#we WILL overcome the overwhelming feelings!!!!!!!

[platinumshawnn]

Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood - pt ix

Synopsis: in the aftermath of the Battle by the Lakeshore, the Dance of Dragons continues to rage on. Benjicot returns home and confides in his wife about the horrors of war as he prepares for another return to the battlefield and makes a plea to Rhaenyra. 

Content warnings: MDNI 18+ — adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexual content, mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation, mention of major character death, depiction of childbirth & mention of miscarriages (no depiction).

masterlist | audio playlist | backwards — 8 | forwards — 10

A/N: you guys are going to hate me but the editing on this was minimal because I am so burnt out it’s wild but I am working on it as we speak x

Word count: 11.6k

“And…deep breath, my lady,” the midwife softly instructed, her hand closing around her shoulder.

Serra winced, swaying from side-to-side in an effort to alleviate the unbearable pressure that rested in her pelvis and abdomen; the pain tore through her, radiating to every inch of her body as her head leaned back into the midwife’s shoulder in an effort to steady herself as she sat on her knees. A low groan of pain echoed through the room, cut off by a sudden sob as another contraction shot up her spine, every muscle in her body going taut while trembling hands gripped the stained sheet behind her. The mattress dug into her shoulders as she pressed into it — she could have gone a thousand years of not knowing this pain, but Serra found herself sat against her bed, crouched on the cold marble floor that tempered her feverish, sweat slicked skin, the fine hairs that rounded her hairline damp as it clung to her temples, “Again, push.”

She let out a whimper, chin dropping to rest against her chest as she bore down, the pain intensifying as she let out a cry, “Good!” The elderly midwife in front of her encouraged, a hand on her knee as she glanced up at her anguished face, “I can see the head! The head is coming through!”

She let out a sharp breath, having to pause and catch her breath that came in quick pants; a damp cloth being dabbed against her cheeks from the woman behind her who stroked her shoulder, “Almost there, my lady— breathe,” she instructed in a soft, soothing voice, “again, push!”

“It’s too early,” Serra had been weakened by the hours-long labour that seemed to have no end, slumped against the bed and writhing in agony as her expression crumbled in a sob, “please, it’s too early— ahagh!”

“Bring her, let’s get her on her back—” The suggestion was quiet, but quickly challenged as it reached her ears.

“No, please no,” She cried out, feeling as hands closed around her knees and ankles as they attempted to pull her forward — the midwife froze abruptly in response to her right foot flinging out and kicking her hand away, looking up at her young Lady who shook her head and pulled from her. She could not go through this again — she was overcome by a sudden anxiety and fear as she moved, unable to bear the thought of losing another.

Serra shoved herself upright and shifted back onto her backside, pressing further into the bed as another contraction tore through her as she then released a final groan, bearing down with the very little strength she still possessed. She writhed, her knees parted and chin resting to her chest as she pushed, barely present enough to feel the comforting hand on her shoulder from behind her; drowning out the soft voices that reluctantly encouraged her and overcome by an overwhelming sense of nausea that had followed every searing contraction that radiated to each and every end of her body. Every muscle clenched so tight she felt her bones might snap and each nerve pinched in discomfort that caused her to let out a, her hands releasing the sheets finally and finding rest against the floor at her sides as she arched back into the bed and let out a moan that resembled that of an injured animal that slowly raised into a whine — she was suddenly startled by the gush between her thighs, staining the floor as relief washed over her, paired with a sudden emptiness.

She was aware now as she tuned back into her surroundings at the feeling of a babe’s shoulders sliding past her thighs and letting out a high pitched shriek; she quickly reached down underneath her chemise and found the infant who squirmed, face scrunched up in a cry that echoed through the room. The midwife, too, reached for the babe, aiding them to her chest and wrapping a thin blanket around it as she finally slumped back into the bed again; a cry of relief leaving her.

“He’s here!”

Serra took a moment to collect her thoughts, seeking rest as her head rested against the bed and panting heavily, her eyes fluttering shut — her heart continued to race and she felt cold from the shock, numbed by adrenaline but faintly able to feel hands instantly pressing to her abdomen and palpitating while another pair of hands assessed the child in her arms. It was then that she slowly opened her eyes and looked at the midwife with tired eyes, “A boy?”

Serra looked down, admiring his small, rounded face that was framed by a familiar head of dark hair; using her left hand to wipe away some blood from his forehead as he squirmed, mouth open with lively screams that announced his arrival -- he was here, at last. She let out a weak, emotional sob and looked up at the midwife.

The elderly woman smiled wide and bright, with her rosy cheeks and eyes lit with excitement as she softly spoke, “A boy, my lady,” she said, “a fine, handsome heir for Raventree.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He could hardly hear over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears — the sound of blood thundering loud over that of the rain that poured down in sheets that made his vision blur, squinting to see his hand outstretched in front of him as he blindly pushed forward. The only thing that guided his movements was the sound of anguished outcries, grunts of exertion, and the harsh clatter of weaponry; swords clashing into one another in battle that had dragged on for hours — he did not particularly like battle, but it only felt necessary these days. There seemed to be no avoiding it. Perhaps he chose to no longer avoid it.

The sun had hardly risen, hung low over the horizon as it slowly crept high into the sky as the light of morning spread across the shores of God's Eye; no inch untouched by the already unbearable heat despite the treacherous rain, humid and thick as the men only found relief by the subtle breeze that blew across the sea and towards the battle.

Benjicot had not seen the early days of this battle -- a day late, but the carnage that already haunted the shores was undoubtedly beyond what he could have ever prepared himself for when he arrived that morning. With every step he took, there was a new body, slashed and bloodied — his boots sunk into the mud that had turned red with blood each step forward; soaked up to his knees and heaving for air as he found himself stumbling forward and twisting awkwardly into his right knee.

Faintly, he could see the knight in front of him — the familiar regal red and gold of his house colours, clumsy and equally blind as he stupidly swung his sword out at the sound of a grunt from Benjicot as he pushed up from the ground. His eyes narrowed, blinking harshly and trying to use his hand to wipe the water from them as they stung, struggling to keep his eyes open. He caught his balance, his foot coming free from the mud with a disgusting slosh and fumbling to readjust his sword in his hand — they were only inches apart, but the weather made it near impossible for him to move with any grace, his arm swinging out and catching the tip of his blade in an awkward clatter that felt far from deliberate — he heard a startled noise from the young knight who stumbled back, free hand flinging behind him in an effort to catch himself.

