watched you both go with the expression of men who had decided, collectively, that whatever was happening was above their station to address.
Daeron's chamber was next.
The reaction here was considerably less serene. He jolted upright the moment the door opened, already half out of bed before he was fully awake, violet eyes wide and scanning the room for whatever disaster had sent his mother to his door in the middle of the night. You watched his gaze move from you to Valarr to Aemon and back to you, working through the evidence.
You said nothing. You only smiled.
Daeron stared at you for a long moment, his longer silver hair sticking in several directions, looking deeply uncertain about every single aspect of this situation. Then he pressed his mouth together, exhaled through his nose, and reached for his clothes with the air of someone who had decided to reserve judgement until more information became available.
He shuffled out into the corridor still tucking in his shirt, and fell in behind Valarr.
"Any idea what Mothers doing?" he muttered, low enough that he presumably thought you couldn't hear.
Valarr considered this with great seriousness. "No," he said. "But she looks pleased with herself."
"That's what worries me."
You did not dignify this with a response and led them both down the corridor.
Aerion and Matarys's chamber was last. You eased the door open to find them both deeply, thoroughly asleep. Matarys on his back with the composed stillness of a small bat, Aerion face-down and diagonal, one leg hanging entirely off the bed. You went to Aerion first and touched his shoulder.
He was awake in an instant, blinking up at you with those quick, bright violet eyes that never took long to arrive at full alertness. He took one look at your face, the hour, the assembled brothers visible in the doorway behind you and something in him simply knew. He sat up without a word, shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed your hand.
Matarys required rather more encouragement. He surfaced from sleep slowly and with great personal offense, squinting at you with an grumpy expression. For all that he was Baelor’s son, there was no doubt he had inherited something unmistakable from Maekar.
And so you went, down through the long, torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep, all six of you, Aemon riding high on your arm and looking back over your shoulder at his brothers, smiling at them. Every guard you passed did a visible double-take. Every servant you encountered stopped and stared. You smiled at each of them in turn with the serene pleasantness of a woman who had done absolutely nothing wrong and intended to continue doing so.
You stopped at last before a wide, weathered oak door, its edges dark with years of kitchen smoke, warmth bleeding faintly through the wood even at this hour.
You turned to face them.
Four children looked back at you. Valarr composed and curious, Daeron suspicious but present, Matarys still half-asleep and Aerion practically vibrating, feeling something.
You bounced Aemon once and let the silence build just long enough.
"I heard," you began, "that the kitchens have been preparing the most extraordinary sweets for your grandsire and grandmother’s wedding anniversary. Heaps of them. Every kind imaginable." You tilted your head thoughtfully. "Now. You all know how your grandsire feels about things that are too sweet."
A pause.
"It would really be a terrible shame," you continued, "if something were served that didn't suit his palate. Someone really ought to go and check."
The silence lasted approximately one breath.
Aerion's face split into a grin so wide it threatened to leave his face entirely. Matarys, sleep forgotten, straightened with sudden and complete attention. Daeron looked at the ceiling briefly and then looked back at you with the very beginning of a smile pulling at his mouth despite his best efforts. Valarr simply looked at you with his warm, delighted eyes and said nothing, because nothing needed saying.
You put your free hand on the door.
"We are, of course, doing this purely in service of your grandsire," you said gravely.
"Of course," Valarr agreed, equally grave.
You pushed the door open, and the warm smell of sugar and woodsmoke and blackberries rolled out to meet you all.
The kitchens at this hour were vast and still, the great fires banked low, the long tables scrubbed clean and waiting for morning. Copper pots hung in rows along the walls, catching the ember-glow, and the air was thick and warm and sweet in a way that settled in your chest like a memory before you had even fully stepped inside.
You stood in the doorway for a moment, all of you, just looking.
It was Aerion who moved first, naturally, already padding toward the long central table with the focused intent of a hound that had caught a scent. Matarys followed a half-step behind, equally determined.
"Quietly," you murmured after them, though you were smiling.
Daeron drifted in behind you, his eyes moving around the kitchen with the alert. He spotted the far shelf almost immediately. "There," he said, low, and you followed his gaze.
Three wide trays, covered in cloth, sitting on the long shelf above the bread boards. The smell coming from them was extraordinary.
Valarr was already pulling a stool across without being asked, he set it below the shelf and looked at you.
"Allow me," he said, with a small courtly incline of his head that was so thoroughly Baelor it made something squeeze warmly behind your ribs.
He climbed up and lifted the cloth.
The blackberry tarts were arranged in neat rows, small and perfect, their crusts golden, the dark filling catching the low light like gemstones. There were other things too. Honeyed almonds in paper twists, small spiced cakes dusted with sugar, candied orange peels in a shallow bowl, and sugar filled dates; but it was the tarts that held the room.
Aerion made a sound of profound satisfaction.
"Go on," you said again, and sat yourself down on the wide kitchen bench with Aemon in your lap, bouncing him up and down.
Valarr passed out the tarts with careful precision, one to Daeron, one to Matarys, one to Aerion, and then two to you. Aerion, impatient as ever, bit into his before fully receiving it, earning a sharp, amused look.
Then Valarr climbed down and settled beside you on the bench. He handed you one tart, keeping the other in his own hand. Together you sat in the warm, quiet darkness of the kitchens, the great sleeping castle looming above, and ate.
Aemon watched with rapt fascination, reaching toward the tart and fussing a little. You smiled at him, dipped your finger into the center of the tart, and brought it close. He eagerly grasped your finger and suckled, delighted by the sweet taste.
For a few beautiful minutes there was nothing but the sound of quiet chewing and the occasional delighted sound from Aemon, who it seemed loved the sweet taste.
"Well?" you asked, after a moment.
Aerion considered his tart with great professional gravity. "Too sweet," he announced. "Definitely too sweet. Grandsire will hate it."
"Terrible," Matarys agreed, and took an enormous bite.
"We should try another," Aerion said. "To be thorough."
"For grandsire," Matarys said seriously.
"Purely for grandsire," Valarr agreed, already reaching for one.
Daeron said nothing. He was on his second tart and leaning against the table with his ankles crossed and the most relaxed expression you had seen on his face in a fortnight, so you decided that counted as endorsement enough.
Then Aerion reached for the tray and his elbow caught the edge and a tart slid off and landed filling-side down on Matarys pants.
Everyone looked at it.
Matarys looked at Aerion.
"That," Aerion said carefully, "was an accident."
A pause that lasted precisely long enough for Matarys to decide it was not.
He picked up the fallen tart, weighed it for a single, deliberate moment and pressed it firmly into Aerion’s cheek.
The kitchen erupted.
Aerion retaliated instantly, scooping up a fistful of tart and smearing it across Matarys’s shirt with wholehearted enthusiasm.
Matarys lunged.
Aerion ducked under the table and reappeared on the other side.
You were on your feet at once, “boys, boys, boys”, hissed in urgent succession as you turned in a slow circle, keeping Aemon lifted safely above the chaos while the two of them waged war around you, their fierce whispers rapidly abandoning any pretense of quiet.
Daeron, who had withdrawn to the far table with folded arms and the expression of someone firmly committed to non-involvement, took a stray piece of crust to the side of the face.
He went very still.
There was a brief, visible moment in which he reconsidered his position.
He revised it.
Reaching out, he caught Aerion by the collar and, with calm precision, deposited an entire tart squarely atop his head.
“Daeron—”
“He had it coming,” Daeron said simply.
And then Valarr, your composed boy, all grace and good sense, leaned past you, dipped his hand into a jar of blackberry jam, and flung it neatly into Matarys’s face as he rushed by.
“Valarr,” you said.
“It seemed fair,” he replied.
What followed was pure chaos.
There was jam, everywhere.
At some point, an entire tart sailed through the air.
Aerion seized a tray and began distributing its contents on every one of his brothers, sparing only you and Aemon.
Matarys lost a shoe.
A careless flick sent jam across your cheek, your robe marked beyond saving and somehow, impossibly, Aemon, who had remained tucked safely against you, acquired a bold smear of purple across his face. He was delighted by it, shrieking with laughter each time another tart went flying.
All four of them chased each other through the kitchens, shouting and laughing, slipping on stone and grabbing at sleeves. At one point Valarr and Daeron turned on each other, hands in collars, smearing jam across one another’s faces with breathless indignation.
Aerion and Matarys collapsed laughing at the sight.
And you laughed with them, openly and without restraint, forgetting entirely the hour.
You had just opened your mouth to speak—
—and the door opened.
Every child in the kitchen froze.
The silence fell so fast it rang, broken only by Aemon, who had no understanding of consequence and cooed happily into it.
Maekar filled the doorway.
He had come as he woke: linen shirt, linen trousers, bare feet, silver hair disheveled. His expression made it very clear he was not amused.
His gaze moved slowly across the room, taking in everything with deliberate care. The overturned trays. The ruined tarts. Jam smeared across stone and wood alike. Matarys. Aerion. Daeron. Valarr. Each of them marked with evidence. Aemon with purple staining his cheek.
He said nothing.
Baelor stepped in behind him, looking over his brother’s shoulder. His expression followed the same path but where Maekar’s expression became strict and controlled, Baelor’s faltered, catching on something close to laughter.
His mismatched eyes found yours. Moved, one by one, across each of your children. Then returned.
No one breathed.
Baelor stepped forward.
He crossed the kitchen came to your side, and without a word, bent to Aemon, pressing a kiss to his jam-smeared cheek. The sound was soft and distinct.
Aemond squealed.
“Blackberry,” Baelor said, “Excellent. Very good filling. Not too sweet.”
Aerion broke first.
A sharp, breathless laugh escaped him, quickly smothered, unsuccessfully.
“We were,” you began, with impeccable dignity, “conducting a quality inspection.”
“At the third hour of the night,” Maekar said.
“Sweets can change considerably after dark,” Valarr offered, helpfully, from his position of perfect composure at the edge of the bench.
Maekar looked at him.
Looked at the others.
Looked at you.
Something shifted in his expression, he turned away without a word and crossed to the shelf above the breadboards.
He lifted the cloth from a third tray.
Selected a tart and turned back, leaning lightly against the shelf as he took a measured bite.
“Too sweet,” he said flatly and took another bite.
And the kitchen, in one long, helpless exhale of relief and laughter, fell completely apart.
The atmosphere settled like something warm being poured into a cold room. Your sons arranged themselves across the benches in the kitchen, voices dropping to the low comfortable chatter.
Matarys was attempting to explain to Daeron, with great conviction, the precise aerodynamics of a thrown tart.
Aerion had helped himself to another and was eating it untroubled contentment. Valarr sat on a counter in front of you, occasionally contributing a dry observation that sent Daeron into muffled laughter.
