#because if I cried they would blame it on my sensitivity

[zeussim]

I used to bar my door with a chair to prevent my mom barging in and yelling at me when I'd left dinner before I was allowed to (often because of an argument). And I was like 'this is normal. This is what parents are like.' No it's fucking not. Or at least they're not supposed to be like that.

[robinsnest2111]

I probably feel so awful because of the headache

[randombush3]

cool about it

alexia putellas x reader

summary: you can't find inspiration for your play

notes: this was rotting in my drafts and then i got drunk and finished it lolz

i refuse to read it back so have fun

The first time Alexia sees you, you are with your friends; sleeves rolled-up, wide smile on your face, a pool cue in your hand as you wield it like a weapon the minute one of the women beside you opens her mouth. She is drawn into observing, craving the knowledge of what you are being told; what is making you blush so furiously. She sees your mouth open, a blackhole that draws her in without mercy, and she barely survives the sound of your loud, raucous laughter

Suddenly, in the universe of football and media events and her little sister’s embarrassingly active love-life, you appear. Like a new star, burning bright, big and hot and… “You’re staring,” says Mapi with a smile. She knows not to tease, and she treads lightly. “You’ve been staring for a while.” 

“They’re speaking English.” It’s an incriminating sentence, but it would have been futile to deny Mapi’s accusation anyway. 

“I saw her at the bar. She spoke Spanish then.” 

“You’ve been stalking her.” 

Mapi nods, and holds Alexia’s drink in a silent push to get her over to the pool table. To you. “Because you’ve been staring. I was only making sure she wasn’t a psycho.” 

“Thanks,” she scoffs, but, in truth, she is grateful. 

As she saunters over (a newly regained skill, months down the line from her traumatic ACL reconstruction surgery), her confidence a believable façade, she decides that she is going to be Alexia Putellas. She is going to be cool about it, and she is going to impress you, and she is going to make you laugh so that she can hear that sound again. 

Again, again, again. 

“Yeah, sure, you can take over for Soph,” you say, nodding towards the woman who had been on the receiving end of your light prodding with the wooden stick all of friends regret allowing three-drink you to be in charge of. “So you’re spots, I’m stripes. I’ve got two left until I can pot the black, and you, er, you might be at a disadvantage here.” You rub the back of your neck as you peer at the balls on the table, almost all of them left behind by Soph’s inability to play pool. “How about we just, um–” 

“Está bien.” Alexia pretends to understand a lot more of what you said than she really does, regretting her choice to approach you in English, but she gets the jist. And, although you make her feel as though life has only just begun, she remembers her competitiveness very, very clearly. “Voy a ganar,” she scoffs. 

She holds in her celebration as you break out into a grin, immediately rising to the challenge, glad your friends have tired of the pool table so that no one can interrupt the battle you are about to commence. A battle with a very pretty woman, you must admit. 

You lose. 

You blame it on Alexia – she tells you her name as she pots three balls in a row – and try not to acknowledge the taunts from your friends at the bar, most of them having watched the entire game from afar to have something to talk about tomorrow. “You win,” comes your pitiful concession after a brutal defeat. “So, what will your prize be?” 

It’s an easy answer. 

That morning, throat hoarse from the cries that left it the night before, eyes red and tired and way too sensitive to light for you to consider drinking a drop of alcohol ever again, you wrap your arms around the warm body in the unfamiliar bed, finding the intimacy to have lived on longer than it should for a one-night-stand. Barcelona is warm and sunny, the day one to be enjoyed, and the company the best you have had in a while. 

It isn’t just that Alexia is a goddess. It isn’t the Amazonian ridges of her stomach and the firmness of her thighs, nor the softness of her hair or the deft movements of her fingers against your scarred skin. No, that is not what has, in just one evening, made you fall in love with her. (You bite your lip as you are overcome with emotion, chest filling up – with which feeling, you do not know –, heart pounding into your bones as the rhythm of your desire to be in Alexia’s life sets into the very framework of your being.) No! How could it be that? How could it be that when there is more? 

The coarseness of her determination; the slippery confidence, delicate and sharp, as though it is both the petal of a rose and the thorn that will prick you. Her humour, mistranslated at times, but always ready to make fun of idiots (most often, a specific idiot with a neck tattoo, as you come to realise). 

Personally, you believe it to be unfair that Alexia, Alexia Putellas, is simply ‘all that’. 

Getting to know each other fails to feel awkward, though you spend a lot of time waiting for the tension to appear. 

She discovers who you are, how you have moved to Barcelona for inspiration, finding that very thing lacking in dreary Leeds (the most depressing place on Earth, you could argue). She learns of your dream, although you label it as your ‘plan’: to write a play and to see it on the stage, preferably a grand theatre in the West End. Or in Stratford, where upon lies the greatest soil from which a playwright can grow. 

You show her your empty pages, devoid of black print marks. White and white, that goes on until it is clear that you have tired of pressing the ‘enter’ button as though it will ignite a story within. A story that hasn’t yet come, mind. 

“Do you think it will work?” she asks you, her accusation carrying nothing but curiosity once you see past the abrupt manner in which she interrupts your lengthy monologue about your severe case of writer’s block. 

Maybe you intend to be a little vague, for the sake of your racing heart and your delicate emotions, because you only shrug. You have already found your inspiration, not that you are going to tell her. 

Alexia is forward in the sense that she checks how temporary your presence is in her city before asking you out on a date. Your answer of ‘however long this shit takes’ is enough for her to be sure that she wants a second. A third, too. 

Then, before you know it, it has been a year. 

A year of Barcelona, a year of Spanish sun, and, excitingly, a year in which you have been cured; fingers blessed with movement and ideas and words on the tip of your tongue that run free in Alexia’s ear as you talk and talk and talk. She listens and listens and listens, and switches into the focus of your pairing when you go with her to watch her team play and play and play (why the fuck does football have so many matches?!). The final stage direction, all curling italics and sentimentality, sits at the bottom of the page. 

The end of your play. 

It is finished, it is done, and, soon after you have revised it one last time, it is sent to your producer friend with a nervous click of the ‘new email’ button and the hope that he is thankful for the times at university when you cared for him when he drank himself so silly that he barely made it to his lectures two days after the night-out. 

“It feels good,” you tell Ingrid, the girlfriend of the idiot with the neck tattoo, beaming as she inquires about your work. “I feel like I lived through it to get to this moment, you know? All that’s left to do is for him to read it and decide whether he’ll pick it up. Then, table reads and funding, of course. I’d want to direct, but, also, I’m not going to sell this one. Leasing it and taking a percentage of the royalties will make me loads more, because, Ingrid, this one is the best thing I’ve ever written.” 

There is a moment, usually, that comes after you have finished writing. A brief, sharp sort of panic, where you question your worth and your talent; you wonder if you have been lied to your whole life, and that your version of the same twenty-six letters of the alphabet, jumbled up on a white canvas as though you are (after a sleepless, usually) Picasso, is terrible. Or, worse, bad. 

Bad. Bad is so… plain. If it is just ‘bad’, you have failed as a writer. If it is not outrageous or unbelievably horrible, or, as one obviously hopes, incredible and amazing… if it is just ‘bad’, well: “Alexia, I’m terrified.” 

Alexia kisses your neck (you do not feel the finality of it, or maybe it is that you do not want to) because she knows it isn’t bad; she is more than aware that your play, your new creation, is really rather good. Brilliant, even. “Tranquila, mi amor,” she murmurs in your ear, bringing her arms to rest on your tense shoulders, a hand closing your laptop on its journey. “Le va a flipar.” 

“You think so?” 

“Sí.”

“Are you saying that because we’re together and you love me?” Your voice is small and unsure, and its teasing lilt is thrown off-kilter by the croak of your anxiety. “Or do you mean it? Please, I hope you mean it.” 

“I mean it.” She hates that she does. “Yes, of course I mean it. I love you and I am proud of you.” She hates it, she hates this, and she hates the talent your mind wields; something that is going to rip you from her grasp. It was bound to happen.

Your phone rings; soft, electronic trills dancing in the space between you and the coffee table it has been placed on. “I think that’s him,” you whisper, the volume you had intended to speak at smited by the nervous lump in your throat. Alexia nods mournfully, but you are too busy accepting the call to see.

“Let’s do this,” he says. 

…

The first frost of London comes that January. It’s unusual, the locals claim, because the city exists in its own polluted microclimate, but their statistics do not stop the layer of ice from freezing onto the windshield of your car. You are glad London feels just as cold as you do. 

Your play is beloved by the actors who speak your words, and the critics amongst your friend group, who for once, have no criticism to give. There is promise here. It is going very well. 

You drive to the theatre, ready to sit in on another rehearsal. Though your original intention had been to direct, you pawed off the role to an old school friend upon her return from Broadway. Your decision, you tell her, comes from a lack of experience in direction. You pretend to have had an epiphany: you only want to write the plays. 

In truth, this is a lie. 

Of course it is a lie. 

But how can you direct such happiness, such love and romance, if you know that the very thing that inspired each line has ceased to exist? 

Alexia feels like she has ceased to exist. 

On the outside, she seems relatively fine. She trains well, plays well, makes appearances where she should, says what you’d expect of her, hopes to make the world a better place. She walks Nala as though the Pomeranian does not whine for you to hold her leash, and she visits her mother and sister even though they continue to ask her why she did what she did. 

At night, she scrolls through social media, fingers always leading her back to you; your life; your work; your experiences that you no longer share with her. She cries, then, usually: a common occurrence nowadays. 

There is a gaping hole in her chest that has been made by her sticking her fucking foot in it. 

She has questions, naturally; each directed hatefully at herself. Why? Why, why why? Why on Earth did she tell you never to come back? Why did she blame you for leaving? 

You were always going to leave! Alexia knows that, hates that she knows that. 

You came to Barcelona because you couldn’t write, and you wrote. You wrote, you made her fall in love with you, and, when you had finished, you discarded the life you had unexpectedly built all because of some stupid, stupid play. 

A play titled–

A play. 

A… Alexia can’t even bring herself to think about it. 

No, all Alexia can think about is how insignificant she feels when you are no longer in love with her. You: sophisticated, intelligent, brilliant, adoring. Her? 

“Lex, you can’t mope if you’re the one who broke it off.” The words leave Alba’s mouth in jest but Alexia recoils as though she has been whipped by her sister’s tongue. 

“I’m trying to be cool about it,” she replies like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

It seems as though the globe has spun a full circle on its axis by the time Alba formulates her response, dumb-struck by such fucking idiocy. 

Alba hopes her sister feels like a fool – she hopes Alexia looks at herself in the mirror and… laughs, at this point. The whole thing has been ridiculous, in her opinion. 

First, her sister claims she is in love with a playwright with no plays to her name (Alba is examining the facts objectively, here, because she did quite like you); then, poof! Like a rabbit in a magician’s hat played in twisted reverse, away you go, and it somehow isn’t even your fault. 

She’d like to hate you, for her sister’s sake, but she finds herself loathing her own blood as it thins and thins until it trickles just like water. 

Okay, maybe she is being a little dramatic there, but she is still annoyed with Alexia. 

Alexia – whose existence as more-than-a-footballer is fading as she loses herself to waves of futile guilt – hates that she cannot hate you. She is plagued by emotional constipation, and though she tries to squeeze the situation for a drop of cruelty from you, she fails to discover a gram of relief.

It would have been kinder for you to have been cruel. Mercy is getting Alexia nowhere, and she would run to you if it were fast enough. Mercy is what renders her in a perpetual state of regret. Mercy is what keeps her up at night, but maybe mercy is what she likes having because it is yours and, in that way, she carries a piece of you with her. 

To confuse herself even more, to skew her mind further onto a path of unconventional self-destruction, she silently begs the mercy you have left behind to disappear so that she can learn to do without it. It’ll become a crutch and she wants it ripped from her grasp so that she can learn to walk on her own. She’s capable of that, she tells herself. 

(It probably isn’t true.)

…

Opening night. 

You’re wearing something far too nice to be comfortable, and there has been a champagne flute in your hand since the lunch held by the investors of the production company. The bubbles have served their purpose, clouding your mind with thoughts that weren’t to do with Alexia and her Alexia life and her Alexia smile and her Alexia way of making an Alexia-shaped cavity in your heart. 

It gushes quite a bit, because Alexia is strong and big and capable of damaging you to this extent. You reckon your surprise is foolish but fuck off, you’re trying your best. 

Comfortingly, not one scrap of red velvet is visible once the audience is ushered inside the theatre. 

It’s beautiful here; small, old. The perfect place to fall in love, just as you did. Or at least, experience the good part through deliciously talented actors and a stellar script (your horn has been tooted enough times for you to give it a go). 

Fear creeps up your legs as you take your seat in the front row, guarded by friends and family and proud English teachers who’d believe in you, but you take another sip and it simmers down. 

“Careful,” whispers your mum, shoulder nudging yours as you place your plastic cup (no glass in the auditorium) on the patterned carpet just as the show is about to begin. “You’ll not remember this if you don’t take a break.” 

And you’re halfway to announcing you don’t want to remember anything at all when the curtain goes up and a woman walks onto stage. 

It’s sobering. 

The audience is restlessly quiet, anticipating the brilliance they’ve been promised with an impatience that demands to be sated, but the actress takes her sweet time. 

She walks from stage left to stage right, then up and down. She’s passively searching for something. 

Someone. 

(It’s the fucking point, and you knew this would happen because you typed out these exact stage directions once upon a time. Alexia had misplaced a sock – a lucky sock, she claimed – and her passion, her desire to discover it, had weirdly morphed into a scene you could see being played out on a stage.) 