Benjicot lunged forward, moving based on hope alone and potentially false optimism that he wouldn’t miss — that he wouldn’t just crash into the ground, face first and put himself in a worse position. His neck and shoulder collided with the waist of the boy in front of him, losing his footing in the slippery terrain and lurching the pair of them forward as a hand slammed against his back in an effort to find hold on something, anything — instead, the collision was followed by the clamour of armour as they tumbled backwards. His brow slammed into his chin as the two men hit the ground, eliciting a pained help from the Lannister knight — Benjicot could have sworn his vision had given out entirely for a moment, pain shooting in behind his left eye and radiating until through his temple as a hand slammed into his face; shoving and fighting to get him off — his head jerked sideways, straining backwards awkwardly. He fumbled to shove his hand away, crawling up him like a struggling inch worm and punching his wrist as he reached for his sword that had been lost in the muck — the hand reached again, wriggling underneath him, and Benjicot growled in frustration.

He gritted his teeth, feeling the sharp sting of pain shoot through his body as the Lannister knight beneath him thrashed, desperately trying to dislodge him, but Benjicot's determination outweighed his exhaustion. His fingers scraped through the mud, finally closing around the hilt of his sword just as the knight's knee slammed into his side, knocking the air from his lungs.

With a feral growl, he pushed back, using the knight's moment of distraction to twist the blade up between them. The knight’s hand shot out again, grasping for Benjicot’s arm just a moment too late — the blade met its mark, driving into the gap between the golden lion’s breastplate and shoulder guard. Benjicot could feel the shock in the knight’s body as his muscles went rigid beneath him, his eyes widening as he stared up, mouth agape and frozen; a silence befalling them as his mouth opened and choked out a series of sounds, wet and coughing, his lips being stained by blood.

For a moment, the battle seemed to stop — the distant clash of swords and the roar of men faded into the background. Benjicot met the knight’s eyes through the haze of rain and pain, seeing the disbelief in the young man’s gaze, and something worse: fear. The kind of fear that a child experienced when they heard thunder and sought their parents for comfort, something boyish. Benjicot had never liked the killing — not like some men did — but war had taken that choice from him long ago.

The knight’s grip on Benjicot’s arm weakened, his body growing limp. He hesitated before he wrenched the blade free, the Lannister collapsing back into the muck with a groan that barely registered against the storm. Benjicot rolled off him, chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he lay in the blood-soaked mud, his back becoming wet as water seeped through the plates of armour; leaving the layers beneath clinging to his skin as his eyes closed. He did not know how long he lied there — it felt like an eternity, listening to the sound of death that surrounded him, his sword by his side and wracked by exhaustion.

“—halt!”

Footsteps stomped towards him, unwilling to move as he waited — waited for the inevitable and unwilling to fight more, he slowed his breathing and opened his eyes to look up at the grey skies that hung overhead, forcefully blinking through the relentless downpour, “Benjicot!” The voice shouted, coming towards him, “Ben!”

He registered the voice suddenly as Emrys, soon finding him at his side and dragging him up by the collar. A look of relief crossed his cousin’s features as Benjicot sat up, grabbing his shoulder and supporting his weight, “You had me worried there, my lord,” Emrys breathed out, a hint of forced humour in his voice.

He couldn’t even muster a laugh, finding the thought alone draining as he closed his eyes and slumped in relief, his own hand clinging to his cousin’s elbow, “I am still here,” He muttered, “you are not free of me yet.”

His cousin laughed, “There is plenty more to celebrate today then.”

Emrys stood, offering a hand to him -- his eyes darted to it, a dull ache settling into his bones at the thought of moving, “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can,” Emrys replied, a young knight being summoned forward from behind him, both men quickly taking either side of him. Benjicot let out a choked yelp, groaning as they dragged him up to his feet, stumbling a step and wincing as he struggled to remain on his feet; the adrenaline of battle had begun to wear off already, “Easy now…take it slow.”

His face screwed up in pain, letting out a sharp exhale from his nose and gritting his teeth as Emrys wrapped an arm around his middle and watched his expression with a clear look of concern that only reached his eyes, “Are you ready?”

Benjicot gave a short nod -- although his legs still felt weak, he did not want to appear vulnerable, his movements slow and shaky as he stood upright. He could feel as Emrys kept a hand close, hear the sound of his leather gloves as his fingers wriggled, ready to catch him, “What updates do you bring from the frontlines?” He quietly asked, his voice still possessing a weak tremor. His cousin hesitated, watching him a moment longer before he glanced towards the knight who looked equally as prepared to catch and break his fall.

“Lord Charlton and Lord Forrest Frey have too been slain,” Emrys announced, his eyes scanning his appearance as the young lord turned, limping on unsteady feet to achieve the task. Benjicot exhaled sharply, “As well as two thirds of the winter wolves, but there is more…”

The losses seemed to accumulate and with each man down, Benjicot felt a sense of dread grow heavier by each passing minute, resting in his chest and slowly sinking into the pit of his stomach and churning there. His brows twitched, worry lines etched deep into his young features as he sighed deeply and nodded as if to encourage him to speak; however, he was met by an optimistic glint in his cousin’s gaze as he shifted, “Both sides suffer heavy losses…”

“Why are you so smug about that?” He breathlessly asked.

“They retreat,” He suddenly interrupted, too excited for his own good. His voice lowered, watching as Benjicot struggled to process his words, “In exchange, your uncle has intervened in their efforts to summon for more men and we have slain Humffrey Lefford himself, leaving them crippled-- today, those who remain have begun to retreat. If they do not meet death by sword, they drown. Today, we celebrate a success for the Blacks.”

His gaze settled on him, his words sinking in finally. He glanced past him towards the sight of some remaining men, mounted on horseback that circled the grounds, rounding up some remaining men -- the distant clash of battle was lighter, the sound of an anguished shriek filling the field, a horse whinnying…it did not feel like a win, but his words sparked some hope, “This will be a success for our men,” Emrys repeated, “Raventree and its heir stand still, the rest of the craven Lannister men retreat, like a dog with its tail between its legs.”

“Lord Swyft? The men of Crakehall?” He asked, his blade being shoved into the ground and leaning into it for support. His eyes shifted again towards his cousin.

“Few remain,” Emrys replied.

“Have we accounted for Lord Reyne?” He asked, dismissing his celebration as he withdrew his sword from the mud and slowly pushed past him to ascend the field once again. He could still hear and faintly make out the bodies, the sound of battle reverberating from up the hill with the harsh clash of weapons; trudging through the mud. Pain tore through his ribs, sore as he moved and listened, his cousin in tow.

“Throat slit, he was found among a pile of wolves,” He replied quickly, glancing down at his own feet as he stepped over the body of the young Lannister knight -- Benjicot, however, avoided to dare look down; disregarding the sickening crunch beneath his right foot as he nearly tripped over the arm of another boy who lay only a few feet away, “I assume the poor fuck did not stand much a chance against them. Looked as though they surrounded him and took their turns apparently.”