You sat in the middle of it and felt something in your chest so full it almost ached.
Baelor settled on your right, Maekar on your left, and the bench, already crowded, the three of you pressed close in the warm ember-lit dark. Aemon drowsing now in your arms, finally running out of night.
You felt fingers at your collarbone.
Maekar, lifted a streak of jam from your skin with two careful fingers and brought them to his mouth. His eyes were on your sons. His expression revealed nothing.
You felt the warmth of it all the way down.
On your other side, Baelor leaned forward and pressed his thumb gently to Aemon’s cheek, collecting the last traces of purple there, and tasted it with the same quiet seriousness he had given his verdict earlier.
Then he settled back and both of them drew closer to you, until you were pressed entirely between them.
Then lips at your ear, warm breath, Baelor's voice dropped to something that was for you alone.
"Don't slip away in the middle of the night like that." The words were soft.
The tone beneath them was not.
"Maekar woke first and found you gone, the bed empty, Aemon’s crib empty. We thought—" A pause, brief but weighted, "The guards told us you had gone yourself, with the children. You cannot imagine what the moments before that information felt like."
You shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen.
On your other side Maekar said nothing. He didn't need to. His hand had found the back of your neck, large and steady, his thumb tracing slow along the nape in a way that made it very difficult to think clearly about anything at all.
"I'm sorry," you said quietly, meaning it.
Baelor's lips moved to just below your ear, "You will make it up to us," he murmured, so low it barely qualified as sound. "When the children are back in their beds."
The warmth that moved through you had nothing to do with the kitchen fire.
Maekar's thumb stilled at your neck. "Next time," he said, low and even, "you wake one of us." His fingers pressed fractionally tighter, just once, deliberate enough that it could not be mistaken for accident.
You turned to look at him. He was watching your sons, jaw set, the firelight catching the silver of his hair and beard. But his hand remained at your neck and the tips of his ears were very slightly red.
"Next time," you agreed softly.
He gave a single nod. His hand did not move
Baelor pressed his lips once to your temple, slow and deliberate, and then leaned back and surveyed the kitchen. He exhaled a long quiet breath that had the shape of a laugh living somewhere inside it.
"Your grandsire," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry to your sons, "is not going to be pleased."
All four of them turned to look at him with varying degrees of guilt.
Then Baelor glanced at Valarr and tipped his chin toward the tray. “Pass me one.”
You stared at him.
Valarr, without hesitation, chose a tart with careful consideration and held it out. Baelor took it and bit in as if nothing at all were amiss.
Daeron looked at Maekar.
Maekar, already on his second, a trace of blackberry at the corner of his mouth.
And something in your chest gave way.
You thought of your brother back in Winterfell, stolen nights and sweet desserts.
This, you thought. This is exactly what I wanted.
You did not realise you were crying until Maekar's thumb came to your jaw, tilting your face toward him. He said nothing. He simply looked at you, and then pressed his lips to your forehead, firm and quiet and sure.
On your other side Baelor turned and found your hand under the bench.
You sat between them in the warm dark and let yourself have it, all of it, the laughter still ringing in your chest, the ache of it, the sweetness.
The faces of your children. The weight of Aemon sleeping.
The smell of blackberries and woodsmoke and the particular warmth of the people you loved.
That night you would keep. You would fold it up and put it somewhere safe and take it out again on the days when everything was loud and exhausting and too much, and you would remember it, the way you remembered your childhood.
And you would be alright.
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Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.
Warnings: Targarcest (uncle/niece), Arranged Marriage, court politics and obligations, mentions of polyandry, daddy issues, past relationships, slightly toxic behaviour, misogyny, exhibitionism, fingering, oral (f receiving, like a lot), p in a, breeding kink if you squint, edging, overstimulation.
Hello everyone! I know I've taken my time writing this one but here it is. After the last survey, there were a lot of votes for Baelor. From now on I'll probably write about the other options as well.
I hope you enjoy it a lot!!! Have fun!!!
The Moon.
I yawn behind my hand, trying to cover my boredom and tiredness from all the interactions in my cousin’s birthday Valarr banquet.
Music, food, lords, and ladies move around the ballroom as the full moon shines in the sky. I sigh, bored, sitting in a cushioned settle in the back of the room.
Conversations about politics, hunts, riches, and heirs infest the walls like a plague, hidden meanings and fake smiles dripping from the ceiling.
How tiring. Speaking about pretence.
Three ladies approach, familiar badly hidden arrogant gestures showing at every step they come closer.
Great houses and their arrogance. I wonder if their jewels are as heavy as their ignorance.
Tya Lannister arrives with two lower ladies on queue. The blonde woman sits next to me, while the other pair wait for the servants to get the chairs to sit close.
“It is a great pleasure meeting you again, your grace.” She says with a pitched voice and a sweet smile. “We saw you here on your own and wanted to grant you some company, you see. And speaking about grace, such a graceful dress. Especially those golden decorations. Utterly splendid.”
Speaking about lack of manners. To call me as if I am a duchess…
“And that necklace, your grace.” Adds another one. “It is truly majestic. Is that not true, Lady Arryn?”
“Yes, indeed. The whole kingdom should feel honoured to be graced with such a view.” Finishes, the last lady.
One would think that there would be space between one lie and the next. Or at least for something else than hair and decorations.
“We wanted to congratulate you, princess.” Now begins Lady Lannister. Seeing that I have no intention of indulging in her chattery, her smile trembles. My silence seems to have irked her, since her tone sharps a little at her broken ego. "Your Lord father, prince Reghar, must be so proud of you, your highness.”
“Proud of what exactly? Pray to tell, Lady Lannister.”
“To be able to secure a marriage with your lord uncles, the heir to the throne and the anvil, of course. It is a great honour, my princess.” Her words are not wrong but the sarcastic and jealous tone suggests a far more meaningful significance. She looks at the royal table, where one of my new husbands sits turning his rings around his fingers while he talks with some lord about taxes. She blushes at the sight of him.
Ilībios.
Bitch.
I then give her the same smile she gave me at the beginning. “Yes, true it is, my fair lady. I believe congratulations are in order for you too.” She looks startled as soon as I talk. “I hear your lord father has also secured a marriage for you. And from another great house nonetheless. Gowen Baratheon if I am not mistaken.” I wait for her to confirm, not for me, but to give her time to look at her own circumstances.
So much for not knowing when to shut up.
“Yes, your grace.”
“That is also a great honour, Lady Lannister. I heard that he is a few years older than the heir of the realm, though I believe that will hardly be a problem. After all, it is a good marriage.”
The poor blonde trembles next to me, her pride and her eyes on the floor, while the other two girls decide to follow my words and begin talking about the sensitive subject.
Not after a few seconds, a manly voice pauses the two animated voices. Speaking about flattery.
“Excuse my interruption, beautiful ladies.” His untamed hair moves, flowing with a breeze from a nearby window catching the breath of. His tanned skin contrasts with the yellow and gold from his tunic and his deep brown eyes are fixed on me. Lyonel Baratheon smirks at me naturally. “My princess, will you give me the honour of joining me on the dance floor?” He asks with something between reverence and mocking custom.
A storm indeed.
I stand, and walk towards him. “Excuse me, ladies. It was a pleasure talking to you. Let us hope it is not the last time” I stand, looking at the ashamed lady at the last part.
I finally join the stag, and his hands go to a position that he used to take so much while we danced between rain and wind at Storm's End.
“You looked like you needed a breather.” Comments the man, beginning to turn me around at the song path.
“Everyone seems insistent on mentioning my marriage with my uncles, and even I have my limits on how much mockery and flattery I can take.” I spat, whispering, while following his lead with the other pairs around us. I feel his breathing on my hair and his fingers tensing on my back.
“Is it Baelor now? How adorable.” He says sarcastically.
“Lyonel…”
“No, no. I mean, it is so, so loveable.” He is angry, jealous. Something I can understand perfectly since it makes sense. I was his betrothed before the dragons decided to keep my marriage within the family, to say something.
“I swear to you, Lyonel Baratheon, that if you keep talking, I am going to cut off your head, put it on a spike and throw your body into the river.” I murmur aggressively.
He smiles charmingly at me. “You have no idea how much effort I need to do to keep my eyes and lips off you, gorgeous.” I say nothing as I feel a gaze burning my skull coming from the high table, and I try, EXPRESSLY, not to look in that direction, wanting to keep my brief freedom a little longer. We keep dancing, uncharacteristically silent, strangely, since the man seems normally unable to close his mouth for more than a few seconds. “I want to keep dancing with you, my princess.” Says the Laughing storm, pressing on my back as the song begins to come to an end. His voice wants to be cheeky, but it inevitably stays with a desperate tone. A few lords and ladies turn around, curiosity getting the best of them, but look away as I glance at them. I push him back slightly, getting the space he tries to close.
Oh, Lyonel, I miss you too but...
“I am married, my Lord. So I cannot.” I wish I could. I turn my face down. “I am afraid no second dance is allowed for anyone else than my... husband.” The last word murmured, unsure.
“Please… beautiful. You do not even love him. You do not even love them.” He repeats himself lower the second time. Them. “Besides, you agreed with me that this tradition is nefarious. They are your…”
I open my mouth to silence him before he gets himself killed or me humiliated, but a new voice cuts me before I can.
“I am glad you could make it this far from the Stormlands, Lord Baratheon.” I feel a freezing stare, a shiver travels through my back and my breath hitches. I quickly turn to the grave voice behind me, my eyes meeting his familiar mismatched ones but mine go instantly to the floor like a child caught doing something she should not. “But I am afraid I would like to have my lady WIFE back.” The dragon claims, while emphasising a certain word that makes my neck hot and my soul stir.
Baelor's aura has always been formidable. A joy and pride to allies and a nightmare to the enemies. The Breakspear. The prince stares at our two figures with his unmatched cold eyes. There is no fake sweetness in his voice. Just a clear courteous warning. Let her go.
“Kepūs.” I murmur startled. Baelor keeps his eyes on the stag, who raised an eyebrow.
Uncle.
“Māzīs, ñuha jorrāeliarzy.” orders the heir without looking at me.
Come, my beloved.
I doubt, turning again to the Baratheon who seems immersed in the glaring duel with my uncle who insists, firmer. “Now.”
I shiver again as I obey, walking slowly towards my uncle, my now husband, fearing the consequences of my defiance. When I get there I look up to his face, but he is already staring at my orbs with that intense glance on his. Scarry mesmerising mismatched eyes.
He firmly takes my hand and turns my body towards the golden dressed lord. “Say good bye.” He murmurs in my ear.
Lyonel looks at me, and I nod slightly. His eyes fall and after a low “Your royal highnesses...” He leaves defeated. I sigh, this time with relief since no incident has occurred. As much as I feel sorry for the stag, this is probably the best result. As I go to turn around, the pair of Targaryen hands take my waist. I can feel the metal of his rings on it.
