#the undercurrent of constant fear

[ahappydnp]

The whole "being out in the way you were allowed to in 2010s" like you said feels so important in order to understand the culture back then and how people behaved! I'm a little older than you and from Europe, but I think its similar in that there were certainly both "regular" celebrities and internet famous people that most people kind of knew/guessed were gay/queer but it just was not acknowledged or openly stated in the same way! Like an elephant in the room but everyone knew to just walk around it and agreed it was for the best or something.

(Obviously there were also famous people who were out, but it was just a much, much bigger deal to be openly queer and really affected your career and public persona etc)

I dont know why im rambling about this, i've just been reflecting on that time (2000s and 2010s) lately

god yeah! understanding the nuances of navigating queerness in that time is SO imperative to understanding their story!! because it was such a transformative time in culture and i think people forget that being queer outside the safety of the internet was soooo vastly different and hard

the way you could present as stereotypically queer as long as you never confirmed actual queerness. like you said it was that understanding that we were going to walk around the elephant

[dxrlingluv]

I hope you don't mind adding another Hermes x Reader fanfic to your collection...

But basically Hermes and Reader are close friends, very affectionate with each other, Hermes having very obvious feelings to the other, but neither confessed yet.

The reason you ask? Both have this lingering fear that maybe the other won't reciprocate their feelings and that they would choose/deserve someone better than they are.

Honestly driving everyone else insane at this rate.

Symphony

A/N : I felt lazy and tired so I apologize because this isn’t the best. Telemachus smut will come next ! Art of Hermes belongs to Zieru!

WARNING : GN!Devine!Reader, friends to lovers, a bit of angst?

Word Count : 1.5k

The ambrosia tasted sweeter when you shared it with Hermes. Not that you'd ever tell him that, of course. For centuries, your friendship had been a beacon in the often-stuffy halls of Olympus – a comfortable, exhilarating whirlwind of shared secrets, daring escapades across the mortal realm, and laughter that echoed through the celestial spheres. You, a divine being whose domain was the subtle currents of fate and chance, and he, the swift messenger, the trickster, the god of a thousand roles.

You were, to put it mildly, affectionate. A casual arm sling around his shoulders as you recounted a particularly amusing twist of mortal destiny, a playful nudge when he'd outdone himself with a witty remark, the way your hand naturally found his when navigating crowded Olympian feasts. These were gestures as natural as breathing, yet lately, a new, more potent undercurrent hummed beneath them.

Hermes, bless his winged sandals, wasn't subtle. His gaze would linger a fraction too long, a warmth in his eyes that went beyond mere camaraderie. He'd find any excuse to be near you, his usual boisterous energy softening into something more focused, more tender, when it was just the two of you. He'd bring you peculiar mortal trinkets he swore reminded him of you: a perfectly smooth river stone, a feather of an unknown bird, a melody plucked from a shepherd's lonely flute. Each offering felt like a whispered question, one you were too afraid to answer.

The fear was a cold knot in your divine stomach. How could Hermes, the charming, adored, and relentlessly pursued god, truly want you? You, whose powers were often unseen, whose presence was more a quiet hum than a thunderous pronouncement. Surely, he deserved someone more dazzling, more overtly powerful, someone who wouldn't dim his brilliant light. The thought of him choosing someone else, someone better, was a constant, dull ache.

And so, you both danced this agonizingly beautiful, frustratingly silent waltz.

Aphrodite had cornered you just last week, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in exasperation. "Honestly, Y/N," she'd sighed, fanning herself with a gilded feather, "the tension between you two is thicker than the fog in Hades' realm. Even Ares is placing bets on when one of you will finally crack."

Apollo, never one to miss an opportunity for drama, had composed a rather scathing, though admittedly catchy, ballad about 'Two Hearts Too Scared to Speak.' You'd pretended to find it amusing, even as your cheeks burned.

Today, you found Hermes by the edge of the reflecting pool in Hera's gardens, a place you often sought refuge in together. He was unusually quiet, tracing patterns on the water's surface with a fingertip. The usual spark in his eyes was muted, replaced by a familiar wistfulness you'd seen more and more often.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you asked softly, settling beside him, your shoulder brushing his. The contact sent a familiar jolt, comforting and terrifying all at once.

Hermes offered a small, tired smile. "Just... wondering about things, I suppose." His gaze flickered to you, then quickly away, a blush creeping up his neck that he tried to hide by adjusting the strap of his satchel. "The usual divine ennui, you know how it is."

You knew it wasn't. You knew that look. It was the same uncertainty that gnawed at you.

"You seem..." you started, then hesitated. 'Don't push it,' a voice whispered. 'You'll only scare him off. Or worse, confirm your fears.'

"Lost in thought," he finished for you, a little too quickly. "Comes with the territory of flitting between worlds, I guess. Sometimes, I just... I wonder if I'm ever truly seen. For just... me. Not the messenger, not the dealmaker." His voice was quiet, vulnerable.

Your heart ached. Oh, how you saw him. You saw the weariness behind the endless energy, the kindness that often got overshadowed by his mischievous reputation, the yearning for genuine connection that mirrored your own.

"I see you, Hermes," you said, the words escaping before you could stop them. Your voice was barely a whisper, but in the sudden stillness of the garden, it felt deafening.

He turned to you, his eyes wide, searching. The air crackled with unspoken emotions, centuries of friendship and a burgeoning love hanging heavy between you. The fear was still there, a cold serpent coiling in your gut, but for the first time, a tiny spark of hope ignited alongside it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, a rare instance of the god of eloquence being rendered speechless. His hand twitched, as if wanting to reach for yours, but he hesitated, his own anxieties likely screaming at him.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the gentle lapping of water in the pool and the frantic thumping of two divine hearts, both equally terrified, both desperately hoping. Hermes's gaze remained fixed on yours, a maelstrom of emotions swirling in their depths – disbelief, a fragile hope, and the same raw vulnerability he'd just exposed. His hand, still hovering between you, trembled slightly.

You held your breath, your own courage wavering. Had you said too much? Had you misinterpreted everything? The familiar chill of doubt began to creep back in, threatening to extinguish the tiny spark of hope.

Then, Hermes swallowed, a visible effort. The god of swift words and even swifter escapes seemed rooted to the spot, battling an internal war. He finally let out a shaky breath, the sound surprisingly loud in the quiet garden.

"You... you see me?" he finally managed, his voice rougher than usual, stripped of its customary playful lilt. It wasn't a question of understanding the words, but of daring to believe their implication.

"Yes, Hermes," you affirmed, your voice gaining a little more strength, fueled by the raw honesty in his eyes. "I see all of you. The brilliant messenger, the clever trickster, yes. But also the god who gets weary, who feels deeply, who brings me a perfectly smooth river stone because it reminded you of something quiet and constant."

A flicker of something akin to wonder crossed his face. His hand, the one that had twitched, slowly, hesitantly, reached out. It wasn't the confident, casual touch you were used to. This was tentative, questioning. He stopped just short of your own hand, which rested on the cool marble bench between you.

"And what if," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, the sound so intimate it sent shivers down your spine, "what if the god you see... what if he feels more for you than just friendship? What if, for centuries, you've been the only constant he truly craves, the quiet harbor in all his endless journeys?"

Your heart leaped, a wild, joyous thing. The fear hadn't vanished entirely, but it was drowned out by a wave of overwhelming emotion. This was it. The precipice.

"What if," you replied, your voice equally soft, your own hand lifting to meet his, your fingers finally, tentatively, lacing together, "that quiet harbor has been waiting? What if this divine being, who watches the threads of fate, has seen their own destiny intertwined with yours for longer than they dared to admit, even to themselves?"

A slow, dazzling smile spread across Hermes's face, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached his eyes and made them sparkle with a light you hadn't realized you'd been missing. It wasn't his usual charming grin; this was softer, more profound, filled with an almost boyish relief.

"Y/N," he breathed your name like a prayer, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I... I've been so afraid. Afraid you wouldn't... that I wasn't enough. That you deserved someone... grander."

"Oh, Hermes," you sighed, a laugh bubbling up, tinged with happy tears you quickly blinked away. "And I thought you deserved someone more brilliant, more overtly divine. We've been a pair of fools, haven't we?"

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and leaned closer. The air between you was no longer fraught with unspoken tension, but thrumming with a newly acknowledged truth. "The most glorious, infuriatingly slow fools in all of Olympus, perhaps." He squeezed your hand. "I love you, Y/N. More than words, even mine, can properly convey."

The admission, so direct, so heartfelt, sent a shockwave of pure joy through you. The remaining tendrils of fear dissolved completely, replaced by a radiant certainty.

"And I love you, Hermes," you confessed, your voice clear and true, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "With all of my being. For all of time."

He leaned in further, and this time, there was no hesitation from either of you. His lips met yours, a gentle, tentative exploration at first, then deepening as centuries of unspoken affection, shared laughter, and silent yearning finally found their voice. It wasn't a kiss of wild passion, not yet, but one of profound relief, of coming home.

When you finally drew apart, the sounds of the garden seemed brighter, the scent of the flowers sweeter. Aphrodite would likely be insufferable, and Apollo would undoubtedly compose a triumphant (and hopefully less scathing) sequel to his ballad. But in that moment, nestled beside Hermes, his hand securely in yours, his eyes shining with a love that mirrored your own, none of that mattered.

The echoes in your hearts were no longer unspoken. They were a symphony.

[bumblebeeswrite]

please, my love; i beg. “it’s not fair, is it?” with our precious Caracalla 😭🫶🏻

“It’s not fair, is it?” | CARACALLA

this one really fucked me up y’all 🤧

summary: Emperor Caracalla finds his iron will softened by his deep affection. Your love provides him with a rare sanctuary from the pressures of his reign. However, his enemies, recognizing your significance in his life, and plot to assassinate you, hoping to shatter Caracalla's resolve and destabilize his power.

CW: Violence, attempted assassination, mentions of death, political intrigue, emotional distress, implied power imbalance, reader death, blood

The Colosseum roared, a chaotic symphony of bloodlust and excitement. Emperor Caracalla offered a curt nod to the masses. His light eyes, usually carrying the weight of an empire, flickered towards you in the shadowed alcove. A subtle softening touched his lips, a fleeting moment of tenderness that only you ever witnessed among the public picture.

Your heart fluttered in response. Your relationship with Caracalla was a closely guarded secret, a fragile bloom in the harsh landscape of Roman politics. You were not of noble birth, your connection to the Roman Emperor a matter of whispered speculation and envious glances. Yet, in his private chambers, away from the suffocating weight of his imperial duties, you saw a different man. A man who sought solace in your presence, who valued you quiet strength and unwavering honesty.

He had a restless energy, a coiled intensity. But around you, there was a measure of peace. He would confide in you his frustrations, his fears, the crushing burden of leadership. You, in turn, offered him a listening ear, a moment of respite from the constant scheming and power plays that defined his life.

Tonight, however, the undercurrent of political tension felt amplified. Whispers of discontent had reached even your ears, veiled threats and envious murmurs directed your way. You knew that your position was precarious, that your influence on the Emperor made you a target for those who sought to control him.

During a particularly brutal display in the arena, Caracalla's hand, adorned with heavy rings, clenched into a fist. You placed your hand gently over his, your touch there to ground him in the moment. His gaze met yours, the intensity in his expression momentarily replaced with soft vulnerability.

Later, within the guarded walls of his private chamber, Caracalla paced with that familiar restless energy, that paranoia you had come to know so well. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight.

"They grow bolder." He muttered, his voice a low rumble. "The whispers turn to open defiance. They see my.. affections.. as a weakness."

He stopped before you, his eyes piercing. You sat on a low cushion, your fingers tracing the intricate patterns on the mosaic floor.

"They are fools if they think so," you said softly, meeting his intense stare. "You strength lies in your ability to care, not in your coldness."

He knelt before you, his hands enclosing yours. The intensity in his eyes faded, replaced by a warmth he could only hold for you. "You believe that?"

"I know it." You affirmed, squeezing his hands. "And they fear you for it."

The following weeks were thick with unease. The senators, particularly the elder ones, cast increasingly hostile glances your way. Their polite inquiries as to your health held a veiled menace. You felt like a lamb surrounded by wolves, your only protection was the loyalty of the Emperor.

One evening as you walked through the dimly lit corridors of Palantine, a figure lunged from the shadows. A sharp pain erupted from your side, followed by a sickening squelching sound as it knife twisted, your blood spilling onto the floor. You cried out, tumbling backwards as your attacker, cloaked, melted back into the darkness.

It all happened so fast, you hadn't the slightest idea what had really occurred.

Guards, alerted by your cry, swarmed into the corridor. You lay on the cold marble, your vision blurring, a sickening red stain spreading across the fabric of your dress. The world tilted, and then everything faded away.

The news of the attack on you reached Caracalla like a physical blow. What little composure he was managing to cling onto these days snapped in an instant. He stormed through the palace half dressed, eyes aflame with anger. His face was a thundercloud of fury, his voice a raw roar as he demanded answers.

He found you in your own chambers, pale and still. The royal physician hovered nervously nearby. Even he knew if you were to die, he might as well go with you. Caracalla dismissed him with an erratic waving of his arms. He knelt beside your bed, pulling his white sheet around his shoulders.

He gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch surprising tender for the flaming anger stewing within him. His eyes were filled with unguarded fear, glassy and slightly wet.

"Who did this?" He whispered, his voice thick and quiet. "Tell me who did this."

You stirred slightly, your eyelids fluttering open. HIs face swam into focus, his features etched with weariness and worry.

"I.. didn't see." you said, voice weak and unrecognizable even to yourself. "It was so fast."

His jaw clenched. "They will pay," He vowed, even though he had no idea who 'they' was. "Every single one of them will pay."

He spent the night by your bedside, his hands never leaving yours. He watched your shallow breaths, his heart pounding with a terror he rarely allowed himself to feel. The thought of losing you, of the light in his life being extinguished by the malice of his enemies, was unbearable.

As the days passed, you slowly began to heal. But the attack had left a mark, not just on your body, but on the atmosphere within Palantine. Caracalla's paranoia only intensified. His guard was doubled, his trust in the senate dwindled. He kept you close, rarely letting you out of his sight.

You sat with him in his garden during a quiet and warm spring afternoon. The scent of roses was heavy in the air. Caracalla turned to you, his expression troubled. "They tried to take you from me." He muttered, rocking slowly. "They thought that by hurting you, they could weaken me."

You reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder to slow his body, to lessen the input his brain was receiving. ""And did they?"

He looked at your hand and then to your face, slowly reaching up to take your hand from his shoulder, holding it carefully in both of his. "No.. They-" He cut himself off, clearly trying to put all the words together in his head. "Only made me realize what you are to me. How.. fragile and breakable this all is."

He pulled your closer, nuzzling his face into your hair. "I will not let them touch you again." He vowed, taking a deep breath. "I will tear down this entire city if I have to, but I will keep you safe. I will cut off any man's head that dare lays a finger on you. Let them try."

The weight of his words and the raw emotion in his voice brought tears to your eyes. You knew the power he wielded, the ruthlessness he was capable of. And you knew that his love for you had made you both targets.

A message arrived, carried by a secret royal guard who swore secrecy on his life. It was a threat, hinting at another attempt, this time more public, more devastating. You could only thank the Gods that it got to you before it could happen.

Caracalla's enemies were growing more desperate.

He summoned you to the war room, his face grim. Maps were spread across the table, illuminated by flickering torch light. His generals stood around him, looking just as grave.

"They plan something for the next games." he said, his voice low as he pulled you into his side. "Something.. significant. They think to strike at me through you, in front of the entire city."

Fear coiled in your stomach, but you met his gaze anyway. "What will you do?"

His eyes held firm. "I will not hide you away. I will not let them dictate my actions. We will face them, together."

The day of the fateful games arrived, thick with a tension that made you feel like you were choking. You sat beside Caracalla in the imperial box, your hand resting on his arm. His guards were more numerous than usual, their eyes scanning the crowd with hawk-like vigilance.

During a lull in the fighting, a commotion erupted near the lower levels of the area. A group of hooded figured surged forward, brandishing weapons, their target clear- the imperial box.

Chaos erupted. Guards clashed with the assassins, the roar of the crowd turning into screams of terror. Caracalla reacted instantly, drawing a hidden dagger from his waist. He would be ready should his guards fail.

You found yourself caught in the crossfire, the glint of steel flashing dangerously close. Suddenly, a figure lunged towards you, his long knife poised directly for your face.

Before you could react, Caracalla moved faster than you'd ever seen him move before. You had never seen him fight before, only heard stories of his conquests when he was a boy.

In the brief moment of Caracalla's attention towards the other man, another slipped through the chaos. You could only watch in horror as his sword plunged directly into your middle, the tip scrapping against the stone floor.

Caracalla whirled around, his face angry and then scared, and then his eyes were set on the man who's sword rested in your midsection. If your head had not been pounding, you might have counted at least fifty stabs that Caracalla gifted him before turning back to you.

His face was white and his hands were shaking. His eyes were filled with a horror that matched your own as he saw the blood dripping from the sword, still plunged into you. His grip was almost crushing on your arms.

"What do I-" He started, looking from the sword to your face, panic starting to rise within him. "What do I do?"

You coughed, blood spraying from your lips as you tried to smile. "It's only a scratch." You lied, trying to downplay the situation to calm him.

But he wasn't fooled, obviously. He held you tightly, his gaze sweeping over the carnage. The crowd seemed distant, irrelevant.

He looked down at you, tears beginning to flow freely from his eyes. "It's not fair, is it?" He whispered, biting back a sob. "This is my fault. If I had not have loved you-" His fingers moved hair from your face, as shaking as they were.

"Do not-" You said before another cough racked your body. "Let hatred dictate your life." You knew these would be your last moments. You had to make sure he understood. "But-"

You gave him a fierce look.

"I have been blessed by the Gods in knowing you, and I will be waiting on the banks of the Stix for you to cross, too."

He was going to say something. But then your eyes did a funny thing where they glazed over and you stopped breathing.