The thought made his stomach turn, grimacing in disgust as a shudder ran through him, glancing over his shoulder to witness his cousin’s nonchalance on the matter. He understood that war was gruesome and violent, bloody and messy -- it had a way of bringing out the worst of men. But he could not help the inkling of sympathy he felt for Lord Reyne in that moment, repulsed by the image and fighting the urge to vomit as he hesitated, swallowing thickly as he pushed forward -- some sun had managed to peer through the clouds, his eyes narrowed as he let out a gruff hum in response.

He knew Lord Reyne had a wife and children back home -- two young boys that Benjicot had grown up alongside, having met them briefly in his childhood. He’d never considered them friends, and especially nothing anywhere close to the brotherhood he shared with the Tully boys, but he wondered how they would react to the news of their fathers passing. He had struggled with the news of his own father’s death and had been numb in the weeks afterwards, but he had been a man grown with his own responsibilities that forced him to keep moving forward — he couldn’t imagine still being a boy of what, ten-and-four? He couldn’t quite remember their ages, nor picture what time had done to change their faces, but he imagined they looked more like their father as the years passed — an idea that felt more daunting the more he pondered the thought, knowing that his wife would have to come face-to-face with that reminder every day of what they had done to him.

He sniffled, feeling the sudden sting of tears that welled in his eyes, pressing forward — blinking, he attempted to force them back down. Benjicot was horrified by the thought of things being reversed, imagining Serra being the wife to receive news that her husband had died instead. He was worn and exhausted, and he just wanted to be home and in her arms — he did not want to even entertain the image of her grief-stricken and left to raise their child alone. He let out a quiet sob, a choked sound that he attempted to conceal with a cough, clearing his throat as he was suddenly grateful for the rain.

Finally, he paused and scanned the shore. Benjicot's hand trembled as he clutched the hilt of his sword, the rain dripping off its blade like blood washed away by the gods themselves. He stared down at the bodies that littered the shore, the slain men no different than he had been mere hours ago — sons, fathers, husbands.

The stillness of death suffocated him, each face a reflection of what could have been, what still might be. The Lord Reyne he had struck down had not been so different from him — a man with a family, with duties, with hopes for a future that would never come. His chest tightened as the image of Serra’s face drifted into his mind again. He imagined her receiving a letter, trembling hands ripping it open to reveal the worst news a wife could hear. He pictured her alone in their chambers, clutching their child, eyes red from crying.

He shut his eyes tight, letting the raindrops mingle with his tears. Would she move on? Could she? Benjicot cursed himself for thinking it. He had been raised on the stories of glory and valour, where men died heroes and songs were sung of their deeds. But this, this was not glory. This was hell. The bitter taste of it was on his tongue as he swallowed hard, pushing down the emotions that clawed at his chest.

“My lord?”

He turned his head slightly, finding the young knight who had helped him to his feet — he recognized him from years of training alongside one another, a man only a year younger, looking at him with a subtle frown, “We must find Robb,” he thickly replied, avoiding his eyes as he sniffled again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Serra watched the babe in her arms with a look of awe, his face scrunched up as he awkwardly fumbled around, mouth open and growing increasingly frustrated as the moments passed. Her fingertip brushed his small nose, rounded and perfect as the room was filled by a soft shushing, attempting to soothe him when he released an angry whine, a tiny, clenched fist rising against her chest and bumping against her sternum; he squirmed against her body, “Patience, my little love…” she sweetly said, her voice quiet, “find your way.”

Serra quickly lifted her gaze to the wet-nurse who was silent throughout the whole duration of her attempt, her eyebrows tugging into a worried frown, “I feel as though he does not want me,” she sighed, “is it something I am doing?” She asked, looking down again at her son.

The wet-nurse watched from her place near the wall, eagerly ready to step forward and intervene at the first sign of distress as she held her breath — her hands anxiously twitched at her skirt, “It takes them time to find the breast sometimes, m’lady,” She finally spoke, her accent thick and voice soft and nurturing, “I have always found boys to be a little slower to take to nursing, they require a little more guidance. Might I?”

She let out a defeated sigh, giving a feeble nod as she allowed the wet-nurse to approach. The woman knelt in front of her, gently tucking the blanket down more from his face that had become red with frustration, letting out a cry that made Serra want to shrivel up and die, disheartened as she softly shushed him again and gently bounced him; his nose bumped her nipple when he turned his head, mouth opened and blindly seeking her, but only meeting flesh, “Bring him closer,” the nurse instructed.

She adjusted him in her arms, bringing him closer with assistance from the nurse, his arm outstretched against her ribs and wailing, “I know, my dear boy, I know…I’m sorry,” she softly spoke, anxiety beginning to creep up within her chest.

“Align his nose…” she instructed, “with the nipple, and bring him…” she murmured, her voice trailing off as she supported his head in her palm for a moment to fix his positioning.

The nurse withdrew her hands to her lap as Serra wordlessly obeyed, bringing her son into her chest and guiding him to her breast as she’d been directed — a wave of relief washed over her as his mouth finally found her, latching around her and reluctantly suckling, “There you go,” she whispered encouragingly. She looked up, giving the nurse a tired smile and letting out a soft laugh as she bowed her head with a warm smile of her own and stood to her feet.

The room was once again silent, filled only by the uncomfortable sigh from Serra after a moment as she was overcome by her let-down and her son’s breathing. The sensation was not one she had yet to become accustomed to, but one she welcomed as a means to bonding with the sweet boy who appeared content for the first time that afternoon. She withdrew a hand from underneath his back, still supporting him with her left arm in order to tenderly stroke his cheek as he fed, absentmindedly rocking him from side-to-side, “Is it normal…to experience pain?” She asked in a quiet voice that was barely above a whisper after some time had passed, finding that he had begun to nod off to sleep.

“At first,” The nurse replied.

“It’s been nearly two months, though.”

Her nurse hesitated, glancing towards the babe, “I can summon the maester if you would like, my lady.”

“I do not wish to bother him,” she said, shaking her head, “I can bear some discomfort, I just worry.”

The nurse smiled, “You needn’t worry, my lady. You are a natural, it is a gift from the gods.”

Serra wanted to laugh out loud, feeling like anything but after struggling with the simple task these past weeks, angry that her body seemed to fail where it should have thrived — something so natural did not come with ease, the way she had expected. She had not been prepared and that had become abundantly obvious when he had first been born, terrified of doing anything wrong and upsetting him; every cry made the hair on the back of her neck stand and she felt as though she had been on edge since his birth. There was no tea or herbal remedy that could have prepared her for the amount of anxiety that had flooded her body the minute he was born, and what came after, once he was no longer safe and protected by her womb. Her wet-nurse meant well, but she was bitter and tired, lowering her head to look down at her son again and watching as he suckled, even in his sleep; his eyes closed and fluttering, fine, dark hair curling into his forehead.