“You forget yourself, wife.” Whispers the heterochromatic eyed dragon. I can feel his breath grazing my ear and his clothed torso to my back.
“I was doing nothing, lord husband. Merely a talk and a dance.” I try to convince him by grazing his hand with mine and by saying what I know he wishes to hear. “There is nothing between us, valzȳrys.”
Husband.
The dragon turns me around by my torso, and keeps me there. “No, not anymore.” He pauses to sigh. “Oh, little dragon.” His hand holds my waist, and his fingers push against the back of my dress, approaching me to his own body with restrained gentleness. “Be glad Maekar is away at the moment, darling. We both know that he is not as lenient or patient as I am.”
No one around seems to be aware of the interaction other than the stag, who tensely rolls his eyes from his table full of lords of the Stormlands. If someone else notices, they do not show it. They know better than to anger the heir.
“Baelor, please, do not...” I beg, my voice not giving away the fear I have for Lyonel's future if my other husband hears about it. He interrupts me, caressing my jaw with his thumb.
“Believe me, ābrazȳrys, he will know.”
Wife.
He then caresses the back of my neck with his silver rings and I stop breathing. We stay looking at each other. I, with uncertainty and hope. Him, with care and something darker I had only spotted on our first night as he and Maekar took me away from the impertinent hands of the lords on the bedding ceremony. Jealousy. “Let us sit, my beloved. You have yet to fill your stomach tonight.” As I take step by step, I cannot help but to contemplate the possible second meaning of his sentence. I feel completely perverted as I do, getting flustered, but it does not leave my mind as I reminisce about the wedding night when they…
For the gods… Focus!
Baelor seems to realise where my mind goes as the corner of his mouth goes up. We walk to the high table where grandsire, the king, and grandmother, the queen, are. We make a little salute and go to our places. His hand moves off my waist only to pull out the chair for me to sit down on, and when he is sure I am comfortable, he settles down on his to my right. I feel him close. Closer than usual when we eat. I look to my left, where the absence of Maekar and his kids is palpable and realise there is more space. I intend to move my chair enough for our elbows not to touch every time we move, but when I look down as it does not move, I see Baelor's hand pinning down my chair. My orbs move up to his, which currently feel like a warning. Do not move away. He moves me even closer and rests his hand on my dressed leg like usual. All restraint of their physical touch was broken the moment the marriage was arranged, caresses, kisses and squeezes to the point of exhaustion. Mine obviously.
The broth and lamb go down easily as my memories distract me. His eyes are still on me.
“Will you not eat more, Kēpus?” I ask as I see him not asking for any more dishes.
“I am saving a place for dessert, wife.” The hair answers with a smile.
“The tart? It certainly looked delicious.”
“My OTHER dessert.” He announces, as I turn to him and his eyes meet mine once more. My cheeks are tinted red as I huff, embarrassed. I eat to avoid seeing his proud smirk. I then turn my attention to the rest of the party.
Prince Valarr dances with his pink haired wife. They smile at each other. Despite the arrangement, they look happy. I wonder if I will be able to be that happy.
No.
That enamoured.
Gods know that I love Baelor and Maekar, but our past relationship is not easily erased. Lust is not something that will magically make up for that.
Blood calls blood, but where is the limit between happiness and sin? Is being dragons enough to forgive actions that should have never been?
And then, there is Lyonel.
The stag with whom I fell into something between love, lust and custom. Many dates, many kisses, much pleasure and the loss of something that will never return. The man whose orbs now seem absorbed by mine.
The heir sighs by my side. His hand then moves higher, slow, deliberate. He wants to provoque me and regain the previously stolen attention. He cups my inner regions with his hand on top of the dress. I can only thank the many layers as he squeezes. My legs tremble and I do my best to control my expression.
Even the men, whose lustful and calculating eyes are directed at me and my title, are none the wiser about the actions happening under the wooden table. Only Lyonel seems to realise my current predicament, since with a bitter laugh, he looks away. I do too, trying to focus on the plate in front of me, as one of my hands press against the table and the other goes to the one pleasuring me. My nails dig inevitably into his skin but Baelor just smiles.
Finally, when I am about to reach my high in front of the whole gigantic room, he stops.
“Father.” He calls for the King's attention. “We will be retiring for the night. My wife is feeling rather tired.”
Grandsire looks at my direction, and seeing my red breathless face, he just nods. If he knows something, he does not acknowledge it. But the queen does. She smirks at me and gives me a little sign with his head.
Baelor gives me his arm for my lack of strength. I take it, and without another look inside, we walk out.
The cool air grazes my face and moves my hair softly, my white streaks shining in the moonlight. I take a deep breath finally and look up. I love the moon. It shines like it wants to answer. I wonder how many times I have fallen asleep under her after getting kissed to oblivion.
As we reach the tower of the Hand, I guess my husband sees my distraction and knows what is on my mind, because the next thing I know is the feeling of the stone behind my back. His face is in front of me and we stare at one another's eyes. The tension makes me feel that usual heat below my tummy like every other time one of them traps me alone somewhere hidden. That sweet anticipation that melts me.
“I am a possessive man, darling wife. It comes with the blood. The heritage.” His face comes closer to mine, and my eyes go inevitably to his lips, only to go back to his mismatching eyes. At my glance, he cleans his lips and canines with his tongue. I gulp. The tension is overwhelming and I feel his scorching stare undressing my form. “No dragon will ever accept any threat or thievery towards their mate or treasure. Never.” The man says as a final statement and his words caress the tip of my nose.
I want to kiss him. I need it.
I whine. “Baelor…”
I try to get our mouths together, finally in a kiss, but his hand moves to my throat to stop me from getting closer, and pushes me softly against the wall behind me, feeling my pulse with his thumb.
“That will not do, my darling.” He whispers, pupils eclipsing every other color in his eyes.
“Please, husband.”
He waits for a moment before giving up. “I really cannot resist you, can I, little dragon?” He does not tease me any more as our lips finally find one another. I feel the roughness of his beard on my skin. The pressure on my throat goes to my nape, pushing my body to his, while the other arm envelopes my waist. My eyes close to feel him deeper.
As much as guilt may hunt me later, I push the stag out of my mind. Better accept the future to come and welcome it, rather than dread the inevitable.
His fingers press against the dress, and descend searching for an entry to access between my legs. I help him pull my skirt up and his fingers are fast to feel my wetness. He groans before retiring his digits. His knees touch the ground.
“What are you…” I release a surprise moan as his mouth is quick to reach my labia. My hands fly to his hair and pull instinctively, but he gets my body closer with his arms and sucks my clit, harder than before. My head tilts back, and I feel my neck strained. He keeps going until I shake and shiver. Goosebumps crowd my whole body and I hear my voice escape without permission. “Jaehossa…”
Gods…
I have a respite as he intakes the much necessary air and my hands let go of his hair. I feel him breathing, the warm sensation grazing my clit. And then he blows and my mound stirs. His beard scarps against the skin of my trembling thighs as they unconsciously close while my center tries to get away from the sudden sensation, covering his ears with the fat. My weight unconsciously rests a little too much on his face.
“W-wait, Baelor. I will hurt...”
“No.” He digs his fingers in my thighs.
“I am heavy…”
As if to demonstrate the opposite, he takes my legs and I feel my feet in the air. His head is still between my legs.
What the…
Right now I am not sure if he is just used to the heavy tourney armour or to my cousins who seem eager to get carried by him at the same time.
“You are not heavy, darling, and I am going to make sure your beautiful mind gets it.” His tongue proves my entrance again before going out once more. “Whatever it takes.”
He bites my right thigh before going in again. This time, he stays there, sucking at my clit before moving his tongue inside, getting at every pinkish surface he can reach. My walls contract at the not so alien but intense sensation. My toes curl in anticipation.
He must get off from edging me, because he retracts his face once again.
“Baelor...” I plead. And he seems pleased. Extremely so.
“Not here. In our bed.” He answers and I curse him out loud which makes him chuckle. He lets me slide down until he can carry me by my ass as I hug him with my arms around his neck. My eyes fix on it in my like-drunk state. And I bite, keeping myself leached on it. He groans and I am sure he closes his eyes for a second. “Patience, ābrazȳrys.” His legs move us quickly to his room, up the stairs.
When we enter the chamber, the dragon drops me on the bed before locking the door firmly. I begin to undo the laces of my dress, my shoes already gone. Baelor approaches me, taking off his cape that ends on the floor. As soon as he gets to me he releases a little “Turn around” and helps me take off the rest of my clothes and undergarments, tracing shapes deliberately on my skin.
When every piece is gone from my body, I am the one to help and only the moment our body can completely touch, we get on the bed completely.
We kiss as he teases my opening with his digits. My juices slip down his hand before taking the remains to his tongue. My neck grows hot and sweat runs through my back. He now lays in the middle of the bed, with his open arms, expecting.
“Sit on my face, darling.”
“What?” I freeze.
“You heard me.” He answers with a smile.
“You cannot be serious, Baelor.” I say in disbelief. But he turns serious.
“Sit on my face, wife.” He leaves no room for an argument. With his inquisitive mismatched eyes watching me, I move towards him, and carefully, straddle his face, not resting on it yet. My doubts are clear on my face. I do not want to hurt him in any way.
“Are you sure this…” I can never finish my sentence because he grabs my thighs with his arms, and takes them to the side so my cunt falls onto his mouth and my clit collides with his nose. “Baelor! Fuck!” Every courtesy falls the second I lean forward falling in my forearms and he continues his assault. Licking, suckingand even biting. Everything seems allowed at the moment, leaving us panting with a few whines and moans scattered around the room.
My worries about his possible suffocation are left behind with every one of his pleasured sounds.
I feel the pressure in my center rise, and at some point I feel my hips moving, trying to ride his tongue. The prince feels my increasing needs manifest, so his movement and strength on my clit go up and fast until I see white and release an unconscious and broken moan. My body falls to the side to not crush him, but his face follows my inner regions to clean the mess between my legs, making me shiver at the overstimulation. I only know he is done after he leaves a little nip to one of my thighs and goes up kissing my body until he reaches my lips. A weird sensation, the one of tasting oneself.
I reach for his obvious hardness, wanting to return the pleasure since it feels unfair for me to be the only one reaching the peak once and again.
“No.” He stops my exploring hand. “I am going to fill you now.” His lips go from mine to the side of my neck, mapping and marking every part on the previous smooth surface. His tongue and beard scarp the sensitive skin of the little freckle from below my jaw. He straights his body. “Turn around.” He orders. Still slightly dizzy from the orgasm aftermath, I obey. He gets a pair of the pillows under my torso so I can rest.