He begged you and he pleaded for you to stopped jesting, shaking your shoulders and sobs racked his body.

His face was red and littered with hives when he finally looked up from your face.

Anger?

He had never known anger before this.

And he was going to burn this city, and its conspirators, to the ground in your name.

[criticalcrusherbot]

The Lens of Abuse: Understanding Stolas’ Actions

💁🏽‍♀️🤖: Before we dive into the nitty-gritty, let’s remind ourselves of one critical fact: Stella is abusive. The show doesn’t beat us over the head with it, but the signs are everywhere—from her open contempt and cruel insults to her explosive fits of rage. Her dynamic with Stolas is defined by control, belittlement, and a lack of empathy. Abuse isn’t just about physical harm; it’s about creating a constant undercurrent of fear and power imbalance, and Stella wields both masterfully.

When analyzing Stolas’ choices—whether it’s staying in the marriage, going to that party, or how he handled things with Octavia—it’s essential to understand that they don’t exist in a vacuum. Abuse clouds judgment, limits perceived options, and forces victims to prioritize survival over happiness. Let’s break down why this perspective is crucial to understanding Stolas and why the critique of him being “pathetic” or “a sucker for punishment” completely misses the mark.

1. “He didn’t have to go to the party” — That’s Not How Abuse Works

It’s easy to sit back and say, “He didn’t have to go.” But when you’re in an abusive relationship, even basic decisions like this are never simple. Abusers like Stella don’t offer real choices—they create situations where every option carries a punishment.

Stolas going to the party wasn’t about “obligation.” It was about avoiding whatever retaliation Stella would dish out if he didn’t. Abuse operates on control, and the victim learns to navigate around the abuser’s unpredictable wrath to minimize harm. Stolas went because, in his mind, the fallout of staying home likely felt worse than enduring a miserable evening at Stella’s side.

Calling him “pathetic” for attending the party is an oversimplification that dismisses the psychological toll of years of manipulation and coercion.

2. “He didn’t have to suffer in the marriage” — Leaving Isn’t Easy

Here’s the thing about abuse: leaving isn’t just a decision—it’s a process. Victims often stay in harmful situations because of fear, obligation, or a belief that leaving will only make things worse. Stolas’ marriage to Stella wasn’t just an unhappy partnership; it was a deeply ingrained system of control.

Stella’s volatile personality made leaving a high-risk move. The likelihood of her retaliating—socially, politically, or even physically—was enormous. Stolas staying wasn’t about being a “sucker for punishment”; it was about survival. And let’s not forget, he had Octavia to consider. He believed staying gave her a chance at stability, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness.

The idea that Stolas “didn’t have to suffer” ignores the reality that, for victims of abuse, the path out often feels blocked, whether by fear, societal expectations, or the abuser’s power.

3. The Cycle of Abuse: Why Stolas Didn’t Leave Sooner

Abuse creates a cycle of control, self-doubt, and helplessness. Victims internalize their circumstances, convincing themselves that enduring the abuse is the safest or only option.

Stolas wasn’t “just an idiot who can’t turn down obligation.” He was stuck in a dynamic where Stella controlled the narrative and made him feel powerless. Add to that the societal expectations of Hell’s elite, and it’s no wonder he felt trapped.

When victims like Stolas finally leave, it’s not because they’re suddenly smarter or braver. It’s because something shifts—whether internally or externally—that gives them the push they need. For Stolas, this shift came when he chose to pursue his own happiness, even at great personal cost. That’s not idiocy; that’s growth.

4. Octavia and Parental Decisions Under Abuse

This take also misses how abuse warps decision-making when children are involved. Stolas stayed because he genuinely believed that keeping Octavia in a two-parent household was the lesser evil. Was it the right call? Maybe not. But it wasn’t about stupidity—it was about trying to protect her within a deeply broken system.

And let’s not act like leaving would have been a magical fix. Stella isn’t the kind of person who’d let Stolas walk away quietly, much less take Octavia with him. She would’ve weaponized every ounce of her power to destroy him and maintain control over their daughter.

Stolas’ decision to stay wasn’t about weakness. It was about navigating a situation where no option felt truly safe.

5. Why This Argument Falls Apart

This take boils Stolas down to “an idiot who can’t turn down obligation,” but that’s an insultingly shallow reading of his character. Abuse isn’t about obvious choices or easy outs—it’s about power, control, and the psychological toll of living under constant threat.

Stolas’ actions make perfect sense within the framework of an abusive relationship. Calling him pathetic ignores the complexity of his situation and dismisses the very real struggles that abuse victims face every day.

TL;DR

Stolas’ behavior isn’t about being “pathetic” or “a sucker for punishment.” It’s about the psychological realities of abuse: the fear, the manipulation, and the way it warps decision-making. Leaving an abuser isn’t easy or obvious, especially when children and societal expectations are involved.

If you can’t understand that, maybe it’s time to rethink how you approach character analysis—or better yet, try learning a thing or two about the psychology of abuse before you come for Stolas again.

[itacats]

Butcher Shop Connection

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: Weeks without contact had worn Simon down, leaving him adrift in worry and helplessness. His routine at the butcher shop, once comforting, now felt hollow without you. When you finally appeared—with Tom looming behind you—Simon’s protective instincts surged. The interaction between the three of you was tense, every moment charged with unspoken desperation. Despite the fear in your eyes, Simon’s determination solidified: he would find a way to help you escape.

A/N: This chapter is heavy with tension and restraint. Simon’s internal struggle between wanting to act and knowing he can’t risk making things worse mirrors the quiet strength of his character. Meanwhile, your subtle plea for help highlights the immense bravery it takes to reach out while under Tom’s control. A napkin—so simple yet so meaningful—becomes a symbol of hope, a thread connecting Simon to you in this dark moment. The stakes are rising, and Simon’s resolve to help is unwavering. Hold tight—this story is just getting started. 🌌

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Part 6 - A Fragile Lifeline

The weeks without a word from you had worn Simon down, each day stretching longer than the last. It was as though your absence had carved out a hollow space in his chest, a dull, gnawing ache that refused to fade. Every morning, the quiet hum of the butcher shop felt emptier, the smell of fresh cuts and the rhythmic sound of knives on meat suddenly lacking their usual comfort. He thought of you constantly—how you had smiled, how you had laughed, how your presence had brought light into the mundane routines of his life. And now, without you, everything felt heavier.

He couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness that had taken root. There had been days when the thought of going to the police had been a constant undercurrent, but each time he considered it, a sharp pang of doubt held him back. What would it change? Would they even believe her? Would it escalate things further? His mind ran in circles, the scenarios of confrontation, or even redemption, playing out in endless loops. But with each passing day, those scenarios remained just that—empty imaginings, no action. Just waiting. Waiting for you to come back.

It was an ordinary day at the shop when the door chimed. The soft, familiar sound normally wouldn't draw much attention, but today it did. Simon turned his head, his heart jumping in his chest when he saw you. There you were, standing just inside the door, a shadow of the vibrant person he remembered. Your face was pale, drawn tight with worry, your eyes avoiding his gaze as if afraid to meet it. And behind you? Tom. That vile, possessive figure standing close behind you, a dark energy wrapping around you like a suffocating fog.

Every instinct Simon had screamed at him to act. To grab the nearest knife, to confront Tom, to break the control he could see so clearly in the way Tom held you. The way you moved under his influence, the way your posture sagged, defeated and submissive. It made Simon’s blood boil. He wanted nothing more than to tear Tom away from you, like a butcher working through meat, to end this torment. He pictured himself with the sharp gleam of a blade, but even as that vision flickered in his mind, the cold logic of restraint held him back. No, he couldn’t do that—not here, not now. Not yet.

Tom sauntered to the counter, his smirk wide and self-assured, while you remained a silent presence, lost in the gravity of his control. Simon felt his eyes flick to you, watching as you shifted from foot to foot, too quiet, too withdrawn, as if trying to shrink into yourself to escape attention. But Simon couldn’t stop watching you. He could see it—the weight of everything you’d endured in your posture, the subtle tremble in your hands. It tore at him.

Tom waved a hand dismissively, not even acknowledging Simon beyond his businesslike tone. "You gonna grab those meats for us, Buddy?" The words were patronizing, dripping with entitlement, and Simon’s grip tightened on the edge of the counter.

You were still lost in your mind, your thoughts far away from the scene unfolding before you. That’s when Simon couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward, slow but deliberate, his body fighting against the need to flee, to act, to shout out. He reached for the meat, his hands steady despite the chaos roiling inside him. The moment was surreal, everything so still, so calm—until it wasn’t. He finished cutting the meats and extended them to you, his fingers brushing against the cool, wrapped packages, but before you could take them, Tom’s hand shot out and snatched them away with a swift motion.

"They can pay," Tom declared, his voice dripping with smug ownership. He glared at Simon as if daring him to challenge him, before turning toward you. His hand landed possessively on your back, pushing you forward towards the register with a casual gesture that made Simon’s stomach churn. "I’ll be outside, dearest," Tom added, his tone dripping with a kind of false sweetness that made Simon’s blood run cold.

As you followed Tom’s direction, head down, shoulders slumped in quiet defeat, Simon’s mind raced. It was all too clear to him now—the power Tom wielded over you, the way you barely resisted. Simon’s fists clenched involuntarily, the heat of his anger rising with each step 

You hesitated, torn between the overwhelming fear that anchored you in place and the instinctual pull to seek help. The pressure of Tom’s presence, so close behind you, loomed like a weight on your chest, and yet something inside you still wanted to reach out. You could feel the heaviness of the moment, the quiet desperation that hung between you and Simon. As much as you knew that any wrong move could send Tom into a fury, the urge to connect, to grasp onto any sliver of safety, was undeniable.

Simon, ever perceptive, had his eyes locked with yours. In that brief exchange, you could see something—a flicker of determination beneath his usual nonchalance. He wasn’t going to let this moment slip away. Not like this. His breath quickened, his hand slightly trembling as he leaned in closer, careful not to draw Tom’s attention too much.

“Don’t worry about it. Just take this,” Simon murmured, his voice low but insistent, as he shoved a napkin toward you across the counter. His movements were rushed, almost frantic, and his heart hammered in his chest as he quickly scribbled his phone number. It wasn’t neat or elegant, but the scrawl was undeniably his—a promise in ink, a lifeline for you to grasp if you needed it. The act felt insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but in that moment, it was everything.

You reached for the napkin, your fingers brushing the cool paper, but your voice—hoarse, tight—cut through the air. “I need a receipt,” you said, the words coming out broken, like they were clawing their way through your throat. "Or he’s going to think I did something for—or rather to— you for the meat to be free."

The confession hit Simon like a punch to the gut. He felt a wave of helplessness crash over him, cold and bitter, as he realized the weight of what you were enduring. The fear, the manipulation, the isolation. His stomach turned as he tried to steady his breathing. But even in the midst of this, he found himself still trying to be practical, to do something that might make the smallest difference.

He quickly wrote up a receipt, his hand shaking slightly, his mind reeling with thoughts of how to get you out, how to protect you. When he finished, he slid it across to you, his eyes briefly meeting yours. He didn’t trust his voice to speak, so instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, sliding it over the counter to cover the cost. It felt like nothing—no price could ever make up for what you had suffered, for what Tom had stolen from you. Still, it was all he could offer in this moment, and it was wrapped in the concern and helplessness that burned within him.

“Take the napkin and hide it,” Simon urged, his voice thick, barely above a whisper. He couldn’t risk Tom’s gaze catching him too intently, not now. “Call that number if you need me. For anything.”

You nodded, carefully tucking the napkin away as if it were a fragile thing, a thread of hope that could unravel the darkness around you. It wasn’t much, but in that brief moment, it felt like the only connection between two people caught in a world they couldn’t escape from. A lifeline, fragile as it was.

As you turned to leave with Tom, Simon watched you go, feeling that familiar ache in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever see you again. In the weeks that followed, he caught glimpses of your face in the crowd, flickers of you as passing customers came through the butcher shop, and each time, it felt like a ghost, a shadow of the person he had come to care about. He would hear echoes of your laugh in the steady rhythm of his work, memories of moments shared, fleeting glimpses of a life he hoped you could have.

But Tom never relented. He kept you locked in his grip, always lurking just beyond Simon’s reach, and Simon couldn’t do anything more than wait and watch as the world around him continued to spin, unsure of where you were and whether you were safe. Still, he clung to that napkin, to the small hope that, somewhere, somehow, you might call.

Tag List:

@jessicab1991

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[kaayyyys]

The walking dead men react to the reader being injured

(Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Negan Smith )

The air had been thick with unease all morning. Rick had felt it in his gut, a tight knot of anxiety that seemed to anticipate the inevitable horrors of their world. He'd voiced his concerns to you, his voice rough with the protectiveness that had become a constant undercurrent in their relationship. "Stay close today, (Y/N). Let the others handle the supply run. It's not worth the risk."

He'd always hated those supply runs. They were necessary, a grim dance with death for the sake of survival, but each time you ventured out, a piece of him went with you, held hostage by the unknown dangers lurking beyond their walls. Your stubbornness, your fierce independence, was a source of both admiration and endless worry for him.

You, of course, being who you are – resilient, determined, and perhaps a bit too headstrong – had brushed off his concerns with a confident smile and a reassuring, "I can handle myself, Rick. We need the supplies, and I'm not going to hide in a tower while everyone else risks their lives." He knew that look in your eyes, the unwavering resolve that mirrored his own, and it simultaneously filled him with pride and dread.

The warehouse was a tomb of forgotten goods, a macabre supermarket filled with the ghosts of a world that was. The team had split up, methodically clearing the aisles, the rhythmic thwack of walkers being silenced a constant backdrop to their scavenging. You were in the back, searching for medical supplies, when it happened.

A section of the floor, weakened by years of neglect and decay, gave way beneath your feet. The world turned upside down in a dizzying rush, and you plunged into the darkness below, the air knocked from your lungs. The pain was immediate, a sharp, searing agony that shot through your ankle.

The fall wasn't far, maybe ten feet, but it was enough. You landed awkwardly, your weight twisting your ankle at an unnatural angle. A strangled cry escaped your lips, lost in the cavernous space. You tried to stand, to assess the damage, but the white-hot pain radiating from your ankle forced you back down.

The silence that followed your fall was deafening, broken only by the distant moans of the undead. It was the silence that alerted Rick. He’d been further up ahead, but something in the air shifted in the moment you fell – the absence of your usual steady rhythm of movement, the shift of the wind, he couldn't really explained it. It was like a chord was struck between them, and now he felt the jarring off-key note as if his own leg had been broken.

He moved with a speed born of desperation, his heart hammering against his ribs. He vaulted over overturned shelves, ignoring the startled looks of the others, his focus solely on finding you. When he reached the back of the warehouse and saw the gaping hole in the floor, his blood ran cold.

"(Y/N)!" His voice was raw with fear, echoing through the warehouse. He peered into the darkness below, his eyes struggling to adjust. "Answer me!"

Your answering whimper was weak, barely audible, but it was enough. Relief washed over him in a dizzying wave, quickly followed by a surge of anger – anger at the world, at the walkers, at the carelessness of the warehouse owners, and yes, a little bit at you for not listening to him. He spotted you crumpled below, your face pale and streaked with dirt, and immediately began to figure out how to get you out.

He didn't hesitate. With practiced efficiency, he secured a rope to a sturdy beam and rappelled down into the hole. He landed beside you, his face etched with concern. "Don't try to move," he said, his voice gentler now, the anger momentarily forgotten. "Let me see."

The moment he touched your ankle, a fresh wave of pain washed over you. You gasped, clutching his hand tightly. "(Y/N), I know it hurts, but I need to check it," he said softly, his eyes filled with worry. He gently probed the injured area, his touch both firm and incredibly tender.

His face hardened. "It's a bad sprain, maybe a break. We need to get you back to camp."

Lifting you was a challenge, but Rick managed, cradling you carefully in his arms. The climb back up the rope was agonizingly slow, each movement sending jolts of pain through your body. But you held on, focusing on Rick's face, on the strength in his arms, on the love that shone in his eyes.

Back at camp, Rick was a whirlwind of activity. He barked orders, organizing a makeshift splint, gathering supplies, and ensuring you were as comfortable as possible. His usual gruff exterior softened around the edges, replaced by a tenderness that was reserved only for you.

He sat beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair as the camp doctor (or the closest thing they had) examined your ankle. The diagnosis was as he suspected: a broken bone and a very bad sprain. You were grounded for a while.

Once you were settled, Rick finally allowed himself to truly focus on you. He knelt beside your cot, his eyes searching your face. "Why didn't you listen to me?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. There was anger there, yes, but also a deep, palpable fear.

"I… I thought I could handle it," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know you can. You're the strongest person I know. But sometimes, even the strongest people need to be careful. You scared me, (Y/N)."

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. "I'm sorry, Rick. I didn't mean to."

He squeezed your hand tightly. "Just… promise me you'll be more careful. Promise me you'll listen to me, just this once."

"I promise," you whispered.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Good. Now, get some rest. I'm not leaving your side."

The next few days were a blur of pain, boredom, and Rick's unwavering attention. He brought you food, read to you from scavenged books, and sat with you for hours, just talking, or sometimes, just being.

He meticulously tended to your ankle, changing the bandages, ensuring it was properly supported, and offering endless words of encouragement. He was surprisingly gentle, his large hands moving with a delicate precision that belied his rugged exterior.

At night, he would lie beside you, holding you close, his body a warm and comforting presence against the chill of the night. He’d whisper assurances that you were safe, that he would always protect you. His presence was all you needed.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, you looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the depth of his love for you. It was etched in the lines around his eyes, in the weariness that clung to his shoulders, and in the unwavering devotion that shone in his gaze.

"Thank you, Rick," you said softly. "For everything."

He smiled, a rare and precious thing. "Always, (Y/N). Always."

Though the injury was a setback, it also brought you and Rick closer. It was a reminder of the fragility of life, the importance of cherishing every moment, and the strength of the bond that held you together.

