#I mean...

[stevenrogered]

4x14 / 7x05

[bj-cuntycunt]

[triona-tribblescore]

PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! What is Husk's reaction to Angel in drag?

He is so totally cool and nonchalant and not freaking out at ALLLL

[stillwatervoid]

Mark Grayson beaten up icons ❤️‍🩹

[ehghtyseven]

sid yesterday: nice, clean, new neck guard...

scored no points :(

sid today: ancient neck guard he used to wear in juniors...

3 points scored!

clearly he is correct in his weirdness and now no one can ever say otherwise!

[endominator]

Rodan's secret

[sentrylightz]

“Azriel can't have a book because SJM only have female protagonist”

Chaol Westfall somewhere in the MaasVerse:

[starmocha]

.....................am I going to have to use "kitten" in my fics from now on

[miss-ute]

[cull3nblaze]

[stevenrogered]

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

[heardsomedickwasbeinmeantoyou]

strike a pose... #alexa play vogue by madonna

[mournfulroses]

Fyodor Dostoevsky, from a letter featured in "Letters of Fyodor Michailovitch Dostoevsky to his Family & Friends,"

[holnnetd]

König and his past

I've done too much research...

He's still a handsome young man, but now he holds a rifle and skiis.

WARNING: just some canon mentions of violence, I don't think it's bad, nothing else, yeah I'm being tame

"Ich will ein Jagdkommandos werden." This boy, now a young man, 21, four years of service behind him, never stopped to scare the living hell out of you.

"I'm sorry, you want to become a Jagdkommandos? Young man, you're aware you're 21?" You ask him, turning your head around to look at him.

Still same after all these years, worrying and fussing over him. He smiles, scratching his cheek as he leans against the kitchen counter, eyes follow you as you wash the dishes.

"Mhm." He muses, arms crossed over his chest.

As much as you haven't changed much, he did. Physically, mostly. The boy that was about half a head taller then you, towers over most furniture in your house. The upper cabinet you never organise because it's a little too far up? He can easily reach and grab the muffin tray you thought you once lost.

Mentally? Did he change? Sure. He became confident. That's about it. The anxiety is sometimes still palpable, mostly when he doesn't take his meds, which he clearly doesn't.

"I mean, I became a Gebirgsjäger pretty quick. Two years in the Alps is soothing my nerves, sure, but I want something more." He adds, now placing both his hand on the counter behind him, tapping his finger repeatedly on the wood.

"You can't keep still." You conclude, reminding him that this was the exact reason why he couldn't become a sniper. Because he couldn't keep still.

"It's not the same."

"Sure."

"Liebes, I can qualify. And if not, I can reapply again. And if they don't accept me I will just stay in the freezing cold, skiing all day." That's far from what he does everyday, but he'd rather tell you that's the main activity.

He couldn't imagine how you'd react if he told you he climbs 15-20 km every day, carrying around 30 if not 40 kg of equipment, shooting birds when he's bored—Sure, shooting birds in your free time is not up to the code, but he's still salty about not being accepted as a sniper. If he can shoot a bird from half a km away, in the freezing temperature, he should be allowed to shoot people—, and drinking tea from melted snow.

"You don't skii around all day in summer."

"I climb."

Sigh.

"Why Jagdkommandos? I'm already terrified you won't come back home, and I'll only get an ice cube of a man at my door."

"You were terrified I'd die in bootcamp."

"You could have!"

"The computer isn't doing you any good, just reading about how soldiers die in the most tragic ways isn't healthy. It's giving you anxiety. You think any phone call will be to notify you that I'm dead in a ditch."

Guilty as charged. In some down time you do scroll through the web, reading all about military and how many die, or the stories of dead soldiers being shared by devastated family members. Whenever he's back you fuss over how many soldiers across the world die, only for him to tell you that he didn't.

"But what if you will be dead in a ditch?"

"Then my ghost will come back and haunt you." He laughs, walking up behind you and placing his head on yours, glancing down at the dishes.

It's a comfortable moment, a soft beat of silence and some bodily warmth.