He makes himself comfortable before pushing slowly inside my walls. I release a gasp and claw at the sheets. He allows me until I push my ass towards him. His hands graze it. For a second, I think he wants to hit my ass cheeks, but his hand is directed towards my spine. Up and down, he caresses feeling my bones under his fingers. I give my best to tense around him, wanting to help him. The prince releases a hiss.
Baelor accelerates, wanting now more friction than the soft pace allowed. He bends towards me, my back under his chest. His teeth nip at my neck from every position.
“Where is all that fire you are known for, zaldrīzītsos?” He whispers breathless in my ear with his hand at the front of my throat, as he thrusts harder, more erratically now.
Little dragon.
He pushes and pulls, losing himself inside me while murmuring high valyrian. Two voices can be heard cursing in the old language. The big dragon moves and moves like a ram preparing to go through the last door to the seven heavens. When I think he is finally going to reach his peak, he gets out. Confused and cockdrunk, I try looking at him but I get turned around, facing his imposing figure that stares at me.
The prince again gets inside me with a deep smooth thrust. His hand massages my clit roughly.
I am not the only one sex-drunk.
Overstimulation gets me to my climax far faster than the previous times, and his head reaching the neck of my uterus does not help at all.
His free hand presses against the subtle moving shape next to my stomach, as if trying to thin my walls enough to feel the bulge on my tummy. I cum again, and luckily for the last time.
His hands reach for my thighs so rhythm goes faster until the moment when he buries himself into me, unmoving, and spills the deeper he cans. Spent, he stays there, with his eyes and hand caressing my lower torso. I watch him watch me until our orbs meet.
“Ñuha gevie dāria... Look at you. So radiant in the moonlight.” My husband says with a reverent loving look. I close my eyes, tired and release a sigh.
My beautiful queen.
“Avy jorrāelan, valzȳrys.” I murmur, feeling like my heart cannot decide what it feels.
I love you, husband.
Two days until Maekar’s arrival, which will probably make everything far more chaotic if he brings the kids. Unbearable if Baelor really decides to talk about my dance with Lyonel. No one escapes the Anvil's jealousy.
Something cold grazes my clit lightly, but I shiver nonetheless. My hand instantly goes to stop whatever just touched me. I open my eyes reluctantly.
I see a pair of mismatched eyes staring into my soul and a ringed hand directed to my pussy. With one of the rings touching me in my bud of nerves.
“Baelor, please, I cannot anymore.”
“We are not done. I plan to make love to you all night long, wife.”
And he does. My moans and his groans intertwine around the room until the sun goes up again and the moonlight disappears.
Sunlight enters through the amber like curtains, giving the room a cosy atmosphere.
The furry creature opens his eyes, turning them into two golden orbs.
The black feline stretches his back, and slowly moves towards the door. Shu turns his head to look at his owner and the man who was once a stranger.
None of them open their eyes, so without any sound, he leaves them behind.
Minutes pass, and there's finally some movement on the bed. The black haired man laid on his right, moves his head to look to the ceiling, and tries to open his eyes, but fails to do so when the light in the room collides aggressively with his cornea.
The annoying sensation makes him sigh.. But his mood turns over the moon the moment he tries to move his right hand, and finally opens his eyes.
His brunette wife is sleeping on his own bed. He smiles, and stares at the back of her head, being the only thing he can really see in their cuddly position. Despite having her asleep on his arm, it doesn't hurt. Maybe it's a little bit numb though.
He moves his body, careful not to wake the brunette up, to take his phone from his nightstand.
He watches his lockscreen.
11:53. Saturday.
This is paradise.
No rush.
No work.
No fights.
Just sun, soft skin and calm breaths.
He leaves the device again, and returns to his position, his arm hugging her stomach again.
He approaches his lips to the nape of her neck, and gives her a kiss. And another. And another. And they slowly turn from chaste to more passionate, trailing to where her ear meets her neck.
She stirs from her sleep, letting a little high pitched grunt go, and smiles.
For a moment she thinks she is dreaming, but the slightest graze of his teeth on her neck makes her realise this is happening.
Last night was real. So is this.
Then he pulls, hugging her towards his chest, and she whispers his name.
“Xxxxx…”
He moves, taking his arm from under her, and positions himself on top of her, supporting his torso on his elbows.
She smiles, staring at him and gives him a peak, caressing his jaw with her thumb.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly twelve o'clock.”
“We should get out of bed…” she states, moving lazily, but he doesn't move, still gazing at her.
“Just five more minutes.” he pleads, letting his head fall on her chest.
“Hm…” she closes her eyelids, savouring the warmth of his skin. Spring is already there, but it's still cold when you don't wear anything other than a light blanket.
He begins to leave kisses on her breasts, and goes down to her navel where she stops him.
“Didn't you say just five more minutes?” she asks, whispering, looking into his eyes with a smirk, which he returns.
“Like I said, just five more minutes.” answers him with the same tone.
She widens her eyes.
He goes down between her legs, and eats her up.
The only sound she can make is a strained moan before seeing the stars once again.
Droplets of water fall down her body enveloping her silhouette, wetting her hair and making the dirt and sweat run down to the drain.
She sighs, staring at the ceiling.
She’s angry. Or is it sad?
They’re having a sensual, beautiful moment, and in just a few seconds, everything crumbles like a naipes castle.
Is he still scared?
She thought that they had already solved that matter, but looks like that's not the case.
And she understands. Of course she does.
His past doesn't make it easy to trust someone. Even less to love. His heart has been broken too many times, but… Even if she is trying to respect his space, it still hurts. It's not like it’s something impossible to understand. It’s even easy for her. Hell, she’s been at least ten years without trusting anyone enough to give her heart away.
She's not asking him to love her. She isn't even sure if she does.
But just to trust her. A bit. A bare minimum.
They’ve been together for the last six months, living under the same roof, eating at the same table and sleeping in the same bed.
Hasn't she shown that she’s trustworthy?
And now she thinks about the last weeks.
He's been smiling more at her, having comfortable conversations while having dinner, cuddles while watching films together before going to sleep. She thinks she even caught him staring at her lips at certain moments.
But she should be aware that it's an arranged marriage. He's not having a weird attitude. Just a normal one giving the circumstances. She's… imagined everything. That's what happened. There's no other explanation. It's been duty, she reminds herself.
With how loud her thoughts are, she doesn't hear the door open and close. She just realises his presence when she hears cloth movements from her left.
It’s a surprise, really. Maybe her imagination is not that crazy.
Barely half an hour. Last time he got angry, it took nearly a whole day for them to talk again. An improvement, certainly.
She turns her head to the sound, catching his eyes in the mirror, but she avoids his stare, gazes on the floor and says nothing. Yet he doesn't. He stares at her, with an incomparable adoration nonetheless.
She doesn't know what to think.
Hearing no complaints from her, he gets in the shower, with her back facing him.
When he gets close enough, his fingers run between her hair locks, caressing softly, careful not to pull and hurt her.
Since she doesn't move away, and he, despite a fleeting doubt, circles her waist with her arms, his chest covering her back in a sweet caring hug.
She tenses due to the unusual contact, but tries to relax. As he makes sure she's not uncomfortable at all, his chin and side of his face rest on the top of her head.
She sighs. She doesn't know if she should be annoyed or glad for his quick change of attitude, but after hearing him, she decides for the latter.
“I'm sorry” he begins. “I'm not sure what happened to me.”
“It's fine.” she answers, resting her head on his shoulder.
“No, it's not.” he slowly turns her to face him, caressing her jaw with his thumb. “I keep avoiding the unavoidable. And thanks to my stubbornness, I've been mistreating you.”
He let himself fall on his knees, the hit echoing in the marble floor and walls. Her silhouette towering on him prevents the water from falling on his face.
“What are you…!” she yells, worried.
“It's fine. I'm fine.” he assures. She shakes her head with her eyes closed in disbelief but opens them as she feels his touch on her. He runs his fingers, grazing the skin of her legs, his eyes fixed on hers.
She watches him as well, letting him move as he sees fit and let's go another sigh, this time thanks to the good sensation.
As if he was waiting for permission, he pushes her softly by her tummy until her back touches the wall.
She frowns, beginning to comprehend his intentions.
“You don't have to do this.”
His gaze goes to her legs.
“I know.” he slowly moves her left leg to his shoulder, and caresses it with his fingers. Then he moves his orbs towards hers again, and she's lost. “But I want to.”
She's speechless. She doesn't have an answer, nor a complaint. She's unable to do anything else than staring at him.
His left arm moves to her right leg, but before he can do anything, she stops him.
“Wait. I can stand on one leg.”
He smirks, still staring at her conspicuously.
“I’m sure you can.” he still pushes her second leg to his shoulder, making her back rest completely on the wall, and keeping his head between her legs. “Let me worship you.” his breath on her inner region makes her shiver, and her head falls behind. “Until the sun rises again.”
Her hand goes down to his hair to ground herself, but he takes it as an affirmative answer and sinks his mouth between her legs, causing her to release a gasp.
I don’t condone or approve of any of these actions. This is all fiction, entertainment and a way to vent what was on my mind.
Warnings: AU, non con, coercion, knife play, lacerations, marking, kidnapping, violence, mentions of human experimentation, oral, p in v, spanking, handcuffs, double p, asphyxiation, breeding kink.
Steps are heard in the hallway and the only door of the room opens revealing Albert Wesker with traces of blood in his hands.
Zeno keeps moving inside me, but slower, as if analysing the blonde’s reaction.
I'm frozen. I try to take in what I'm seeing. The blood. The satisfaction in his expression.
It can't be… Leon. Chris.
Seeing my horrified expression, the blonde smirks at me before taking off his gloves and throwing them to the floor.
I tense, making Zeno groan from the pressure, and his nails leave crescent marks around my waist as he presses himself against me again.
“Sorry for the wait, dear heart. I was giving Redfield a little visit.” Albert says while putting his guns in a drawer next to the sofa.
This bitch.
“Leave the captain alone!” I yell. Zeno gives my ass another spank. I gasp and close my fists behind my back feeling my nails dig into my palms. My raw skin burns again and tears well into my eyes. But I refuse to let them fall, so I grit my teeth instead. I hear them chuckle.
Fuck them.
Movement returns my orbs back on the mad scientist who walks towards us and stops right in front of me. I try to look away since my face is right next to his crotch, but he takes a fistful of my hair, reminding my scalp of the searing pain, and raises my head as he also lowers himself. If, to tease me or provoque me, I'm not sure.
“Chris a captain, dear? What a joke.”
Don't say anything. That's what he wants.
I resist my urges to let my smart mouth free again. Instead I look aside. Not for an exit. That would be useless. For anything else beside him. I don't want to see him. I don't want him to exist. Any of them. I don't want anything that's happening right now. Even if the burn in my head and my insides remind me of how real it is to an aggravating point.