For Rick, it reinforced his need to protect you, to shield you from the horrors of the world, even though he knew it was an impossible task. But he would keep trying, every single day, because your safety, your happiness, was his greatest priority. And you, healed or injured, meant the world to him.

And maybe, just maybe, you learned a valuable lesson about listening to Rick... just a little bit. The injury mended, but the memory of his worry, his love, and his very brief anger would stay with you forever.

As the days turned into weeks, your ankle slowly healed. You returned to your duties, stronger and more determined than ever. But you never forgot the fear in Rick's eyes, the tightness of his grip, the depth of his love. And you promised yourself, and him, that you would be a little bit more careful... for him.

The air hung thick with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth, a typical Tuesday at the Sanctuary. Daryl had warned you – his voice a low growl, eyes narrowed in that way that both intimidated everyone else and sent a shiver of something akin to excitement down your spine. "Leave that scavenging run to me and Rick. The woods ain't safe right now, not with those whispers movin' about."

You, of course, had smiled sweetly, kissed his cheek, and promised to be careful. Promises, it seemed, were easily broken when a nearby town was rumored to contain a stash of much-needed medical supplies. You knew the infirmary was running low, and the guilt gnawed at you when you saw the lines etched deeper around the doctor’s eyes.

Daryl knew you too well. He saw the glint of determination in your eyes, the subtle set of your jaw. He knew that "careful" in your vocabulary meant something entirely different than in his. It usually meant pushing yourself beyond the limits.

The sight of you being carried back to the Sanctuary, pale and bleeding, was like a punch to Daryl's gut. Negan's men had found you. One bullet straight to the shoulder. He felt the familiar, icy rage creep up his spine. He wanted to hunt them down, tear them apart, make them understand the cost of hurting what was his.

But his focus snapped back to you. Your face was pale, streaked with dirt and blood. Your breathing was shallow. The world narrowed to the rise and fall of your chest, the faint pulse at your throat.

He pushed his way through the small crowd that had gathered, his face a mask of fury that sent even the most hardened survivors stepping back. He didn't say a word, just knelt beside you, his large, calloused hand gently brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead.

The Sanctuary's infirmary was a sterile, cold place, but with Daryl beside you, it felt like the safest place on earth. He watched the doctor work, his eyes never leaving your face. He didn't flinch when the bullet was removed, didn't avert his gaze when your breath hitched in pain.

His anger was a tangible thing, a storm brewing beneath the surface. It was directed at the Saviors who hurt you, at the world that had forced you into this brutal existence, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit at you for being so damn reckless.

Once the doctor was done, and you were resting, Daryl settled into the chair beside your bed. He ran a thumb lightly over your knuckles, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You're lucky," he murmured, his voice rough. "Could've been worse."

You stirred, your eyes fluttering open. The pain in your shoulder was a dull throb, but the sight of Daryl's face above you eased the discomfort. "Hey," you whispered, your voice raspy.

He didn't smile, but the lines around his eyes softened. "Hey yourself. What were you thinking?" The question wasn't accusatory, but laced with a raw, vulnerable concern.

"Needed those supplies," you mumbled, trying to sit up. Daryl gently pushed you back down.

"Don't you move," he ordered, but the edge was gone from his voice. "Damn supplies ain't worth your life."

He sat in silence for a long moment, his gaze intense. "You gotta stop," he said finally, his voice low and earnest. "Stop tryin' to carry the world on your shoulders. Let me help you."

You reached out, your fingers tangling with his. "I just wanted to do something good," you said, your voice barely audible.

"You do good every damn day," he said, his thumb stroking your hand. "Just stay put, let me take care of things sometimes."

As the days passed, Daryl became your shadow. He brought you food, changed your bandages, and sat beside you for hours, offering only brief, gruff comments, but his presence was a constant comfort.

He was fiercely protective, his eyes scanning every person who entered the infirmary. He made sure you had everything you needed, even things you didn't ask for – an extra blanket, a cup of herbal tea, a worn copy of a book he’d found somewhere.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, you found him sitting by your window, staring out at the world. He looked weary, his shoulders slumped.

"Daryl?" you whispered.

He turned, his gaze softening as it met yours. He came to your bedside and sat down, his hand finding yours. "I hate seein' you hurt," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Scares me."

You squeezed his hand. "I know," you said softly. "I'm sorry."

He looked at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours. Then, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It was a chaste, tender gesture, but it spoke volumes.

Your shoulder healed slowly, but with each passing day, your strength returned. And with it, the bond between you and Daryl deepened. The injury had been a harsh reminder of the dangers they faced, but it had also revealed the depth of their love and the strength of their connection.

You learned to listen to his warnings, to trust his judgment. He, in turn, learned to temper his protectiveness with understanding, to allow you to be the strong, independent woman he loved, even in the face of danger.

The scars, both physical and emotional, remained – a testament to the hardships they had endured. But they were also a symbol of their resilience, their ability to find love and hope in a world consumed by darkness. And in Daryl's eyes, you were more beautiful, more precious, than ever before. His gruff exterior hid a heart that beat only for you. You were his strength, his weakness, and the reason he kept fighting. And he would protect you, always, even from yourself.

The road ahead was uncertain, but as long as they had each other, they knew they could face anything. Their love was a beacon in the darkness, a promise of hope in a world that had long forgotten what it meant to be human. And it was a love that would endure, forged in the fires of survival, tempered by tenderness, and sealed with a kiss that spoke of forever.

The sight that greeted Negan when he burst through the door wasn't one he was prepared for. You, his everything, were slumped against the kitchen counter, a crimson stain blooming on your arm. The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood, and a wave of nausea slammed into him. The world tilted on its axis.

It ignited instantly, a white-hot fury directed at everything and nothing. How dare you? How dare you be so reckless, so careless with yourself when he'd specifically warned you? He had told you not to go beyond the walls alone. Lucielle felt heavy in his hand, the leather digging into his palm as he fought the urge to slam it against something, anything. It was a primal rage, born of fear and helplessness. He felt betrayed by your actions, as if you didn't value his concern, his love. It was a harsh, ugly emotion, but it was there, undeniable.

The anger warred with a desperate need to assess the damage. His eyes darted over you, cataloging the severity of the wound. His breath hitched, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He needed to know how bad it was, how close he came to losing you. The need to fix it, to make it better, surged through him, eclipsing the anger for a fleeting moment.

A growl rumbled in his chest, low and guttural. It wasn't directed at you, but at the world that had dared to harm you. Anyone who had laid a hand on you would face his wrath, a wrath fueled by a love so fierce it bordered on obsession. He was your protector, your shield, and the thought of failing in that role was unbearable.

He forced himself to breathe, to bank the flames of his anger before they consumed him. He couldn't afford to lash out, not now. You needed him to be strong, to be calm. He had to be the anchor in this storm, even if his own insides were churning. He unclenched his fists, forcing his muscles to relax, a visible effort that tightened the muscles in his jaw.

With agonizing slowness, he knelt before you, his large frame suddenly seeming impossibly gentle. His eyes, moments ago blazing with fury, softened with concern. He reached out, his calloused hand hovering over your injured arm, as if afraid to touch you, afraid of causing more pain. The transformation was startling, a testament to the depth of his love.

His voice, when it came, was raspy, laced with a mixture of anger and worry. "What the hell happened? I told you not to go out there alone!" The words were sharp, but the underlying tremor betrayed his fear. He couldn't help the rebuke, it was a reflex born of pure terror. He needed you to understand the risk you had taken, the pain you had inflicted on him by your recklessness.

Despite his anger, his actions were tender, careful. He retrieved a clean cloth and pressed it gently against the wound, his brow furrowed in concentration. He cleaned the blood away with painstaking precision, his touch surprisingly light. Each movement was deliberate, infused with a desperate need to heal you, to erase the damage.

"Who did this? What were you thinking? How could you be so careless?" The questions tumbled out, a jumbled mess of concern and frustration. He needed answers, not just to understand what happened, but to understand why. Why would you disregard his warnings? Why would you put yourself in danger?

As he worked, his voice dropped to a near whisper. "I was so scared. When I saw the blood… I thought… I thought I'd lost you." The vulnerability in his voice was rare, a glimpse behind the carefully constructed mask of bravado. It was a confession of his deepest fear, the fear of living without you.

Once the wound was cleaned and bandaged, his focus shifted entirely to your comfort. He eased you into a chair, his strong arms supporting your weight. He brought you water, stroking your hair as you drank. He wrapped you in a blanket, creating a cocoon of warmth and सुरक्षा.

With you nestled safely in his arms, the anger resurfaced, but this time it was cold and calculating. He leaned close, his breath warm against your ear. "Whoever did this… they'll pay. I promise you that." It was a vow, a promise etched in steel. No one harmed what was his and lived to tell the tale.

He stayed by your side, a silent guardian. He watched you sleep, his hand resting protectively on your arm. The lines of worry etched on his face slowly smoothed out as he saw you resting peacefully. He was still angry, still shaken, but above all, he was grateful. Grateful that you were alive, grateful that he could still hold you, still protect you.

The next morning, he was up before you, making breakfast. He brought you a plate piled high with your favorite foods, a silent offering of apology and affection. As you ate, he sat across from you, his gaze intense. "You scared me, darlin'," he said, his voice low and serious. "Don't ever do that again. I can't lose you." He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. His grip was firm, possessive. "Promise me."

Despite the anger, the fear, the recriminations, the incident only served to strengthen the bond between you and Negan. It was a reminder of the depth of his love, the fierceness of his protection, and the vulnerability that lay beneath his tough exterior. It was a testament to the fact that even in a world filled with danger and uncertainty, love could still flourish, fierce and unwavering. He would continue to watch over you, cherishing every moment, and reminding you, in his own unique and sometimes terrifying way, just how much you meant to him. Because, in the end, you were his world, and he would do anything to keep you safe.

[mclacedes]

The Idea of You (LN4)

2. The Idea of Worthiness

summary: in which lando decides to make it up for ghostin you

previous ••• next

WARNINGS: it's pretty much all angst. in-depth described anxiety attack, anxious behaviour/mannerisms, description of depression and suicidal ideation, loneliness

wc: 3k

“but what if i can't do it?”

A/N: before anything else, i want to make it clear that my intention is NOT to trigger any kind of trauma in anyone with this. the reader has been warned of potential triggers. if you are going through some kind of psychological hardship, know that there are people who care and who worry <3 you are never 100% alone!

january 1st, 2024 — 3:30pm

you came home with a knot in your chest that seemed to tighten with every breath. the morning had been a blur, an awkward dance around lando’s mother as you searched for a polite excuse to leave.

of course you'd chosen the most simple and non-negotiable of lies: i need to spend some time with my relatives.

despite it being faintly true, you knew you'd spend the whole day with lando's family if the circumstances were different.

the night's words lingered in your mind as you walked out, wishing it could cover the truth: you couldn’t bear the thought of facing lando after what had happened—or rather, after what didn’t happen.

now, the silence in your own home was suffocating. you slumped onto the couch, your mind replaying the scene on a loop: lando's words, lando's reassurance, the way his lips had bruised yours, the heat of his breath so close, his hands on you, his hands in you, his fingers’ magic, and then... you wake up alone.

now, you knew lando felt the same, you knew that things could work out, you knew just the intensity of your feelings for him. but you also knew he hadn't texted you back all day and, seemingly, nobody knew where he was.

as his closest friend, you knew that he'd only have left that way if something really bad had happened.

what you didn't know though, was how bad it felt for him.

it had been a long time since lando had received the diagnosis. after years of wondering what was wrong with him and why he felt such a void within himself, he'd been told he had depression.

what they say is that treatment is easier when you have the right diagnosis, but that doesn't erase the fact that some days were infinitely more difficult than others—harder to get out of bed, harder to leave the house, to work, and singularly hard to live, specially because the latter is the last thing you want during a depressive episode.

he started going to therapy regularly when he was a minor, forced by his parents, but when he became an adult he left—said that talking about how horrible he felt wouldn't help, it would only make him feel worse.

and then the episodes gradually became worse as his life improve. for example, before arriving in F1, he oftentimes found himself fighting against the urge to simply end it all: the pain, the suffering, the disruption, the constant failed attempt at a better day, his very life.

even though he never attempted it, lando was caught contemplating the possibility of the end; he used to wonder how people would react when they heard "lando norris died, suicide", what it would be like if he wasn't here anymore.

“such a kind soul”

“such a beautiful boy”

“smart, funny”

“talented guy”

that's what people would say, in the best of cases.

in the worse of cases people wouldn't even notice he was gone.

well, following next to depression was anxiety.

lando’s anxiety was a constant undercurrent to his depression, feeding off it, amplifying it, tangling him further in a web of self-doubt. it was always there, an invisible weight pressing down, but some days it grew loud enough to silence every other part of him, like a swarm of thoughts buzzing incessantly, trapping him in a looping worry about everything and nothing all at once.

it started with racing—the very thing he loved was also the source of his most unrelenting fears. despite his undeniable talent and the acclaim he’d earned, the worry always crept in: what if i mess up? what if i’m not good enough? what if it’s all just a fluke, and one day everyone realizes i’m a fraud?

he dreaded that moment when the lights turned green, not because of the physical danger but because of the psychological toll—that split-second when any mistake, any misstep, could spiral out into a visible, unforgivable failure.

even beyond racing, the anxiety spilled into every facet of his life. he overthought every message he sent, every interaction, analyzing them for any hint of rejection, any confirmation of his worst fears. if he didn’t receive a response right away, his mind spun stories, convincing him he’d somehow upset the person or made a fool of himself.

and now, with you, it was worse. his feelings were tangled with worry and doubt; he feared you’d eventually see through his flaws, his bad days, his cracks, and walk away. the closeness you’d shared the night before terrified him. he wanted you desperately, yet that desire to let you in also exposed him to his greatest fear: that he would scare you away merely by the fact that he existed.

this anxiety could sometimes send him into a state of paralysis, leaving him unable to reach out, unable to bridge the gap even when he wanted nothing more than to feel your presence, to hear your voice. today was one of those days—the aftermath of a moment so perfect, so vulnerable, that his mind filled with a thousand worries. he couldn’t bring himself to message you, to even show you the rawness of his internal struggle. instead, he withdrew, waiting for the fog to clear enough for him to reach for you again.

but you had tried.

you: lando hey

you: i'm worried abt u

you: text me whenever u get the chance pls

you: i'm right here if you wanna talk”

there were another 20 texts of kindred nature from you in his phone—you spent the afternoon rewinding what had happened, wondering if there were any signs that he would do something to himself or… the devil god knows what.

you had barely moved or done anything at all since you had gotten home because lando still hadn’t texted back, and the worry in your chest was growing impossible to ignore.

you’d known him for years—long enough to see the shadows he kept hidden behind his easy smile. he had always brushed off the subject, deflecting it with humor or quick changes in conversation. but today, his silence was colder, sharper, more unsettling than usual.

hours had passed since you last saw him, and finally, you gave in and sent him a message, trying not to let the desperation seep through.

you: lando, i hope you’re alright. let me know when you’re home safe, ok?

the message delivered, but no ‘read’ receipt appeared. your heart sank, and as you stared at the screen, scenarios spun wildly in your mind.

lando was good at hiding. he knew how to pour himself into everything and everyone else, keeping busy, laughing, entertaining—until he couldn’t. when the episodes came, he retreated so far into himself that it was like trying to find someone in a pitch-black room.

you tried calling him. the line rang and rang, finally going to voicemail. your voice was barely a whisper as you left a message.

“lando… if you see this, please just… come home. or let me know you’re okay. i’m here, alright? no matter what, i’m here.”

when the call ended, the silence in your apartment felt just as cold as his void.

—

unbeknownst to you, he was okay.

at least that's what he said to max when he called saying cisca was worried about him. and thats what he said when he called his mom.

“i’m okay.”

but he knew there was nothing okay with him right now.

far away, in his silent retreat, a wave of coldness washed over him, and his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. that feeling in his chest was known: he was panicking.

it felt like the walls were closing in, a vice squeezing his chest tighter with every passing second. his hands trembled, fingers twitching as if searching for something to anchor him, to ground him in reality. he fought to keep his breathing steady, but the more he tried, the more elusive calm became. memories of your kiss haunted him—both a balm and a wound. how could something so beautiful leave him feeling so lost?

what if i’m not enough for her? he thought

a tight knot of fear formed in his stomach, mingling with the ache of longing. was he really ready for this? for you? for love? the questions spiraled, colliding with the weight of his own expectations and the pressure of his career. he couldn’t shake the sense that he was on the brink of something monumental, yet all he felt was the crushing weight of uncertainty.

the doubt crept in, fueled by echoes of his past, whispers of inadequacy that had followed him through the years. he recalled the stinging memories of being told he wasn’t good enough, of moments when his efforts felt like they never quite measured up. every trophy he’d won and every incredible milestone he had achieved done little to silence those voices. instead, they morphed into an insidious belief that no matter how hard he tried, he would always be a step behind, always falling short.

what if she hates me?

with you, the stakes felt impossibly high. what if he couldn’t be the partner you deserved? what if the pressure of the spotlight overwhelmed him and drove you away? those thoughts twisted in his gut, feeding the anxiety that swelled within him. he imagined you in a world where he wasn’t there, finding someone who could offer you the stability and unwavering support he feared he lacked. the very thought crushed him, deepening the ache in his chest, as it reminded him of all the times he had to fight for validation, only to come up empty-handed.

he was scared of what loving you meant, terrified of failing you, terrified of failing himself. the weight of it all felt unbearable, a heavy blanket of dread that threatened to suffocate him.

what if i fail her?

lando was too scared, too anxious. with every breath, his lungs ached, and with every tear that gathered in his eyes, he felt weaker. it was as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, the ground crumbling beneath him, and the vast unknown loomed below—a place filled with possibilities but also with the risk of falling into darkness. he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, trying to ground himself as the rising tide of emotions threatened to pull him under.

every heartbeat felt like a reminder of his vulnerability, a painful pulse that echoed the uncertainty gnawing at his core. he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was teetering on the edge of something profound, yet all he could focus on was the suffocating fear of not being enough. the love he felt for you, so pure and intoxicating, was also a heavy burden, weighed down by his past failures and fears. the thought of letting you down, of not living up to the promise of what could be, sent chills racing down his spine.

she's too perfect, i'm a mess

as tears spilled over and streamed down his cheeks, he felt a mix of shame and desperation. lando had always prided himself on being strong, on facing challenges head-on, yet here he was—vulnerable and exposed, battling an internal storm that felt relentless. the very act of loving you felt like a gamble, one that he wasn't sure he was ready to take. would he be brave enough to step forward, to embrace the chaos of his heart, or would he retreat back into the safety of his own fears?

with every sob that escaped him, the overwhelming tide of emotion pulled him deeper, and he struggled to keep his head above water. the thought of calling you, of reaching out for the connection he craved, felt both necessary and terrifying. what if you saw him like this—raw, broken, and afraid? what if he could never find the words to explain what he felt, or worse, what if you saw him as nothing more than a disappointment?

what if she saw me for who i truly am?

taking a shaky breath, he reached for his phone thrown on the couch, sitting on it. his hands were still trembling as he dialed the only person, besides you, who he knew wouldn't judge, but understand him.