The quiet hum of the nursery lulled Serra into a brief sense of peace as she continued to rock her son, her eyes trained on the soft rise and fall of his chest. His dark lashes rested delicately against his cheeks, still flushed from the earlier ordeal, but now serene and undisturbed. Serra allowed herself a tender smile, brushing her fingers gently through the fine curls that framed his forehead. Yet beneath that fragile peace, the weight of worry gnawed at her. She felt it in her bones, an ache that ran deeper than the discomfort in her chest. It wasn’t just the challenges of motherhood that plagued her now—there was a tension she could not shake, a fear that had taken root since Benjicot had ridden off to battle. It was the not knowing, the endless waiting that frayed at her already delicate nerves. The thought of her infant son becoming the Lord of Raventree made her sick with nausea, debilitated by fear of the idea.

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the fading light of day was giving way to dusk. The lake was out there, somewhere beyond the mist and trees, where her husband fought to protect their home and people. She wanted to be hopeful, to believe in his strength and the bravery that had always defined him. But every distant sound, every muffled voice beyond the nursery door set her on edge, her mind conjuring the dark possibilities.

The soft rustle of the wet nurse’s skirts drew her attention back to the room. The woman had moved to the corner, silently keeping watch, her expression one of gentle concern. Serra gave her a quick glance, but words stuck in her throat. Another sigh escaped her lips as she shifted her son slightly, cradling him closer against her body.

A soft knock filled the room, a pause following — her eyes found the nurse who immediately stepped forward and used her body as a shield, Serra’s hand reaching for the blanket that surrounded her son to lift it to cover herself as much as it would allow, “Come in,” Serra announced as the door then slowly edged open.

Grace crept inside, quickly closing the door behind her and keeping her head lowered as she entered the room, “I apologise for my disturbance, my lady.”

Serra tilted her head to look around the nurse, finding Grace’s eyes, “It is quite alright, Grace,” she assured, “what is it?” She asked, her eyes lowering to where her son shifted in his slumber.

Grace visibly hesitated, her hands clasping and unclasping in front of her, “It is your lord husband, my lady,” she quietly said.

Serra felt herself tense up, her eyes lifting and clenching her teeth as she found her nurse looking at her — she had yet to hear the next words, but she was frozen in place as dread settled heavy in her bones, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as she absentmindedly brushed her son’s cheek, “What of him?” She finally choked out after a moment, her voice low in an effort to sound steady.

She could hear the slow, hesitant shuffle of Grace’s footsteps that crossed the room until she was inches away; stopping so she could kneel in front of her, her gaze fixed on her face, “Many have been wounded in battle, my lady,” She said, her voice soft and warm, but holding a firm edge to it. Serra wanted to let out a cry, nodding stiffly after a pause, “But he has returned. The maesters are with him and his men as we speak…” She continued to explain.

Despite her words, Serra felt shame in admitting she did not care about the others -- she did not care that the other men had made it home, or that they were wounded -- she did not care for any of them at that very moment. The only thing she could focus on was the mention of her husband, hanging onto her words as she was overcome by a confusing slew of emotions, storming within her like a downpour of rain and thunder that enraged the seas, like the gods themselves had crafted it and taken vengeance out on the common and noble folk alike. Her relief was muddled by her sadness, her grief, fear of what almost was, still on edge and anxious like she was expecting to be told there was some mistake and that Benjicot had not made it home; that this news was some sort of miscommunication and that his body had been so mangled, they had mistook him for another man. Her stomach churned, clutching her son closer to her body and fixing his blanket with a restless, shaky hand as her eyes focused on his sleeping face.

“...Ser Henry was wounded but he is expected to make a full recovery...”

She wondered if it made her a terrible person to care so little for others in favour of Ben, as long as it meant he was unscathed and safe. There had been no doubt that the war would take, take, and take from all those of the realm as far South and North as one could fathom, and that nobody would be left untouched by the carnage and grief that would entail, but there had been no preparing for just how bare the battles would leave the realm in the aftermath -- with each battle, she felt as though Raventree became emptier and quieter than it had been all those months prior; once lively and full, she now noticed the gaps as time progressed.

She, too, still noticed her father’s absence.

It hadn’t yet been a year since his passing and the loneliness that had followed was not something she could have prepared herself for, either. She hadn’t seen her brothers in months and had been forced into mourning his loss alone whilst they were off to their own devices; she had sent ravens but only received three each in the time since they had left four months earlier. Kermit had since returned to Riverrun to take over as Lord Paramount, and Oscar was sent to the frontlines of battle and distracted by the new found responsibilities of Knightship. She found herself envying them for having something to distract themselves in those early days, while she had been ordered to bedrest almost immediately after she had found out she was expecting; news that, while good for Raventree and its future, she struggled to find comfort when she first felt the barely there little flutters and stirring in her belly. She had barely had time to mourn the first babe she had lost months earlier, only for her father to pass forty-five days into his ascension to head of House Tully; forty-five days after her grandsire. The past year had been a blur of grief and tears and anger that still lingered.

“…I can summon him, if you would like,” Grace suddenly said.

She was drawn from the thought, her eyes lifting to find hers; a greyish blue that Serra found rather pretty in the light — she was a pretty girl, she had come to conclude over the past year, but for once, she couldn’t concentrate on the thought. Instead, she silently stared at her, processing the suggestion and listening to the rhythmic, quick sound of her son’s breathing for a moment; deep and steady as he let out a tired whine, rolling against her as a small hand came up to rub his face. She looked down, catching his fist with her fingers and pulling it away from his cheek as tiny nails attempted to scratch at the delicate skin, leaving behind a faint red line from where he had made contact, “No…no,” she quickly replied, “I will not summon him like a dog to heel, I can go to him.”

“My lady?” The nurse asked.

Serra slowly stood, withdrawing her son from her chest and beginning to pull the front of her dress up and back over her chest; unsteady on her feet as she steadied herself against the chair briefly. The nurse quickly took the babe from her arms, a look of uncertainty being passed between the two women as Serra sucked in a shaky breath, attempting to straighten out her dress, “Help me, please— I cannot go to him looking a mess,” She instructed.

Grace snapped into action after a short-lived hesitation, coming forward and working quickly to straighten the low shoulders of her dress; she stepped around her to straighten the backing against her shoulders with swift, nimble fingers. Her hands rose to smooth out her hair, pulling it back from the loose hanging style after having eagerly torn out the pins from earlier; cascading down her back and curling around her face from the sticky humidity that trickled in through the window and left the air thick and hard to choke down, “Shall I braid…”

“No,” Serra sighed out, “no…it is fine. Just leave it.”