“Figure this out later,” speaks the actress with a satisfied smile, folding her arms over her chest. Finally, the audience’s breaths catch, enraptured by the vaguest cop-out of opening lines you could’ve chosen. 

They love it, though; they lean forwards in their seats as they are plucked from London and dropped into the middle of Barcelona. It’s mildly unnerving that you can’t escape the journey, clearly a member of the audience even if you don’t need to be told the story, but you land without the masses in the rows behind you. 

You land right into Alexia’s arms. 

There she is before you, in all her glory, proudly displaying the blue and red that she is so admirably dedicated to. Muscular and tanned, beautiful in the way that she always is, but shining brighter than just that. 

And you fucking hate it. 

When you imagine Alexia, you imagine her crippled and bed-ridden. Cracked knuckles come to mind, too, and she can barely speak without descending into rattling sobs that hack on and on until she somehow falls into fitful rest. 

You come prepared for absolution, expecting to see her dying just as you are, so it’s no wonder that your fists clench at her blasé declaration of “no regrets”. 

(By the way, Alexia’s not really there. You’d been stalking her Instagram and so that’s why she’s wearing her training kit, and… and you’re drunk!)

There are many things you’d like to say to her. 

Alexia had always been apprehensive of your relationship. She was closed-off to new people, and though she was certain of your importance to her, she was untrusting of much else. It happens when you’re famous; there are many wrong turns to take. And she needed to stay on the right path. 

It was impossible to pass Alexia’s test. 

For you, that is clear. Broken up with, told to leave and never come back, and begged to find someone else are not descriptors of the winner, nor she who achieved full marks. You’re a bit of a stranger to failing, but you’re trying to forget about it so that it never happens again. 

You’re breaking a sweat trying to banish her from your brain, barely registering the applause rippling through the theatre as you reach the interval. Trying to get her out of your head is like tugging at your intestines – a hand down your throat renders you dumb, and pains sears through your stomach as you are emptied and left to be a carcass.

“Is it good?” you ask your mum as you head to the bar in the foyer. 

“I wish you had let me meet her.” 

…

Alexia has never been to London outside of football before. She’s played in the north and in the south – she’s won every time – and it’s summery enough right now, but she is still a foreigner in the city. 

It’s fitting, this feeling of being lost, and it’s acceptable to feel it here because she has an excuse. Lost in Barcelona would be ridiculous. 

(But she is.) 

Why is Alexia in London when she could be in Spain? 

Well the only answer is that she has a ticket to a play in a theatre just off the West End that reminds her of someone she once loved. 

She thought it might help, seeing as she hasn’t scored a goal in four weeks with no assists to excuse the drought. Her manager gladly gave her the weekend to recharge, and she escapes matchday seven of Liga F under the guise of illness. 

While sleeping with your pillow, your t-shirt, she must have absorbed whatever the fuck you were on. By osmosis. 

That block. 

And now she has to act like she can’t read your mind. 

Her ticket, acquired last minute by a friend in high places as a massive favour, means that she has a front row seat to a damned play. She is well-prepared for the dread that wrenches her gut. 

The silence settling over her is uncomfortable and impatient, and the lights go down with a sense of impending doom. It’s a bit like being on death row, Alexia thinks. Here she gets to see the good things – a last meal of whatever she would like (you, of course that’s you) – but it is only because of her inevitable execution that this happens. 

The necklace hanging from her collarbones is a noose, the seat is a wooden box about to be kicked out from underneath her, and she needs to make her decision now: does she scream? Should she– 

She’s pulled out of her insanely dramatic spiral by a woman walking onto the stage. 

Her shoulders are hunched slightly and she has that look in her eye; that pang of hunger. 

The actress is recognisable, sure, but that is not the familiarity that strikes Alexia. 

It’s the character. 

It’s you. 

Walking from right to left, towards the back, down to the front, the actress is desperately searching for something. 

Inspiration, Alexia assumes, a smug smile briefly brushing her lips as the opening line breaks the tense silence. 

“Figure this out later,” you say. 

The actress is experienced but she has never read a script like yours before. It moved her to tears, though you claimed it was very happy. 

She lies awake at night, furiously envying those who could love like you do. 

She pities you, partly, because it’s no secret that the story of this love ended when you came here to put the show on. 

She has had to fall in love with someone – method acting, according to the director. 

It’s not quite the universe exploding and stars being born that your relationship must have been, but it’s alright and she is glad to see him in the audience. 

He’s next to a woman who does not seem to be enamoured by the beauty of the plot. 

A woman who seems absolutely fucking horrified. 

Her eyes are wide, fists clenched.

You – the real you – are watching Alexia with curiosity, more interested in her reaction to the play than the play itself. You wonder if she knows the significance of tonight; the reason you are here once more. 

In one month, the set and costumes will be packed up in boxes and taken onto the main street. 

It’s a dream come true. 

You’re here to announce the good news at the end of the show. 

…

“Alexia.” 

She tries not to turn around but she does. 

The night is cool and fresher than she’d expected the London pollution to allow, and the lamp posts are scarily looming over her as she forces herself to not run into your arms. You don’t wear a coat, although your year in Barcelona has borne a certain nostalgia for a warmer climate, but Alexia is wrapped up warm. 

“How… how are you doing?” 

You cringe at how apologetic it sounds. She broke up with you. 

There is a year that will be forever lost to love and happiness, bliss in Barcelona that was always going to be too good to be true. 

There is a year that you will never get back, but there is a breakup you must deal with. 

It’s not a brick wall, it’s a hurdle to jump over. 

Breaking up won’t be the end of your worlds. 

Knowing this, despite the weakness in her knees and the aching of her heart, Alexia lies. For your sake, she lies. 

“I’m good. It’s nice to see you.” 

You’re drowning but you’ll eventually remember how to swim. 

“You too,” you say with formulated sincerity that one day will grow naturally. “Score a goal next time you play, though.” 

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘-𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍: Praise Kink w/ MILF!Wanda Maximoff

a/n: okay y'all listen, this is kind of a dark fic but not really? still, i would read with a little bit of caution if you're sensitive to cheating. GUYS. you CANNOT blame me for the choices i made in this fic!!! this is pure fiction and i don't condone this AT ALL.

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

The air was tense as Wanda bid her husband farewell, a loving smile on her face as she kissed his cheek and sent him on his way. But you knew better, even from where you stood in the kitchen, washing the dishes in the sink.

You were the boys' babysitter, though they weren't home seeing as though you just took them to their sports practices. Vision didn't find it strange that even though the kids weren't at home that you and Wanda hungout with each other. In fact, he rather found it a good thing seeing as though he worked a lot and his wife got the extra help.

And a good thing it was indeed.

After he finally left, the house was quiet, the only thing you could hear was the delicate noise of Wanda's flat covered feet padding over to stand behind you. Her energy was dark and intense, like a predator stalking it's prey. Her hands rested on your hips as she kissed up the side of your neck, pressing her lips against your pulse point.

Your head fell to the side, a pleasurable sigh slipping from between your lips. Your scrubbing paused, indulging in the redhead's affections.

"I missed you, darling." She whispered into the shell of your ear. Her dainty hands trailed up the front of your plush body, undoing the button of your jeans to slip it inside the band of your panties. A gasp tumbled from your lips when the pads of her fingers met your damp slit.

"Ah— I-I missed you too." You breathed out.

Her fingers descended towards your clit where she drew tight circles around it. Your hips lurched forwards and her kisses on your naked skin grew harsher, playfully nibbling on your earlobe.

"Gah! Fuck!" You cried. Your hands now rested on the edge of the counter where the sink was built into, your digits digging into the marble and metal basin.

The first finger of a very long night ahead of you penetrated your entrance. It felt like their air had been stolen out of your lungs as she massaged the sensitive padding of your g-spot.

Her praise only came when you clenched around her, sucking her in further until she had no choice but to enter a second.

"Good girl." She purred. "You're taking my fingers so well." You mewled when she put her thumb on your clit, but now she drew intelligible shapes and swirls on it. With every press of her pad drew you closer to your orgasm.

"I can already imagine how fucking dirty you look right now." She swore. You could hear the smirk on her pretty red lips, which was now probably smeared all over your neck. "Letting me fuck you open in my kitchen, mhm." She tsked.

"Wanda…" You whined in embarrassment, even though it came out more like a huff. "It's okay, baby." She teased. You squeezed your eyes shut, the familiar coil of pleasure threatening to snap in your gut.

"Cum for me, my sweet girl. I want to you feel cream all over my fingers."

With one last cry, and a few helpless grinds against her hand, you came. It was like there was an extra layer of pleasure that washed over you, and because your eyes were closed, you couldn't see the fact that Wanda was using her abilities to enhance your orgasm.

"Wanda, Wanda, Wanda…" You babbled, your legs quivering and clit throbbing in overstimulation.

She removed her fingers only to rub up and down your slit, smearing your cum and arousal all over your mound.

As you came down from your high, you felt her puffs of air hitting your ear.

"Don't get too tired, honey. We still have that new toy to try."

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @alixwriter @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus

[vrachis]

ATTRACTION. (100 FOLLOWERS SPECIAL.)

—synopsis : the countless times you’ve seen her in many other ways, you couldn’t seem to stop yourself from coming back to her over and over again.

characters : yae miko x gn reader.

warnings ; breeding, desk sex, almost getting caught, size kink.

a/n : (omfg. u guys prolly read that one post abt me posting this but yeah, i decided to post it for once! im posting this at night w bad service, SO LOLLLL! dunno if its short or what but hope u guys eat this shi up tho LMAO)

NSFW UNDER THE CUT!

she could have never looked more pretty. you mean, she was always pretty. beautiful, stunning, and anything else positive used to describe her. she is simply, ethereal.

it’s no wonder that every time you lay your eyes upon her, all the air in your lungs seem to lessen. just because of the sight of a woman as such.

yae miko is someone who is incomparable to others, a woman out of another’s league. everything about her would lure you in, and maybe that was simply her intention.

from her looks to her personality, who wouldn’t fall prey to such charms?

well…

-… you just so happened to have done so.

at that point, you never knew who to blame. why?

well, it was your fault for falling for her schemes, that you’ve simply let yourself fall into her hands. and whatever you do, no matter what, you just seemed to keep going back to her.

as vexatious as it seems, it’s all the worth as long as you get something in return.

and here you thought you would be the only one coming back for more, but miko needed as much as you did.

she ached, and craved, any time she wanted. so as long as she knows she has you, she could never be more satisfied.

—

elicited mewls comes from the woman below you, and sounds of wood creaking violently flows along with the symphony of wet skin colliding with one another. when miko croaks out a gasp, her head falls against the wooden desk, the sheer sweat on her head cascading down to soak the oak.

as you keep a firm grip against her waist, your hips hammer in and out of her at a breakneck pace, your skin slapping against the fat of her ass. you let out a groan as you empty inside her once more, your seed spurting angrily into deep into her womb. you lean down to press a sloppy kiss to her cheek and sigh.

you let yourself finish inside her, and settle with slow thrusts. and as you slightly pull out, the mixture of both your fluids flow from her cunt, the erotic sight of it alone seeming to spur you on. it’s a sight you alone get to see every time you get with her, and you surely couldn’t feel more prideful enough at the thought of it.

“mm, you certainly have no end to your stamina, do you?” miko huffs. and of course she means that sarcastically, this woman loves how rough you can be.

you smirk gleefully. “of course, especially since you’re the one i’m doing.”

your response makes her chuckle weakly. “of course it is, what did i expect. it is me, after all.”

you two exchange a good laugh, until your eyes suddenly flash towards the door, where you see a roaming silhouette of one of the shrine maidens. miko seems to notice it as well, and she shushes you.

“l-lady yae, are you alright in there? i heard loud banging noises coming from here—“ the maiden worries.

“don’t worry about it. clearly just showing my displeasure.” she shakes. “now don’t worry your small little head, inagi. get back to work.”

you could’ve swore you almost let out a laugh on the spot. such a silly excuse, you thought. although… was your fucking not too rough for the maidens to not possibly hear her cries from outside? that couldn’t be possible, you thought. you wanted, no, needed everyone to know what exactly was going on in her office.

so as soon as the shadow of the now terrified maiden was gone, you could only press your weight down on the kitsune, your frame towering over hers as you lean down to nibble on her sensitive ear.

you knew miko could sense something was up from that action you just did. so you feel her squirm under you, her body still slightly shaking but seeming to push you off.

“now what? still rowdy enough to go?” she tests.

you could only hum low in response while you kept orally assaulting her ears, the fluffy parts of her seeming to twitch beneath your lips.

“why aren’t you answering me?” she grumbles. you could tell she was impatient by the time you felt her grinding against your crotch once more, evidently urging you to continue your sessions.

although you want to give it to her, you thought, giving her a little taste of her own medicine wouldn’t hurt, right?

“make sure you better be louder this time. i want them to know what exactly happens in here.”

your response seems to have given her a new wave of excitement, given the fact you feel her grinding getting more sensual, as if it has a mind of it’s own and starts to demand.

“and how exactly do you plan on doing that, mm?” she taunts. you place a finger under your chin, pretend posing as if you were to ponder. what a foolish question to ask, you thought. you thought she would’ve known by now, but it seems she just wants to hear it actually come from you.

but no, you’ve had enough expressing yourself. you’ve said enough words and done enough actions, what more so than to have her voice her needs out instead?

so you smirk, looking down mischievously at the kitsune.