“hey, mate, how you doing?” max fewtrell greeted him with his usual easy grin, only for the smile to falter the second he took in lando’s state: tears streaked his face, his eyes swollen and red, his nose and cheeks raw from wiping at them. his lips, split and bloodied, told the story of how he’d been biting them all day. lando’s breath hitched in his throat, his words barely making it out.

“hey… mate, i—” he tried, but the lump in his throat choked him. lando couldn’t even speak.

“lando, what happened?” max said, his voice low and steady, concern etched across his face.

“i think i… i fucked things up with Y/N,” lando's voice cracked, desperation pouring from him as if his world was unraveling right there in front of max.

the sight in front of max sent a chill through his spine. lando's looks, disheveled, like he’d been pulling at it in frustration all day. his bright green eyes were dulled, sunken and rimmed with red. the bags beneath them were dark, a stark contrast against his pale skin. his hands trembled on his knees, unable to steady themselves. his chest heaved, like the panic was consuming him from the inside, leaving only a fragile shell of the person max had known for years.

lando wiped at his face, the back of his hand coming away wet. he shook his head, sinking deeper into the couch.

“we kissed, we slept together and i pushed her away, max. i—i could’ve stayed. i could’ve—” his breath caught again, ragged and uneven. “but i left with no explanation. i went up and left her there, max… i’m so stupid.” he cried out.

lando’s breath hitched, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the tears, but it was no use. his shoulders shook, and a sob escaped him, raw and unfiltered. he hadn’t felt this way in a long time—like he was too broken to be loved.

"max, i’m a mess," he whispered, his voice cracking. "i couldn’t stay, i couldn’t even look at her this morning because… because she deserves better. i mean, look at me," he gestured to himself, his hands trembling. “i’m fucked up, max. i couldn’t even say the words, couldn’t even be honest. how can i be with her when i don’t even know what’s going on in my own head?”

max’s brows furrowed, his face softening as he listened. lando looked like he was spiraling, and it hurt max to see his best friend like this—feeling like he didn’t deserve something good because he was caught in his own storm.

“lando, mate,” max started, carefully choosing his words, “you’re not as messed up as you think you are. yeah, you’ve got stuff going on, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve her, or that you don’t deserve to be happy. and running away from her because you think you’re too broken for her… that’s not the answer.”

lando shook his head, wiping at his eyes, his voice trembling as he spoke. “but i am broken, max. i don’t even know how to deal with my own shit, let alone someone else’s. she’s this… this amazing person, and i’m just… i’m just me. she deserves someone who has it all figured out, not someone who’s going to bolt the second things get real.”

max let out a breath, leaning forward a bit. “no one has it all figured out, lando. not me, not her, not anyone. she’s not expecting you to be perfect, she’s expecting you to be real with her. that’s all. and yeah, maybe you’re not in the best place right now, but you can’t let that be the reason you push her away.”

lando let the words sink in, but it didn’t ease the heaviness inside him. “i left because i thought… i thought i’d hurt her more by staying. i didn’t want her to see me like this. i didn’t want her to see how much of a mess i am.”

“but by leaving, you hurt her anyway,” max said gently. “because she cares about you. and if you care about her too, you’ve got to let her in, even if it’s messy, even if you don’t have all the answers. it’s okay to not have everything together, lando. it’s okay to be scared. but you can’t run from this.”

lando swallowed hard, staring at the floor, his fingers gripping the edge of the couch until his knuckles turned white. max was right. he had run—run because he didn’t think he was good enough, run because the idea of her seeing all his cracks terrified him.

“but what if i can’t do it? what if i let her down again?” lando’s voice was barely audible now, thick with doubt.

max’s expression softened even more. “then you figure it out, together. but you’ve got to give her the chance to make that choice. don’t decide for her that you’re not good enough. let her in. let her see you, even the parts you’re scared to show. that’s how you build something real.”

lando’s breath came in short, shallow bursts, his heart pounding in his chest. the thought of opening up like that—to be fully seen, in all his messiness, all his vulnerability—scared him more than any race ever had. but the thought of losing Y/N, of pushing her away because of his own fear… that scared him even more.

“yeah, sure,” lando whispered, his voice hoarse. “i need to talk to her. i need to fix this.”

max smiled softly, relief flickering in his eyes. “yeah, mate. you do.”

after bidding his best friend farewell, lando sat and tried to calm himself down by pressing his fingers with exposed raw flesh due to the fact he had gnawed at his own hands out of anxiety. he had to come up with something to make it up to you. he needed to.

TAGGINGS: @meglouise00 @rawr-123s-stuff

[miaountainmama]

sharp

characters: boothill, gn!reader contains: little angst that's resolved by the end. boothill is terrified of love

wc: 1148

a/n: i love boothill so much that i needed to write something with thought and emotion and not just smut. i have 3 other boothill fics in the works because i keep getting ideas. girl help

You have always loved softly. You know this, have embraced it, giving your soft touches and quiet words freely. Boothill has forgotten how to love. It has been so long since he loved that his love has turned sharp, pierces through his heart and wounds him so deeply he can’t stand it. He cannot recall how to love like you do anymore— he can only scream the depths of his affection from the rooftops, harsh and loud, and hold you so tightly he swears you’ll break. He has become so sharp he’s afraid, afraid he’ll puncture your soft skin, afraid the razor edge of his smile will leave you bleeding.

Fear doesn’t suit Boothill, but you see it in every glance he gives you. It drives you insane, the way his expression sobers when he’s around you. That near-constant smile of his drops clean from his face, turning into the gentle slope of a frown that just doesn’t look right on him. Existing in the same room as him has become suffocating, the sheer longing in his being crashing from his body in waves so strong they’re capable of sending you to your knees. Still, he withdraws-- his touches have become few and far between, and when you tell him you love him, that look of anguish he gives you nearly breaks you.

“I’m not fragile, you know. You’re not going to snap me in half,” you tell him, stepping closer to him, and it doesn’t escape you the way that he leans back slightly, that all familiar expression bubbling up in his eyes.

“I… I can’t, darlin’,” he says in return, voice laced with yearning that he refuses to address, and your own eyes turn desperate, though you know you can’t force anything. You want to reach out and grab him so badly, to press yourself against him and thread your hands through his hair and tell him it’s okay, that you know he would never hurt you on purpose, that anything he does you can take-- but you know it’ll make it worse. You know it’ll drive the knife in his heart a thousand times deeper.

Instead, you reach out your hand.

He looks at it questioningly, lips slightly parted in a question, and you just gesture until he gets the memo-- you would almost think his mechanics were malfunctioning, the way his hand stutters on the way to yours, and when his fingers brush against yours ever so lightly you smile at him, a smile so soft and patient he feels like a wounded animal before you. Gently, you lead him to the couch, sitting down and motioning for him to sit beside you. He does, taking a seat right in the middle of the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, and it lights his hair up golden.

“Do you love me, Boothill?” you start simply, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that this man was head over heels for you. He nods, not a sliver of hesitation running through his veins.

“More than life itself,” he says, and you hum in acknowledgement. You run your thumb over his knuckles, and that everlasting ache in his eyes intensifies.

“Then what’s stopping you?” you ask, and he goes silent. His head dips, and you can feel him struggle, at war with his own thoughts.

“I ain’t too good with words, darlin’,”, he admits, and you don’t miss that little undercurrent of shame in his tone. You tilt your head slightly, leaning back slightly to make yourself just a bit more comfortable in the cushions.

“Think about it. I can wait as long as you need,” you say, and his gaze flickers up to meet yours for a moment before it goes back to your hands resting softly on each other. He takes a minute or so, refusing to make eye contact for its entirety and then some.

“You don’t deserve a man like me,” he starts, and you huff, rolling your eyes. Of course he would land on a reason so basic and absurd. No, you needed him to unpack that a little more, dive a bit deeper.

“Why?” you probe further, and he takes another pause.

“I ain’t fit for much but shootin’ these days, darlin’. Haven’t loved anything in so long I think I’ve forgotten how.” He’s still looking at anything but your face, and it’s almost boyish, the way he’s near hiding. You reply as easily as breathing.

“You can always relearn,” you say, and his eyes finally snap to yours.

“What if I mess up? What if I hurt you?” he says, urgent, and your voice is ever calm in contrast. You send him another small smile.

“Oh, you will,” you say with finality, and his face scrunches up-- he moves to pull away his hand, but you’ve suddenly tightened your grip, and he gives up and leaves it there without too much resistance. You’re too calm about this, too willing.

“Then why would I-”

“Boothill,” you interrupt, and he shuts up the moment the words leave your mouth. “Did you make mistakes when you became a parent?”

Understanding the point you’re getting at, he frowns. “Of course I did, but-”

“Do you regret it then? Being her dad?”

That stops him in his tracks.

“Of course not. I… she was my little girl, darlin’, my pride and joy,” he says, and you can hear the hurt in his voice, the wistfulness as he’s taken many years into the past. Part of you regrets bringing her up, but you know he needs a personal analogy to get out of the headspace he’s in and she’s the only example you can think of.

“Then do you regret loving me?” you ask quietly.

“There is not a single damn reality where I regret loving you, darlin’,” he answers you, face dead serious, and it soothes your heart. That’s all the answer you need from him and he knows it-- you just look at him, face softening as you wait for him to connect the dots and piece together what you’re implying.

That it’s worth it. That a life in which you have loved and experienced pain is worth more than a thousand lifetimes without loving. That mistakes are inevitable and a part of anything. That you know all this and have accepted it wholly-- have accepted him wholly, him in all his imperfections. 

He looks back at you. He looks back at you and swears he sees the whole world-- you in the sunlight, infinitely forgiving and merciful, and he nearly renounces his faith then and there. Forget the Hunt-- forget Lan, forget any Aeon and the paths they have built. Compared to the divinity before him, they are nothing, and he knows his heart must answer in kind.

He reaches out tentatively to touch your face, and you swear you melt.

[astroeleanor]

💀⚔️🖤 Zodiac Placements with Necromantic Gifts (The Ability to Talk to the Dead)⚰️🕸️🦇

Hey everyone! Welcome to today’s post. I’ve been exploring some mystical concepts with my best friend (@witchyianuarius), and I can't wait to share with you insights about the Zodiac placements and how they might align with necromantic gifts/necromancy.

🎃 Also, HALLOWEEN ASTRO READINGS are available! Spooky season calls for spooky readings. Grab yours HERE. ๋࣭ ⭑🕸🦇

First of all, what is Necromancy?

Necromancy is a form of magic that involves communicating with the dead, typically to gain insight, predict the future, or harness the powers of the deceased. Historically, it has been associated with rituals to summon spirits or raise the dead in various cultural mythologies and magical traditions. While it often carries a darker, more occult connotation, necromancy in a broader sense refers to any practice involving the dead or death-related magic.

In some interpretations, necromancy also includes working with ancestral spirits for guidance, protection, or wisdom, and may not always be tied to negative or malevolent practices. The term itself comes from the Greek words nekros (meaning "dead body") and manteia (meaning "divination").

SCORPIO

Scorpio placements—Moon, Rising, and Pluto—are often associated with necromantic abilities because of their connection to death. These placements are tied to the power to navigate the boundary between life and death. With these placements, you may be naturally equipped to navigate these areas because you possess the tools to engage with this energy. You live in a psychological underworld where others fear to tread, and that’s exactly where necromantic abilities would thrive. These placements make you a natural conduit for what others consider mysterious or forbidden. It’s not a gift to be taken lightly, but it’s one that gives you the power to see beyond the surface.

SCORPIO MOON

The Moon governs your internal world, so when placed in Scorpio, it opens a window into the mysteries of life and death. Scorpio’s influence means you feel things others are afraid to acknowledge. You have a natural connection to what is hidden—whether it’s your own shadow, other people’s emotional undercurrents, and in this case, even the lingering energies of the deceased. Necromancy, the practice of communing with the dead, finds a symbolic home in this placement because you don’t fear death, it feels natural for you to explore these spaces, even if it's just on an intuitive level.

SCORPIO RISING

As a Scorpio Rising with Gemini in the 8th house, you may have a natural inclination toward transformation and exploring the unseen, including a deep interest in the ways you can communicate (Gemini) with energies beyond this realm (8H). With Scorpio Rising, you may also be drawn toward what others ignore or bury—often involving pain or unresolved issues from the past. This interest can extend to ancestral matters, which ties directly into necromancy: working with spirits and bringing the past into the present.

PLUTO IN SCORPIO

Pluto, as we all know, is the planet of death, rebirth, and transformation. In Scorpio, this energy is amplified to its highest potential. Pluto's placement here suggests a strong connection to the forces that govern life and death. You may feel a drive to control or understand these realms, even subconsciously. Pluto’s influence encourages you to embrace these energies, often leading to personal transformation through encounters with death or crises. This energy pulls you into the depths, demanding that you face death— metaphorically, through constant cycles of death and rebirth in your own life.

CANCER

Cancer placements, especially Moon and Rising, have a deep connection to necromantic abilities because of Cancer’s connection with the past and the unseen. Cancer is ruled by the Moon, which governs emotions, intuition, the subconscious–these qualities naturally align with necromantic practices, which involve communicating with the dead and understanding the subtle energies that linger beyond physical life. Your ability to feel what others ignore makes you a natural conduit for communicating with the dead, though it often manifests emotionally or through visions.

CANCER MOON

If you have a Cancer Moon, your emotional world is tied to memory and deep emotional currents. Cancer Moon is the most intuitive and emotionally sensitive of the lunar placements, making you highly attuned to what’s hidden beneath the surface—emotions, unspoken words, and energies from the past. Necromancy, at its core, deals with the dead, but it also involves retrieving what has been buried, either emotionally or spiritually. Your Cancer Moon allows you to feel these energies, often sensing unresolved issues from the past, whether they come from family, ancestry, or even the lingering presence of those who have passed on. This emotional receptivity makes it easier for you to connect with spirits or the dead because you can tap into these unseen emotional frequencies.

Additionally, the water element of Cancer, associated with intuition and the emotional body, plays a role here. Water signs are known for their psychic receptivity, and Cancer, in particular, has a lunar connection that heightens this. If you have a Cancer Moon, you may find that your dreams are filled with symbols or messages from the past, from deceased loved ones, or even from ancestors you’ve never met.

CANCER RISING

Having a Cancer Rising represents a deep pull toward the past. You’re drawn to ancestral roots  and the emotional imprints left by those who came before you. This inclination toward lineage places you in a natural position to engage with necromantic practices. You intuitively seek to heal or resolve what has been left unresolved.. So, as a Cancer Rising, you might carry the past with you and instinctively work to reconcile what lingers.

You might find yourself emotionally connected to old places, objects, or stories that carry the energy of those who have passed on–your natural empathy makes you a bridge between the living and the dead. You may even feel a pull to comfort or care for the spirits of those who still linger in some form.

8H PLACEMENTS

The 8th house is traditionally associated with death and the mysteries of the unseen, which gives it a strong connection to necromantic abilities. When planets like Mercury, Jupiter, and the Moon are in the 8H, they draw your attention to these themes and influence how you engage with the occult. Mercury gives you the intellectual curiosity to explore and communicate with the dead. Jupiter expands your understanding of death as part of a larger spiritual framework, and the Moon connects you emotionally and intuitively to the energies of those who have passed. 

8H MERCURY

With Mercury in the 8th house, your mind naturally gravitates toward the unknown and the taboo. Mercury governs communication and thought processes, and in the 8th house, it’s drawn to secrets and the unseen realms, including death and the afterlife. Necromancy, at its core involves communication with the dead, so your 8H Mercury can give you the ability to explore these areas intellectually and intuitively. You might even be fascinated by the idea of what happens after death, and you can sense unspoken or hidden energies, which is critical in necromantic practices. This placement allows you to connect mentally with the energies of those who have passed, whether through active rituals or simply an attunement to the energies that others might ignore.

8H JUPITER

Jupiter in the 8th house broadens your understanding of death and the occult. You’re likely to see death as part of a larger, interconnected cycle, or you may feel drawn to study ancient practices or spiritual systems that involve communication with the dead. If you do have necromantic abilities, Jupiter’s influence might also attract opportunities for you to learn or teach about these hidden aspects of life. Overall, I’ve noticed that 8H Jupiter makes for great occultists.

8H MOON

Moon in the 8H pulls you toward the emotional depths of transformation and death. You may sense the presence of the dead on a gut level or feel emotional/psychic echoes of those who have passed. 8H Moon can make you sensitive to the emotional residue left by others, whether it's spirits or the emotional energy tied to past events. You may also find yourself emotionally attuned to ancestral energies or feel that you’re carrying emotional patterns from those who have passed. This emotional sensitivity allows you to tap into the unseen energy that lingers after death.