She felt a hand grab the back of her dress as she attempted to step forward, forcing her back again as Grace let out a soft breath, “Let me at least pin it from your eyes, my lady,” She quietly said, reaching up and beginning to pull the few stray strands that hung in her eyes back.

She wanted to protest further, but found herself unable to, settling into silence and allowing her to pin the hair back; secured by a pin at the back of her head with one final brush with her fingers, attempting to tame the curls. Her hands smoothed down the front of her dress as she leaned forward to press a final kiss to her son’s forehead, giving him one last look before she heaved out a sigh and hurried towards the door.

Grace stepped back as Serra adjusted the front of her dress one last time, her fingers trembling slightly. She cast a final glance at her son, now dozing peacefully in the nurse’s arms, the red mark already fading from his cheek. For a moment, her resolve wavered — the pull to stay, to hold her child just a bit longer, was strong. But she knew she had to see him. She had to see Benjicot.

With a deep breath, Serra straightened her spine and nodded to Grace. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned toward the door.

The cool air of the hall greeted her as soon as she stepped outside the room, the thick humidity fading slightly. Her heart raced in her chest, the familiar excitement bubbling up again. She couldn’t help it — the eagerness was overwhelming, nearly impossible to restrain as she heard an uproar of cheers from beyond the walls. Without thinking, Serra gathered her skirts in her hands and began to move, her steps quickening with each passing moment.

She did not mean to run but she could hardly contain her eagerness to see him, skirts gripped in her hands as she rushed down the halls of Raventree, eyes wide and turning her head to try and look outside through the windows; attempting to catch a glimpse out the window of the returning men and her husband through the yard, though unsuccessful. She could hear the voices, however, excited and clamouring to approach and congratulate the men on their success at Lakeshore outside the great hall, already picturing the council gushing over her husband, his face smug and probably just eating it all up. She could barely move fast enough for her liking, a handmaiden on her heels as she just about leapt down the stairs.

“My lady!” Grace gasped, reaching for her as Serra launched down the stairs, hand reaching out to grip the railing with her eyes cast down to wake sure she didn’t trip over her own feet; bare feet padding across the cold, stone floors.

She could now see the clamour of men, armour amidst the crowd but her husband was still hidden from view, wildly searching for him among the men. Suddenly, she noticed the councilmen huddled around a figure, clasping the man’s shoulder and nodding, pridefully beaming as they spoke in hushed tones, “You did good, my lord. A great success for Raventree and the Riverlands.” The old, balding man praised with a hand on the shoulder of her lord husband, whose back was turned to her.

She stopped at the base of the stairs, watching as he nodded, voice quiet in replying his thanks to the men, head turning slightly to glance at the men who were still buzzing with excitement over their win; bloodied and rowdy, though her husband was quiet, sighing as she watched his eyes scan the crowd. He turned slowly as though he was searching for someone, his mouth pressed into a fine line and eyes narrowing, the bags under his eyes signifying his exhaustion — he’d aged significantly these past weeks, exhausted by the war, evident even from afar. He looked the opposite of what she had imagined, something bordering melancholic appearing on his face as his gaze found her, expression softening and shoulders relaxing at the sight of his wife; his clenched fists wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword on his waist belt. He released his hold on the weapon for the first time in days as he started to approach her; shoulders bumping bodies, caring very little that he shoved men in the process as he moved towards her. He was just eager to be near her — another first in the past month, as he reached for her once he was close enough, his hand finding her waist and gripping the fabric of her dress to pull her towards him.

She clung to him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as his arms slid round her back and reaching a hand up to press to the back of her head whilst burying his face into her hair. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of her. They stood in silence like that, content with each other's embrace for the moment before he reluctantly leaned away, her hands cupping his cheeks to hold his face in her hands, still chest-to-chest as they stared back at one another.

Benjicot couldn’t find it in himself to do much speaking, silent as he withdrew at the sudden realisation that something had changed. His features pinched into a frown, confused as his eyes dropped to her belly, any signs of being swollen with babe fading as her body slowly worked to go back to what it had previously been and heal; one hand reaching out to brush his fingers down her belly, stopping just below her naval — a comforting gesture that Benjicot had gotten used to doing throughout the past several months, palm resting flat against the bump of where their child grew each day. Though this time, there was emptiness when his hand stroked over her abdomen, nearly flat and almost as though their babe had never even been there — though both her hips and chest were fuller, changed in order to support the life that grew within her.

Her hands moved to both cover his, taking his hand between both of hers and bringing the bloodied knuckles to her mouth in a sweet kiss, drawing his eyes back to hers. A feeling of dread settled deep into the pit of his stomach, bile crawling up the back of his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth, fearful of the worst as his fingers laced through hers, his mouth opening. Though he was left wordless and stammering stupidly as a small whine came from behind her as a wet nurse came down the stairs behind his wife, her arms filled by a wiggling bundle that reached up with small, chubby hands — both his wife and him turned towards the woman who approached them, her gaze down at the small face that peered back at her; small features screwed up with a cry.

“Here, I can take him.” Serra said, releasing her husband's hands to retrieve the infant from the wetnurse, slow and ever so cautious as she took the bundle into her arms; making sure to adjust her arms correctly as she then turned in the direction of Benjicot, who stepped forward, “Come meet your boy, Benjicot,” She softly said, voice barely above a whisper as she smiled, shy as she looked up at him.

He scanned her face, blinking before looking down at his son, hesitantly closing the gap until he stood over the both of them, his right hand lifting to gently stroke his son’s head amidst the blankets. Pride swelled in his chest at the sight of their infant son, letting out a chuckle that was more air, in awe as he then brought his hand to the cheek of his son, his finger stroking the soft, youthful skin, “A boy.”

“Aelor Blackwood.” She quietly said, his gaze shooting up to her face quickly in response to her words.

His other hand lifted to cup her cheek, a smile spreading across his own face as he let out a content sigh, “My beautiful wife,” he said, his voice laced with adoration as he leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple. His gaze returned to the boy in her arms as he squirmed, face screwing up with a soft whine after being woken from his slumber — Aelor blindly turned towards his hand with an open mouth and attempted to bring the digit to his mouth for comfort, “and you my dear boy, you will make a fine knight one day,” He quietly said.

“Might I hold him?” He asked after a moment, looking up to find her eyes.

She seemed taken aback, a smile slowly spreading across her face as she leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, “Of course. He’s as much your boy as he is mine.”

He felt foolish asking, he realised, as she was right -- from the curve of his nose to the dark hair that curled into his temples, his eyes aimlessly wandering to watch no particular thing as he cooed. He watched as his fists balled, gaze scanning his surroundings and briefly pausing to look up at him -- Benjicot swore his heart stuttered, softening immediately as he looked upon Aelor, who was so blissfully unaware of all that he had done or who he had been before that moment. He was innocent in all of this.