“why don’t we settle for what you want? after all, you’re the one who seems to be aching for something.”

she scoffs at you unbelievably. “do you seriously want me to tell you what exactly i need? look here. you know just what i want, so give it to me. don’t make me say it.”

you sigh exasperatedly. “where’s the fun it that? after all, weren’t you the one aching for me to fuck you earlier? just beg this once, and all of this will continue.”

you hear her grit her teeth from below you, then an annoyed exhale. “fine. but you better stick to your words and listen carefully because i’m never letting you hear this again for the rest of how long you’ll live.”

you chuckle triumphantly. “hah. bring it on.”

[belokhvostikova]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Crying, pregnancy, and brief mentions of body insecurity.

Eddie had told them.

So concisely, and specifically told them all that was forbidden in order to keep his friends from the scrutinizing tears of an anguished pregnant woman, that would have to be followed by a now frustrated father-to-be.

But like clockwork, his word of advice plummeted the second Jonathan Byers decided to speak. In retrospect, he wasn’t at all to blame, in fact, he was attempting to be supportive. And he would have done a great job had his nice words not been targeted to an overly sensitive thirty-four weeks expecting lady.

“Don’t worry,” he’d smiled so kindly, a testament to the Byers politeness that ran through the family, “I’m sure you’ll have a safe and easy delivery. Nothing to stress over.”

But the baby you were carrying was formulated by Munson genes, and the way it head-butted your pancreas, while simultaneously kicking your bladder made it hard to enjoy Jonathan’s sentiment.

“Ugh.” You could only scoff. “What do you know, you’re not pushing a baby out of your vagina.” Doing the one thing he told you not to do: stress.

The panic on Jonathan’s face was quite humorous, at least to Steve Harrington it was. Eddie, on the other hand, was shooting a disappointed glare to his friend. Because he told him. So concisely, and specifically told him.

1. Don’t say anything that’ll upset her.

2. Don’t try to say anything too mushy or nice to make it up for the first mistake, she’ll cry and feel awful about yelling.

3. Honestly, you shouldn’t even really speak to her.

4. But don’t ignore her! She’ll find a way to circle it back to you thinking she looks like a beached whale.

Rule number four had came about after Dustin Henderson tried to maneuver around the monstrosity that was Eddie Munson’s rules. In his own little weird way, he was trying to be helpful after your cries about being big. And Dustin thought it would be a bright idea to say “I happen to like whales.” It did not go over well.

And now, Jonathan Byers was falling into the same cycle.

“No, no!” It was damage control time. “I’m just wishing you and the baby to be okay, I swear. I just want you to be happy and comfortable.”

Bad move. How did he forget rule number two already?

Your face contorted into a deep frown, as your eyes watered, and that panicked look on Jonathan’s face never ceased.

“Oh, god.” Eddie whispered, as the waterworks crashed out.

“That’s so sweet of you!” You bawled. “I was so mean to you, and you were just being niceee!” Your head dropped to Jonathan’s shoulder, wetting his flannel with salty tears that seemed endless. Eddie would thump his friend’s forehead if he had the chance, but instead, he had to do damage control, and his tender hand rubbed your back.

“It’s alright, baby.” He cooed. “It’s totally okay, just let it all out.”

He fervently gestured to Jonathan to add on. This was his mistake, anyways. “There… there.” He awkwardly patted your back. “Yeah, it’s totally okay.”

Steve Harrington was beginning to rethink the whole six little nuggets thing.

Luckily, Jonathan’s words were enough, and you sniffled your way away from his now dampened shoulder.

“I-I’m sorry for crying so much.” Your hurt little face was enough to elicit some aw’s and it’s okay’s from the three men, who jumped to console you.

But then Steve spoke. Unwarrantedly.

“Hey, I’d cry, too, if I had to rip a seven pounder from my body.” He chuckled.

Your face dropped with horror. “Eddie!”

Eddie Munson was going to kill Steve Harrington.

[luvvyouforever]

go ahead and cry - dark!sebastian sallow x reader <3 {mdni, nsfw mentions}

↳ sebastian knows he should be kind and considerate and loving. but your tears do something to him that he can't control.

↳ warnings: dark!sebastian (aged up) , crying, sadism (more emotional than physical), smut references but does not go in detail, crybaby!reader.

↳ a/n: this is a short drabble of some thoughts that i had. i don't really know what it is but i wrote it in ten minutes because i couldn't get the thought out. enjoy teehee <3

you don't mean to be a sensitive person, really. you just feel everything so deeply and so strongly that the tears come out quicker than you realize. you've never thought it to be a bad trait. sure, it caused some teasing when you were young. you'd sob when boys pulled on your hair. you'd sniffle when your teacher handed you an assignment with math problems you didn't understand. but most of the time, it was endearing. especially to sebastian sallow.

he was always there for you when you cried. if your potion didn't go right in class, he'd hold your head and watch as the tears spilled from your eyes, whispering phrases like "my poor girl" or "go ahead and cry, love." you never felt judged and frequently, sebastian was the one you turned to when those salty drops of water threatened to fall.

sebastian reveled in being the one you fled to for comfort. he felt strong and very good about himself when you'd softly whisper through sniffles: "you're the only one i can count on, seb." he hadn't meant to ruin everyone else for you. it just happened! but can you blame him when you look so pretty while crying?

he knew he shouldn't be feeling this way. he should be a respectable boyfriend who wipes your tears and tells off whoever upset you. but those urges of his that lurk just below his skin keep him from doing so. in fact, those urges tell him to make you cry more, and harder.

there was something about the way the tears innocently glistened on your skin that made his pants tighten in the middle. he liked to see your makeup run on the sides of your eyes. he loved when your lips grew puffy and your nose turned red from sniffles. and he couldn't help but push his hips into yours when he felt your body shaking beside his.

it was so wrong but sebastian loved to mess with you more to seek that strange feeling. when you were focused too deeply on your potions textbook, he slipped a couple extra mallowsweet leaves into your potion, causing it to become a murky brown rather than the bright blue potion professor sharp created.

some of his best work included using imperio on some lowly sixth years so that they'd start to gossip about you just four seats away from you in the great hall. when you heard those harsh words, you ran to him and soaked his sweater with your tears while he whispered sweet nothings in your ear. he promised he would take care of it but he knew that he wouldn't. in fact, he kept his strategy tucked into his mind so he could pull it out again soon without raising suspicion.

on top of all of his manipulation, sebastian loved pounding into you relentlessly, causing endless tears of pleasure to slip down your cheeks. he loved wrapping his hand around your neck and seeing your eyes water. he enjoyed teasing you so much that you begged him to touch you with watery eyes and shaky lips. all of these images were saved in his brain, burned into his memory so that he could get off when you weren't by his side.

sebastian was cruel and he knew that, truly, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. he tried once to wipe your tears but instead kissed each and every one that fell down your cheeks, savoring in the salty taste of them.

maybe one day he would stop enchanting your wand to cast the wrong spells or pushing you against a wall just a little too hard but today was not the day and neither would tomorrow be. you were his crybaby and he'd always be there for you.

[hwnglx]

I’m honestly waiting for wonyoung’s breaking point. Where she just breaks down and cries cause this girl is way too obsessed with self-image and appearing perfect. Tbh as much I loved her. I prefer her in Iz*one when she rlly didn’t care about superficial things like she is in IVE. This whole image change does annoy me ngl. Idk it just something about her that just Ickes me the wrong way.

i understand where you're coming from, and it's kinda giving tough love lol, but we have to consider that people's behavior doesn't just change out of thin air and for no reason.

wonyoung putting her guard up more and more is due to people on the outside being more and more harsh with her. expectations are growing the bigger she gets, more strict eyes on her, much more pressure on her as the “it girl”. she has to keep up with that title. it's a bit of a toxic cycle she can't escape. she started getting this impression that people pick on her no matter what she does. like doomed if she does, doomed if she doesn't. she wants to satisfy people, but they always find something negative to say about her. (reminds me of jennie, it's like history repeating itself in 4th gen. would love to see the two just sit down and have a conversation. they could relate on my levels) some people keep blaming her for being a certain way, when they themselves have contributed to this change. she's scared to get hurt because the public is damn mean.

she can be superficial in certain ways, but tbh most idols pursuing this career are. it's a superficial industry. her character is genuinely sweet and i'm very serious when i say this, it's not an act. she is a true sweetheart, but in this day and age, especially in the excuse me shitty kpop industry she's in, the most sensitive are the biggest targets. therefore she often hides behind a stronger facade. i will defend wonyoung whenever time calls for it. she's one of the few idols i've read for till now, who seem like they're sincerely good at heart.

[realitidoll]

Pretty little angel.

Stepdad!John Wick

TW: stepcest, smut, dark themes.

 

“Shh, pretty baby. Your mom’s sleeping, we wouldn’t want to wake her up, would we?” John lowly whispers in your ears as he thrusts aggressively in and out of your pretty, sensitive cunny. You shake your head no as you desperately try to fight back tears. You can’t stop yourself from letting a few whines and whimpers escape your lips. 

John isn’t someone who talks a lot, but when it comes to sex with you? He talks you through it, throws a few praises here and there. Sometimes he enjoys degrading you just to see tears forming in your pretty eyes. “You’re such a naughty slut, but it’s okay. You’re still my pretty angel.”

Before your mom brought your new stepdad home, you were her innocent little angel. A few weeks after meeting John for the first time, you would often find yourself grinding against the plushies he gifted you in the middle of the night. Of course, you were too old for these kind of toys, but it didn’t stop you from enjoying them. You were full of sin; greed, lust… but could anyone really blame you? 

You can’t really remember how it happened, but one night you just found yourself lying naked under him, his huge cock stuffed deep inside you, tears falling from your eyes because your tight virgin cunt couldn’t handle that kind of size. Since that night, it has become an usual occurrence between you and your lovely stepdad to play naked under the covers whenever your mom wasn’t home. 

“P-please be gentle… it hurts!” You managed to say in-between moans and cries. You knew John had heard you, he just kept harshly pounding you. In fact, his grip on your thighs tightened when you asked him to be gentle. You were sure you’d find a few bruises there in the morning, but of course you wouldn’t mind. Bruises were a constant reminder of who you belonged to.You love the pain he causes from fucking you hard into oblivion. You beg him to slow down, to be gentle, but in reality, you just love it. It hurts so good. 

His big hands leave your thighs and he leans over you, hands now holding him up. John gently places his lips on yours to shut you up, his pace not slowing down. “What would your sweet, naive mom think of her pure, innocent little angel if she saw you like this?” He taunts. You couldn’t help but clench around his cock upon hearing those words. Everyone still thinks you’re an innocent, pure girl. Everyone, but John. 

“J-john… I’m going to-“ not even able to finish your sentence, your tight cunt clenches harder on his cock and you feel that familiar knot in your stomach. His thrusts get sloppy and faster.“I know, baby. Me too.” He says as he kisses your neck. You both feel your release come at the same time. He doesn’t instantly pull out which makes you feel a tiny bit overstimulated. Finally, you feel empty as he pulls out. Panting can be heard coming from the two of you. John looks down at your cunny and smirks as he watches his semen and your fluids drip down your thighs. 

“Goodnight, pretty girl.” He whispers as he kisses your forehead. He hands you a little plushie he got you a while back, and you snuggle against it. You hate when he leaves at night, but you know your mom would freak out if she walked in your room and saw you two lying naked in bed. Half asleep, you find the strength to mutter a slight goodnight back to him as he leaves the room. 

[mrsfrecklesmarauders]

When Regulus saw his mother cry, he hated Sirius for doing this to her. For not caring. For preferring that woman. For preferring Mrs. Potter.

Regulus knew Walburga was difficult. That they had a horrible father. That their family reunions were not ideal. That they were not a common family. Not loving and caring like the ones on the movies. But they were family nevertheless.

It angered Regulus that Mr. and Mrs. Potter were perfect as parents. And that James Potter was superhero that made Sirius happy. It angered Regulus that they weren't as perfect as them.

Walburga cried when she was drunk. She had confessed to Regulus that she hated herself and she hated her life. And she hated that she couldn't be a better mother.

"Of course your brother prefers them, mon cherie. I am useless. I am the worst mother ever. He hates me. My own son hates me. He wishes she was his real mother, doesn't he?"

It broke Regulus's heart to see Walburga suffer like that.

Sirius didn't know the chaos he left behind everytime he was out with them. Regulus had to witness Walburga's drinking problems and depression. Regulus had to endure with his father's tantrums and explosive moods. Regulus had to listen the constant fights.

Sirius was out there, having fun with this stupid perfect family that they could never be. And Regulus bet he didn't even care what was happening at home. All the problems, all the issues, all the fights.

Regulus wished he could change his parents so that he could have his brother back. Because he missed Sirius. He loved him.

But Regulus was sure everyone else mattered before him. James Potter was the perfect brother. He was so much better than Regulus, wasn't he? Regulus was no fun. Regulus was no confident. Regulus wasn't spontaneous and fun like Potter was.

Regulus hated himself. He hated being so sensible and still caring about his parents somehow.

Because Regulus was lonely. He didn't have close friends as The Marauders. Or a replacement family like The Potters. So he had to love what he had.

Regulus did love his mother. Even if she was not perfect and there were a lots of things Regulus wished she would change. But he loved her anyways. But Sirius didn't. He'd preferred that woman a million of times.

Regulus hated to care. And he hated to be more pendant. And he hated that Sirius hated him because he thought he was the favorite son.

Regulus hated Sirius for not caring about his own family. But he understood why he didn't care.