PLUTO CONJUNCTIONS

Pluto conjunct the Moon and Mercury conjunct Pluto strongly indicate necromantic abilities because these planetary alignments connect deeply with themes of death and communication with the unseen. They allow you to engage with death on both emotional and intellectual levels. The Moon’s emotional depth and Pluto’s transformative energy make you sensitive to the unseen, while Mercury’s intellectual nature combined with Pluto’s power over death helps you articulate or understand the energies of those who have passed.

PLUTO CONJUNCT MOON

This conjunction creates an emotional connection to what others fear: the darker aspects of life, death, and what lies beyond. Having this placement opens up your emotional sensitivity to the energies of those who have passed, into the spaces where life and death blur. The Moon governs your subconscious and instincts, and with Pluto’s influence, those instincts naturally turn toward the mysteries of the underworld.

Pluto conjunct the Moon also amplifies your ability to engage with the concept of death on an intimate, personal level. This placement may bring experiences where you confront death directly, not just in a literal sense but emotionally and psychologically. It can lead to a heightened awareness of ancestral energies or unresolved emotions tied to those who have passed. This deep emotional connection to death is where necromantic abilities start to show themselves, therefore you may have the emotional depth to communicate with or feel the presence of those who are no longer living.

PLUTO CONJUNCT MERCURY

Mercury conjunct Pluto links your communication and thought processes directly to the occult. Your mind naturally gravitates toward the deeper, hidden aspects of life. You’re drawn to mysteries, secrets, and what others avoid discussing—death, in particular. You have the ability to mentally process and understand the unseen, perhaps even receiving messages from those who have passed or intuitively knowing things that others cannot explain.

This Mercury-Pluto conjunction also gives you the power to communicate beyond the physical. Your mind becomes a tool for navigating these hidden realms, making you capable of deciphering hidden messages or energies–and your communication abilities allow you to bridge the gap between the living and the dead, even if that happens more intuitively than explicitly.

NATAL MERCURY RETROGRADE

Mercury governs the transmission of information, while retrograde periods shift the flow of that energy inward, often causing disruptions or delays in the external world. However, these disruptions also open pathways to the past, hidden or unresolved matters, and to what lingers beneath the surface of our usual conscious awareness.

Mercury Retrograde can be seen as a window into necromantic abilities because it draws you into communication with the past—whether that involves unresolved emotions or even spirits. Think of how during a retrograde, Mercury’s usual forward motion is reversed, metaphorically pulling you backward in time. This reversal can make you more attuned to subtle energies, including those left behind by the dead. Mercury Retrograde also slows down communication, and this slowing effect can be useful in necromantic work. Communication with the dead, or with energies beyond the physical world, often requires patience, stillness, and the ability to listen deeply. The external confusion or delays during retrograde periods might be irritating in daily life, but they also create space for introspection and spiritual attunement. When you’re less focused on rapid, clear communication in the physical world, you have more energy to tune into subtle, often overlooked messages.

In archetypal terms, Mercury is the messenger, traditionally seen as the guide between worlds, including the underworld. When retrograde, Mercury’s usual role as a straightforward communicator shifts into a more "shadow-y" one, making it more likely to bring up messages from the unconscious and the dead.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Thank you for taking the time to read my post! Your curiosity & engagement mean the world to me. I hope you not only found it enjoyable but also enriching for your astrological knowledge. Your support & interest inspire me to continue sharing insights & information with you. I appreciate you immensely. • 🕸️ JOIN MY PATREON for exquisite & in-depth astrology content. You'll also receive a free mini reading upon joining. :)

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[tinytinyblogs]

Okay hear me out can I request yandere skz whose darling hates/refuses to even look at them and says mean things to the boys in order to get them to leave her alone but it has the opposite effect

Are you defying me, darling?

The more you distance yourself, the closer they might become. Take it slow if you're unsure.

⚠️ yandere theme, unhealthy obsession, and a lot more⚠️

Hyung line, Maknae line

💬 Thanks for your patience! Things have been a bit hectic lately, and I apologize for the delay. Here's the reaction post you requested, as promised. Let me know if you have any feedback or if there's anything I can improve on.

stray kids masterlist

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Chan

Chan, your sunshine, your anchor – the very picture of gentleness. He opens doors with a smile, treats you like royalty, and knows exactly how to make you laugh. Yet, a knot of apprehension coils in your stomach because for all his sweetness, there's a line you never want him to cross. The air hangs heavy. You haven't spoken in what feels like hours, the silence a suffocating blanket. It started with a simple plea, a desperate need for some space, some time to breathe without the constant hum of his presence. The words tumbled out, harsh and ragged. "Can you just leave me alone, damn it?" The change in Chan is instantaneous. His smile vanishes, replaced by a coldness that sends shivers down your spine. A heavy silence descends, thick and suffocating. You steal a glance at him, and your heart plummets. His eyes, usually sparkling with warmth, are now narrowed lasers, fixated on you. The air crackles with a tension you've never witnessed before. Then, a deceptively calm voice breaks the silence. "What did you just say, sweetheart?" he asks, the endearment sounding foreign in this new context. It's clear he doesn't like what he heard, and a flicker of fear ignites in your chest.

You shrink back, your voice barely a whisper as you repeat, "I... I just want to be alone, Chan." But the damage is done. With a slow, deliberate movement, Chan closes the distance. He towers over you, his form an imposing shadow. He crouches down, invading your personal space, and gently, but firmly, cups your chin with his hand. You wince as his nails dig slightly into your skin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Sweetheart," he says, his voice a low rumble, sending shivers down your spine. It's calm, almost too calm, and that terrifies you more than any outburst. His eyes hold you captive, a storm brewing beneath the surface. "I may love you," he continues, his words laced with a dangerous undercurrent, "but disrespect won't be tolerated. Remember that." Seeing the tear, a flicker of something crossed Chan's face – maybe regret, maybe anger. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a chilling coldness. "Tears won't work this time," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He reached out, a single finger brushing against your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You will explain yourself," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "And you will understand exactly why you don't get to ask for space from me."

Minho

Minho wasn't like other guys. He didn't crave grand gestures or whispered sweet nothings. No, Minho thrived on the spark in your eyes when he sent shivers down your spine with a surprise tickle or a whispered threat that danced on the edge of plausibility. The way you flustered, the stammer that replaced your usual sharp retorts when he'd corner you with a teasing question – that was his fuel. So, when you finally snapped, a glorious eruption after weeks of his calculated torment, a thrill snaked through him, cold and exhilarating. "Get away from me, don't touch me, you jerk!" you shouted, cheeks flushed a furious red. He'd expected the usual splutter of insults, a well-placed punch maybe, but this raw defiance, this unfamiliar vulnerability – it was intoxicating. Minho's smirk wasn't playful this time. It was a slow, deliberate twist of his lips, a predator recognizing a challenge in its prey. You wanted him gone? Perfect. He'd become your shadow, a constant reminder of the delicious chaos he reveled in unleashing. The way your breath hitched when he brushed past a little too close, the flinch you couldn't quite suppress when he materialized at your locker – oh, he'd savor every startled reaction, every muttered curse under your breath.

Perhaps you didn't understand him, and maybe that was part of the allure. Minho was an enigma, a puzzle only he held the key to. But that didn't matter. He thrived on the chase, on the unpredictable rhythm your dynamic had taken. Your pain, a byproduct of his gamesmanship, was a mere footnote – the price you paid for defying him. "Feeling spicy today, aren't we?" he drawled, his voice low and gravelly. He stopped directly in front of you, his face mere inches away. "Seems like somebody needs a reminder of who's in charge," he continued, his smirk widening. A single finger brushed against your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. You wanted to fight back, to spit out a retort, but the words wouldn't come. The fear was a thick fog clouding your thoughts. Minho seemed to revel in your silence. He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Don't worry, sweetheart," he leaned in closer, his voice barely a whisper but filled with chilling promise. "We have plenty of time for you to learn your lesson." The enclosed space became a prison, the air thick with unspoken threats and simmering tension. You knew this wasn't a game anymore. This was Minho asserting his dominance, and you were the unwilling participant in his twisted play.

Changbin

You clench your fists, heart hammering against your ribs. "Damn you," you growl, the words tasting metallic on your tongue, "don't come any closer, jerk!" Changbin's laugh echoes in the confined space. It's a sound you've never heard before, devoid of its usual teasing lilt and replaced with something darker, hungrier. This new side of him sends a shiver down your spine, both terrifying and...exciting? The thought is fleeting, pushed aside by the urgency of the situation. He ignores your protest, a predatory glint in his eyes. Each step he takes is a deliberate invasion of your personal space, until your back is pressed flush against the wall, trapped. His hands snake around you, pinning you against the cool surface. It feels like the room has shrunk, the air itself thick with unspoken tension. "So what, huh?" he taunts, leaning in so close his warm breath tickles your ear. "I can do whatever I want." His voice is a low rumble, sending shivers down your spine. It's as if this sudden resistance has ignited a fire within him, a twisted competition to break you, to own you completely. You can almost see the gears turning in his head, a game suddenly unfolding before you. One he intends to win.

Shame burned through you, hot and acrid. You hated yourself for the traitorous flicker of excitement that had dared to ignite within you. Changbin's dark eyes, usually lit with playful mischief, were now narrowed with predatory intent. The possessiveness that radiated from him was suffocating. "This isn't a game, Changbin," you spat, your voice shaking but defiant. You met his gaze head-on, refusing to show fear. "Don't you dare turn this into some twisted dominance act." A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by a slow, dangerous smile. "Dominance act?" he echoed, his voice low and silken. His thumbs brushed across your wrists, sending a jolt through you. "Perhaps," he continued, leaning in further, his breath hot against your cheek. "Or maybe it's just a reminder of who calls the shots here, sweetheart." His smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of something you couldn't decipher passing through his eyes. Then, with a sigh that seemed to shake the very room, he released you. You stumbled back a step, breathing heavily, the air suddenly feeling thin. "Maybe you're right," he conceded, his voice back to its usual drawl, though a hint of darkness lingered. "Maybe we need a different kind of reminder." He took a step back, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that sent chills down your spine. "A reminder of the consequences of defying me."

Hyunjin

Your outburst, a tirade fueled by pent-up frustration and veiled truths, had frozen Hyunjin. He stood there, a statue carved from confusion and a flicker of something darker. You spat out the final words, "Just get out! Leave me alone you jerk!" expecting a fight, an apology, anything but the unsettling silence that followed. He left, the quiet deafening and thick with unspoken threats. But the absence wasn't a reprieve. It was a predator stalking its prey. Every creak of the floorboards sent your pulse racing, every shadow a potential monster. Sleep was a distant memory replaced by a hypervigilance that left you drained. The bed felt vast and empty, the once comforting weight of Hyunjin beside you a chilling reminder of what you'd lost. Days blurred. The air crackled with a tension so thick you choked on it. Then, one evening, just as the remnants of hope started to flicker, Hyunjin reappeared. He wasn't the playful boy you knew. His eyes, usually sparkling with amusement, were now steely and focused. They scanned the room, lingering on you, assessing. Silence stretched, broken only by the shallow rasp of your own breath. "So," he finally spoke, his voice devoid of its usual warmth, "you want to be alone, do you?" It wasn't a question.

It was a challenge, a test to gauge your sincerity. You opened your mouth to apologize, to plead, but the words wouldn't come. The fear had lodged itself in your throat, a physical weight hindering any attempt at defiance. A slow, predatory smile spread across Hyunjin's face. "There are consequences for everything," he said, each word dripping with a chilling possessiveness. "Especially disrespect." Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You wanted to scream, to fight back against the oppressive atmosphere, but the fear kept you rooted to the spot. "I… I'm sorry," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. Hyunjin stopped in front of you, his face inches away. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the intensity of his gaze making it difficult to breathe. "Sorry isn't enough," he said, his voice a low growl. "You will understand, one way or another, how much respect I deserve." He reached out, a single finger tilting your chin up so you were forced to meet his gaze. "We don't need space," he murmured, his voice a chilling caress. "We need understanding. And you," he leaned in even closer, his breath hot against your ear, "will learn exactly what that means." He wasn't angry, exactly. He was calculating, methodical, a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

[cherriecove]

Fine Line Between Duty and Oaths (Part 10)

Gwayne Hightower x Targ!Reader

Summary: The second born daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Aemma is just as brave, beautiful and stubborn as her older sister but cannot deny her growing love for a certain red haired knight who just so happens to be a dear friend's brother.

Cherrie's Note: Hi everyone, I am pretty sure that this is the longest thing I've written so far so I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to message me about feedback or even requests!

Masterlist | Previous Part |

The days leading up to the royal wedding passed in a whirlwind of excitement and anxiety. The Red Keep was bustling with preparations: tailors from all over the Seven Kingdoms had arrived, vying for the royal family to honour them with their patronage. Banners were being hung, and the kitchens were filled with the sweet smells of honey cakes and roasted meats. Despite all the joy of the impending union, there lay an undercurrent of tension. It was no secret that the small council was urging your father to remarry, and the matter seemed to grow more urgent with each passing day. As you walked through the halls, the main topic of court appeared to be about who would become your new stepmother, rather than your wedding to Gwayne.

The uncertainty and the constant presence of this topic felt like a weight upon both you and Rhaenyra. The already anxiety-inducing thought of leaving your dear sister to start your life as a married woman gnawed at your heart, as if you were leaving a part of yourself behind. This heartache was worsened by the knowledge that another woman would soon replace your mother in the eyes of the people. The marriage would most likely be political rather than one of love; this was the one thing you were most certain of. The encouragement to remarry stemmed from the small council's dislike of Rhaenyra being named heir—they favoured the possibility that this new bride might provide your father with sons. The preference for following patriarchal ideals had already taken your mother’s life, but it seemed the gods were not satisfied with that alone and now wished to replace her legacy. The loss of the queen was still felt deeply within your family, but neither you nor Rhaenyra could ignore the fear of losing the closeness your grief had forged with your father.

One evening, as you sat in your chambers with Rhaenyra, the reality of your departure felt all the more inevitable. Your elder sister was uncharacteristically silent, something you found unsettling. It wasn’t like her to be so withdrawn. As you sat at your vanity, you studied her face while she focused on brushing your hair—a habit you often shared when you both needed to be close. Her eyes were fixed on her task, and her usual smile had been replaced with a slight frown. Rhaenyra paused, her hand stilling in your hair, and tension radiated off her in waves. Just as you were about to ask if she was alright, she broke the silence.

"I don’t want you to leave me, hāedar," she said quietly, her voice tight with emotion.

You met her eyes in the mirror, and an aching tug filled your heart.

"I don’t want to leave you either, Nyra," you replied softly. "But I have to. Gwayne and I are to make our vows, and I want to be with him."

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, her brows furrowing as she resumed brushing your hair, though her strokes were slower and more hesitant.

"It feels like everything is changing," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "First it was Mother and the baby, and now you. It feels like we’re losing something or someone every day. I haven’t been alone since you were born. How will I manage when you’ve been taken away?"

Her words struck a chord within you, her feelings mirroring your own. You reached up and gently grasped her hand.

"You will always have me, mandia. Regardless of where I am. And we will see each other—I’ll make sure of it."

Rhaenyra smiled at your words, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which were filled with unshed tears.

"I know. But it will never be the same. And with Father… I don’t know how I feel about him choosing a new wife."

You nodded in understanding. The idea of someone else stepping into your mother’s place felt like another loss.

"It won’t be easy," you admitted. "But we’ll face it together. Whoever he chooses, we’ll make sure she knows who we are—that you are our future queen, regardless of any children she may provide."

Rhaenyra’s eyes softened as she squeezed your hand.

"Promise me you won’t change. That you’ll still be the sister who sneaks lemon cakes with me, that you won’t let Oldtown turn you into a pious, boring courtly lady."

You laughed, a pure, genuine sound that lightened the air.

"I promise you, no distance will ever change that."

The morning of your wedding was quite possibly the busiest you had ever seen the Keep. The clatter of maids and seamstresses rushing about the halls mingled with the hum of excitement as the final preparations were being made. You stood in your chambers, surrounded by Rhaenyra, Alicent, and your handmaiden. Rhaenyra and Alicent had been constant presences in the last few days, ensuring they spent as much time as possible with you before the separation. They had even arranged for the three of you to have baths together, with lots of warm water and scented oils often becoming the main feature of Rhaenyra’s chambers. Despite the tension between your father and Otto Hightower, Alicent had remained steadfast in her friendship; her quiet support had been a source of comfort. The bond between you now felt more like that of sisters than mere friends.

As Rhaenyra worked on securing the last intricate braid of your hair, Alicent helped you slip into your wedding gown, her movements careful and delicate. The gown itself was a masterpiece—your father had spared no expense. The dress was woven with Valyrian silver threads, with the Targaryen dragon embroidered subtly across the bodice. The long, flowing sleeves echoed the ancient gowns of Old Valyria, a nod to your roots and your father’s passions.

"You look beautiful," Alicent whispered, her voice soft with admiration.

You glanced at the red-haired girl, smiling warmly.

"I feel like I’m floating."

Rhaenyra, having finished with your hair, stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"As you should," she teased lightly. "You’re marrying a knight and flying off to Oldtown. Just don’t forget us when you’re there."

You turned to face both of them, taking a deep breath.

"I could never. I have two sisters close to my heart now. You and Alicent—you’re both part of me."

Rhaenyra’s lips quirked into a small, bittersweet smile, while Alicent’s eyes grew glassy with emotion.

"How dare you make me feel things," Rhaenyra jested, attempting to lighten the mood.

The Great Hall was filled with nobles from all corners of the realm, their finery on full display. The banners of House Targaryen and House Hightower hung side by side, symbolising the union of two powerful families. At the head of the hall, King Viserys sat on the Iron Throne, his expression a mixture of pride and lingering sadness as he prepared to watch his daughter take this significant step in her life.