But Albert Wesker is not satisfied with my reaction. With one finger of his free hand he moves my face towards him again with the strength of a soothing touch and the weight of a heavy threat.
“He's never been able to protect anyone. No one. Both of them are a pair of useless little…”
And I snap.
I bite his finger. To my dismay he doesn't seem to be pained at all. The blonde doesn't even try to take it away. He just stares at me with an emotionless face. His eyes rise momentarily to the albino before going back to me.
“Release him, darling. I'm sure your ass is feeling raw enough.” Zeno threatens. I pay no mind to it. Instead I bite harder. This time the blonde feels something, as he momentarily flinches. They may have turned into monsters but they still feel pain. But he still doesn't try to pull, instead the scientist raises an eyebrow as if testing how far I will go. I feel Zeno take my throat from behind and get closer. I feel my own pulse against his hand. “If you don't I'm going to make sure to rearrange your guts even if we have to reconstruct them afterwards.” I tremble and slowly let go of them.
But the peace only lasts a fraction.
Albert pulls my hair but instead of taking his finger out, he shoves two more to the back of my throat and pushes to my esophagus. That with Zeno's hand still around makes breathing impossible for me. I move my arms behind my back, panicked.
It's useless.
I try to breathe through my nose but nothing seems to help. I, for the first time, look at Albert Wesker pleading. Instead of any mercy, he just mocks at me with a grin and waits.
And they keep still.
While I choke.
I'm breathless.
No movement.
Help.
Please.
Tears fall now free of restraint.
“Looks like we will have to put your mouth to good use, won't we?” Spats proud, Albert.
I hear his words but can't process them right. Oxygen is not reaching my lungs enough and my mind is getting dizzy with a great red danger signal in front of everything else. Finally, he takes his digits out and begins to undo his belt. I take all the air until my lungs get full and cough when they do.
They are mad in the head.
My eyes close wishing for an exit that I know doesn't exist. I hear clothes still moving. My broken voice asks pleadingly.
“Are they alive?” None of them answer. “Please!” I beg, desperate. “Zeno, please…” Wishing for the man who despite his previous actions seems more reasonable.
“For now.” The original says smirking to the clone. I can't see the albino, but I can imagine the nearly identical expression on his face.
“That depends on you, darling. You will be good, right?” Says the silver haired from behind me. I make the best nod movement their restraints allow me.
The man in front of me stands, my head follows his movement and makes my neck hurt from the uncomfortable angle.
“Will you?” The blonde psycho asks mockingly. “Then beg for it, dear heart. Beg for my cock.” He orders. The other man laughs. My cheeks burn from embarrassment. It's not my first time begging for something like that. Military men like their authority and my sexual preferences don't help much. But the situation and the fact that there's someone else in the room, even if his penis is already deep into my insides, makes it much, much more mortifying.
Kill me now. Here we go.
“I need your cock, please.” I say barely loud enough to be heard.
“Not quite.”
I'm clueless. What does he want? His ego boosted?
“I need your cock, please, sir.” I say a little louder.
“Well, that's better. Getting closer. Try again.” He mocks me.
“Please, give me your cock Dr. Wesker.” I stumble, getting tired of his games. My neck feels strained.
“Nearly there, Ms. Kennedy. You know what I want to hear. You just just said it to Zeno here.”
Nearly there? What does that even mean? With… oh. Maybe… no. It can't be… not with his ego… right?
“Please, give me your cock,...” I stop, thinking what are my chances of survival if I'm wrong. “...Albert…” I try.
As if those were the magical words, he bottoms out my mouth pushing again against my throat.
“Good fucking girl.” He hisses, still pulling from my hair. His head is tilting back, enjoying the pleasure he gets as I try to accommodate his girth. “You're more clever than your stupid boss and your brother together.”
“See, Darling? You know how to follow instructions.” Says Zeno sweetly, beginning to move again slowly as if he wasn't balls in deep against my will. Albert's dick also pushes, first slow and teasing but deeper and faster at every thrust.
As their rhythm increases, my eyes get wet again. My boobs and hips collide against the table every time they compenetrate their movements.
The blonde observes how water accumulate on my eyelids.
"These beautiful tears of yours. I'll make you spill them all as a compensation for wasting our time." He announces before a deeper thrust.
I feel a globed hand reach for my clit and pinch. I choke on the wood in my mouth at the sudden painful pleasure, earning a grunt and a pull of hair.
The already fast movements turn rougher and erratic. They push constantly against my walls.
They go on and on until I'm unsure if their actual speed is human anymore or my body will really break.
I feel Zeno push himself deep inside and stop moving, keeping my hips in place while the man in front of me keeps moving. The albino spills inside me, pushing the head against what I think is the door of my cervix.
Fuck. No. No no no no no no.
As if sensing what's on my mind, Zeno huffs and doesn't pull out.
Albert seems to get off with my desperate face. He pulls my head until my nose grazes his semitrimed pelvic hair, and comes deep into my throat, taking away my choice to not fill my stomach with his remains. Indeed my tears finally fall as I tremble.
I wish I could feel peace in the moment of silence their orgasm grants me. But my mind plays against me. I imagine Leon and Chris bloodied and tortured by the man who just fucked my mouth. Still in a dungeon guarded by guys with gun machines.
I wish I was there with them.
Guilt plagues me. I feel like I'm just worrying about myself, but at this moment my self pity weighs far more than anything else I can imagine.
My focus is broken by the two of them finally moving out.
I try to gag and throw up the white substance.
“Don't you dare.” A grave voice spats from above.
Prick.
Albert walks to where Zeno was while this one walks in front of me. He takes my chin with his hand, making me look up at his face. I obey, with no energy to fight against it. He looks pleased at my compliance. Behind me I feel a pair of hands explore my ass. Tracing patterns that are probably the remains of the other’s fingerprints.
With no wait at all, the blonde puts his feet between mine, and pushes his dick inside me again. Maybe due to tiredness or to genetics it feels really similar to the clone's.
An abrupt spank makes me scoop forward to scrape the sudden pain. I turn my head to look at the cruel scientist only to see him mapping the red figures with his eyes behind the lenses.
“So red and raw. Absolutely breathtaking. Looks like Zeno here did a good job. Maybe by the end of this you will finally reflect on your actions and be pliant for us." The blonde's implications are not lost on me. A future I cannot foresee appears in front of me.
What did I even do… I just want to go home…
“I highly recommend you learn fast, darling. It will be easier for all of us.” Encourages the albino walking away. No more tears fall. My eyes dry.
Hollow.
Numb.
I let my body fall on the desk. In the absence of Zeno, my head rests on the end of the desk, eyes closed. I hear them murmure something, but dizziness prevents me from catching on to anything at all.
My eyes open as I feel Albert drag his growing erection out of my hole. I see a pair of golden eyes looking at me as he grabs something from his jacket.
As I'm manhandled by the blonde with my back on the wooden surface, my own arms getting numb under my weight, Zeno drinks from one of those silver whiskey flasks.
Albert takes my legs by the back of my knees as if preparing to get inside me already.
“Open up, dear.” He cheers. Confused, I frown. A hand appears from behind and tilts my head back.
The next thing I feel is Zeno’s mouth on mine, and his tongue and whisky burning though my already raw and bruised throat. The silver haired man doesn't stop, not even when I try to pull away as I feel Albert’s member pushing lazily inside me until there's no more space to fill. I have no chance to complain or wail as Zeno keeps making out with my mouth. When he separates from me he licks the rears from his lips.
The mad scientist pressing on my sensitive button demands my attention.
“Please…” I blurt right before he pinched my clit and I moan again.
I can't cum anymore.
I roll my eyes back and stick my tongue out due to the pleasure. Movement the clone takes advantage to thrust his now hardening cock into my mouth. I dizzily glaze at his still veiny full rocks. A high pitched sound comes from my now full mouth as both of them push at the same time.
How is that even possible at this point? What's wrong with their sex drive?
The original and his clone start to accelerate, released of their inhibitions. All their frustrations are thrown into me. I close my eyes again, too tired to do anything. Too tired to restrain my wails and moans any longer.
They keep going. Pushing and pulling. Sometimes at the same time. A few, the opposite of one another. And at some point at completely different rhythms.
Albert goes fast and hard, not caring much for my suffering and encouraged by my heavily lubricated walls that barely offer resistance anymore. His hand still moving and abusing my clit is the only proof of sanity he displays.
Zeno, who has already come once more than the blonde, goes deeper but with sensuality instead of harshness. He goes as far as he can and drags himself practically out, only to push deep again. My throat thanks him deep inside for his current restraint. His hand moves past my chin, grazing it.
“I wonder what your brother's face would be if he saw you like this.” Guesses Zeno, caressing with his thumb the bulge in my throat he's causing. Albert releases a cruel breathless laugh.
“Indeed. You're whining here like a kitten in heat by the hands of the man who just came from tearing your friends apart.” I don't need to see his face to know he has a cruel smirk on it. I can feel the venom dripping from his tongue. “Pathetic little thing.”
I hear one of the drawers open before the owner of uroboros takes something from inside and it gets closed again.
My eyes move to discover what it is, but with Zeno still fucking my mouth and his hand holding my throat, my movement equals to zero.
A sudden freezing sharp object traces lines on my skin. Slowly. Teasing. My knee, my thigh, and eventually my pelvis.
I still can't take a glance. I don't know what it is. But as I feel pain from the pressure as he pushes, my muscles instinctively tense.
“Careful there, my darling.” Says the one violating my throat. “It would be a shame if there were unnecessary cuts on your skin.”
I gasp and gulp however I can around Zeno as I realise that in the blonde's hand there's a knife. A pocket knife. And the sharp cold drawing invisible shapes is its blade. Tears fall again from my eyes as I fear for my life.
What the hell…
The blonde releases a breathless moan, as if trying to stop himself. The silver haired just pushes deeper, cutting my airflow for a few seconds.
When I'm still focusing on the weapon against me, Albert's words reclaim my attention.
“You know, pet, I'd hate for another fool like Redfield to think they have a chance. Let's make it very clear that you're owned, shall we?”
A moment later I feel an excruciating pain right at the top of my pelvis. He's cutting me. My body spasms from pain. Zeno shushes me and makes small shapes on my jaw to calm my trembling. A sweet gesture in a sea of pain.
The one with the orange eyes puts my hand next to the wound.
“Stay put, dear. The less you move the faster this will end.”
My mind can barely comprehend who's talking anymore.
He slashes again and again.
He takes a breath, admiring me or his “art”, I don't know.
Then he slashes again.
And again.
And again.
And again…
“A. W.” He reads. He then passes the knife to Zeno. The one with golden eyes begins once again to trace the knife from my tummy, stopping near my nipples and going up to my throat. He stops there. I release a wail. I cry and plea.