Benjicot slowly stepped around her, his head lowered and disregarding any further need for engaging with the council and their mindless chatter, praising him -- he didn’t need to listen to know what more they had to say to him. He felt as she clung to his side, her hand finding his elbow and following his slow pace up the stairs, afraid to disturb his son with any sudden jostles; his steps slow and cautious as they ascended the stairs, ever so grateful as the men remained silent behind him. There would be celebrations for days -- he knew that. But they could begin without him, only once he was nestled away in the safety of his chambers.

It would only be then that he could mend from the day’s events, and breathe for the first time in days. Feel safe for the first time in months.

Serra’s fingers brushed the back of his neck, her fingers carding through his hair and brushing her thumb along his nape; her wide, brown eyes watching him with a look like he was a living god among them, a shy smile threatening the corners of her mouth. Her hand dropped between his shoulders as they walked, finding his eyes when he slowly lifted his gaze to meet hers.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The room was still filled by the soft coo of Aelor, while Benjicot sat on the edge of the bed and held him in his lap, cradling him to his chest as the babe sucked on his fingers. The bunched up blankets were loose, allowing him to freely wriggle as he dozed off, his eyes half closed already as the fire continued — Serra had been grateful for the extra hands, belonging none other than to her son’s father, rather than that of another wet nurse. She admired the women who committed their lives to raising noble children almost as though they were their own, and she could not have survived those early days without them — but she did not enjoy the practice of becoming so uninvolved with one’s children, that women would never hold their own child for years at a time; she could hardly fathom the thought of not having Aelor in her arms for more than a couple of hours, used to the weight of him against her chest and cradled into her like he was a piece of her that existed outside of her body.

Her mother had been so hands-on and involved with her and her brothers, having established a strong bond with her own children from birth — Serra wanted nothing less for her own children.

Watching Benjicot, she relished in the thought that Aelor would have exactly that — just as she did, content and knowing the safety of his parents arms as Ben caressed his cheek with a thumb; lulling him to sleep with quiet stories of his own youth, revelling in the fact that he was a Blackwood through and through. He was a spitting image of his father, and that of his before him — she could only imagine the relief that he had a piece of his father again, one to love and cherish and carry with him even in his passing. His adoration for the boy was already clear, his eyes softening and voice soft, quiet and loving as he spoke, unwilling to let him go; gently using his fingers to bring his hand down and away from his mouth as Aelor attempted to suck again on his fingers, his face scrunching up in a frustrated whine, head twisting to the side -- he let out a soft ‘sh’ in an effort to soothe him.

Serra watched from the fireplace, brushing out her hair as she sat on the bench in front of it, her eyes never leaving the pair. It warmed her to watch the interaction, a small smile on her face as she briefly slowed her pace in fixing her hair, pausing a moment as Aelor released a final whine; his eyes closed as sleep overcame him. It was a miracle, she thought, how he could find sleep even in his father’s lap so quickly -- there had been no buffer period in which he needed to warm to Benjicot, and seemed to instinctively already know he was safe and that this man was no stranger -- like he knew this was the man who had spoken to him for several months from outside the womb, whispering stories to him before he had entered the world.

She set down the brush, standing slowly and twisting her ring as she approached her husband, careful not to make any noise, too scared to breathe in fear of waking the raven-haired infant whose breathing slowed with slumber; his eyes fluttering with dreams of whatever peaceful things babes dreamt of. She planted a hand on Benjicot’s shoulder, resting her chin upon it and looking down to where he was still hyper focused on their son, afraid to look away for even a moment; he quietly fixed the blanket, tucking it around him with cautious, gentle movements, “The ladies should be taking him to the nursery soon,” She softly said, her eyes on him.

For the first time in an hour, his gaze lifted to look up at her, “One moment longer,” he pleaded, his knuckles brushing underneath his chin and eliciting a slight twitch of his face as he looked down at him again, “I feel as though I have missed a lifetime already.”

There was a melancholic tone in his voice as he gazed at him, tugging at her heart and replacing her joy with an aching sadness. She couldn’t bring herself to summon the nurses and maidens who would soon take him away; knowing she’d had a month and a half with him, while Benjicot had only a few hours. Though she tried not to dwell on it, she was painfully aware that it was only a matter of time before he would be called back to battle, with no guarantee of returning unharmed and being as lucky a second time around. Serra let out a shaky exhale of air, lowering her head to press a kiss to the crook of his neck.

His head turned quickly at the sound of her sigh, searching for her face as she kept her head down and unable to meet his gaze. Benjicot’s eyebrows furrowed, voice softening as he attempted to beckon her attention back to him, “Serra,” He said, “Look at me.”

She slowly lifted her head, her bottom lip folded between her teeth as she forced a brave, nonchalant front, her eyebrows raising with a simple hum of acknowledgement. But he knew her well enough that he could see the tension that had become of her, her mouth a tight line as her fingers pressed further into his shoulder, holding his clothing tight within her fist as blinking unnaturally. Benjicot swallowed, looking down to her lap, “Let them bring him to the nursery now, it’s growing late.”

She nodded, unwilling to argue as she carefully scooped Aelor from his lap; his hands nervously following hers as he was lifted, cradled to her chest as he leaned forward to press a final kiss to his temple. Serra slowly walked towards the door, her exchange with the wetnurse who hovered outside the door brief and quiet to the point that Benjicot could not make out a word -- his eyes followed her movements as she leaned down to kiss his forehead, sliding him into the older woman’s arms and stroking his head as she turned and began to retreat down the hall with their son. Even then, she remained in the open doorway, leaned against the frame while she anxiously picked at her nails, twirling her fingers.

She closed the door after a moment, clicking it shut and turning to cross the room towards the fireplace where she abruptly stopped. Benjicot settled back on to the edge of the bed, beginning to shed his clothing in preparation for sleep, his eyes still focused on her and unable to tear away; he could make out the wringing of her hands, her shoulders tense and rigid as the silence dragged on, sensing that her thoughts were anywhere but there.

She moved finally, her head turning right slightly to look at him from the corner of her eye.

“What of my brothers?” She asked, referring to Kermit and Oscar. Her dear brother Oscar, who was barely a man-grown, his face still young and boyish when she had last seen him, eyes still possessing some trace of innocence having not seen war before. Her chest ached at the thought of him in battle, bloody and bruised — but he had their father’s blood in his veins, he was fearless and could fight hard, surely.

“Strong as ever.” Benjicot replied in a low voice, feeling as he approached from behind, having listened to the sound of fabric and clinking that dropped over the seat, until he was stripped down to his under layers. His chest pressed to her shoulder blades as he brought her towards him, an arm wrapped around her waist and secured her in place with a firm hold while the other trailed hand trailed up the length of her arm until his fingers wrapped around her shoulder. His forehead rested against the crown of her head, relishing in the warmth she radiated after being away from it for the past month and three weeks, his eyes closing as she let out a sigh, “Your brother has been rather busy with the responsibilities of his new lordship— but he is fierce, brave.” He mumbled into her hair.