"What does that woman have that I don't?" Walburga asked "What does that boy have that you don't?" that made Regulus's eyes fill with tears "He doesn't care for us, love. He hates us. He hates his own family. Let's let him have them then. If he doesn't care, neither would we"

And because Regulus was sensitive and selfless, he felt guilty. So he hugged his mother. And he hated Sirius at these moments.

Regulus also loved him. But he didn't want to be on anyone's side. He always ended up being the bad guy. Always hearing negative stuff about his brother trying to defend him, and for what? Somehow Walburga had a point.

He knew if Regulus wasn't his brother, Sirius wouldn't love him. He wouldn't even like him. Because bloody Potter was so much better. And Regulus would never be him.

In these moments, Regulus ended up crying as well. He had a special moment of connection with his mother. She hugged him and comforted him. Regulus felt guilty for liking her. He didn't see the monster or the mean woman Sirius saw. Sirius would never understand that Regulus would defend her or felt pity for her. Because he didn't like their mother the way Regulus did. Sirius preferred that woman. And Regulus hated him for that. But also, he couldn't blame him.

[prettyboykatsuki]

territorial woes | k. leona

✮ tags ; fem!reader (referred to as leonas woman very briefly) fluff, territorial / needy leona , he is sickly in love in this sorry they're so domestic, one singular sex joke, this is a college au so everyone is over 18 for sake of my sanity, sfw but this blog is 18+ so minors don't follow please and ty

✮ wc ; 2k (? ? ?)

✮ a /n ; im so embarassed that this is leaving my fingertips actually. i do have to clarify like... i dont rlly think leona gets jealous easily but he can be kind of childish bc he's spoiled if that makes sense lmao. i was so Plauged by this i couldnt sleep its like 4am. i took my melatonin at midnight im so sick. blame @/petrichorium i am not responsible.

✮ synopsis ; leona kingscholar is often annoyed, but not usually over something like this.

He shouldn't have come to class.

The clock on the wall is agitating. Tick, tick, tick. On repeat over and over, plainly the same and piercing. Leona is sensitive to his surroundings, and particularly to noise.

He hates loud noises and sharp cries and he hates the sound of the damn clock in Trein's classroom. He's never been a fan of the classroom setting, general lack of motivation aside. It goes against his very nature to listen to boring lectures and sit through assignments he's already done hundreds of times.

All of his education from being young royalty paid off but ultimately amounts to nothing, because if he wants to graduate he still has to do this all over again.

He's a hunter, so he's not opposed to sitting and lying in wait if there's a promise of reward at the end. If all this sitting around with a twitching ear and bored sigh would amount to anything he'd be a little less annoyed with attending.

And there was one, originally. A thing, that Leona had wanted (which he can only admit to himself begrudgingly) that was worth hauling his ass out of the peaceful botanical garden and into class today. That very thing which is currently giggling their heart out to one of those idiot freshman from the Heartslyabul dorm.

Tick, tick, tick. Leona snaps his jaw close and tears his eyes from the sight, nose scrunched in frustration with a knuckle pushed against his temple.

He wants to go back to his dorm. But he can't. He won't until he gets what he even came for.

The presence of another person alerts his senses, but he relaxes upon realizing it's Ruggie, sitting on the edge of his desk with that usual smug air about him. Leon passes him a glance but doesn't say a word.

"Somethin' troublin' you, my liege? Shyehehe."

Leona all but growls.

"Shut your trap or I'll hang you up by your tail."

"Ouch. That bothered by it, huh?"

"I'm not bothered by squat."

Ruggie laughs hard at that and Leona considers throwing him through a wall. Ruggie is also looking ahead where you at, staring a little more openly than Leona is. He whistles under his breath. He can't remember the names of the two brats, but they're always together. One of them with orange hair and the other with the short blue.

"They're pretty close with those two, yanno. Heard they were having sleep-overs and all durin' their first year.''

Leona narrows his eyes. The clock ticks on. Ruggie grins and Leona knows he should just up and leave. It's stupid to be hanging around here. It's lame that he's even looking. He should just go up there and—

"They're best friends, basically. Been like that since before you two had a thing going too. Way before that, I think."

Leona knows well enough what Ruggie is doing. What Hyena's are good at, goading his annoyance to push him to act. He's looking for a show, and Leona is nearly tempted to give him one. Nearly.

You're not the fierce type like the women back home. You probably wouldn't think twice about it, just bat your little lashes and wave your friends goodbye like the herbivore you are if he decided to drag you away. You'd pester him, follow him around while he acted moody and cold for a while before frowning.

You'd get mad at first, before huffing and saying sorry for something you didn't even do. Mumbling and poking around until Leona eventually drags you in his bed to nap instead of being outright about any of it. If his sister-in-law knew he was acting like such a kid to his woman, he'd never hear the end of it. It's that voice in his head that keeps him stuck in his chair, seething.

"Not like you to be so docile, King." Ruggie says. Leona shoots him a mean enough glare that he backs away in fear.

It's not like he's being docile. Not really. There's more to it than that.

Thing is, Leona is used to being chased. Regardless of his inferiority in birthright, he's still royalty. Royalty means plenty of people itching to get in his good graces to get a taste of the highlife. Leona is used to cheap tactics of seduction and luxury in order to earn his favor - he can smell it from away. He's always half expecting to uncover secret intentions.

It never happens. You are all by all measures, frustratingly sincere. Leona doesn't really know how to respond to it. You don't pay mind to his royalty or his ability aside from a normal amount of awe. You're an herbivore firstly, and a stranger to this world after that. Whatever traits in Leona you've latched onto, he can't wrap his head around nor does he understand.

It's the first time in his life that he's gotten into a romantic entanglement like this. Where everything is all lovey-dovey and things are so important. He's always been respectful to his women but he's never been seriously in love in his life. It's different from just being decent. He cares what you think to an extent that's unfamiliar. It's not like he'd ever fix his mouth to say all that, but it really matters that he does things the right way.

Leona doesn't usually act in self-interest, to begin with. Cocky as he may be - he's still king and kings act in the interest of his people. Regardless of what it looks like, you are part of his people. His pride, in more simple terms.

It's not being docile as much as it's an effort to show some respect for you.

Leona isn't usually jealous about petty, trivial shit. It doesn't matter to him what you do or who you do it with in your own time. He likes that you're independent, too.

He is however, a territorial apex predator and a prince. For better or for worse whenever he looks at you, all he can see is to prey animals encroaching on his territory.

That's the part of him that's raring to go. Teeth clenched and agitated, brows all drawn together in frustration. Leona wants to go back to his dorm, but he wont without what he came for. It's putting him in a bad mood.

But ultimately, he doesn't move from his spot. Ruggie leaves eventually when his mood has soured completely. His head is on the desk and he's got his eyes closed, but his ears twitched at the sound of your chair dragging on the floor.

"Can you guys walk Grimm back to the door? I'm gonna go with Leona. Thanks! See you later,"

And just like that, the classroom clears of the last nuisances occupying it. Leaving only you and Leona and that ticking clock together.

He hears you walk up to him before he sees it. Your voice is annoyingly pleasant to listen to.

"Leona? You sleeping already?"

He's starting to understand why his older brother folded at every single word that came out of his sister-in-laws mouth. He lifts his head just barely to look at you and you're looking at him all wide-eyed. He wants to tick you off a little, but can't conjure up any ideas.

"You done with those little yippin' herbivores you call friends? Can we leave now?"

You frown.

"You're in a bad mood. And don't be mean to them, they are actually my friends, you know?"

He scoffs and your frown deepens.

"Leonaaa," You drag out the syllables of his name as you stand beside him "What's wrong with you?"

He hears you pull a chair up. When he finally sits up, you're sitting directly in front of him on a chair turned backwards. There's hardly any room between you. Your face is twisted up with worry.

Leona reaches to pinch your nose. You pull away making his lips twitch upward.

"I shouldn't've came to class." He complains. You rub your nose but don't say anything back, considering him.

"I didn't think it was that bad today though. I guess it might always be for you though since you know like, everything, but I don't—"

Before you can keep going, he leans forward to press his lips to yours. It shuts you up effectively. Your lips are soft. They're sweet and a little sticky - mouth warm and welcoming.

When he pulls away, you blink at him.

"What were you sayin'." He asks.

You look a little taken aback.

"I don't know. Oh, uhm. I liked the lesson. It's fun to learn stuff about this world, I guess." You stumble over your words like you're shy. It's ironic to him, but charming all the same.

He grins.

"What? You nervous after a little kiss?" He teases.

You flush.

"You're not usually that forward, dummy. Which brings me to my question again, what's up? You're sulking."

"What the hell? I'm not sulkin'"

"Yes you are. Your doing the little nose scrunch thing too. Did something happen?"

He pushes the comment about his nose scrunch away entirely because he's sure thinking about too long is gonna get on his nerves. He glares at you for a while, debating on what he should say. Truth is, he is a little pissed. But he isn't going to tell you that your little chat with friends is making him territorial. That would be ridiculous.

There's a brief moment of silence before you pause. You tilt your head, eyes shining with curiosity.

"...Were you lonely?" You suggest.

His face drops.

"You're not the jealous type usually, but you're like a big overgrown kitty. So, you missed me right? That's why you're moping?"

The tone of your voice makes him want to pinch you again.

"Watch your mouth, herbivore." He grits, agitation rolling back into his tone like a wave. And you laugh, the nerve of you. Giggle a little as you lean in closer.

"You didn't say no."

"Shut up." He says, weakly.

"Leona," You say his name again, a little sweeter. Purposefully full of affection and he hates everything about how mushy it's making him feel. You reach your hand up to his head, petting behind his ears in the place you know he likes "I'm sorryyy,"

"Do you go 'nd tuck your tail between your legs like this for everyone? Where's your self-respect, huh?" He means to say with a lot more characteristic sarcasm.

But it all comes out gross and sweet sounding instead.

"Mm, no? It's just that my boyfriend is pretty shit at being honest about his feelings so if I don't dote on him he'll wither away like a houseplant and—"

He covers your mouth with his hand and glares at you, faux annoyed. And you're giggling against his palms, all bely laughs. It's all a little nauseating for him. He pulls away by cupping your jaw instead, squishing your face together.

"When'd you get so damn mouthy?" He grumbles.

"Since forever ago." You say through squished lips. He huffs, leaning forward to kiss you a second time. You're all soft everywhere. Squishy and mellow. Leona kisses you three times in the process, each one a little more impatient than the last before releasing you.

He doesn't let go, hand going to cup the back your neck instead. He cradles your head close, sighing against your mouth.

"Annoying," He says. You smile at him and he has to look away to deal with the intensity of it.

"You love me." You say with a smile. If only you knew the half of it.

He doesn't say that of course. Just scoffs as he stands to his feet, dragging you with him. He curls an arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. The warmth of your body makes him purr.

"In your dreams. You owe me for cuttin' into my naptime."

"What can I do for you my liege?" You say sarcastically, grabbing his hand openly. He squeezes it "You wanna take a nap with me?"

"Can't promise I'll get you in my bed and not fuck you about it." He says with a lazy chuckle. You nudge his side.

"You're so crass."

"You love me," He mocks. You huff.

"Unfortunately, I do. Could use some rest though," You yawn, and blinking blearily "So nap time it is. 'kay?"

He kisses the side of your head.

"Sounds good t'me."

[satlun]

The Deep End | John Constantine x you

Genre: heavy angst, emotional hurt

Trigger Warnings: depression, committing suicide, death of y/n’s mother, blood, divorce, emotional hurt and supernatural

Summary: just take his hand and let go of your guilt

A/n: As you see at the trigger warnings, this fiction is quite sensitive. The death part is the main point of this plot as well, so it is important to have it. I’m really concerned about this one. So, if it might make you feel uncomfortable in any way please skip it. Don't read. Even if it's just fiction, I don't want to hurt your feelings that much. So, your consumption, your own choice and responsibility. Lastly, English isn't my first language

Army Dreamers (Instrumental) by Kate Bush

…

For twelve years since you lost your beloved mother, she died from committing suicide in the bathtub back in December, 1993. You are an only child who grew up with her alone, without knowing your real father since he left your mother before you even saw the world. Your mother was a strong woman, she could handle things really well as a single mother. She always kept things in her mind without telling you anything, made everything feel alright as if this was a perfect life until one night when you arrived home later than usual because you hung out with your friends earlier. For five times that you called her and there was no any sign of her answering at all. You walked around the house from the living room to the bed room before stopping at the bathroom door. “Mom? Are you here?” You called her before slowly opening the door since there was no one to answer.

You collapsed on the bathroom floor with an unbelievable expression on your face. She was dead, already dead. No sigh of breath since her red blood flew down from her wrists to the floor which became red all over the room. You screamed her name out loud as if you were going to die from it, both hands of you reached out her face which rested on the edge of the bathtub. As if she was sleeping, having a sweet dream with the fact that she wouldn't wake up anymore. She was pulled into your embrace as your heart sank into the deepest pain. She is gone and she won't come back anymore, no matter how hard you try, it's impossible.

For years you have blamed yourself for her death. Perhaps, she wouldn't die if you just came home earlier for an hour, just an hour would be enough for saving her in time. You have felt the pressure of guilt in your mind, weighing heavily in the bottom of your heart for not asking her if she was alright, for assuming that everything was perfect all the time, for not knowing that she went to the therapy every Friday. You blame everything that makes your beloved mother die, but you blame yourself the most. Back then, it wasn't easy for an eighteen-year-old-girl to handle this kind of thing alone. You felt so lost after her death since she was the only one you have in your entire life. You didn't expect this before, you thought you were going to get older with her, but no. The dream was ruined by only one night that you came home late. You lived your life as the world was going to end every night, your heart sank as you cried out loud alone in your bed. All you wanted was someone to hug you, a big hug to embrace you until the grief was gone but the fact that there was no one there for you when you cried your heart out.