Please, no more… It hurts!
“Come on, darling. Fairness is important in a relationship. So be a good girl and shut up.” Says going back and forth from my clavicle to my jaw without drawing blood. He then takes my head with one hand so I can't move and begins to write too on my neck.
Again three slashes, and pause and four more. The same but different.
“Z. W.” He states as if to make it even more reality for me.
They both trace the shapes with their fingers making the wounds resent the sensation.
My salty pearls fall on the carpet under the desk.
“Now. Where were we?” The one taking my legs says.
Zeno throws the knife to the side and they look at each other and smirk.
Both of them coordinate their thrusts, and push at the same time. I feel my body squeeze and complain again. Their movements get erratic. I know what's coming. My expectations are reinforced by Albert's next actions. My clit rolls between his thumb and index aggressively. I gasp for air, feeling the new mark on my neck stretch.
“Be good, pet and cum, now.”
And after getting closer and closer fast, I do. And with my orgasm comes squirt, soaking the ex-captain dressing. And they ride my climax like it’s their job. Like they don't want to waste it. Until they have theirs. Once again inside. No protection. No choice. No discussion either. They get out of me, leaving cum trails coming out, and after cleaning themselves, they get dressed. Even when I can't move from the overstimulation.
"I expect you to behave better in the future. If you'd rather avoid more consequences of this nature, that is." The blonde trails every part of my sensitive pelvis as his words somehow help me get back to reality.
"I won't be your pet." I spat, still dizzy, weak. I feel shame, embarrassment, pain and the aftermath from my orgasms as well as theirs. But this won't end here. I'll make them regret this.
"Still so stubborn." Observes Zeno. "One would have thought you would be broken by now."
"You don't like being our pet?" Albert smirks, then turns to the box next to the desk. He moves to get whatever is in there.
Zeno follows him with his eyes, then looks at me. He moves his hand and removes the rest of his climax with his thumb before sticking it into my mouth. "Maybe we should give you a better role then. More according to your perseverance and mental strength."
That somehow sounds even worse.
From the side I hear the crazy blonde genius testing me.
“Let's play a game shall we?” He starts. I try to move scared but the albino keeps me in place. “What starts with V, has infinite potential and have been turning people mad as of late?”
V, infinite potential, and lately? That's…
“A… virus?”
Albert returns smirking with a syringe in hand. I struggle uselessly.
"Let's hope, for you, that you can take it like a good girl." The mad scientist says as he appears on my right and injects a black substance into my arm.
Yandere! Albert Wesker (+ Yandere! Zeno) HC with Captive! Former STARS! Reader
!CW/TW! Kidnapping, violence, manipulation, cocerion, implied babytrapping, major character death, cloning
!PLEASE READ! Zeno's HC is under Albert's. This is just a set of headcannons before the actual post is released. Zeno's HC is under Albert's.
!MDNI! This is the first and FINAL warning.
A/N: But of course, dear anon! I've been think of this since I wrote my Leon Kennedy drabbles and was constantly listening to Lady Gaga to her song "Replay" (which may or may not be the name of the full fic I'm working on).
Yandere! Albert Wesker HC with Captive! Former STARS! Reader
Yandere! Albert Wesker who starts his new role as the STARS captain and double agent for Umbrella, and notices a certian sniper who doesn't particularly respect him.
Yandere! Albert Wesker who realizes went you do start to respect him, how sweet you are towards other members. How beautiful you are when focused on a target 1000 meters away. How his every thought is slowly consumed by you. How he dreams of what your walls feel like around his cock. And it oddly doesn't bother him.
Yandere! Albert Wesker knows that Umbrella is catching unto his plans and uses the T-Virus outbreak to plan his and your escape. It doesn't matter if you suspect him early on. You're leaving with him-- forced or not.
Yandere! Albert Wesker who sends you off in a different part of the manison with himself and knocks you out cold-- and places you in a cell seperate from Jill's. In a place only he can find it just incase things go awry.
Yandere! Albert Wesker who uses the Tyrant he released to escape with you, and plants a burnt body with your uniform on it to make the search teams that come later belive you're dead. After all there's no use searching for a corpse.
Yandere! Albert Wesker who convinces you the world has ended and its only you two-- on his private island estate miles off the. And its your duty to help him prevent humanity's extinction.
Yandere! Albert Wesker who takes "supply runs" when going on missions for his own plans to advance humanity. Except he never returns one cold winter in 2009, forcing you to the coast during a stressed induced labor only to realize the world never ended. You were just taken from it.
Yandere! Zeno HC with BSAA! Reader
Yandere! Zeno when his and Albert's memories merge, he has an insaitable desire to search for you. But the memories of your face are blurred, but the feeling of your lips is not. So he spends countless sleepless nights just researching for you despite the Connections forcing him to stop. They never find the scribbled out picture of your body he strokes his cock too every night.
Yandere! Zeno who finds a certian seventeen year old teenage boy looks eerily similar to him. It not hard to find out who the boys mother is after bribing his school, but more suprisingly this mother is a BSAA operative. And the face he sees on his screen is the one he'd spent years longing for.
Yandere! Zeno who like his predecessor uses Elpis to lure the BSAA in with you, after his men take down majority of their snipers. Planting faux spots in Raccon City's ruins in area's he know won't get you killed... maybe.
Yandere! Zeno who finds the ever familar pistol your late husband kept in his bedside drawer is enough to convince you he's still alive, and he wouldn't hesitate to use it on you like your headless squadmates. Or make sure you never see your sons alive. After all, you can always make more.
Yandere! Zeno who mistakes Elpis to be his only way to keep you from leaving him again only to find it is the one thing that sets you free. Who before Giddeon so polielty decapitates him whispers his undying love for you. Who were you to laugh at him after a certian DSO left you to breath after a long day only to find you gone the next minute?
Yandere! Zeno who's supposed to be dead, is stroking your skin as wake up to dozens duplicates of your supposed to be dead husband and yourself in columns of unknown liquid. After all, he loved you eternally. And Albert Wesker never lies.
Synopsis: When Zeno arrives furious over Victor’s lack of results, he becomes unexpectedly captivated by your innocence and begins to question why someone so gentle is caught in the middle of something so dark.
—Pairing: Zeno / Fem! Reader
—Warnings: None. Yet
—Author's Note: This is Pre! Re9 storyline. Before grace. Before Spencer’s truth is told.
The building had once been a bank.
You could still see it in the bones of the place — the wide marble floors worn smooth with age, the tall windows that let in pale afternoon light, the heavy iron vault door that now stayed permanently shut at the end of the lower hallway. Victor had bought the entire structure months ago. Most of the surrounding businesses had long since left the block, leaving the street quiet except for the occasional passing car or the low hum of trucks arriving at odd hours.
You tried not to think too hard about what they brought.
Your desk sat in the front lobby where the old teller counters had once been. Victor had replaced them with a polished wooden reception desk and a narrow hallway that led deeper into the building. Behind you hung a tall filing cabinet full of paperwork — shipments, expense reports, supply lists, and the steady trickle of invoices that seemed to multiply by the week.
Your job was simple.
Answer the phone.
Sort the mail.
Schedule Victor’s meetings.
Keep track of deliveries.
And, most importantly, never go downstairs.
Victor had told you that the first day.
He had smiled when he said it too, like it was nothing more than a casual workplace rule.
“Laboratory safety regulations,” he’d explained while setting the folder of employment forms in front of you. His voice eerily soft, eerily quiet. “Chemicals, experimental equipment. Nothing you’d find interesting anyway.”
You had nodded immediately.
You were good at nodding. Good at accepting things the way they were given to you.
It wasn’t like you had many options.
You hadn’t grown up with much.
Your parents had died when you were still young — a car accident on a wet highway you barely remembered. After that it had been a rotation of relatives, spare bedrooms, and eventually a small apartment you could barely afford once you were old enough to be on your own.
You learned quickly that being quiet, polite, and helpful made life easier.
People liked you that way.
So when the job listing appeared — administrative assistant needed, competitive pay, quiet office environment — you applied the same day.
Victor hired you almost immediately.
He was strange, maybe. A little absentminded. Always scribbling notes or muttering about breakthroughs and variables under his breath.
But he wasn’t cruel.
He paid you on time.
He let you take tea breaks whenever you liked.
Sometimes you even caught him staring— fingers twitching at his sides with an expression that remained content. That had to mean something, right?
Compared to some of the jobs you’d had before, it felt almost… comfortable.
Even if the building itself felt a little too quiet sometimes.
You were sorting paperwork when the door opened that afternoon.
The sound echoed through the empty lobby.
Not the light push of a normal visitor.
Something heavier.
Deliberate.
You looked up.
The man standing in the doorway did not look like anyone who should be walking into an office building.
Tall and broad shoulders. He had a dark coat hanging stiffly from his frame like it had been thrown on rather than worn properly. His face was sharp, stern in a way that made the air around him feel tense before he’d even said a word. He had an earring— only one that caught the over head lights and shined silver with a pristine, pretty decision. And his eyes. Although covered by dark frames, you imagined they scanned the room in one slow, measuring sweep with the way his neck craned.
You straightened instinctively in your chair.
“H-Hello,” you said softly.
Your voice always came out a little quieter than you expected.
“Can I help you… sir?”
For a moment he didn’t answer.
He was staring at you.
Not rudely. Not in the usual way men sometimes did.
Just… staring.
Like you were something entirely unexpected.
Something that didn’t belong.
Zeno had come to the building ready to tear Victor apart.
Months of funding.
Months of promises.
And nothing to show for it.
No breakthrough.
No power.
No progress worth the money he’d been pouring into the man’s research.
He’d spent the entire drive over rehearsing the conversation in his head — the threats, the ultimatum, the way Victor’s smug confidence would finally crack when he realized the patience funding his work had run out.
Zeno had expected armed guards.
Scientists.
Assistants.
Maybe security.
What he had not expected… was you.
A small girl sitting behind a reception desk with a stack of paperwork and a pen tucked behind your ear.
Your eyes were wide.
Curious.
A little nervous as they looked up at him.
You didn’t look like someone who belonged anywhere near the kind of work Victor was conducting in the basement of this building.
Zeno’s jaw tightened.
“…Where is Victor?” he asked bluntly. Already he could feel his fingers tightening, veins popping against his skin in untamed anger.
His voice came out rougher than he intended. Low. Gravelly from disuse and irritation.
You blinked once at the sound of it but quickly reached for the small notebook beside your desk.
“Oh! Um, Dr. Victor is downstairs in the lab,” you explained gently. “He’s been working all morning.”
You flipped through the pages like you’d done it a hundred times. The scent of old books and lead wafted heavily in the air.