The ceremony was a mesmerising fusion of Targaryen and Faith of the Seven customs, each tradition seamlessly woven into the fabric of the day. The Septon stood tall before the gathered crowd, his hands raised in solemn prayer as he called upon the blessings of the Seven to watch over you and Gwayne. His voice echoed through the grand hall, invoking the Maiden for purity, the Warrior for strength, the Father for protection, and the Mother for guidance. Yet, while the blessings of the Seven were important, it was the Targaryen rites that truly resonated with you, their significance running deep within your bloodline. As the moment approached for the Valyrian vows, your heart raced with anticipation, swelling with emotion and history.

Before you stood Gwayne, the man who would soon be your husband. Clad in the green and white of House Hightower, the colours were striking against the backdrop of the ancient hall. His hand reached out toward you, fingers steady yet tender. His gaze was unwavering, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with an unspoken promise. Despite the grandeur of the occasion—the regal banners that hung from the walls, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow, and the countless eyes upon you—everything else seemed to fade. In that moment, it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you, standing together, united in purpose and love.

You were the first to speak, your voice soft yet strong, carrying the weight of generations. The ancient words of your ancestors flowed from your lips like a melody, each syllable steeped in tradition and meaning.

"Nyke rūvēbagon ao, issa jorrāelagon. Ēlīrion ziry arlī. Naejot nūmāzma, nyke pāsagon bē naejot ziry rūsīr." I bind myself to you, my love. From this day until the end of days, I will walk with you.

The Valyrian words, so familiar yet sacred, hung in the air between you, like an invisible thread tying you both to the past and to the future. You could feel the weight of their meaning settle in your heart, binding you to Gwayne in a way that transcended time and place.

Gwayne met your gaze, his eyes shining with both love and determination. You knew how hard he had worked to master the unfamiliar Valyrian tongue, spending days—perhaps weeks—practising these very words. When he spoke, there was a slight tremor in his voice, not of fear, but of the significance of the moment. His pronunciation stumbled ever so slightly, but his sincerity was undeniable.

"Nyke rūvēbagon ao... issa jorrāelagon. Ēlīrion ziry arlī. Naejot nūmāzma... nyke pāsagon bē naejot ziry rūsīr."

Your heart softened as you listened to him. Though the words were foreign to his tongue, their meaning was not. In his voice, you heard the depth of his love, his willingness to embrace not only you but the traditions that were so deeply a part of who you were. His love for you, and his commitment to your shared future, radiated from him like a beacon, stronger than any stumble over the ancient language.

A soft smile played on your lips, the intimacy of the moment enveloping you despite the opulence of the hall and the presence of so many witnesses. It felt as though time had stilled, and in that suspended breath, the two of you stood at the precipice of a new beginning. Your worlds—Targaryen and Hightower—were being brought together, not only by this union but by the promises you had just made to one another.

The ceremony continued with the exchange of rings, the smooth metal sliding onto your finger, a tangible symbol of the vows you had spoken. The Septon offered final blessings, his voice rising once more in prayer, but you barely heard him. All you could focus on was Gwayne, standing there, as bound to you as you were to him—by vows both ancient and new, by fire and faith.

When the final blessing was given and the hall erupted into applause, you felt a wave of joy surge through you. Gwayne turned toward you, his face lit up with warmth and joy, his smile wide and unguarded. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that felt both tender and triumphant. Around you, the crowd’s cheers rose, their voices blending together into a sound like the distant roar of dragons.

The Great Hall was alight with celebration after the wedding ceremony, its high vaulted ceilings echoing with laughter, music, and the clink of goblets filled with the finest wine from across the realm. Long tables were laden with platters of roasted meats, sweet fruits, and delicacies meant to honour the union of House Targaryen and House Hightower. Banners bearing both houses' sigils fluttered overhead, the Targaryen dragon and Hightower beacon intertwined in a show of unity.

You sat at the head table beside Gwayne, your hand resting comfortably in his, fingers interlaced as if you couldn’t bear to be separated even for a moment. He smiled at you, a soft, adoring expression that warmed your heart. The hall was loud and vibrant, but the world felt quiet and intimate in the small bubble you both created. You couldn’t stop stealing glances at him, the reality of your marriage still sinking in. Gwayne was yours now—your husband—and you, his wife. The weight of that truth was thrilling.

Across the hall, Rhaenyra and Alicent exchanged looks, both beaming at you with obvious joy. The tension that had shadowed your lives since your mother’s passing seemed to lift, if only for this night. Rhaenyra caught your eye, a mischievous glint in her gaze, and you knew exactly what was coming next. She stood abruptly, waving a hand to the musicians, and the hall quietened for a moment before erupting into cheerful applause as the first notes of a lively dance filled the air.

“Come on, dear sister,” Rhaenyra called from her place, grinning widely. “No wedding is complete without a dance!”

Gwayne chuckled softly, squeezing your hand as he stood and extended it to you. “Shall we?”

You felt your cheeks warm as you took his hand, allowing him to lead you to the centre of the hall, where couples were already gathering. The music swelled, and soon you were twirling under the twinkling lights of the Great Hall, Gwayne’s hand steady on your waist, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. His laughter was infectious as you spun together, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You dance far better than I expected for a knight,” you teased, breathless from the movement.

“And you, my princess, dance with all the grace of a dragon taking flight,” Gwayne replied with a smirk, his tone playful.

You laughed, the sound bright and carefree, and for a moment, the whole room felt distant. It was just you and Gwayne, your hearts beating in time with the rhythm of the music, a perfect match.

As the song drew to a close, Rhaenyra pulled you away from Gwayne, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "You’ve had enough of your husband for now," she teased. "It’s time for the sisters to share a dance."

You twirled with Rhaenyra next, your hands entwined as the two of you moved effortlessly through the dance floor. Her smile was genuine, full of love and happiness for you. “I’ll miss you,” she said softly as you spun together, her voice barely audible over the music.

“I’ll miss you more,” you replied, your chest tightening at the thought of leaving her behind in King’s Landing. But for now, there was no sadness—only joy, only this moment.

Alicent soon joined the fray, pulling you both into a playful circle, the three of you laughing together as you danced. The bond between the three of you felt stronger than ever, and though there had been difficult times, it was clear that the friendship and love you shared could endure anything.

As the lively reception continued, the sounds of music and laughter filled the hall. You had been swept into the rhythm of the evening, dancing and speaking with guests, but as you stepped away for a moment of air, you found your father standing near the edge of the courtyard. The warm glow of lanterns illuminated his familiar face, making the silver strands in his hair catch the light. He smiled when he saw you approaching, his eyes filled with pride.

“You look radiant tonight,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, but steady as always. "Just as beautiful as your mother was on our wedding day."

His words made your heart tighten with affection. You reached out and took his hand, feeling the callouses that had been there for as long as you could remember.

“I wish she could be here,” you whispered, your voice softer now, filled with a longing that had been quietly sitting in the back of your mind.

“She is here, my sweet girl, in the love we carry forward,” he said, squeezing your hand gently, a quiet reminder of the legacy you had inherited. “And I can see so much of her in you, especially tonight.”

You leaned into him, finding comfort in the familiar embrace of your father. It felt good to share this moment with him. “Thank you, Father. For everything.”

He looked down at you, his gaze serious. “This is only the beginning, my daughter. You and Gwayne will face challenges, but always remember that family comes first. Lean on each other, trust each other, and never forget the strength that comes from unity.”

As the music played on, you looked back toward the hall, where Gwayne was chatting animatedly with Rhaenyra and Alicent, laughter bubbling around them. Your heart swelled with affection for him. He was your partner, your equal, and together, you would navigate whatever lay ahead.

After several more dances and rounds of wine, the energy of the hall began to feel overwhelming; the excitement was almost too much to bear. You exchanged a knowing look with Gwayne, who seemed to read your thoughts immediately. His hand found yours again, and with a small, playful smile, he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“Shall we sneak away, my love?” he murmured, his voice low and full of mischief.

You grinned, feeling a rush of exhilaration. “Lead the way, husband.” With careful steps, you slipped away from the throngs of people, unnoticed as the revelry continued in full swing. Gwayne guided you through the familiar stone corridors of the Keep, your hand tucked securely in his as you moved swiftly past guards and courtiers. The cool, quiet halls felt like a world apart from the boisterous celebrations, and your heart raced with anticipation.

Finally, Gwayne stopped, pulling you into a secluded alcove near one of the grand windows overlooking the city. The moonlight bathed the room in a soft, silvery glow, and for a moment, the two of you stood there, catching your breath, laughing at the thrill of your escape.

“I think we’ve officially abandoned our own wedding feast,” Gwayne said with a grin, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“I think they’ll manage without us for a little while,” you replied, stepping closer to him. The playful atmosphere shifted as the space between you disappeared, the weight of the moment settling in. You were married now, bound to each other for life, and the realisation sent a shiver of excitement down your spine.

Gwayne’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “You know, I never imagined this,” he said softly, his voice filled with awe. “Marrying you, being here like this. It feels... unreal.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with love for him. “It feels perfect.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, gazing at each other, the magnitude of the day sinking in. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Gwayne leaned down and kissed you, his lips soft and warm against yours. The kiss was slow, tender, full of the promise of everything yet to come. Your hand grasped his tunic, your senses focused solely on him.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, but your smiles spoke volumes that words couldn’t convey. “Well,” Gwayne said with a playful smirk, “I suppose we should return to our guests before they notice our absence. Though I wouldn’t mind staying here a little longer.”

You laughed, tugging him toward the hall again. “Come on, husband, let’s not give the courtiers something to gossip about on our first night as husband and wife.”

Gwayne groaned dramatically but followed, his hand still clasped in yours. “As my wife commands.”

Hand in hand, you returned to the feast, your hearts full and your souls bound, ready to face whatever life had in store for you together.

The Great Hall gradually quietened as the feast drew to an end. Guests trickled out, content with food, wine, and revelry, while the musicians played the final soft notes of a ballad. You and Gwayne remained at the head of the hall, but you could already feel the subtle glances cast your way, the unspoken expectation that the bedding ceremony should commence soon.

But that moment never came.

King Viserys, seated beside his daughters, had made it clear to the courtiers: there would be no bedding ceremony. No raucous crowd of drunken nobles tearing at your clothes, no jeering chants echoing through the castle halls. Instead, the King rose to his feet, silencing the last whispers, and raised his goblet in a final toast to the newlyweds.

"Tonight," Viserys declared, his voice steady yet warm, "my daughter and her husband shall have their privacy. I trust them to find their own way together, with no interference from us. Let this be the start of their journey, not only as husband and wife but as partners, as equals."

A murmur of approval swept through the hall, though some lords seemed disappointed by the lack of spectacle. Gwayne stood beside you, his hand once again finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Relief washed over you, grateful for your father’s understanding.

After the final goodbyes were said, the two of you were quietly escorted to your chambers. The flickering candlelight cast soft, golden shadows on the stone walls as the door to your room closed behind you, leaving you and Gwayne alone.

For a moment, there was a brief, almost shy silence. Both of you had been caught up in the whirl of the day—the ceremony, the feast, the dances—that now, in the stillness, the enormity of it all began to settle in. You were married. You had chosen each other, not just for duty but for love, and that realisation filled the space between you with a new kind of energy.

Gwayne turned to you, his expression soft, his smile gentle. “Are you as nervous as I am?” he asked, his voice laced with tenderness and a hint of vulnerability.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and warm. “Perhaps a little,” you admitted, stepping closer to him. “But mostly... I’m just happy. So very happy.”

His hands found your waist, pulling you gently toward him, and you felt the warmth of his body seep into yours. “I am too,” he whispered, his lips brushing your forehead. “I never thought I would marry someone as captivating as you.” There were no words needed after that. The tenderness between you both, the love you shared, was enough. The night passed in quiet, stolen kisses and whispered promises of forever. There was no rush, no pressure, just the sweet unfolding of two hearts finally joined, fully and completely.

Afterward, you lay together in the quiet of your chambers, Gwayne’s arm draped protectively over you as you rested your head on his chest. The warmth of the hearth, the soft rustle of the sheets, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat created a cocoon of peace around you both.

“I was thinking,” Gwayne murmured, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. You smiled and pushed yourself up, looking at the red-haired young man. “A dangerous pastime for you, no?”

Gwayne laughed and shook his head. “Yes, indeed. My brain is about to implode at the effort of my princess.” You laughed and settled back down to your earlier position, encouraging your husband to continue. “Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted, I was thinking about what our life will be like in Oldtown. Do you think they’d allow us to build a dragonpit there?”

You looked up at him, your eyes twinkling with amusement. “A dragonpit in Oldtown? Surely the septons would have a heart attack.”

“Well,” Gwayne said, grinning, “we’ll need somewhere to house Vermithor and Silverwing, won’t we?” You smiled, the thought of your dragons resting in Oldtown sparking excitement. “It’ll have to be large enough, though. Not just for them.”

Gwayne raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner. “Well, we need a place for all their future clutches. Our children will be part dragon after all.” He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “Of course. We’ll need to plan for a whole brood of dragons. Oldtown might not know what to do with itself when we arrive.”

The idea of building a future together—not just a home but a legacy—filled you with joy. You could see it clearly: the two of you in Oldtown, your dragons soaring over the city, your life filled with love and adventure. It was a future you hadn’t dared to dream of, and now it was within your grasp.

The morning of your departure arrived all too soon. The excitement of the wedding had faded into a bittersweet calm, and the reality of leaving King’s Landing—and Rhaenyra—was heavy on your heart.

Rhaenyra stood by the stables, her face tight with emotion as you approached. You knew this was hard for her. The two of you had been through so much together, and now, the idea of being separated felt like a deep, aching wound.

“You’ll visit,” she said, her voice soft but firm, as though she were willing it to be true.

“Of course I will,” you replied, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I’ll fly over whenever I can, and you’ll always have a place with us in Oldtown.”

Rhaenyra squeezed you tightly, her breath catching as she held back tears. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. “Emā ōños lantra syt tolī... Nyke daor ivestragī iā ao nūmāzma.” We’ve already lost so much... I can’t bear to lose you too.

“Ao daor ivestragī nyke,” You’re not losing me, you reassured her, your own tears threatening to spill. “Īlva mandia iksi. Daorun ivestragon ziry.” We’re sisters. Nothing will change that. Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, her violet eyes glistening with emotion. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao,” she said softly, her voice breaking. I love you.

“Se nyke jorrāelagon ao,” you whispered back. And I love you. “Va moriot.” Always.

Alicent appeared beside you, her own eyes watery, though she managed to keep her composure. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said, giving you a small smile before wrapping you in a warm hug. “Oldtown isn’t so far, you know.”

You smiled through your tears. “I’ll write, and you can visit too. There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

When it was time to say your final goodbye to your father, King Viserys, you could see the sadness etched into his face. He pulled you into a long embrace, holding you tighter than he had in a long time.

“I’ll miss you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve always been the rational one, the one who tempered Rhaenyra’s fire.”

You smiled softly, feeling the lump in your throat grow. “She’ll be fine, Father. She’s strong. But I’ll miss you too.”

Viserys pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders as he looked at you, his eyes full of pride and sadness. “You’ve made me proud,” he said quietly. “Go and build the life you deserve. And know that you’ll always have a place here.”

With that, the final goodbyes were said. Gwayne helped you into the carriage as you saw Vermithor and Silverwing circle overhead. Your heart was a mixture of excitement and sorrow as you waved to Rhaenyra and Alicent until they were no longer in sight.

[areislol]

life as a monarch isn't easy, of course, but with a needy and infatuated concubine on top, it just makes your life and duties far more difficult than they need to be.

infatuated! chen liu, your favoured concubine, is a constant presence in your life. draped in the finest silks and adorned with gold ornaments, he’s the very picture of elegance—and perhaps a bit too spoiled.

his adoration for you is unmistakable, bordering on obsession, and it often complicates your already demanding responsibilities as a ruler.

he always follows you around wherever you are, his doe eyes filled with longing whenever you’re out of sight for too long. he’s ecstatic when you ask for him to accompany you, whether it's a simple walk through the gardens or a more formal event.

chen liu can’t stand the thought of sharing your time, let alone your affections. he pouts when you visit other palaces, pressing his lips to your ankle in a silent plea for reassurance. the more you distance yourself, the more insistent he becomes, his jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

despite this, you find it hard to reprimand him harshly. you know he would throw a tantrum if he could, but he’s careful not to embarrass you in public.

the tension between your duties and chen liu’s constant need for your presence grows more apparent. you’re often preoccupied with matters of state—diplomatic meetings, strategies to strengthen the kingdom, and managing the delicate balance of power among the nobles.

yet, every time you return to your chambers, you’re greeted by the sight of chen liu, waiting anxiously for a moment of your time.

he’s there when you wake up, his eyes lighting up the moment you acknowledge him. he’s by your side during meals, though his gaze is often fixated on you rather than the food. and in the evenings, he lingers near your quarters, hoping for an invitation to spend the night with you.

the other concubines are aware of his favoured status, and while they dare not voice their jealousy, you can sense the unease it creates. chen liu, however, seems oblivious to this, entirely focused on you.

but lately, his behaviour has started to concern you. he’s become more possessive, subtly questioning you about your visits to other palaces. his tone, once playful and adoring, now carries an undercurrent of fear—fear that you might one day choose someone else over him.

currently, you sat at your desk, surrounded by scrolls, letters, and missives as the morning sun streamed through the tall windows of your private chambers, casting a golden light across the finely woven tapestries and marble floors.

being a monarch was no simple task. today, like every day, you balanced the needs of your kingdom with the politics of foreign palaces, trying to secure alliances and maintain peace.

as you read through a letter from a neighbouring royal house, a soft knock came at the door. without needing to look up, you knew who it was—chen liu.

"enter," you called, your voice steady but distracted.

chen liu stepped into the room, dressed in his usual elegant robes of rich silk. his movements were graceful, but you could sense the tension in the way he carried himself.

he always exuded poise, but there was something in his demeanour today that seemed... off. you knew why, of course. chen liu did not enjoy sharing your attention, especially when that attention was given to other royals, diplomats, or anyone who took time away from him.