The scars slowly fade when you get older. However, they're still leaving marks on you. The pain becomes part of yourself as you live your daily life. However, it's not as bad as it used to be and you think that you're good at handling it now. Your mother never made you feel like you really want someone, she didn't teach you that maybe it was better to have someone by your side. Not only now but also when you get older. So, your whole life was you alone with the pain that weighed in your mind. You didn't realise that you wanted anyone to be by your side since you believed that you could handle it better than before. Until one day you met a guy named John.

John slowly comes into your life until he becomes a part of you. As if he has been the other half you always find, the missing half that has been lost until now. Since then, he has always been the only person you can rely on. As if he is a big tree for you to sit under on a rainy day, for you to hide and relax. To make you feel that the rain isn't that bad if you have a big tree for you to stay under. The grief of your mother's death slowly fades away from your mind. The weight that was heavy earlier seems to be lifted and lighter. In the meantime, when your grief fades away every day as the time passes and the weight that John helps to lift it up, you barely remember her face anymore. It slowly turns into a blank space on your mother's face from the last memory of you.

…

An apartment in the middle of Los Angeles, California where you settle down with the love of your life, John. The smell of musty and smoke clinging within these walls. The light that can barely reach into the room. The sound of traffic coming from the street. Your memories of him and you start here, in this old apartment.

The mattress was subsided by the presence of the both of you. You are sitting on the edge, having a conversation with him under the dim lights. Today is the day your mother died twelve years ago. You will never forget it. You went to her grave earlier in the morning with John. You also brought her favourite flowers there, for her to hold in another life. You feel more emotional than usual tonight, since the atmosphere is dark and humid. It reminds you of the old days when you stayed alone in your room, crying so loudly but no one heard.

Your hands are placed on the mattress while your eyes are on the bedroom floor which is old and stained. “I miss her, John…” Your soft light voice makes John worry about you. “Can I see her? I need to see her… please…” Your gaze turns to his direction, he is already staring at you with an expression of worry and sorry for your pain. You are not asking, instead you are begging him to see her again since her face slowly fades away from your memory.

John pulls you closer to give you an embrace, a warm embrace that makes you feel better in this atmosphere. “Are you sure?” He says softly to your ear as you bury your face on his shoulder. The smell of him makes you feel comfortable and relaxed. “It means you will see her–” Going to hell is like going back to your bad memories. You will see the scene once again when you should forget about it all. He doesn't want to hurt you by your own decision that he supports.

“I know…” You interrupted him with your eyes that were on his face. “I will be back before she does. Please…” Your teary eyes that are looking at him makes him feel weak and vulnerable. His hands trace down to your back, rubbing it for a moment before losing in his thoughts. He doesn't want you to go at all because its consequences are not easy for you to handle with your vulnerable self.

Finally, he speaks. “You do this, there's no turning back.�� He is trying his hardest to explain that it's totally a bad idea. If you go to hell once, your life will be changed forever. “You see them… they see you. Understand?” Tears running down your cheeks as you look at him with hope in your eyes.

“Yeah… if that can make me see her again…” You said it desperately. That's all you want right now, he can sense that. Since you insist on going then he has no choice but to go with you, to assure that you will be alright and come back on time.

“I’m going with you.” He hates this part the most, going to hell is like going to a nightmare but he loves you more than anything else. He can't just let you go to a place like that alone. Never.

Your cold hands reach out to his hands and hold them tightly. “You don't have to do that… really.” You know how much he hates that part. He always tells you about it and when he comes back to this world, his body and his skin is hot as if they are burning under his flesh. You hate to see him like that as well because he looks painful.

“I will. To make sure that you will leave on time. I don't want you to see that again.” The love of you both fight for each other. He doesn't want you to go alone since it is a terrible place. Meanwhile, you don't want him to go either because you know well that he hates it and you don't want to see him like that anymore.

John insists no matter how hard you try to make him stay here. He really doesn't want to let you go alone, he is worried about you so much that it can be seen on his face. His face is usually hard to read but this time it's really clear.

...

He leads you to the bathroom before opening the faucet to let the water fill the bathtub. It made you think about the first time you told him about your mother's death. He insisted on removing the bathtub off of the apartment. However, you rejected it. The main reason for that is, you want to create a better memory of it. So, you both usually take a bath in this bathtub together, spending time in there talking, kissing for an hour. It helps you feel better about the bathtub than you actually thought. Your good memories of you and him are in here, actually every corner of the apartment. It is your home that is full of love from him. The apartment might look lonely to the outsider, but for you it's not at all. The love from you both makes this old apartment feel special, feel comforted.

His hand closed the faucet since the water fills the bathtub already. John faces you as you take off your tee except your underwear. “Do I have to take the rest of my clothes off or can I leave them on?” You asked while you were busy sliding your shirt off. His gaze is on you, he seems more worried than before. He is quiet as if there are many thoughts in his mind. It is dangerous, you know. But as long as he is here with you, nothing scares you anymore.

“On is fine.” He grabs your shirt before putting it down somewhere in the bathroom. Your feet slowly get into the bathtub before sitting down in the cold water. He walks over to the bathtub without his shirt on. He took it off earlier. You move for him a little so he can get into the same bathtub with you.

As he sits down with the same expression on his face. Your mouth is about to say that it's alright to let you do it alone but then he interrupts before you can speak. “Come here.” He said as you moved closer to him. His arm constantly wraps around your back while the other hand is placed on the back of your head. His hot breath gently brushes on your shoulder. The silence slowly becomes clearer. His warm touch tightens your skin. “Do you trust me?” You don't see his face but there is a hint of worry.

Of course, you trust him with all your heart. “I do…” You're not sure why he even asked that. Your arms slowly wrap around his shoulders before tightening your embrace. There is pause after the word. You can't read him anymore since you don't see his face or any signs of his emotions. The water is still around you and him, this moment is peaceful and quiet.

“Take a deep one.” His low voice broke the silence that slowly formed earlier. Before you can even ask him further, he already leans your back down to the water, putting your head down to the bottom of the bathtub. The second before you nose down to the water, you take a deep breath like he said.

The silence under water is louder than before. His face is now under the water as well. You can't hear anything except the sound of water flowing around you both bodies. His face is away from yours, you can't see him. You blink your eyes slowly without any clue how it's going to happen or to end. How long you have to stay under the water. John didn't explain about it.

His body is close to you while you're in his embrace. He stays still like a statue which sinks down to the ocean. The bubbles slowly come out from your nostril, the air in your lungs is almost out. How long is it going to take? You think. There's no sign of him bringing you up to the surface while the water slowly makes you feel like you're suffocating. It's like you're drowning to the deep end of the ocean. Silent and also dark since your eyes are closed in order to maintain your calm, to control your breath.

You're drowning, that's what your brain reminds you. Both of your hands grab the edge of the pool to bring yourself up to the surface but he doesn't let you. His shoulder blocks your body from moving to the surface. You feel like you're dying. Perhaps, you're going to die. However, the thought was kicked away since your heart trusts him. You trust him with all your life, he wouldn't let you die like this. Why would he even do that? Your mouth is open as if you want to scream but you can't, it's like you're in a dream where you want to call out for help but there's no voice coming from your mouth. Your hands constantly grab everything around and even try to push his body away. How could he still stay still as if you're the only one who is about to be out of breath.

The water spreads around the bathtub, making the bathroom floor wet. You're dying, dying in a bathtub like your mother. Your head starts to rerun all the memories you have in your life since you were born. This is a sign of people who are going to die, you read about it once on the internet. Your memories rerun from the start when you first time open your eyes to this world, it keeps rerunning your memories really fast, you barely catch them until the last scene stops at the bathroom where your mother died, the scene where grabs the knot and about to walk in. The silence completely dominates you, you can't hear anything, not even the water. Your head is blank like a white paper. The world seems slower. His touch slowly fades from you as if your body is about to fall asleep forever.

…

Hot breeze hits your face, that is when your consciousness is back. You're not drowning anymore, you're completely in hell.

Your eyes look around there to see what it's like in hell, you haven't been here before of course, and you don't want to be here forever either. Things around you are familiar unless it's like an apocalypse version of the world where you come from.

The smell is obviously not usual, it's like the smell of Sulfur and burning. Your eyes keep looking around, losing in your thoughts before John interrupts you. Your consciousness snaps back to reality, you finally recognize the place.

The sight in front of you is the old house where you lived before the incident. You haven't visited here until now. It looks almost the same as your last memory. Your heart is pounding faster, you're not sure if this dreads you or terrorises you. The touch of his hand makes you feel safer since he notices your expression. “If you change your mind–”

“I’m gonna be alright, John.” You gave him a quick smile before walking into the house with him. John knows damn well that you're not alright, even the quick smile of you for trying to make him feel better. He didn't say anything except follow you into the house. He hasn't seen them before and only has heard about it from your story.

As the door opens, you can hear the sound of growling from the outside. John hears it too, so he shuts the door as your eyes notice many ugly creatures outside, slowly crawling to both of you. Maybe, you should hurry. John doesn't have to tell you because you can see his expression which is worrying about the creatures very clearly. Even if you have no idea how those creatures can harm you, it would be a good idea if you leave here as fast as possible.

The door was shut and the sound of someone walking makes you turn back. It's her, your beloved mother. She's walking into the living room, perhaps this is the moment before she commits suicide. As you follow her and notice her reaction, you can see that her walking seems a bit stumbling. Her hands trace on the walls around her as if she wants to balance herself. Your eyebrows frown as your eyes start tearing. You didn't know that she had medicine until you saw her open the drawer. She grabs some medicine before taking them all in once without sipping water. Her hands are also shaking a bit while she grabs a picture of you. Her finger tracing your picture with love as her eyes are full with tears.

“I’m sorry, sweet pea… but mama can't handle it anymore… it keeps… getting worse… mama can't fight with it… so don't blame yourself, honey… it's not your fault at all.” She kisses and places the picture of you down to the cabinet as her body almost collapses on the floor. John tightens your hand since he sees you cry. You never knew that her symptoms are worse like this, you had no idea. You immediately wrap around him as he holds you into his chest. He hates to see you like this but it doesn't help.

Your mother slowly walks into the bathroom with an expression which is hard to understand. You don't know what she is thinking, her face is too emotionless to find any emotion on it. It's scary how fast her mood changes. You decide to follow her into the bathroom while you're under his embrace.

She gets into the bathroom while you both are standing at the door. The same feeling hits your head, the same standing position where you see her dies, the same crying you had when you saw her. Her hand grabs a blade nearby as the sound of the creature destroys the door and walks in echoing from the front door. Your eyes look over there while your mother cuts her wrist. John sees it now, the incident that always haunts you, he blocks you from the scene immediately. As your eyes turn to his direction, he can see that you're hurt, hurt from the inside. Your tears don't stop flowing down your cheeks. “Let’s go now.” He grabs your hand while the creatures almost catch you.

…

Suddenly, your vision turns to darkness. Only in a second before you can hear the sound of water again. The loud gasp comes out of your mouth, you finally reach to the surface of the bathtub. Water spreads all over the room. Your body is hot like hell, as if it's burning from the inside. John immediately pulls you into his arms, wrapping around you, trying to comfort you while you're crying out loud. You're not sure if you're crying of your mother or the feeling of skin burning from the inside. You breathe heavily as you cry your heart out. Both of your arms unintentionally wrap around him before you rest your head on his shoulder. “You're here.” John kisses your temple and rubs your back gently. “You're back.” His soft voice can really make your heartbeat slower.

A moment of staying in the position, trying to calm yourself down. Your head can't stop thinking about what you just saw earlier, you just know what happened before she died. You just know that she always loves you and she didn't mean to leave you alone at all but she just can't fight with her depression anymore. She tried her hardest, that's what you believe. And the fact that she said it is not your fault at all, she said as if you would know. And what if you didn't meet John what's it going to be? You would live with guilt until death takes you. You would blame everything or yourself forever. John is like a key for you to meet the truth, to release you from the darkness that doesn't stop haunts you. “It's not your fault anymore.” John whispered to your ear as his hand didn't stop rubbing on your back. “It's never been your fault…”

The smoke still floats up to the air, but your body seems to be cooler. Your tears start to dry but you don't have a sign to let go of him. You want a hug from him in this situation. It's really hard to forgive and forget when you have always taken them on your shoulder. “Thank you…” Thank you for taking you there to meet her again, to remember her face, to block you from the scene. The blank space of your mother’s face slowly turns to her exact face.

“Don't blame yourself anymore if you really want to thank me.” John made a joke for you, the fact that it always works. His dry sense of humour always makes you smile. Perhaps, it's time to let them go, all your guilt. Then, move on, have a life you want, stop clinging to the past you can't even control. It's time to fully forgive and understand yourself. John is always right here with you, you can even go on easier. Nothing can scare you. He is here, right here, holding you in his arms. “I promise…”

END

…

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© SATLUN, 2024

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XI): Haunted.

Imagine you are transported to the past… instants before the legendary battle between Aemond and his uncle Daemon Targaryen occurs. What will you do? Part II.

Warnings 1: smut, DRAMA, angst. But fluff endings of course.

Warnings 2: loosely based on “Outlander”.

Warnings 3: long post.