“If you’d like, I can call down and let him know you’re here.”
Zeno was still staring.
Up close it was even more obvious.
You didn’t belong here.
Not in a building full of illegal experiments and men chasing power that could change the world.
Your cardigan sleeves were pushed halfway up your arms from writing.
A little smudge of ink stained the side of your finger.
You looked… so fucking normal.
So soft.
Zeno felt something unfamiliar twist faintly in his chest.
“…What do you do here?” he asked. Quite bluntly— you thought.
The question seemed to surprise you. I mean, it wasn’t every day a man looking so.. collected, question your intentions at a workplace. Your workplace.
“Oh,” you said quietly, glancing down at your desk. “I’m just the secretary.”
Just.
The word sat strangely in the air.
Zeno’s gaze flicked toward the hallway leading deeper into the building.
Then back to you.
Victor had a habit of hiding things in plain sight.
But this?
Putting someone like you at the front desk of a place like this?
It was reckless.
Or cruel.
He wasn’t sure which yet.
“…You work here every day?” he asked. It was then the man almost felt awkward. Zeno wasn’t new to talking up pretty women— fuck, he was almost a pro at it. But this, this was just confusing. A pretty girl like you deserved better.
You nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Zeno almost groaned with the way such pleasantries spilled from your soft lips. One hand came up to the desk, grabbing it with a profound force that a crack almost echoed out.
Almost.
Your voice was soft. And so fucking polite.
You were trusting in a way that made something sharp flicker behind Zeno’s eyes.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
For the first time since arriving, the anger that had been coiled tightly in his chest loosened slightly.
Not gone.
Just… redirected.
“…Call him,” Zeno managed to growl out. Already pulling his hand away from the desk— away from your proximity like it has burned him.
You smiled a little at his answer.
A small, warm thing that seemed completely out of place in the cold marble lobby.
“Of course.”
You picked up the phone.
And while you dialed, Zeno found himself watching you in a way he hadn’t expected to.
Studying the way your voice softened even further when you spoke into the receiver.
The way your fingers tapped lightly against the desk as you waited.
Still trying to understand one very simple thing.
What the hell was someone like you doing in a place like this?
And why, for the first time since stepping through the doors, did the thought of Victor dragging you into whatever horrors he was creating downstairs make Zeno’s patience feel very… thin.
I don’t condone or approve of any of these actions. This is all fiction, entertainment and a way to vent what was on my mind.
Warnings: AU, non con/dub con, coercion, cigarette burns, marking, kidnapping, violence, mentions of human experimentation, oral, p in v, spanking, handcuffs.
18:37
The bars of the prison cell are cold as my shoulder rests against them, tired. Too many hours waiting for the fucking bioterrorists to appear. Nothing to entertain myself with. They even took the Rubik cube with the rest of the weapons after searching us.
The boss will deal with you later, they said. Well, it's later and I want to sleep. Priks.
I observe as our captain, Chris Redfield, tries to find a way to open the door of his own cell. The two guards watching the only exit look at him, not even trying to stop him. That's what the machine guns are for I'm guessing but they don't move.
In the cell between Chris' and mine there's Leon, my brother, sitting just beside me with his arm around my shoulder through the bars.
The captain is just being stubborn. We all know it. Hell, HE knows it. Even if he opened the door, with two guards watching us like vultures, our exit is just a dream.
I look at the full plate of food next to the cell. No knife, no fork, no spoon. Just a metal plate for us to eat with our bare hands. But who would even eat in this situation?
Who knows what they put in it. I'm not willing to find out.
My thoughts are interrupted by the iron room door opening. An ominous intimidating presence enters.
A blonde man with sunglasses appears behind it. Chris' whole demeanor changes, as he switches from a cautious to an aggressive stance.
The stranger wears a long black trench coat made of glossy, leather-like material with a high collar and black gloves. Underneath, he has a tight black tactical bodysuit with subtle paneling that suggests flexibility and fairly leaves little to the imagination.
Who the hell designed this outfit? Can't keep my eyes off... Well. That.
"Oh, Chris. Still a disappointment. I see." Rude much?
I see the brunette captain tense, his eyes murdering the intimidating man a thousand times.
"Wesker." He spats.
Wesker? Isn't that... Oh, we're sooo fucked.
I feel Leon's hand wrapped tight around mine, but I don't take my eyes off the blond villain.
"And here I thought this time you'd make it more difficult. But somehow you're still a slow learner." He talks amused, walking towards the captain's cell. He observes the brunette like he was an insect, like he was something to step on.
"I'm going to kill you! Traitor!" Chris snarls confronting him.
"Sorry Chris, but I don't think you're aware of the situation you're into." Smirks the other.
While they fight as a cat and a dog, the door opens and closes again silently.
An older version of Wesker gets inside and rests his back against the wall while holding a cigarette between two of his globed fingers. He scoffs slightly at the spectacle between the ex teammates.
Seeing the resemblance, that must be Zeno Wesker. The clone of the former S.T.A.R.S. captain. According to Leon, an easy way to trigger him is comparing him with Albert.
I wonder even if this kind of psychopaths can have a complex.
He has an aura of elegance, but still as powerful as Wesker. Maybe more refined. More likely to establish a conversation. His hair is silver, combed in a kind of weird hairstyle. Like Albert a pair of sunglasses cover his eyes, though a sheen of light golden can be seen behind. He has a cross pendant earring contrasting with the dark virus infected skin next to it. He’s wearing a tailored light beige three-piece suit with matching trousers and vest. Underneath is a dark shirt and black tie. A long black leather coat is draped over his shoulders like a cape.
I'm beginning to question my problematic taste in men.
His face turns slightly from Chris, and I feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look away. Instead I frown. He tilts his head as if looking at an exotic animal.
What's his problem?
The man puts out the cigarette and takes a few steps closer. I feel something inside me stirring.
Nope. Go away.
My brother tenses next to me and whispers for me to get closer to the wall to our back. I obey, wanting to get out of the spotlight.
Too much attention for me. Help.
The blonde Wesker, sensing my movement, also turns with a smirk. I can subtly see his eyes shine behind his lenses too. More orange than golden.
"My, my. What do we have here? Aren't you a cute little pet?"
Watch it, black leather diva.
"Don't look at her!" Spats Chris hitting the metal bars. I flinch subtly at the uncomfortable sound.
"Why? Is she your girlfriend?" Asks the older looking Wesker leaning on the bars between us. The black trace from the virus seems to have its own heartbeat as he gets closer, his eyes still fixed on me. I want to shrink. But one should never show weakness to the enemy, right?
"That has nothing to do with you!" the brunette. Can't you just say no? You have too many enemies in this room.
The tension is palpable. The two pairs of golden eyes on me make me uncomfortable.
Now this is great. Feel the sarcasm.
I feel my cheeks flare and my neck burns.
Look away, please. Nothing here to see.
A sudden call ring dissipates the tension. The ex captain answers the phone, and listens to the other side of the line. After a while he hangs up without a word.
“There's a code red at level 4.” He says looking at the other Wesker who now turns to him.
Both Wesker leave the room in a rush. No time to spare now. Huh.
A guard stays.
20 minutes pass and there's no Wesker in sight. I decide to try my luck.
“Sorry. I know this is… uncomfortable but I've been here for hours and I really need to go to the bathroom.” The guard still doesn't move. I insist. “Please, menstruating is really really uncomfortable and it could bring an infection.” I lie. The guard gives it a thought, and after looking around for someone else outside the room, he decides to get close and open the door.
Chris makes a sound in his cell and the guard turns quickly towards him.
Gotcha.
I throw him a kick to the back of his head and he stumbled to Leon's cell, who give him a last blow.
Time to get out.
* * * * *
Red light covers the corridors while the sirens loudly alert the guards.
Chris, my brother and I run as fast as we can. I can feel my legs and lungs beginning to surrender. Chris shoots the incoming guards with the machine gun, and we run past their corpses and take their weapons.
"Hey captain?" I ask, following the two males.
"What." The brunette asks sharply, hiding behind a wall. With a few shots I kill the guards coming through the right corridor.
"Couldn't you just say no? To the clone's question I mean. I really don't need more targets on my back." Leon shoots the ones behind us as I search for more enemies.
"Not the time?" Chris says exasperated.
"Just saying." I shrug.
The alarm goes louder and the doors begin to close one after another. We rush to the end of the corridor.
"She has a point." Adds Leon, breathless by now. This is taking a toll on all of us. It's getting too long.
"I know." Replies the captain.
We turn right and we see how the doors are beginning to close. At the end of the corridor, a garage-like door closes slowly.
“Run!” Leon yells.
Just as I'm about to cross the door behind the two before it closes, my body gets dragged back and pushed to the wall with my arms behind my back. I hear the screams of Leon and Chris behind the now sealed door.
With my chest pressed against the metallic door I can barely breathe. I do a futile attempt to free my arms only for them to be pressed further against my back.
"You shouldn't have run, pet." Says an already familiar voice. Albert fucking Wesker.
"Yes, well. I didn't want to see your face again." Liar. “And who the fuck are you calling pet, bastard?”
He laughs.
"Oh, the kitten has claws. I can't wait to discipline you." His breath makes my nerves shake. "Shame I have to deal with the two morons before that."
A painful gasp resonates in the closed hallway as I feel a prick on my neck.
* * * * *
A door and two pairs of feet is the first I see as my sight gets back. I don't move, pretending to be asleep.
Leaving me in front of a door with just two guards. I don't know if to feel offended or relieved.
I analyse everything I can without moving from my position.
Never mind. More machine guns. Great.
I look around for something to use as a weapon, but nothing seems to be close enough to get without being caught. My eyes go back at the guards only to find them already with their gaze on me.
“What.” I snap at them. They quickly go back to their positions looking straight pretending nothing happened.
I begin to stand up, moving my hands to help me prop myself up, only to find them restrained behind my back. Cold metal touches my skin.
You've got to be kidding me.
After a few minutes of unsuccessful attempts and what I think was one of the guards laughing at me, I finally get to at least kneel. I consider standing up, but they'd probably stop me or shoot me, so I stay kneeling. Easier to stand up fast if needed.
I observe my surroundings turning my head. No Leon, no Chris, no Weskers. Just an old office with a desk, a sofa and no windows.
My knees are uncomfortable against the wooden floor. My hands are tied with what sound like a pair of handcuffs behind my back.
I try talking to the soldiers, this time not as aggressively. They don't answer, not even a word. I ask to go to the bathroom. Nothing. I insult them. Nothing. I provoke them. Guess what. Again, nothing. I don't even know if they're allowed to shoot me. I hope not.
The wait is killing me. I don't know where Leon or Chris are. Are they out? Are they free?