"your highness," he said softly, coming to stand beside your desk. His eyes flicked over the scrolls, his lips pressing into a thin line before quickly returning to his usual soft expression. "allow me to bring you some tea."

you smiled, though your eyes remained on the parchment in front of you. "thank you, chen liu. tea would be nice."

He bowed his head, his silky raven-coloured hair cascading in silky waves, framing a face that was both delicate and striking, an eye candy that drew attention effortlessly as he turned to fetch the tea. the room was quiet again, but you could feel his silent frustration in the air.

chen liu never voiced his jealousy, never acted out, especially not in public, but you knew him well enough to recognise the small signs: the way his jaw tightened when you spoke of foreign dignitaries, the way his hands lingered a little longer when he served you as if trying to reclaim your focus.

when he returned with the tea, he poured it with the same careful elegance he always did, setting the cup before you. you took a sip, grateful for the warmth, but you couldn’t ignore the quiet tension.

"you’ve been distracted lately," he said softly, standing beside you, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the desk. "so many letters, so many meetings. your attention is always... elsewhere."

you paused, setting the cup down and finally looking up at him. his expression was calm, but his dark eyes held a sadness, a quiet frustration.

“you’ve been visiting the phoenix feather abode often,” he remarks one evening, his voice tinged with unease. he’s kneeling at your feet now—something he grew fond of doing—his fingers lightly brushing against your robes as if seeking to anchor himself to you.

“is there someone there who’s captured your interest?”

you sigh, not again.

“my duties require me to visit all the palaces,” you explain gently, hoping to ease his mind. “it’s not a matter of preference, chen liu.”

but he remains unconvinced, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. “then why have you not visited me as often?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “have i done something to displease you?”

you can visibly see how his brows furrow, the fear that he’s losing his place in your heart. it’s a delicate situation, one that requires careful handling. you reach out, lifting his chin so that he meets your gaze directly.

"you could never displease me, liu," you assured him, "you are my most cherished companion, but i cannot let my personal desires interfere with the needs of the kingdom."

chen liu knows that, he knows that there's no one else in the world who could make you as happy as he could, who could satisfy you, who could meet your needs. but even so, he wishes you could just focus on him even if it was a couple of minutes.

his fingers tightened around the hem of your robe, his eyes filled with desperation. "your majesty," he murmured, his voice trembling, "please, just a moment of your time. i need you... i need your touch."

you could feel the intensity of his need as he clung to you, his gaze pleading. it was clear that his heart ached with the absence of your presence, with a sigh, you gently pried his fingers from your robe, your touch tender despite the firm resolve in your voice.

"chen liu," you began softly, "i understand your worries, but... please understand, my duties require me to be away. the alliances and meetings are absolutely crucial for the stability of the kingdom."

his eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. "i know, your majesty. it's just that... every day, it feels like I'm losing a piece of you. the time we used to share seems like a distant memory."

he knows the way he's acting right now is childish. he was a concubine, your concubine, not a lover.

liu's patience seemed to wear thin as he gripped your robe with frustration, his earlier submissive demeanour subsiding. "you know i don't like it when you pay attention to anyone other than me," he murmured, his teeth gritting with irritation.

his eyes, once filled with pleading, now sparkled with a challenging glint. "why bother going to see those men? you have me."

"it's not fair, you know. you spend so much time with them, making deals and alliances, while i'm left here, waiting for scraps of your attention. do i mean so little to you now?"

your eyes widened slightly at the shift in his tone. his behaviour caught you off guard, although you weren't all that surprised by his brattiness. he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as if to shield himself from the reality of your obligations.

"i will not discuss this any further," you said firmly, your tone brooking no argument. "feel free to stay and be silent or leave."

chen liu's eyes widened at the finality in your voice, a mix of defiance and hurt flickering across his face. he took a deep, shaky breath, his posture shifting as he grappled with his emotions.

he hesitated, glancing around the room with an air of uncertainty. the room, filled with the soft glow of lanterns and the muted colours of opulent silks, suddenly felt colder to him.

he lowered his gaze, a sign of both surrender and submission. "i apologise," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "i'll stay."

chen liu remained at his spot beside your legs, his earlier brattiness replaced by a sulking silence.

you watched him for a moment, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the distance between you had grown despite your best efforts. turning back to your paperwork, you felt a pang of sadness, but what else could you do?

as you continued with your tasks, you cast occasional glances at your concubine. despite his silent brooding, he stayed put, and before you both knew it, hours passed, and as the day drew to a close, you finally set aside your work.

the room was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the floor. you turned to find chen liu still there, his eyes fighting hard to stay open.

with a sigh, you reached out your hand, beckoning him closer. he wasted no second, rising to his feet and standing up. his fingers brushed against yours, and for the first time that day, you allowed yourself to let go of your burdens, if only for a moment.

"come," you said softly, pulling him into your embrace. "you’ve waited long enough."

his arms wrapped around you tightly, his head resting against your shoulder as if he feared you might slip away again.

for tonight, you could afford to forget the world outside. for tonight, chen liu would be your world, just as fate wished for you two to be.

and as you held him, his grip tightened, just slightly, silently promising that he’d never let you go, no matter what.

[reveryfics]

Hey! I really love your work, so I had an idea of m!reader getting injured on a supply run or something and when he gets home he thinks Daryl is going to be all tough like usual but Daryl ends up taking care of him and being very gentle <3

Softie

Daryl Dixon x Male Reader

Summary: After returning from a run injured, you didn't expect Daryl to be so gentle

A/N: I love the soft side of Daryl, especially when it's so unexpected. Again to those who keep requesting smut, it'll be awhile before it's done however non-smut requests are open!

TW: Injury - Blood - Fluff

The sky was a canvas of bruised purples and inky blacks, the stars mere pinpricks of light struggling to pierce the thick veil of clouds. A light, persistent drizzle kissed the windshield of the sedan, blurring the already dim landscape. The car idled with a low, guttural rumble as Aaron brought it to a halt before the imposing gates of Alexandria. For a long moment, his gaze lingered on you in the passenger seat, a silent question etched on his face before the heavy gates creaked open, revealing the familiar path within.

Standing just beyond the gate, a solitary figure against the weak glow of the community lights, was Daryl. He was a constant presence during your and Aaron's supply runs, especially those that stretched late into the night. His posture, usually a study in relaxed vigilance, was taut with a palpable tension. He watched intently as Aaron carefully helped you out of the car, his movements slow and deliberate. Even in the gloom, the dark crimson staining your clothes and the crude, blood-soaked bandage wrapped around your hand were impossible to miss.

Daryl moved with a swiftness that belied his usual measured pace, closing the distance in a few long strides. He reached out, his calloused hand finding your waist, supporting your weight as your legs threatened to buckle. "The hell happened?" he questioned, his voice rough but laced with an uncharacteristic urgency. The usual gruffness was softened by a clear undercurrent of concern, his brow furrowed beneath the brim of his cap.

Aaron’s voice was strained, the events of the last few hours clearly weighing heavily on him. He recounted the harrowing encounter, the sudden, overwhelming surge of walkers that had surrounded them with terrifying speed. The chaos, the desperate struggle to fight back, and the moment you were separated in the thick of it, a gap opening between you like a chasm in the earth. He described the frantic search, the growing dread that had clawed at his throat with each passing minute. Then, the horrifying discovery – finding you at the bottom of a steep, rocky cliff, a crumpled heap against the unforgiving terrain. He detailed the visible injuries, the sickening angle of your ankle, the deep gash across your hand, and the myriad of cuts and bruises that painted your skin.

A low groan escaped your lips, a sound of pure agony that made Daryl’s grip tighten protectively. You mumbled something incoherent under your breath, the words slurred and lost to the night air. Without hesitation, Daryl scooped you up into his arms, his strength surprising even himself in that moment of raw fear. He carried you with a fierce tenderness, his eyes fixed on the path ahead as he made his way towards the familiar glow of Aaron and Eric’s house.

Inside, the warm lamplight cast a comforting glow. Daryl gently laid you down on the worn couch, his movements surprisingly delicate. Eric emerged from the top of the stairs, his eyes widening in alarm as he took in your battered state. Without a word, he turned and hurried back upstairs, reappearing moments later with a small, metal box filled with the meager first aid supplies they had on hand.

Daryl knelt beside you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he began to assess the damage. He carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage on your hand, his breath catching slightly at the sight of the deep, jagged wound. He cleaned the blood away with painstaking care, his brow furrowed in concentration. The silence in the room was thick with unspoken worry.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice raspy and weak. "I was… reckless." Your gaze flickered to Daryl, his face etched with concern as he moved from your hand to the swelling bruise blooming on your cheek.

He snorted softly, a sound that held more relief than amusement. "Reckless ain't nothin' new," he mumbled, his eyes never leaving your face. "Just glad you're alive and you made it back." He reached for a spool of thread and a needle from the table behind him, his movements precise and practiced. With a steady hand, he began to stitch the gash on your hand, his touch surprisingly light. He kept up a quiet stream of conversation, talking about mundane things – the state of the garden, the new pups Carol had found, anything to distract you from the sting of the needle threading through your skin. "Better not have to tie you to the bed while you heal," he joked, a hint of his usual gruffness returning, though the worry in his eyes remained.

You watched him, a strange warmth spreading through you despite the pain. "I expected the gruff Daryl," you admitted, your voice still a little shaky. "Not… this." You gestured vaguely with your uninjured hand. "This gentle, concerned Daryl." You paused, a small smile touching your lips. "I don't mind it."

He didn't meet your gaze, focusing intently on his task. When he was finished, he tied off the thread and carefully wrapped your hand in clean gauze. Then, he did something that made your breath catch in your throat. He gently kissed the wrapped bandage, a soft, fleeting touch that spoke volumes. He moved closer then, his attention shifting to the cuts on your face and the bloodied mess of your nose. He cleaned them with the same meticulous care, ensuring no dirt or debris remained to cause infection. Finally, he examined your swollen ankle, his touch gentle but firm as he wrapped it securely.

With your more immediate injuries tended to, Daryl carefully helped you to your feet, supporting most of your weight as he guided you towards the stairs. "Let's get you cleaned up," he murmured, his arm a steady presence around your waist. He ignored your weak protests about being able to manage, and the mumbled remark about him being a "big softie," though a faint smile played on his lips.

In the small bathroom, the steam from the warm water fogged the mirror. Daryl helped you remove your torn and bloodied clothes, his gaze lingering for only a moment on the extent of your injuries before focusing on the task at hand. He gently washed the remaining blood and grime from your skin, his touch tender and thorough. You couldn't resist teasing him, whispering about his surprisingly gentle nature, each remark met with a shake of his head and a quiet grunt.

Once you were clean, Daryl helped you dress in soft, clean clothes. As he fastened the buttons on your shirt, he finally spoke about your earlier comment. "You just… you bring that out in me," he said, his voice low and husky. He leaned in, his gaze locking with yours, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. You kissed him back, the relief of being safe and in his arms washing over you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He chuckled softly, then scooped you up into his arms once more, carrying you effortlessly towards the bedroom you shared. He laid you gently on the bed, his eyes filled with a love that chased away the shadows of the night. "I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You reached for a pillow, throwing it at him with a weak but playful grin. "I love you too, you big softie," you retorted, the exhaustion finally starting to claim you. But even as your eyelids grew heavy, the warmth of his presence beside you, the lingering scent of him on your skin, chased away the last vestiges of fear, leaving only the profound comfort of being home.

[its-avalon-08]

you create life (cs55)

✦ pairing - carlos sainz x female!reader

✦ genre - pregnancy, fluff, tears, comfort

Carlos and Y/N were a tapestry woven with threads of adoration and companionship. Their love story, a five-year-long symphony of shared laughter, silent understanding, and unwavering support, was the envy of many. They were the epitome of a modern power couple, their careers soaring like eagles, their hearts intertwined like ivy.

Y/N, a brilliant strategist with a sharp mind and an even sharper wit, complemented Carlos's fiery passion and relentless drive. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with. Neither had explicitly broached the topic of children, their focus predominantly on their individual and shared ambitions. Yet, their love was deep-rooted, a fertile ground where dreams sprouted and flourished.

It was a sweltering afternoon at the paddock, the cacophony of engines and pit crews a constant hum in the background. Carlos, drenched in adrenaline and focus, was in the zone. But the world outside the cockpit crashed into his reality when his phone vibrated. It was Y/N. Her voice, usually a melodious chime, was now a broken symphony of sobs.

Panic surged through him. He excused himself, his mind racing with a thousand possibilities. "Love, what's wrong? Talk to me," he urged, his voice laced with concern. But she could only cry, her words lost in the tempest of her emotions.

With a heavy heart, Carlos made a decision. The race, the championship, everything faded into insignificance. He needed to be with her. In that moment, the roaring engines, the cheering crowds, the hunger for victory – all of it paled in comparison to the woman he loved.

He rushed out of the paddock, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. The drive to their home was a blur, a desperate journey to reach the source of her distress. As he pulled into the driveway, his hands trembled. He took a deep breath, his mind preparing for the unknown.

The house was quiet, an eerie stillness that contrasted sharply with the turmoil he imagined inside. He found her in their bedroom, curled up on the bed, her body shaking with sobs. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and intelligence, were now red and swollen.

Carlos's heart shattered into a million pieces. He knelt beside the bed, taking her hand in his. "Love, look at me," he whispered, his voice gentle. She turned her face towards him, her expression a raw, vulnerable mask of pain.

"Tell me what's wrong," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N’s voice was a broken whisper, lost in a labyrinth of apologies. "I’m so sorry, Carlos. I’m so sorry," she repeated, her body trembling uncontrollably. Each word was a dagger to his heart, yet he couldn't decipher the reason for her distress. Panic began to gnaw at him. "Love, please, tell me what’s wrong," he urged, his voice laced with desperation.

Then, she held up the pregnancy test, the stark white lines a silent accusation against the tranquility of their world. Time seemed to freeze, the only sound the erratic thumping of Carlos's heart. Y/N’s eyes, filled with a mixture of fear and hope, searched his face for a reaction.

A heavy silence descended upon the room, a vacuum of emotions. Carlos's mind raced, trying to comprehend the implications of this tiny, plastic device. His world was turned upside down, yet there was an undercurrent of something else, something profound and beautiful.

Y/N's voice broke the stillness, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Carlos, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I know, I know, we haven’t talked about kids or anything, and our careers are going so well. I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do. I was so careful, I don’t understand how this could happen.

I know we were supposed to focus on our careers, to build our lives together, and now this… I feel like I’ve ruined everything. I know you’re strong, and you’ll figure everything out, but I’m so scared. I don't want to let you down. I don’t want to be a disappointment.

I know you’re going to be an amazing father, the best father, but I’m terrified. I don’t feel ready. What if I can’t be the mother our child deserves? What if I mess everything up? I’m so selfish, I know. I should be happy, but I’m just scared. I’m so scared, Carlos."

But Carlos wasn’t listening to her words. His heart was soaring, a symphony of joy and disbelief. He was going to be a father. The thought was so overwhelming, it was as if he was floating. He pulled her into his arms, spinning her around in a whirlwind of happiness.

“We’re going to be parents, Y/N! I'M GOING TO BE DAD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!” he shouted, his laughter ringing through the room. Tears of joy streamed down his face as he kissed her breathless. “I love you so much. This is the best news ever!”

Y/N's sobs turned into laughter, a sweet melody that filled the room. In that moment, fear and uncertainty vanished, replaced by a shared dream of parenthood. Their love, a foundation built on trust and companionship, was about to embark on its most extraordinary chapter yet.

"Shhh, my love, shhh," Carlos whispered, his voice trembling as he wiped away her tears. His own eyes were a glistening ocean, but his heart was overflowing with joy. "You're not ruining anything, Y/N. You're creating something extraordinary. Something beautiful.

I've always wanted kids, but never as much as I want them with you. With the woman who makes my world brighter, who makes me laugh harder, who makes me a better person. You are the most incredible woman I know, and you're going to be an amazing mother.

I promise, I'll be there every step of the way. We'll figure this out together. We'll make sure our little one has everything they need, and more importantly, all the love in the world. Your dreams, your career, they're all important to me. I'll make sure you can continue to pursue them. But right now, let's just focus on this incredible miracle growing inside you. We'll cross every bridge when we come to it, together, as a team. Siempre estaré aquí para ti mi amor, estás creando vida. y por eso eres una diosa (I'll always be here for you my love, you are creating life. and for that you are a goddess)."

As he held her close, Carlos felt a surge of protectiveness. He would be her rock, her support, her partner in this incredible journey. Together, they would face whatever challenges came their way, their love a beacon of hope in the vast ocean of parenthood.

And in that instant, as they stood there, their hearts intertwined, they knew that their love story was far from over. It was just beginning, a new chapter filled with the promise of life, laughter, and an unconditional love that would shape generations to come.

[winchesterwild78]

When Eric met Mark

Master List

Characters: Mark Meachum x Reader 

Warnings: Slight angst, some fluff

A/N: Since Jensen has wrapped Countdown I felt the need to write a Mark Meachum one shot. Obviously I have no idea what the character is going to be like, but I do know he’s a cop. I can’t wait for the show to come out so I can write more of this character. Please enjoy. 

I do not own the rights to this character, but all work is my own. Please don’t take it.

Reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated. 

Minors DNI 18+

The California sun, a beacon of my escape, now felt like a taunt, a constant reminder of the warmth missing from my life. I'd come here for a fresh start, for the promise of golden days and a life unburdened by the past. Teaching filled me with a sense of purpose, my colleagues became my chosen family, and then, there was Mark.

Mark Meachum. He was a force of nature, tall and lean, with sandy blond hair that seemed to hold the sunlight captive. His green eyes, sharp and piercing, could see right through you, and his jawline, sculpted and strong, could cut glass. The connection was immediate, electric. We fell into each other's lives with a fervor that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Then came the late-night calls, the disappearing acts, the unsettling feeling of being kept in the dark. My accusations of infidelity were met with a truth that was far more dangerous: he was a cop, going deep undercover. The fear was a cold, constricting grip around my heart. He tried to reassure me, but his words did little to quell the terror that gnawed at me.