Her own arms dropped to place over his own, her hand finding his at her waist while her eyes remained on the flames of the fireplace, emitting heat to the rest of her chamber. She was comforted by word of her oldest brother, a small, pensive smile coming to her face; Benjicot’s hand moving from her hold to press to her abdomen while a hand of hers remained overtop his, “Oscar is as equal a fierce leader,” He said, face moving from her hair to drop to her shoulder, his mouth pressing a kiss to the bare skin there.

It brought her some relief to hear that they were both safe and well, presumably having returned to their house by this point — relieved by the news that they were alive and otherwise safe. The war had already taken enough. Benjicot sighed, a defeated sound as his head twisted to press his cheek to the plane of her shoulder, both arms lacing around her waist. Her fingers absentmindedly traced along his forearm, “I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t apologise, Ben,” she easily replied.

She had counted every minute, every hour, waiting for the day she received word of his return — it felt pathetic at first, eager to receive news that he had come back. But time drew on, and as her anxieties grew, she cared little for how desperate she appeared — she was alone and terrified for six weeks, “I do and I’m sorry I left you to do it alone…” He said, voice small like a child, “I worried about you every day.”

Serra leaned further into Benjicot, relenting and allowing herself to melt into the warmth of his embrace, her eyes still fixed on the flickering flames. “You didn’t leave me alone,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotion beneath it. “You were always here, Ben. In my thoughts, in every moment, you never left me.”

Benjicot pressed another kiss to her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. “I should have been here. I should’ve seen him, held him...”

She turned in his arms, placing a hand gently on his cheek, guiding his gaze to hers. “You will. He’s here, and so are you. We’ve all had to make personal sacrifices in these times,” she quietly continued, her other hand bringing his face to hers and releasing a sigh through her nose, “I only worry about you.”

“Please don’t,” he replied, attempting to lean in and press a kiss to her mouth. She withdrew, leaning back and furrowing her brow at him — he hung there, halfway between them and lips still slightly puckered as he sensed her scepticism, letting out a sigh as his gaze scanned her face, “You do not have to worry about me.”

Her expression softened, once again dodging his lips as he leaned forward again, “I’m your wife. It’s my duty to worry about you.”

She offered a small, tight smile before leaning in and finally pressing a kiss to his mouth.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

His fingers trailed up and down along her spine, her chest to his as she sprawled over him on her front, her cheek pressed to his collarbone as she nestled her face into his neck. Benjicot had found her to have dozed off to sleep some time ago, but had found it difficult to follow — instead, he’d found himself focused on the fields beyond the walls of Raventree, watching as sunrise slowly filled their room. The chill of the morning had crept in through a window that had been left ajar, a light breeze blowing in through the room and leaving goose flesh in its wake; only warmed by her skin, soft and possessing a comforting scent of lavender and roses.

He had tried to sleep, but it was useless he’d realised after two hours of trying. He wanted so badly to distract himself momentarily with sleep, but every time his eyes closed, he found himself back on the shores of the Gods eye — covered in dirt and overtop the Lannister boy whose name he’d never known. He wondered if they’d ever met before — if at some point in his twenty-one years, if they had met in passing, and if so, how old were they? Where had it been? Had he remembered him or were they complete strangers?

Serra had stirred against him, her head turning to face away from him, letting out a deep breath as she settled. He leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of her head, his nose nuzzling into her hair and inhaling the familiar scent that he’d come to associate with home and comfort.

He had startled awake after several attempts, his eyes burning with exhaustion but too panicked to find rest, finding that the night had since passed and morning was already upon him. With his heart racing, he accepted that sleep would not come to him — he wondered how long this would last. The night terrors and haunting images of his face, of his men, dead in the sands and leaving behind children and wives. How long would it be, before he found sleep again?

The thought was disturbed by a soft knock, his entire body going tense as Serra twitched, letting out a tired moan of complaint. He waited for a moment, his eyes on the door before a second knock followed after a minute, cursing internally as he peeled himself away from the bed; careful to ease her into the pillows and off of his chest. After he tucked the blanket over her, he sought his shirt amidst the floor and hurried to pull it over his head, hardly in the sleeves as he rushed to the door to open it with a scowl on his face.

Emrys stepped back quickly, giving him room to step out, his eyes widening for a moment and readily offering a quiet apology, “Good morrow, I…apologise for waking you so early, cousin.”

“Whatever it is, could it not wait until this afternoon?” Benjicot snapped, his voice a harsh whisper as he pulled the door against his back, leaving it slightly ajar as his hand tightly gripped the handle of it behind him. The wood pressed into his spine as he briefly twisted his head to glance back inside the room, his gaze falling upon the sleeping frame of his wife, who lay beneath the blankets, clutching to the pillow beneath her and unaware yet of his absence. His departure had yet to be noted, “We’ve only just returned, could you not have at least allowed me one day of rest before bombarding me with matters of council? Serra does not need this so soon.”

“You know I wouldn’t disturb you if it was not urgent, Ben,” Emrys quietly replied.

He turned his gaze back to where Emrys hesitated to say more, his mouth wordlessly opening before he brandished a letter from beneath his belt; still sealed and neatly rolled with the familiar symbol of House Chambers. Benjicot’s eyes flitted between his face and the scroll, his expression hardened as his mouth pursed with a frown, sighing and finally releasing his hold against the door to retrieve it from his grasp — he hands made swift work in cracking the seal and unrolling it, the sound of paper rusting in the silence of the corridor. It wasn’t lost on him that he wouldn’t receive news so soon after his return if it wasn’t something serious, but he’d been optimistic despite his fears that there would at least be a buffer period in which he could find rest, heal his body and soul before even considering the idea of returning to battle — as annoyed as he was, he was sad equally terrified, turning the paper to scan the words that had been messily scrawled across it. His head angled, craning to read it and silently reading with narrowed eyes as Emrys waited for some sort of reply, some sort of acknowledgment to its contents.

His frown mirrored that of his cousin’s, his head shooting up and lowering the letter, “They believe it is Vhagar.”

“And have they confirmed this?” He asked.

“No,” Emrys replied, “based on the reports, they are quite certain however.”

Benjicot let out a bitter laugh, his eyes rolling as he quickly crumpled up the scroll and pressed it back into his hand, “I’d like to confirm the identities of the dragon and its rider before unnecessarily terrifying my wife and son,” he said, shifting his stance.