My mind then turns to the Weskers. They're mad. Clearly. We escaped the prison they had us in. We killed their men, and broke a few doors. That's a lot of money I guess. I wonder how much the soldiers get paid.
But what were they expecting? For us to wait for whatever they have prepared for us? No thanks. I'm good.
My thoughts get interrupted by a pair of steps walking towards the door they had me face. A familiar face appears before me.
Zeno.
His platinum hair shines with the subtle light, as he hides his eyes behind his tinted glasses.
If evil, why hot... Not the time, I know.
I believe he's looking at me, but it's difficult to determine. I throw him a dirty look from the floor. My guess gets confirmed after he gives a breathless chuckle with a smirk on his face. He leaves his jacket and the first layer of his suit on the sofa, leaving him with his black shirt and white vest. He rolls up his sleeves and turns.
"So, little miss Kennedy, how was your little escapade? Did you have fun?" Asks the Wesker Clone walking around me.
Like I'm going to answer.
He stops at my back and puts his knee against my back but I push against it.
"Stubbornness runs in the family it seems. Your big brother would be proud." I can hear his smirk between the condescending lines.
"Don't talk about my brother, clone."
Bad word choice, but he and his disdain for Leon irks me. Who does he think he is?
As soon as the words leave my mouth, the room turns silent and he presses further with his knee uncomfortably, I begin to feel that the jail was a better option. Just a guard bringing the necessary food and having walks to the bathroom. What a dream would that be right now.
"Everyone out." His voice echoes around the space. The order leaves no room for disobedience.
A shiver runs down my back.
Aaaand I fucked up.
The guards get out as fast as they can, leaving us alone in the room.
Not a good sign. Me and my brilliant smart mouth.
I can feel his eyes on the back of my head. I don't even dare to breathe out loud right now, regretting every choice I've made so far.
I feel something grazing my hair just before his hand grabs the hair of the nape of my neck, and pulls me up to face him like I was a cat. I gasp as my feet stop touching the floor. My scalp burns with passion and I think I can feel my skin peeling off. Our stares meet through the glasses. His eyes are easier to see this close. My hands move uselessly at my back. I can't free myself. His face is barely a few inches from mine. My gaze tries to fall, but his free hand moves to trap my jaw, giving me no choice but to look back up at him.
"You made us waste time, darling. That's not smart. You know that."
My survival instinct is screaming. My adrenaline is spiking. My leg moves as fast as possible to kick him wherever I can, but it gets instantly stopped by the hand from my jaw that moves faster than my eyes can go.
Teleportation or whatever he has is such a cheat code.
"Nice try." He states. His face is blank. No rage, no excitement anymore. Nothing. That makes him a hundred times scarier. I can't read him. Tension accumulates between us until his hand moves again and my eyes go down. Panic clouds my mind as his hand moves further closer to my ass. I feel my neck redden.
"Stop!" I yell, my voice trembling.
"Shhh."
"I said..." I try again, looking at him desperately.
"The only sounds I want to hear right now coming from your lips are cries, moans or my name, understood?" He says, gripping my hair further.
What? Is he crazy? No fucking way.
I open my mouth to respond, startled, but his darkening golden orbs behind the black tinted glasses make me reconsider.
I need to survive. Leon, help me. Quickly. Please.
I nod as I can with the little movement his grip allows me. I flinch at the pressure on my skull.
"Good girl." He moves my whole body by my hair towards the desk behind me in the center of the room and allows my feet to touch the floor. "Lay on the desk."
I stay put looking at him with defiance, but the only answer I receive is a tired sigh as he manhandles me and makes me look down. I stumble on the wooden table, trying to gain some stability but without the ability to use my arms and his strength, my body stays laid on the surface.
Zeno changes his globed hand from my hair to my back and makes a gap between my feet with his own. I try to move again uselessly.
Stupid genocidal mutants.
"I recommend you reconsider your attitude before I get tired and go downstairs to shoot your brother in the head."
Leon. No.
I hear a little click behind me and tense. Even more after smelling the cigarette smoke clouding the room.
He seems to have the cigarette in his mouth as his hand goes to my lower back while the other moves to the front of my pants to undo them.
I'm afraid to say something or move. Leon and Chris may be in danger. But my last straw of sanity is broken when I feel the hand in my lower back travel inside my pants, dragging them down slowly, teasing, until they fall to the floor.
My mouth moves before my mind can process my words.
"I'll cut your fucking hand off."
He takes the cigarette off his mouth and puts it out on my tail bone and throws it away. I grit my teeth from the burn.
“Wrong choice again.” His hand falls firmly on my ass. I let out a strangled gasp.
“You fucking…”
Once again he strikes. Every try to talk back or insult him ends up with another hit to my backside. It burns and it hurts. Not only physically. I feel shame pour over me. Not even as a child was I spanked.
Who does he think he is?
“I was going to wait for Albert, but since he's already occupied taking care of your brother and your…” he pauses. I'm unable to see his expression, but the pressure on my lower back says it's not a happy one. “... boyfriend, I guess we can start without him.”
“He's not my…” I panic. But another slap gets delivered. This time closer to my pussy. I flinch at the recurrent pain.
“Doesn't make any difference who he is. The result will be the same. He will be dead and you'll remain here.”
Once again I move my body to avoid his touch with rage, but he doesn't dignify it with a response.
“From now on every time I spank you, you'll apologize and I'll stop whenever I consider you've learnt to obey.” he explains like he was talking with a misbehaving child while kneading the fat of my ass. The slightest pain makes me imagine the already marked fingertips on my skin. This was going to sting for sure.
My point gets proven when his hand gives a sharp slap to my cheek. I press my mouth on a thin line about how worth it is to keep testing his limits.
“I'm waiting.”
Getting on his nerves looks like a very bad idea.
“I'm sorry.” I whisper.
He goes again.
“I'm sorry.”
And again.
He keeps going as I mindlessly repeat my apologies again and again. From whispers to screams as my skit gets beaten and I feel his fingers imprint. Not even his gloves lighten the pain.
On a certain point, my mouth stops apologising and only releases pained ground, moans and screams, but it seems of little relevance since Zeno keeps slapping my ass even faster and harder. When I'm about to pass out, he stops.
His hand caresses the bruised area of my ass cheeks.
Tears run down my face falling onto the dark wooden surface under me. Pain or shame? That something that escapes me.
"Please, I'm sorry. I just..."
His hand travels to the back of my neck, pushing me against the desk.
"Shush. You were doing so well. Don't spoil it with excuses." He mocks me. “Don't move.” His body gets away from mine and I hear him walk away. A wave of uncertainty washes over me.
Is it over?
My brief relief ends when I hear something soft falling behind me. I dare not to look. After a thud, a finger traces my upper leg before his hands circle both of them.
What is he going to…
I feel Zeno's breath against my labia, and I move forward to the desk. His hands press firmly against my thighs, stopping my retreat, and I hear him chuckle behind me.
"Now, darling, where do you think you're going?" I shiver, hearing his playful tone against my dripping cunt. His breath with my wetness causes me goosebumps. Shameful. I pray for him not to realise my body's reaction but my pleads fall into deaf ears. His nose rests against my entrance and breathes in. I get started when his tongue traces the insides of my labia before he sighs again. “I could drown with just the scent.”
Suddenly he raises one of my legs to his shoulder and turns the lower part of my body to the side to give his mouth more access, and his tongue dives completely into my vagina. A strangled moan escapes me at the alien sensation. I can't hold it. The evil man smirks against me before flicking his tongue against my clit. An electric jolt moves my body unconsciously. This time the moan is more obvious. My voice gets out with little restraint.
I'm so tired. I want to leave.
Delighted by my reactions, Zeno teases my mound again and again alternating with fucking me with his tongue.
My eyes are tired but they open every time my button is grazed. I feel the bud of nerves beginning to burn at the constant attention. It's not my intention anymore but my body is overstimulated and needs a rest, so it tries to get away from the constant pleasure. With another flick of his tongue my eyes roll back.
As if seeing my imminent climax or maybe feeling it with his pink muscle inside me, he moves his mouth away and shoves two of his fingers inside my pussy. They push against where biology books say that the g spot is. At the beginning I feel nothing. That is until the silver haired curls his fingers against the spongy wall making my body spasm.
I can't…
My hoarse throat releases something between a lame whimper and a meek whine. I feel my wetness run down my leg but he keeps going.
I need to…
“My name. Say it” he spats. I'm too out of myself to comply at the moment, but not satisfied, he slightly bites my bud. Another jolt travels through my body. “We won't move from here until you do.”
I have to… I need to.
“Zeno!”
Still with his fingers in my vagina, he finally slurps my clit. This time I moan as I cum. Only then he gets his drenched gloved digits outside my cunt.
But that's not the end.
He won't stop. Even after I finish his teeth still tease my overstimulated mound, and his tongue invades my insides once again.
Why? I can't…
It's like torture. Maybe that's what he intends.
I fight against my restraints, with no results. Just a stinging sensation and a hot drop falling from my wrist to my back.
The sudden pain makes me go back to myself for a moment.
Zeno grunts, not liking my loss of focus on him. His hand slaps my overstimulated pussy before standing up. I hear his belt cling.
My legs shake, not sure if due to fear or exhaustion. I feel something hot grazing my now red labia. This time is not his mouth.
I panic, and for the nth time try to move away with the same exact result.
“Now darling. Take a breath.”
The clone's hands go around my waist and he pushes, slowly, dragging the moment. For a moment I wish it was quick until I feel it going further and further.
He grunts as he feels my tense muscles around him and I gasp.
I'm not a virgin. Not close to it. But in the BSAA we don't have exactly free time for my cunt to be prepared for this size. And my toys and exes are not like this either.
I can feel it opening me painfully despite all the previous preparation. Tongue or fingers a lame comparison.
As he finally bottoms out I hope my insides are not broken after all this ends. I feel him further than what I imagined my uterus to be.
“That's it… Good girl.”
He reclines himself, his torso touching my back, and his hand moves to my stomach to feel himself though my skin. I jolt when he presses harder and my insides squeeze.
I hear his groan by my ear. A moment later, his pearly teeth are pressing against the skin of my neck. Tears of blood run away from the indentations.
It hurts. Everything hurts.
He stands finally leaving space between us, and begins going faster. In and out. In and out. And just wished he had kept going with his mouth.
Slowly the line between pain and pleasure starts to blur as endorphins begin doing their proper function.
The present distorts as I lose contact with any reality other than my sense of touch.
His fingers on my waist.
My legs against his.
His breath on my back.
My ass against his skin.
His wood pushing my walls.
Minutes don't exist, nor does anything else. Just him, the pleasure and I.
But something changes. Zeno slows down and my mind regains some sense.
Steps are heard in the hallway and the only door of the room opens revealing Albert Wesker with traces of blood in his hands.
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