The months that followed were a desolate landscape of loneliness. The quick phone calls, the fleeting texts, were mere whispers in the vast silence. When he did manage to slip back into my life, under the cover of darkness, our time together was a desperate, feverish dance. He’d hold me close, our bodies entwined, seeking solace and connection in the fleeting moments we shared. Then, before dawn, he’d vanish, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.

My home, once a sanctuary, became a haunted space, filled with the phantom echoes of his touch, his laughter, his whispered promises. I felt hollow, adrift, a ghost in my own life.

The charity event I was invited to was a blur of forced smiles and polite conversation. Then, I saw him. Those green eyes, unmistakable, even under the guise of a sharp suit and a carefully constructed facade. He saw me, a flicker of recognition in his gaze, and then, he looked away.

My friend, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling between us, steered me through the crowd, introducing me to a group of people, and then, to "Eric." I extended my hand, my heart pounding in my chest. "Nice to meet you," I managed, my voice a strained whisper. Our eyes met, a silent plea passing between us, a desperate longing that mirrored my own. I wanted him, I missed him.

Later, he pulled me aside, into the sanctuary of an empty room. The kiss was desperate, urgent, a raw expression of the longing that had consumed us both. His hands moved over my body with a familiar intensity, a desperate exploration in the stolen moments we had. 

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. I miss you so much.” His voice was raw with emotion.

“You clean up nice yourself, “Eric”.” I giggled as his lips landed on mine again.

My hands on his chest, “How much longer do you think you’ll be gone?”

He ran his hands through his hair, “Honestly I don’t know. We’ve uncovered something bigger than what we thought. I’m so sorry sweetheart, I know this is hard on you. I just need to keep you safe. The people we are dealing with are bad, and if they knew about you then they’d come after you.”

I nodded, “I know. I just want you to come back safe to me.”

He nodded, crashed his lips onto mine again. The kiss was full of all the emotions we were feeling, loneliness, need, want, and something else. Something deeper that neither of us had said yet. 

“Goodbye for now, sweetheart.” His hand cupped my face as he placed a softer kiss on my lips. “I love you.”

My breath hitched, “I love you too.”

He smiled as he opened the door and looked back at me with a wink.

He walked away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving me breathless, shaken, the ghost of his lips still burning on mine. The echo of our confession playing in my ears.

The sun still shone, but it felt like a cold, distant star, a cruel reminder of the warmth that was always just out of reach.

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[softsturn]

the beach - m.s

⩩ pairing: matt x fem!reader

⩩ summary: matt is caught jerking off to his best friend (inspired by @heartstreet !! full creds to them for this idea)

⩩ warnings: masturbation, handjob, p-in-v, half assed writing at the end.

⩩ a/n: sorry i haven’t posted much, its been so hard to think of ideas. i wanted to make a part two of what i last posted but i literally don’t know how to continue it😭 thank you for all the likes and follows!! pls leave me requests :)

Describing the bond between you and Matt exceeds the simplicity a mere friendship. Growing up, you lived only a few houses away from his, you shared the same schools, and practically every experience was a joint venture. It wasn't just common knowledge; it was an undeniable truth that wherever you went, a blue-eyed boy with brown hair was sure to follow, mirroring your every step like a lost puppy. The invisible tie binding you two seemed unbreakable, preventing you from straying far apart.

Now, at Cape Cod, a destination woven into the fabric of your cherished summer memories, you eagerly await Matt and his family’s arrival. Setting up foldable chairs and towels on the sandy shores, you can hardly contain your anticipation, eager to continue the tradition of shared moments under the sun.

As if on cue, his family strolled towards the beach, carrying an assortment of towels, bags, chairs, and a cooler. Your face lit up with a vibrant smile upon spotting the three identical boys approaching with palpable excitement. They placed their belongings on the sand, and you greeted them eagerly.

Matt's eyes widened noticeably, practically popping out of his sockets as he unabashedly drank in the sight of you. While you maintained your usual level of beauty, his gaze lingered on your figure. Stepping out of your comfort zone, you had chosen a two-piece bikini opposed to a one piece like you normally wore, showcasing newfound confidence in your evolving body. The swimsuit hugged you in all the right places, baring your torso and clinging snugly to your curves. Matt found himself caught in a momentary, lustful gaze, slightly zoning out as Nick and Chris enthusiastically hyped you up in the background.

"You look so good girl!" exclaimed Nick, with Chris joining in laughter, while you, feeling a bit shy, crossed your arms over your stomach.

Coming back to reality from his fleeting thoughts, Matt nodded and offered you a small, genuine smile. "You look..." he hesitated, carefully choosing his words to avoid any discomfort for you. "Pretty," he mumbled sheepishly, prompting a soft blush to grace your face. Matt's compliments held a unique significance, seeming to carry more weight than others, his opinion reigning supreme in your mind.

"Thank you," you replied with a shy giggle, while Nick and Chris exchanged amused glances, furrowing their brows at the subtle dynamics unfolding between the two of you. The unspoken connection, the palpable undercurrent of something more than friendship, was evident to everyone around. Jokes from your parents about an impending marriage and teasing from Matt's brothers were constant reminders of the unspoken truth – you and Matt shared a love that transcended platonic feelings, even if the explicit words hadn't been uttered.

After a few hours under the warm sun, the faint emergence of sunburn and light freckles adorned your face, telling tales of days spent soaking up the heat. Meanwhile, Matt wrestled with his thoughts, a delicate balance between loyalty to your friendship and the desire that threatened to breach inappropriate territories. He harbored a profound fear of jeopardizing the trust you shared or causing any discomfort, acutely aware that losing you was a risk he couldn't fathom.

As you stood, engrossed in gathering your belongings and bending over slightly, Matt couldn't suppress the way his gaze involuntarily traced the curves of your figure, particularly fixating on your ass. His mind danced with forbidden scenarios, imagining actions he both longed for and felt conflicted about. Sensing a warmth spreading through him, he nervously looked away, trying to prevent any telltale signs of his internal struggle.

You straightened up, holding your possessions with a toothy grin, completely oblivious to the subtle turmoil in Matt's mind. "I'll see you back at the house," you said softly. Matt offered a slight nod and joined his brothers in packing up their belongings. As you made your way to your car, your parents loading up the trunk, you settled into the back seat, succumbing slowly to sleep, the exhaustion of the day catching up with you.

Waking up with a groan, you found your parents' car parked by the side of the road in front of the triplets' house, just a few doors down from your own. The plan was to spend the night at their place, a routine that had become usual given your inclination to seek comfort in their home over your own. Extracting yourself from the car, you grabbed your overnight bag, bidding farewells to your parents as you watched them drive away.

Your bathing suit clung persistently to your body, your hair still damp, and the weariness in your limbs yearning for the promise of relaxation. Shuffling into Matt's home without bothering to knock, the unspoken familiarity of years spent together allowed you the privilege of simply letting yourself in. Passing through the kitchen, Matt's parents greeted you with warm smiles as you entered the living room.

There, Matt, Nick, and Chris were sprawled on the couch, engrossed in a movie that you were sure they had seen at least a thousand times. When Matt's eyes met yours, a soft expression played on his face, evident in the effort to maintain eye contact with your face rather than letting his gaze wander.

"Hey," he murmured, and you returned the greeting with a gentle smile, playfully ruffling his hair as you stood over him. "Hey, I'm gonna go shower. I'll join you guys if you're still out here when I'm done." With that, you ventured down the hall, heading toward the guest bedroom.

In the midst of a hot shower, as you washed away the residue of salty water and sand, Matt and his brothers grew disinterested in the movie, dispersing to their separate bedrooms. Collapsing onto his bed with a weary sigh, exhaustion permeated Matt's body. Turning to his phone, he absentmindedly scrolled through various social media apps. Refreshing his Instagram feed, he stumbled upon a recent post you had shared before stepping into the shower.

The post featured a series of photos taken by Nick during your beach outing. One image captured you from the side, accentuating your ass and curves, while another showcased the contours of your cleavage and perky boobs from the front. Although the intention behind the pictures was innocent, Matt's mind became inundated with impure thoughts. Consumed by a sense of guilt, he recognized the inappropriateness of his desires, grappling with conflicting emotions. You were his best friend, and he was acutely aware that such lascivious thoughts were unwarranted. It was more than mere lust; he harbored genuine love for you and a desire to be a person deserving of your affection.

As Matt stared at his screen, a warmth enveloped his body, and he found himself unable to suppress the physical reaction, a boner forming in his pants. He felt conflicted, but it wasn’t like you knew what he was thinking, or doing. Succumbing to the intensity of his desire, he pulled his pants down enough to free himself, his cock springing out of his boxers. He took his cock into his right hand, phone in his left hand, and he began to stroke himself, allowing his imagination to run wild with scenarios that had occupied his dreams. The room echoed with subtle grunts and whimpers as he finally started to release the pent-up feelings that had plagued him throughout the day.

You emerged from the invigorating shower, enveloped in a towel, the sensation of cleanliness and renewal coursing through you. Exiting the bathroom, you ventured into the guest bedroom designated for your night's rest, shutting the door behind you. As you delved into your bag, extracting essentials like panties, shorts, and a tank top, the soft fabrics embraced you once you shed the towel. Nighttime rituals of hair brushing, skincare, and teeth cleaning completed, you settled into the guest bedroom, a sanctuary that had become almost like your own.

The tranquility was fleeting, interrupted by a shiver that prompted a quest for warmth. Rummaging through your bag, you discovered the absence of a hoodie – an oversight that led you down the hall to Matt's bedroom. Assuming he'd still be awake, you envisioned a simple request to borrow one of his hoodies. Little did you anticipate the unexpected scene awaiting you.

Without bothering to knock, a habit formed over years of friendship, you barged into Matt's room, focused on your hoodie mission. "I need to borrow a hoodie; it's freezing—" your words trailed off as your gaze absorbed the shocking sight. Matt, in his bed, his hand pumping up and down his cock, his phone displaying pictures of you. A gasp escaped him as your presence registered, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of surprise and guilt. "Y/N..." he uttered, his phone slipping from his hand onto the bed, his hand movements abruptly halted in the realization of the awkward situation.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry; I didn't think—I should've knocked. I'll just go get one from Nick," you mumbled nervously, ready to retreat. The air hung heavy with the unspoken tension, both of you grappling with the potential ramifications on your friendship. Before you could exit, Matt called to you, conflicted between wanting you to stay and the desire to erase this awkward moment.

"Don't go," he uttered, wincing at his own words, attempting to clarify that he wasn't making advances or asking for anything. You stood there, caught in a surreal tableau, uncertain about how to navigate this unexpected revelation. Blinking in an attempt to regain composure, you voiced a question laden with curiosity and awkwardness.

"Do you... do this often?" your brows furrowed, your gaze drifting toward his needy cock. Matt sighed, grappling with shame, attempting to rein in his emotions. "Jerk off? Or jerk off to you..." he replied, injecting a hint of humor to alleviate the palpable tension.

"Jerk off to me," you clarified, offering a sheepish smile, grateful for his attempt to inject some levity. Matt, in a vulnerable admission, stumbled through an explanation, striving to avoid sounding like a creep. The guilt weighed heavily on him, sensing that he had betrayed the sanctity of your friendship.

"This is the first time—I'm sorry. You just looked so pretty all day, and I couldn't... I don't know," he rambled, his remorse evident. Expecting you to recoil, Matt braced for the consequences of his impure thoughts. Yet, to his surprise, you stepped closer, the bed dipping as you sat on the edge near his legs. Your eyes danced everywhere but on his throbbing cock.

"It's okay; I'm not mad," you reassured, the tension easing with your understanding words. In that moment, you appreciated the side of Matt that could inject humor even into the most awkward situations, and despite the strangeness of the circumstance, a reassuring smile graced your lips.

"You're not?" he asked, confusion etching his face as his gaze reached the end of the bed where you were. The bewilderment stemmed from the expectation of your anger; he believed he deserved your fury. You shook your head, dispelling any doubts that lingered in his mind. "I'm not mad," you affirmed, inhaling deeply before contemplating the weight of your next words. The undeniable truth of their mutual feelings lay bare, an unignorable reality that both had been evading.

"Do you want me to help you?" you inquired, addressing the underlying tension. Matt hesitated, shaking his head in a refusal. Your offer, though tempting, made him reluctant, not wanting you to feel obliged, and questioning his own worthiness of such an intimate gesture. “Y/N… you don’t have to.”

Sighing, you crawled to sit on his knees, his cock twitching right before you, aching for release. It wasn't about obligation; it was about love. You wanted to be the one to bring him pleasure. "I know, I want to," you reassured, meeting his gaze as he deliberated. "Please," he whimpered, desperation evident on his face. Taking it as a signal, you palmed him, your hand trembling slightly as you sought confirmation in his eyes, ensuring every move was met with consent.

As you encountered nothing but longing in his gaze, your hand tentatively began to move, gliding up and down his length. The unspoken revelation that you were not very experienced was apparent to him, and a twinge of guilt crept in as he allowed you to pleasure him. Determined not to make this solely about his satisfaction, he seized the moment, grasping your wrist and redirecting your hand away from his arousal, prompting you to lean forward.

In an impulsive move, he pressed his lips forcefully against yours, his tongue seeking entry, savoring the taste of your chapstick. The kiss bore neither aggression nor softness; instead, it carried the weight of years filled with tension, prolonged gazes, and lingering touches, finally unfurling in this shared moment. Pulling back slightly, he noticed your lips chasing after his, seeking more contact with his lips.

"I want to make you feel good too," he murmured against your lips, his words flushing your face with heat, a wetness growing between your legs. The dynamics shifted, and now it was you yearning for him. His hands found your hips, drawing you closer until you straddled his waist, your clothed pussy pressing against his cock. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pajama shorts and panties, seeking consent as he looked up at you.

"Can I take these off, baby?" he asked, and in response, you nodded, lifting yourself to allow him to slide them down your legs before resuming the straddled position, anticipation hanging thick in the air.

You took a sharp breath, nerves tingling as you ventured into unfamiliar territory with Matt. As he ran a finger through your wet folds, he licked his lips, captivated by the sight of your pretty pussy. In that moment, Matt would have done anything and everything you asked, he was completely at your mercy. Firmly holding your hips, he allowed your wet cunt to hover over his cock. While his desires tempted him to force you down and make you take it, his deep care for you held him back, especially given the significance of this being your first time.

"Go slow, okay? It's going to hurt a little, but I'm right here," he said. Nodding, you began the descent, wincing as his tip slipped into your enterance. "Oh my god, Matt," you moaned, your words interrupted as Matt leaned up, pressing his lips to yours to stifle your sweet sounds, mindful of his brothers sleeping down the hall.

Gradually, you took more of him in, whimpering at the initial stinging sensation as his cock stretched your tight walls. Eventually, you lowered yourself completely onto him, pausing to adjust to the sensation of him buried deep inside you. "Such a good girl, taking me so well," he cooed.

“Feels so good,” you murmured, the words escaping on a breath as you began to move your hips against him, keeping a steady rhythm. He gripped your hips firmly, and you were sure there would be red marks left behind. His kisses trailed down your neck, lips brushing over your collarbones and shoulders, marking you with purposeful hickeys that finally declared you as his, even though you had always belonged to him.

Slowly, he lifted your tank top over your head, tossing it aside in the room's shadows. "So fucking pretty," he mumbled, his gaze lingering on you through half-lidded eyes. His mouth descended, lavishing much-needed attention on your boobs, kissing and licking your sensitive nipples with devotion. In his eyes, your body was a masterpiece, and he aimed to ensure you knew just how perfect you were. Every gesture was a testament to his worship, eliciting small moans of pleasure as you succumbed to the sensations he bestowed upon you.

"Faster, please," he choked out, a desperate need cracking his voice as he trailed kisses down the valley of your breasts. Swiftly obeying, you quickened the pace, moaning as you rocked back and forth on his cock. Yet, the soreness lingering from your day at the beach made it challenging. Matt noticed, his hands helping to move your hips, orchestrating a rhythm that heightened the pleasure. He began to thrust into you, hips meeting yours, intensifying the sensation.

Throwing your head back, eyes rolling, pleasure consumed you, a knot tightening in your stomach. One of his hands left your hip, moving downward, his thumb expertly circling your swollen clit. Overwhelmed, words escaped you, your mind consumed by him. "Fuck, Matt," you managed to whimper in your love-drunk state, a proud smirk gracing his lips as he witnessed you lost in pleasure, knowing he was the only one to evoke such a response.

"Cum for me, princess," he urged in a whiny, broken voice, his own release imminent. His words triggered your climax, a stream of mumbled curses and whines escaping you as pleasure saturated every inch of your being. Surrendering to the intensity, you abandoned your movements, letting him guide and sway you through the waves of orgasmic ecstasy. His release followed suit, white streams of cum shooting into you, accompanied by his whimpering and grunting.

As the movements ceased, he lay beneath you, both of you attempting to catch your breath. Gingerly lifting yourself off him, a wince accompanied the sensitivity as his cock withdrew from your cunt. Rolling over, you nestled next to him, curling into his side, a lazy hand draped over his waist. His hand found its way to your head, tenderly stroking your hair as you rested against his chest, syncing your breathing with his.

"Get some rest; I'm taking you on a date tomorrow," he grinned mischievously, planting light kisses on your forehead. Raising your head, curiosity piqued, you questioned, "A date?" He nodded, gently pushing your head back to his chest, his fingers continuing to stroke your hair in a soothing rhythm.

"A date. So I can ask you to be my girlfriend," he chuckled, of course Matt wanted to do things right despite having just fucked you dumb. You chuckled in response, appreciating Matt's intent. "Okay, I can't wait to say yes," you declared, both of you closing your eyes, eager for the embrace of sleep and the beginning of this new chapter in your relationship.