***

You and I walk a fragile line. I have known it all this time but I never thought I'd live to see it break. It's getting dark and it's all too quiet and I can't trust anything now…

You open your eyes and all you see is a different scenario. There are strange sounds in your surrounding, a mix of voices you cannot identify yet.

Nevertheless you take your time, pain reclaiming your body as you struggle to reclaim your conscience.

“Y/N! Oh my God, it’s really you! You have returned to us!”

You say nothing in turn, barely blinking. Just as you try to rise, you nearly drop again. Not because of the hurting in your lungs and ribs, but mainly due to the memories of happy days.

“She’s very disoriented”, perhaps it’s your friend saying, but you don’t recall it now, giving no importance as of yet to her.

“Can you actually blame her? She has been tossed in God knows what time and place in the past and here she is. One wonders what she went through.”

You remember his smile, the warmth of his body, and then… you recollect of your fall, of how you planned to tell him that you are pregnant. Now looking for signs that you may have miscarried, you somehow sense that you have not.

A brief relief that is, however, incapable of easing the pain you are now in.

“Margaery”, you say when recognizing the first voice. “Lyna.”

The two younger females, surrounded by two older women, breathe in relief and throw themselves around you. You cannot help but weep too, even though this meeting tastes bittersweet.

Keeping the heartbreaking ache for yourself, you try to concentrate in the present, paying no attention in the look of concern the elderly ladies give you.

But takes two minutes before you pull away from the embrace to throw up. Under the quizzical look of your friends, you dissimulate, saying:

“Time traveling does this to sensitive people.”

“Well, what do I know of the side effects of such a thing?”, says Margaery, pleased to make you smile.

“How long was I off?”, you ask as you finally stand and, to your surprise, there are but only your two closest friends and two old ladies.

“No more than a couple of days”, says Lina. “We told your aunt that you went traveling with that research group you were part of.”

“How convenient”, you say, appreciating their efforts. “But how did you…”

“She went after us”, says the elderly lady, who introduces herself as the Priestess of R’Hllor, an old and ancient faith of Westeros named Krysta. “Although there would little need to do so for we were informed of the awakening of the spell by the Lord of The Light.”

Her companion adds:

“The past is dark and full of terrors.”

“Full of terrors, indeed”, you remark without second thoughts. “But full of delights as well.”

At the memory of your beloved, his smile, his touch, his fierceness… your burst into tears.

***

It's getting dark and it's all too quiet and I can't trust anything now. And it's coming over you like it's all a big mistake…

The rage Lord Aemond experiences is inexpressible. The one-eyed prince still rewinds in the back of his mind your fall, the fear and desperation in your gaze, how you cried out his name before disappearing out of his sight. What makes his good eye tear up is the memory of happiness in instances switched to the one of despair and desolation.

He lost you.

Because of his uncle, who, it seems, planned this vengeance for a long while.

The battle follows, despite your voice calling his name still howling in the back of his mind. His conscience subtly accuses him of letting you be taken away, in resulting in his early and unexpected widowhood.

Hatred thunders in his chest and Aemond screams against the storm. Vhagar’s follows, echoing her rider’s angst.

“Ah, nephew! One loss for another loss, is it not how it’s said? Or perhaps one eye for an eye? Which suits better?”, he can hear Daemon’s provocation through the electric curtain of air. “Lucerys shall be avenged! Likewise every family member your bloody house caused it!”

He doesn’t answer, instead pulling the reins of Vhagar, who now spit fire over Caraxes. But, faster in size and age, the red dragon flies away before diving to bite Vhagar once more.

“DRACARYS!”

Whoever cries out the order, matters not. Fire against fire results in blood. When a kin fights the other, they fall in disgrace before the Gods.

Dragons dance in a mortal beat. No good is found within the Prince’s heart. Both enemies are moved by vengeance, haunted by past mistakes, by wrong choices.

Can the situation be averted, though? The battle follows unpredictably, whirling violently around both princes.

But if Aemond cannot live with you, he will die dragging his beloved uncle down to the Seven Hells with him.

***

Carrying on like nothing has happened proves to be a really difficult task. The priestesses asked you many questions about the past and your interference in such events.

“If, however, R’Hollor wanted to send you there, a reason there is. Unknown is the purpose before our eyes, not least should it be questioned, though”, so you were told.

Your friends were eager to know about your adventures and you could only tell so far how it was to live amidst the royalty in the worst civil war Westeros went through.

However, the current days look terribly wrong to you. Everywhere you are reminded of him, your prince, the very one you’ve always disliked due to your historical studies at college and at school.

Here you are, driving to a lake house, accompanied by Margaery, who is, by all efforts, the one you’ve been the closest to… and who didn’t give you up during the moments you’ve been at your worse.

About a month has passed every since you fell back to your own days.

“By the melancholy you’ve been plagued to, I dare say this is more than living amidst the luxury and richness so characteristic of the nobility”, she says after a while.

From King’s Landing to the said lake house takes about three hours driving. But it’s been one since you both drove in silence.

“How obvious is that?”, you side smirk at Margaery, who smiles knowingly back.

“I just know you well, is all.”

Margaery waits. She gives you time, respecting your spiritual state at the moment, for which you are thankful for.

“You wouldn’t believe me…”

“My dear, I watched you disappear like wind blows away dust. You should by now I am not skeptical. Not anymore.”

Your fingers top at the driving wheel before you sigh. And then Margaery is told about the infamous rogue prince, Lord Aemond Targaryen.

***

Come on, come on, don't leave me like this. I thought I had you figured out. Something's gone terribly wrong. You're all I wanted…

Dragons dance still. Melody is painfully mixed to that sound of thunders. Eventually, however, one of the pair must fall. And all indicates that Lord Aemond is not getting his revenge this evening, which only fuels his anger.

Then a solution occurs him.

A mad one, perhaps, but his pride doesn’t wish to admit it. Like Vhagar, Aemond doesn’t leave a battle unless he’s the victor of it.

But now he’s losing, all he can think of is you. Haunted by memories that, until not so long ago, were the merriest he’s ever experienced, the silver haired male feels abandoned by all, a pawn of Gods to their disgraced game where he’s but a misfortuned man.

Aren’t we all?

A thought that occurs him when thinking of his mad sister and insane brother. His family, it appears, payed a high price for the crown. Now it costs all they have. And when remembering the hints you gave him…

Every hope dies. Agonizing, Lord Aemond regains his strength, but Daemon Targaryen outwits him. Therefore, the kinslayer is defeated.

***

Come on, come on, don't leave me like this. I thought I had you figured out. Can't breathe whenever you're gone. Can't turn back now, I'm haunted…

You stop driving in the road when an idea comes at you, that kind that doesn’t leave you rest easy unless you put it in practice.

“So you are telling me you are pregnant of a dead man?”, Margaery breaks the impulsivity that starts to rise in you when speaking after a long while in silence.

You laugh quietly.

“When you put things like that…”

“Well, this is a perspective one cannot unreason with”, she shrugs her shoulders, smiling at it. “But what then? This is a Targaryen child you are carrying in your belly. Do you consider the consequences of it?”

When seeing how pale you are, Margaery realizes that no, you haven’t considered that you are a carrying a pretender to the throne.

“No one needs to know, though”, she says. “The Queen has her heirs as you know.”

You turn at her, suddenly interested.

“I thought she was infertile? Has anything dramatically changed since I was tossed away?”

“No”, says Margaery. “I mean… Her nephew, son of the late prince Rhaegaer, is her husband. They are happily married, so it’s been said.”

You tilt your head, bearing a strange feeling.

“What prince Rhaegar’s son? His illegitimate son, a product of his liaison with Lady Lyanna of House Stark…?”

“Do you mean Jon Snow? Yes, he attends by Jaehaerys II now. He has a strong seed, so it’s been said, having given her some offspring.” And here she smirks in a gossiping manner.

“Ah”, you sigh in relief. “I thought something had been altered.”

But then you look miserable all the same because you know this means Aemond is dead. However… could have it been any different? It’s when you suddenly turn the wheel.

“Uh, my dear. What the hell do you think you are doing?”

You don’t tell her that you think you see him at times. That sometimes you have a glimpse of his face, an ethereal look of despair behind his one good eye as if he silently asks for help.

“Fuck it all”, you say. “I’m going back.”

“Going back where?”

“I cannot be haunted anymore”, you tell her and Margaery sees a mix of perseverance and stubbornness. “I will bring him here. I will bring him back.”

She shoots you a careful look.

“I admit I cannot fathom why on earth you’d do this to yourself, aware that modifying pieces of the past can alter the future. This is too dangerous. Think about your unborn child!”

This has the effect your friend desires, but you are still driving back on the road.

“I cannot give up on him, Margaery. I do not expect you to understand, but I know in my heart he’d not give up on me either.”

And we all know there is no remedy to stubbornness…

***

This is a race against the time. You come to figure it out that, funny as it may be, time works differently in past and present, mostly because Earth’s time works differently. Therefore, months you spent there by Aemond’s side meant you spent no more than a week or two disappeared.

Some part of you admonishes you for being reckless. You cannot simply take in consideration your desires, but the child whose life you must protect. The inheritance of Aemond’s love that will eventually grow and probably forced to live in secrecy, hiding away his legacy—even though with Aegon IV’s renowned productions of tons of illegitimate lines, nearly 90% of King Landing’s population bears some Targaryen blood.

But you want to save him. Like he saved you. Perhaps this is madness, but going back in time was an impossibility never before credited.

“I must try”, you tell her, or perhaps to convince yourself. “I just… must try.”

Margaery doesn’t say a word, rather instead supporting you, which you deeply appreciate.

“I’ll be here for you, regardless of your choices”, she says gently.

“I appreciate it”, you shoot her a thankful glance. “Truthfully I do.”

***

Oh, holding my breath. Won't see you again. Something keeps me holding on to nothing…

It’s cloudy and cold. Although it’s hardly compared to Winterfell’s winter or even that last winter whose scars are still there within you, it’s not warm nevertheless.

Wind howls as if it’s disdaining your attempts in doing what is out of your control. Your curls are a mess as you climb the hill with Margaery behind you, telling you to be careful.

As you turn at her, you realize that this is not only about you.

“Marg”, you stop half the way to put her in a hug. “I’m sorry for involving you in this. I’m sorry for not being the one person I was before.”

“You don’t have to apologize for being who you are. We are all survivors, haunted by the past in many ways. Fighting for love is not something most are willing to do this day”, she tells you. “You know I’m here for you, no matter what. I’m just protective over you.”

“I know. So am I to you, I hope you know that.”

When a bond like this is formed, no bad weather, no conjecture can break. Such friendship is rare to see, but existing nevertheless. Both you and Margaery know that.

And now you part, leaving her to wait, prompted to go back to prayers for your safety. However, as you stand high at the Aegon’s Hill, between the stones, the spell doesn’t work.

“No”, you mumble, trying not to be surrendered by despair at the first try. “No, no. Come on!”

You try to recollect mystic words you believe you’ve heard, but to no avail. You cling onto a stone nearby, eyes closing, however, it doesn’t work either.

Wind howls louder, as if it laughs, and yet it appears you spot ethereal creatures not too far.

You try to hold onto this hope, but maybe this is a trick of nature. No matter what you do, you remain where you are.

“Aemond…”

Your eyes are blurred by tears.

I know. I know. I just know. You're not gone, you can't be gone, no…

You don’t realize you are sobbing until your knees go weak and they collide against the grass. Rain thus starts to pour and your reason cannot conceive the obvious.

Aemond is gone. Past is unreached. You are where you should be… and had it not been for your unborn child, you’d believe all had nothing but a dream.

“Y/N!”, Margaery cries out your name. “Come on! Rain is about to fall!”

You know the wind is too strong for her to face it. Therefore you recollect your dignity and stand.

“I’ll be on my way”, you yell back.

But your voice dies as rain finally drops. It falls violently over you and with the wind, it is as if you’ve been trapped in a storm.

“Oh”, you are now scared when struggling to go back. “What have I done?”

The more you walk, the more difficult it is to leave the circle of stones. To some believers, they’d tell you that you are being punished by the Gods for meddling where you should not be.

However, what if they are playing with you? The Targaryens answer to no men nor gods, but you are no Targaryen. You are a common lass, tossed away in the past to serve some mysterious God a wicked purpose.

These are not your thoughts, though. As a mother-to-be, you realize you must protect your child at all costs. It’s when the unexpected happens.

Right when Margaery is decided to push you out of those bloody stones back to the safety of the car, is when you disappear before her eyes.

“Y/N!”

But you never hear her calling your name.

***

Aemond is not lifeless under water. He’s been rescued by a soldier, loyal to the green house. A few months have passed since this soldier, who happens to be familiar with a priest of the Lord of the Light, was instrumental in getting him back.

When being told of how close to death he was, Aemond says nothing.

“You must not be a ghost in living flesh, lord”, insists the said soldier. “We must get back to our cause at once. The Lord of Light demands it to be so, having impeded you to go to the dark lands of death. He has a purpose to which you now must serve.”

“Targaryens bend to no deity nor men”, he retorts, standing and making his own path.

But reality is worse than he thought. Under a dark cape, he mixes with the populace and there he is informed that the Good Queen Helaena has committed suicide and that Aegon is close to death.

Some say he’s the victim of slow poisoning.

Whatever it is, bells ring that day to announce old king Aegon, Second of His Name, usurper to many and kinslayer to others, has died. His successor is, to Aemond’s consternation, Aegon III.

“The son of the Rhaenyra, the Proud”, so he is told by a peasant. “But it’s how the wheel of fortune is, very fair if you ask me. However the new king is a child, therefore a council must be formed.”