"What do the Jadgkommandos do?"

A smile perks up at the edge of his lip, and he wraps his arms around your waist. Of course you give in.

"Kill."

Your brow furrows and you lightly elbow him to his side, drawing out a hearty chuckle from him.

"What? They do." Another jab.

"Fine, fine. Other then rigorous training? They are like the elite of elites. Badass. But I can't tell you a lot. I'd have to kill you if I did."

It's not uncommon for him to talk boldly, never keeping his tongue to himself around you.

Sometimes even literally.

From time to time he'd come up to you, wrap his awfully huge arms around you, and then just lick your cheek before walking off, no words said at all. And you sit with a confused expression on what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

"How long are you staying?" You finally ask him, and he hums in thought. "Week. Then I'm going back to the mountains."

You nod lightly.

...

Something is off.

"What? You want me to leave early?" He asks, a light smile tugging at his lips.

"No- no. That's not it. It's just—" and that smile of his drops. "—I'll have a guy over. I don't want him to get the wrong idea."

"A guy?" The questions comes out slowly, his brows furrowing, as if he wanted you to repeat yourself. "Wrong idea?" Surely he misheard.

"Is something broken? I can repair it." He quickly chimes in, figuring "a guy" is just someone that wants to help a lady in distress.

"No.. no. Nothing is broken."

"Then why is a guy coming over? And why would I need to leave?"

There's no reason to. No, no.

"I... wanted to spend time with a friend. He works at the butcher, and—"

"You want to have Konrad over?" Well if that's not a damn betrayal, he doesn't know what is.

"...How do you know him?" You ask softly, placing the dishes away before taking off the gloves and looking up at him. His arms let go of your waist, and you think you can finally have some space, but he just grabs your ribcage and turns you to face him.

"Warum zur verfickter Scheiße willst du Konrad hier haben? In this house."

"I—"

"You know that he had his dick in half the women in the whole city? Him? That fucking guy?"

Your words stay stuck in your throat, not uttering a word. Not because of what he said, but because of his disapproving gaze, the deep eyes boring into your own. The shimmer dimming.

His hands hold tightly onto your ribcage, and you know he could break in a rib if he pressed a little harder.

Maybe something more then just his appearance changed.

"No." He shakes his head, letting go of you.

"Absolutely not," he repeats, turning on the balls of his feet to lean against the counter.

"Mh-hm." He shakes his head.

His foot taps, and he walks out of the kitchen, putting on his boots and grabbing a jacket before leaving without another word.

"█████! Wait!" You call out to him, quickly biting your tongue at the use of his name.

He came back in the evening. Footsteps heavy. He took of his boots, placed them neatly next to yours and walked to the bathroom, washing his hands.

You tip toe down the stairs to peek around the corner. "Kleiner..." That Nickname never changed over the years.

"Are... are you fine? Is he fine?" You question, walking into the bathroom to glance over his side.

He gruffs out a noise, before drying up his hands on the white towel, turning to glance at you.

"Alles ist okay." He then adds, ushering you out of the bathroom with a hand on your lower back.

Away from the bloodied sink and stained towel.

"It's late." He adds, ushering you to your bedroom, before lightly pushing you into bed.

Or well, what he perceived as lightly.

His trousers and shirt were both quickly discarded and he climbed into your bed with you, hands gripping onto your waist, only to pull the shirt up a little and wrap his arms around your bare skin, not saying a singular word more.

"Can you stop pulling my shirt up?" You just question, looking down at how his hands are perusing to tug to get it off fully. Seems like a little skin of your waist wasn't enough.

"I need to feel your skin." He murmurs, trying to tug it off. "Mama let me do it whenever I felt down."

You're not his mother.

"Fine."

"Hm...," he smiled and buried his face in the bare skin of your chest, pajama top discarded on the ground.

Exactly one whole person asked me to write part three, and I can't ever deny my precious content consumers a little food. @demothers-empty-blog yes I did it for you 😘

[cinamun]

YOU GUYS!!!