And here he is informed how Daemon Targaryen lives and is the chief of the said council on behalf of his only surviving son.

Whatever truth there is in such informations, Aemond feels desolated. Haunted by what cannot return, orphaned of a family that, for better or worse, put him in this violent path, he is like an errant knight with no cause to fight for.

Hopelessness moves his steps and it’s when he spots Aegon’s Hill and its mystical stones.

Can't breathe whenever you're gone. Can't go back, I'm haunted

“Y/N”, he calls your name.

The rogue prince is tempted to turn his back. There’s nothing for him now. He has no dragon, and is as vulnerable now as he was as a child. Indeed, as he’s been told, he’s now a ghost in living flesh.

Even so, what’s there to lose by going there?

Perhaps a spark of hope in seeing you again leads his steps, crossing discreetly, invisibly even, all those strange faces that carry on with their insignificant lives all the whilst the wheel of fortune turns again.

It’s when he sees you.

“This cannot be…” he mutters, perplexed. “I am seeing a phantom! This is only the plausible explanation…”

But when you see him too, every pain and angst are finally put to the past. One runs to the other, finding in a warm embrace the peace both of you needed.

“I am no phantom, my darling! No spectrum of time.”

“Oh, wife! Don’t leave me like this ever again!”

“Husband”, you sniff, forehead rested against forehead, hands cupping his face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. But you came back to me”, says he, his voice embargoed.

“I would never leave you.”

Words are dismissed when he grabs your waist and then holding your face as if to ensure you are real, not a ghost haunting him indeed, he pursuits your lips like a famine man.

There, in the streets, post chaos of civil war, two strangers embrace like peasants and kiss hungrily like commoners.

***

“Come back with me”, you tell him anxiously, dragging him back to Aegon’s Hill. “This is too much to ask, I know…”

“No”, he cuts you gently. “I have nothing holding me here, lady. Not anymore. No family or friends, but foes who hold victory like you said.”

“I am sorry”, but before you could tell him he’s not lost his family, Aemond smiles at you and says:

“Do not be. It is what it is. Destiny is all.”

Locking hands with you, he takes one last challenge. For a purpose unknown, Aemond Targaryen not only lives… but outlives his days, his relatives and, mostly important, his enemies.

***

You still wait for the right moment to tell him you carry his child. There is too much going on. Like when it happened with you in his days, you make up a new background for him, especially when you introduced him to your aunt and uncle.

“His name is Aemon”, you purposely cut the “d” off his name. “He’s just started at Westeros university as a student of political sciences.”

Aemond holds back a snort, finding all of this very interesting. Thankfully, he’s still got some good gold with him so he’s not poor in this new existence.

Leaving aside matters of money, Aemond was shocked at how modern King’s Landing now is. The grand port in other days received products of Essos and the other Free Cities for trade and other purposes, has shrink in size and is now smaller than in his days.

There are now airports, better schools, places of knowledge like universities.

“Daeron would have liked that”, he once shared with you in a rather melancholic tone.

In these colleges, he comes to see that knowledge is no longer a privilege of maesters, but to all those who want to know better. There, rich and poor study with no distinctions. At least, in theory.

He’s also informed of other technologies and modern activities, before getting to know the most important matter of all: the rise of Queen Daenerys and her consort, King Jaehaerys.

“Bloody seven hells”, Aemond snorted. “Had Aegon seen this… not only he was succeeded by Rhaenyra’s son, but her lineage remains on the throne.”

“In these days women can rule just fine”, you told him then.

He still has some mindset to change, to which you give him time to get himself accostumed. And then he was told of the usurpation coming from the Lannisters, the almost break of the North and the subsequent mess coming from evil creatures that, once thought as mythical, proved to be very real. These were known as the Others, who followed a certain Night King.

It took Aemond several weeks to absorve all of this information, and once he considered that he could get used to this, he sought a home for you two to live lawfully as husband and wife after beginning his studies in the said course of political sciences.

Yet, before you two truly began living your lives as a married couple, he had to meet your family, of course.

“My mother and dad, along with my younger siblings, are living in Sunspear, now. Who’d ever thought, right? A northern family living all good in the South…”

And then you introduced Aemond to cellphone, video-calls and other brand new technologies that almost drove him to the insanity.

Nevertheless here you two are. Once acquainted with your family and friends, and married in civil ceremony—he still wants to go on with a religious one, and you gladly comply with his wishes, it’s just you are still “I cannot believe this is really happening” mood.

So now you two are in bed. You watch as Aemond, short-haired, partially nude, is wearing glasses as he reads the history of Westeros. He’s so concentrated that it begins to arouse you.

It’s been two months since the marriage, at least in its medieval form, has been consumed. Now every obstacle has been knocked down, you realize how much you have missed him… carnally, speaking.

Perhaps it’s just your hormones speaking, but you let your hair loose and adjust your modern nightgown so it shows some skin. And then you crawl to his side.

“Mm, honey. What are you reading?”, you whisper in his ear, a hand playing with his short, messy hair all the whilst another rests in his belly.

Distracted at first, for he’s always been one to sharp his wit—despite not being considerate the brightest of the family, that title passed to his younger brother, Daeron—, he takes a few seconds to answer you.

“Uh? Oh, yes, I’m reading about the history of my family. For better or worse, we are all related”, he grumbles under his breath. “Have you read about…?”

His words die interrupted when you start kissing his neck and your hand slides below his belly, resting over his manhood, quietly hidden underneath his garments.

“Lady…”, he groans, eyes fluttering.

“Yes, my lord husband?”, you slowly move closer, your eager fingertips pulling down his garments and then…

And then Aemond puts his book aside, finally paying attention in you.

It’s when he notices your boobs are bigger than last time he saw them denuded, to the point they are almost dropping out the cloth of your nightgown.

“Oh, it’s been so long”, he groans, breath cut short the moment you begin to stroke him up and down, teasing the tip of it with your thumb. “My lady wife…”

“Yes?”, you turn at him, pursuing his lips sensually.

“Let me put away these…”, he chuckles before putting away his glasses. “Aren’t you a little on fire today?”

“Mmm”, you kiss his neck now, stroking him intently, aroused in turn at his sounds.

“Oh Lords!”, the former prince groans louder.

It’s when the dragon awakes and he kisses you just as hungrily, rolling his body over yours as he removes your hands, locking them above your head.

Watching as you rub one leg to the other, he doesn’t take long before lifting your nightgown and then… dropping his head to your nipples all the whilst his fingertips move to your core, pleased to find your womanhood wet.

As he teases you, though, Aemond’s eyes search for yours, finding in them the same fire that burns him. He raises his head to whisper some unspeakable things in your ear and right before you come undone, he lifts his hips and…

“Fuck, Aemond!”, you curse loudly upon his thrust.

“Ah, Gods. This is so good!”, he moves slowly with you first. “I missed you, my lady! I have longed for this!”

Your hands now wrapped around his neck, you put him closer to you.

“I love you, my lord husband”, you moan sensually when your lips collide in a hungry kiss.

“As do I, my gorgeous wife!”

He notices, though, how different you look. And when you turn over him, surprising at how horny you are this day, he smirks:

“What have I done to my lady?”

“Oh you have made me a dragon rider, have you forgotten?”, you smirk, pleased to make him blush.

His hands going from your breasts to your waist, Aemond can see your belly is slightly bigger than last time he saw you nude. And if he’s good in math…

But he is too distracted by your ride to do it now, so the prince rises and, locking his body to yours, little wonder why you two come together at last.

“How synchronized are we”, you paint, refusing to let him go of you.

Aemond chuckles, putting you down to him, stroking your long y/c locks, admiring your y/c eyes as he peppers your face with gentle kisses.

“We are, my dearest. And it comes to my eyes, as well as my mouth, that your breasts are not only bigger, but more sensitive too.”

You blush deeply at his remark, a sight pleasant to his sight. He crawls over you, saying:

“There should be no embarrassment, lady, when we are lawfully married. You thought I’d not notice the changes in your body?”

“Aemond…”, your face is now bright red as he smiles warmly at you.

“And how you sang my name louder than the first time we copulated the moment I sucked it with my mouth?”, he smirks when spotting signs his words are arousing you. “How easier now you are, what’s the word for it again? Oh yes, horny.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, giggling like a little girl. But when his hand cups your left boob, you fear you might lose your self control. Sighing impatiently, you lean backwards and cupping his face you say what he wants to hear:

“I am carrying your child.”

Aemond beams, in complete delight.

“How dare you to keep these news out of me?”, says he in between chuckles.

“Well, I wanted to tell you in a better occasion”, you say, in reference to that fatidic evening. “But time parted us.”

Understanding what’s subtly said, Aemond nods. But sadness is a brief shadow that is instantly dismissed when his hand rests on your belly.

“Whether it’s a boy or a girl, I will love the same. However, they ought to bear a Targaryen name.”

“I thought we agreed to live discreetly, my love?”

“What’s the problem in naming a daughter Visenya Hightower?”

You laugh quietly.

“I doubt anyone bought that you are a distant Hightower.”

“But I am”, he insists.

“Yeah, right, but you have Targaryen looks, handsome. Look at these purple irises of yours for an instance.”

“If anything I have a Dornish ancestral. Those of Starfall have purple eyes. The Danes, to be fair.”

You stroke his cheek, caressing it gently, watching as he rests his head in your hand, locking gazes with you.

“A family to call your own”, you whisper.

“Indeed, and for that I am more than thankful”.

Saying so he kisses your lips slowly.

***

• Epilogue. Two years later..

A fragile line that is not so fragile anymore. All seems well that ends well.

You watch as Aemond runs with the twins, named Helaena, to honour his sister, and Visenya, his ancestress whom he’s very fond of. As you pat your belly, pregnant for the second time, you watch the beautiful scenario, very content for living it in peace.

It’s when you notice a woman, apparently the same age as Aemond, cast him and the children a glance. She has a shade of silver in her reddish hair. Something about her makes you stand and promptly move after him.

But before you get to Aemond and share with him your twisted sentiments, the girl herself says:

“I have a feeling we’ve known before”, she smiles gently.

To you, the same sentiment is there. You are baffled by it, unsure where it comes from.

“I’m sorry, have we met?”, Aemond inquires, puzzled, as he holds both twins in his arms.

“Not exactly in this lifetime, I’m afraid”, and turning at you, she smiles. “My darling sister Y/N, so we meet again.”

You and your husband exchange looks. What is this?

“I’ve taken the name of Sarah, but in truth I am the reincarnation of your sister Helaena.”

Couldn’t things get any more complicated?

[weird-bookworm]

𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗞 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗔 𝗪𝗘𝗜𝗥𝗗 𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗠 ♥︎

this year has been crazy, to say the least. i'd write a long ass message, but actually, each and every single one of my moots deserves their own

so here goes

@silversailormoan- you were my first moot, and i still don't have a name for you. all i know is that i am eternally grateful you trust me enough to share part of your life with me, and that i'm very glad you went from my fav ao3 bts writer to someone who randomly messages me whenever. thank you

@yrhome- i was shocked when you followed me back actually, but after that you've just poofed off the site. i'm sorry we never got the chance to interact more, because you were one of y fav writers on here. i hope we can get closer this coming year!

@maeleelee- mae mae oh mae you are one of the most special people i know on this hellsite, and that is saying something because i know so many people i love here. you were my first friend on here, as unhinged as me, and with such a friendly and warm personality i almost cried (that is a lie. i have definitely cried because you're too cute. i am not joking). we've shared so many moments here, and you've trusted me so much, it made this year so much more special to me. promise you'll keep being your adorable self next year too, but most of all, promise you'll be happy next year <3

@imagine-a-life-like-this- talking to you for the first time felt like a fever dream, even though i had sent asks before and i was already friend with mae. you have always been a writer i respect and like a lot, specially with your smaus (chef's kiss fr). on top of that you are always so sweet??? hello, is this a dream?? i'm glad we got close enough for me to see your more unhinged persona (which i am in love with) and that i could see your bts debut lmao. let's have even more fun next year

@mxnsxngie- you're so mother istg it's the best thing ever lol. what i've said about you in my moots list is very true, you gives me fairy vibes. you're so pretty and lovable and asdfghjkl i just love you okay? i've loved every single conversation we've had and i lovee how you read my rants and then respond with a veryyy long message with a ton of typos because you're getting ready for work in the morning (thank you for still reading and replying though, you're so busy but you always take out time for me <3) keep being adorable!

@hannieheartuu- i love you. you are always so sweet and kind and sensitive and talented i just wanna cuddle you and keep you in my pocket and call it a day. i get too much cute aggression with you and i get too protective over you, but can you blame me? you've given me so much love and so much trust it warms my heart, so thank you ylli. thank you for being an adorable lil bunny and loving me and letting me love you, let's carry forward this energy <3

@fairyhaos- is it just me but i feel like you don't really need me to tell you how grateful i am and how much i love you, specially after what happened today lmao. but honestly, you were one of the first svt writers i came across, you have always been this really kind angel, and you ranting about shua makes my day in the best way possible. you're talented and adorable and so so reliable, and i'm really grateful for that. i'm glad i can call you my friend and i'm glad that you call me that too

@idubiluv- ah, yes, my virtual didi lmao (you said it, not me). you come here rarely because unlike most of us, you are slightly more responsible. and yet, you are so fucking loved and adored and i just love to see you getting so much affection, because you deserve eevry inch of it. we've had really fun conversations and your pfp always leads me to believe that you are absolutely gorgeous (i remember my sleep riddled brain once thinking that you would sparkle like edward when i'll first meet you...yeah i'm weird ahem anyway) and you have such a sparkly personality to match? heaven indeed

@the-therapist-needs-therapy- i remember us interacting continuously for a while, and then we just stopped, and i don't know why. let's become closer this next year, talking to you was fun.

@babyboyquokka- okay so we've talked a total of 4 times, but it was enough for me to decide that we really need to talk more (i am aware our timings don't really match but i have those rare days i pretend to be an owl and stay up very late so we'll see lmao)

@cadenonlinelive- how did we go from me being scared of you (...don't ask) to me actively teasing you (hello reply to me don't leave me on read) it might have something to do with the fact that the wifeys constantly call you adorable but ahem i do quite agree. i feel like my age plays a big factor why you might not feel the most comfortable with me, but i hope we can become good friends next year :))

@slytherinshua- eeeeeee you're my adorable lil (we are going to ignore the fact that you are taller than me) gremlin who makes me wanna kms but also bae are you okay. you have somehow made me question life within the short (yes i know surprising) period we've known each other, and also made me believe that with determination, anything is possible (like ranking 125 smth idols according to how much you love them). i'm really glad you made our server, because i don't think i would've stayed on this hellsite otherwise lol

@icyminghao- why is it that one of us will start a conversation in the other's askbox and then we just. stop interacting again ∏~∏ i love your work and i'd love to be closer :(( let's become good friends the coming year!

@ryuwonieebae- same as with haru, we talked and then stopped, and i wish we hadn't. i hope life is going well and you're happy :))

@rubywonu- niaaaa my love is it just me or did we barely interact but it still feels like we're already pretty good friends lol? i swear your work sends tingles down my spine it's that cute. you're also my favourite couprang, so i'm gonna take that as a free invite to rant to you about him whenever and wherever hehe (this is me telling you to expect ig reels in your dms i have way too many cheol reels saved)

@mesanthropi- weiwei!! bae you give me so many noni vibes + this-is-one-person-i-wanna-keep-around-for-a-long-time-if-they-will-have-me vibes it's crazy. i love our quirky conversations and i adore your art, but i specially like seeing you in others' inboxes— your asks are always just so cute. also, you are definitely someone i have cute aggression with so (...my pocket is large enough me thinks, you're always welcome)

@wheeboo- okay first and foremost, thank you for inviting me in the server in the first place, it has become a trusted source of entertainment and fun and just general clownery, and who doesn't love that? you and zanna really created a safe space for all of us and i'm so honoured that you even thought to add me there sob. BUT i also read your jun fic before anyone else i was squealing did i tell you? i was sooo excited afghjkl the end line is— thank you for trusting me and being my friend ilyyy

@hanniehaee- bro why did you randomly show up one day with a ridiculous amount of reblogs and disappear off of tumblr altogether WHERE ARE YOU I MISS YOU

@aaniag- hello fellow a little too crazy with the emoticons desi carat have i ever told you i love you? i have? well i don't care! i love you anyways lmao. a, i absolutely adore your random ass asks filled with 218 twins (spare me please), b, i love how you never stop yourself from going crazy with the emojis and emoticons, and c, i am very thankful that you love me so much, please don't stop doing that

@woozvc- noraaaa i feel like we've gotten so close lately, i specially love our little trio with cien hehe ^^ i love love love you and the way we blamed noni for never realising we weren't friends on discord for the longest time shall always make me smile. talking to your bf was adorable and i want you to keep reminding me that i have to write a fic for you, please and thank you!

@eternalgyu- to the awesomest most iconic goddess coded person ever, hello bae hru :D how tf r u so gorgeously stunning tell me the secret please i am so whipped but also, GREMLIN LINE!! you are as unhinged as zanna and that is truly appreciated. also, thank you for getting me into riize (i still need help) (also i will show up to tomorrow's quiz promise) i swear everything's so fun when you're around and i really hope we can get upto even more shenanigans next year mwah!

@welcometomyoasis- shu! adorable pretty shua coded shu! thank you for assigning me soonyoung in your end of the year post, and i meant everything i said in the tags okie? you're shua coded because you're soft and sweet and adorable and talented and i just really love you okie? never stop writing though, it gets me through on the bad days and i love it.

@springdayysworld- you get nothing, i'll see you in school (show up please no leaves allowed)

@mirxzii- look, all i know is that i love your voice, and that i really want you to show up in the server more so we can interact more, let's get closer next year!!

@blue-jisungs- axeeeee thank you thank you thank you for handling my silly little rants, specially yesterday's. your typos are adorable, your jokes are impeccable, your boomerness is lowkey rubbing off on me, and i really hope that i can write like you one day. i wish we can become better friends this coming year and continue being idiots. please don't stop being so axe :D ilysm <3

@haecien- cienciencien my smol tiny little bean i know you're older than me but ignore that please it's so fun to tease you and talk to you and simp with you. everything's just so much more fun with your unfiltered commentary and random rocket pictures (please don't stop). one day i would like to count all your husbands and complain to your bf (when is he asking you out please spare us) but until then, i love you.

@aakomii- i'm still surprised you followed me back tbh, you've always been a writer i've appreciated a lot and i'm glad i made an impression big enough lol, let's become good friends next year!

@etherealyoungk- give me your patience or your talent please, it takes me out every time. another thing i wonder is how are you so calm after stanning kwon soonyoung of all people (what is the secret tell me i need to know) but either way, i hope new year treats both of us well <3

@glosskirt- heheheheh fellow army ilysm we haven't interacted much but i hope we talk more because you're sooo fun <333

@candewlsy- mizu!! let's talk more because we really vibe and i look forward to every meme you send me (and the flirting. gotta love the flirting lmao)

@kkooongie- when you become moots on the last day on the year 😁🥰

[verdemoun]

@alphabetpal your beautiful mind

Kieran constantly doubts his relationship with the gang. The slightest hint of annoyance and he is mentally preparing himself to be thrown out. Overthinks interactions constantly. He still thinks he needs to be useful to have a purpose to the gang, which is why asking him to 'help' with something is such a quick way to over-ride the change is scary part of his brain and introduce new things. He keeps a backpack ready with the bare necessities for survival if he did need to run. Over years, later decades, it might collect dust, but the backpack never goes away.

One of the reasons he retreats into his room when distressed is to re-pack his bag and make sure he has everything he couldn't live without. When Hosea was in hospital, he was not doing well. He cried because not only would losing Hosea be devastating, because Hosea is decent to him and they spend so much time together, but he was preparing himself to lose his home. He went through his bag a dozen times trying to figure out what he would need, certain Arthur or Bessie was going to turn around and blame him for Hosea getting sick and throw him out.

But Kieran and Bessie. If he ever thought Bessie was actually mad at him, it might kill him. Bessie is a lifeline because she wasn't there in canon era. She has no obligation to him. He whole-heartedly believes Hosea, Lenny and Arthur, despite being some of his favorite people, are only so much nicer to him in modern era because of the guilt of seeing what happened to him: both during the VDLs and his death.

He still feels like the pretender. Hosea might be like a dad to him, but he isn't his dad the way he is for Lenny and Arthur. Hosea is still Mr Matthews, right-hand of the VDLs, and he is still a former-O'Driscoll. That feeling never goes away, and every time someone else timewarps it comes back tenfold. It is a subpoint in picking up someone new from canon era is making it clear that Kieran is one of them and the 1899 gang will defend him if needed because they know how sensitive he is to that fear of being thrown out or pushed aside.

Bessie is his mom. She is so overwhelmingly kind and patient, and she has no reason to be. He was so suspicious of it at first, because people aren't just nice. Begging to know what he can do to repay her for buying him clothes because no one just gives people things. Maybe she would turn around one day and suddenly demand everything returned or repaid? She was already referring to him as her son when Kieran was still working his way through 'is she doing this because she pities me or could it actually be possible someone doesn't mind my presence'. Of course it took months for her to convince him to call her Bessie instead of Mrs Matthews.

Hosea being in hospital was actually the event where Kieran's brain finally clicked 'yes Bessie does actually like me as a person' only to steamroll into 'this is my mom and I love her and would kill or die for her'. Hospitals are sensory hell, and Kieran has his own trauma with hospitals after the first day he timewarped he is flinching and holding his sleeve over his nose because the smell of disinfectant feels like it burns. The fact he even came along was deeply touching to Hosea, how explicit the action in itself made it clear Kieran does worry and care about him. But hospitals are hell. Once he was satisfied Hosea was actually going to be okay, and was doing better, Kieran politely excused himself.

After making sure her silly husband and their poor emotional sons were okay, Bessie tracked Kieran down like a man on a mission. Sure enough, Kieran had found his way to the smoking area, because he is also one of the more useless members of the gang when it comes to quitting - and a smoking area is usually quiet, tucked away from everything, and smoking in itself is a sensory break. When Bessie Matthews held out a hand, Kieran was so shocked he almost dropped his own cigarette.

Bessie laughed and told him not to look at her like that. She has quit, quit long before the gang got to modern era - but sometimes she just needs a cigarette. Her husband being in hospital and son about to get arrested for assaulting the next nurse to walk into the room was a good enough reason to need a cigarette. It would have to be their secret. Immediately Kieran is at ease because being trusted with a secret as scandalous as the Bessie Matthews smoking is hilarious.

She proceeded to tell him about her plan to hide the cigarettes at home, which Kieran found very amusing (honestly they all have at least one pack tucked away for bad days), and also warning him that Kieran was not to give him a cigarette. She knows her husband is a bastard and would ask Kieran first because he thinks Kieran is too much of a gentle soul to say no but she was expressly giving him permission to say no and to go to her if Hosea tries to pull any funny business. When he agreed, she smiled, very gently put a hand on his shoulder and said something to effect of 'that's my boy'.

Even if she's said it a hundred times before it was the first time his brain noticed. The two of them stood there together, not needing to talk, having a very sneaky cigarette outside of the hospital, Kieran feeling a little warm and fuzzy because Bessie Matthews had decided he was her boy and it felt nice. She proceeded to let him sit in the car to avoid the escalation that was no doubt going to happen in the hospital room and it really just sank in that all those efforts to make sure he's content and happy is because she genuinely cares and thinks of him as one of her boys.

[angelsarewatching]

KÖNIG Headcanons (NSFW at the end)

Born in Austria, but moved to Germany when he was like, seven.

Suffers from the most severe amount of anxiety you've ever seen. Like. Not the cutesy, blush, "imscawedtopresentinfrontofclass" thing you'd see on a cute anime girl. Nope. This man is a severe

WRECK.

He is absolutely NOT pure but he's like. The awkwardest bitch to ever exist. Why. Why. Who gave you anxiety my love.

Not cinnamon roll either, these are skilled, deadly operators we're talking about.

Gets flustered for no reason ever and gets the most random anxiety attacks for what he calls the "smallest" things ever.

His brain goes FULL alert and alarm mode when there's a very small problem that will not affect his life at all and when there's an actual BIG problem in place, like life-ending missiles?

His brain takes a sip of vodka and then goes like "yea it be like that sometimes"

Bullied in grade school, high school, not college. He enlisted into the army when he found out being built like a mountain also meant that it was harder to knock you down. In combat, I mean. But it's easier to knock him down mentally..

would have actually went to college if not for his crippling anxiety kicking him in the gut every time he tried to go out for a walk. someone passes him by and it's immediately "shit shit shit shit shit shit shit they hate me i'm actually so fucking worthless like-" i wish i was exaggerating but no. he was just really fucked over mentally as a kid.

grew up being bullied like HELL because of how tall he was. like. it wasn't normal. it wasn't even bullying it was just some people laughing at him from time to time about how large he was. this actually hurt him severely and sometimes refused to go out and if he was forced to. he would cry

severely sensitive about his face. he looks Fine. not attractive or ugly but. just a regular german guy. but with very sad eyes. for some reason.

seems. apologetic. his resting face is a man wanting to apologize.

definitely suffered from depression for a few years in his high school days. just not wanting to go to school and it being difficult for him to even get out of bed.

he also suffers from extreme self-esteem issues. he hates his face. Very much. has tried to cut it on Very bad days. a few scars here and there but no scarring that's too extensive.

prone to self harming. due to overthinking and extensive blaming and self-deprecating thoughts.

not as bad as ghost but. still Very bad

on a scale of 1 to 10 on how much of a pathetic wreck of a man he is? he's a solid 20.

wears a mask because he is Sensitive. very. he hates his face, he hates mirror, he hates his reflection. very very thankful for his headgear and how it hides his face because he hates his face so so much

cries a lot too. will just break out crying sometimes when he pent up Too much emotion and silent tears will come out of his eyes. but you won't see it. because it's hidden

yeah he literally thinks Everyone hates him just at first glance. he tries not to though. he tries to just focus on the job but he can't help but tremble sometimes.

you'll catch him shaking or stammering on his words too much and he'll just. ignore it if you point it out. and then slam his head on a desk inside his room when you're out of earshot

super critical of himself and his actions. TOO critical.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Need I say more.

sometimes he just. can't help it. but. suddenly he will feel like his life TRULY is on the line if he doesn't flick the light switch twenty times and blink his eyes five times so that he's safe and all his loved ones are safe and-

too clean of a room. too clean. no dust anywhere. reorganizes four times a day. indecisive. Cannot be trusted to make decisions. absolutely not.

he's OK in the battlefield but outside of fighting and shooting......... he's pathetic.

oh damn he's HORRIBLE at bed. this man's dick game would've been rock bottom if not for his massive -

yeah of course it's massive. why wouldn't it be. he's embarrassed of it because it hangs weirdly if he doesn't wear the tight enough boxers