Emrys gave a curt nod, his gaze lowering — the two men were quiet, Benjicot’s shoulders rising and falling with a deep sigh, “Have them write a letter to House Chambers to write to us as soon as they have confirmation, and what they would like for us to do— House Tully should be made aware as well,” He instructed, “have them draft a letter to Rhaenyra, requesting for a dragon for protection in the meantime. We cannot face Vhagar alone if it is true.”

Emrys muttered a soft, “Of course.”

He turned on his heel, attempting to walk away before he was grabbed by the neck of his cloak, pulling him back as Benjicot raised his eyebrows, “Bring the letter to me before it is sent, I would like to personally oversee the task.”

He nodded, “Of course.”

Benjicot released him, giving a singular nod before he allowed him to depart; his eyes following him down the hallway until he was out of sight. With a clenched jaw, he turned and quietly crept back into the room, suddenly overwhelmed and nauseous as he closed the door again behind him, his eyes finding Serra in bed as he did his best to prevent the soft click from drawing any attention to himself. Once he was in the clear, he tiptoed back towards the bed and hesitated at the edge of his side; his eyes downcast on his wife who had yet to wake, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks — he sighed, a hand reaching out to brush over her hair.

He chewed the inside of his lips as he slowly sank back into the bed beside her, her expression twitching as he nudged her back into him and against his chest — she blindly sought him, moving with a huff, “Sorry, my love,” he whispered.

“Who was it?” She asked.

Benjicot shook his head, not wanting to further worry her as her cheek pressed against his sternum, “Just…one of the guards,” he lied, “just some updates from last night’s patrol.”

She tiredly moaned, not seeming to process his reply as he settled back against the pillows. A silence passed, his eyes darting up to the ceiling of their bed before she spoke again.

“Whatever it is that plagues your mind, husband, do not feel as though you must carry its burden alone,” She quietly muttered, her face still against his chest and eyes closed as she spoke. His hand cradled the back of her skull, letting out a deep sigh that moved her, “it is ours to share.”

“This is not…” He began to protest, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Your scars are mine, it is as much mine to shoulder as it is yours,” She interrupted. Her head lifted finally, tired eyes watching him as he looked up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching, “What is it?”

He didn’t mean to sulk. He would argue that he wasn’t. Her index finger tapped his lips however, pursed as he let out a sharp breath, blinking rapidly and rolling his eyes as his head lolled to the side, while he looked out the window once again. Serra’s finger traced his jaw, brushing back and forth in a soothing gesture despite the internal turmoil he felt -- he soon sighed, any tension melting away from his shoulders as his chest rose and fell with a slow exhale from his nose, “I killed a boy out there and he is all I see when I close my eyes,” he quietly explained, “they haunt me. I see the faces of those I fought against, and the ones I fought beside. I see my mistakes… the ones I made when I was overwhelmed, and the ones I made when I was too calm, too sure of myself. But that boy…”

A silence befell them aside from the quiet sound of their breathing as she rested her chin against his collarbone, watching him as she then moved to sit up on her elbow, “He can’t have been older than five-and-ten,” Benjicot stated, a distant tone in his voice like he was not fully present.

Serra couldn’t have imagined what it would have been like to be his mother — what had he left behind? What life was waiting for him back home? Friends? A betrothed? She could hardly envision being that age amidst a war, a time when her only concern had been worrying over mastering a simple stitch as she embroidered a pillow. She had grown up strikingly different to these men, especially the women who were brave enough to fight alongside them — Serra had never held a sword for longer than a half second as a girl, much less a weapon, as she had been too clumsy to be trusted in their presence and just had never had that urge to fight or learn the craft. Her head turned, dropping her chin and pressing a kiss to his bare chest, she then allowed her lips to linger against his skin.

She could hold him at no fault though — war was a pesky thing that forced even the kindest of men to turn their cloak and embrace the worst, innately dark impulses within themselves. Her heart ached for the thought of the boy whose name she would never know, and the possibility of what he was leaving behind; despite that this was just the routine of war — young boys forced to kill on behalf of ageing men and lose their lives in the process, traumatised and in need of their fathers…she sighed against his skin, pressing her cheek to his shoulder.

“You wouldn’t have done it if you’d had a choice,” She said.

“I did have a choice though, did I not?”

Her hand lifted from his jaw to brush across his forehead and brushing back his hair, scanning his features and taking the opportunity to refamiliarize herself with them; at the core, he was the same man who had left her two months prior, but as she looked at him, she could see the effects of war. A frown line had since etched itself between his brows, embedding itself into his skin that had become dull and dry in appearance, and his once soft lips now chapped. His eyes appeared sunken from the weeks of sleepless nights that she assumed had been plagued by nightmares of his battles — upon moving the hair out of his face, her index finger found a freckle on his forehead, brushing over it with a delicate brush of fingers, “And what choice might that have been, my love?” She asked.

His mouth twitched as though the words were on the tip of his tongue, but he’d yet to figure out how to give them life and say them aloud. His eyes darted around for a moment, “His death and its impact is not mine to understand, but you did what was necessary in that moment,” she softly spoke, “our son and I both needed you and you fought for that. Just let me help mend that wound, do not bear its weight alone and let it crush you, Benjicot— you are only a man.”

He hesitated. Benjicot did not like to lie and had been taught the honour of truth and honesty — but in that moment, he could not bear the idea of worrying her more with the thought of a dragon overhead. He wanted to blurt out the truth, but he knew better, “Okay,” he said, lifting a hand to catch hers and bring it away from his face to bring it to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, “okay.”

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[1eos]

your manager needs to calm down... in an alternate universe it would be so funny if you dragged in a rocking chair to your desk. like what is she gonna say now. its honestly a testament to your work ethic that she can only complain about your posture LMAO. sounds like she is reallyyyyy digging deep for reasons to get angry.

but onto my real question. mx kendra when you are developing your original story, what process do you go about designing characters + outlining plot, etc? is it in random bits and pieces or do you try to plan it out chronologically? im not very talented at constructing stories but i do have a few OCs and ideas, but i feel overwhelmed by the idea of planning everything out. i know i ultimately need to sit down and write but i would love some advice or insight if you have any! thank you!

her head would fucking explode if i brought in a rocking chair lmaooooooooooooooooooooooo 😭😭😭😭 and she's scraping the bottom of the barrel and she knows it bc some ppl got 1 on 1 meetings abt their vagues and she couldn't even do it to me bc it would sound so silly to tell someone to sit still

but omg planning a whole story is SO overwhelming. i developed all my stuff in bits and pieces so trying to organize everything has been so daunting BUT not too long ago i became determined to get everything down and i found some youtube videos that really got me together. im doing a comic and struggled with taking the oc lore in my head and merging it into the chronological story i want to tell. bc i have sooooooo much background on a character but that background may not come out until way later in the story u know? and then bc my lore is in prose but the final content would be visual right? so i did some digging and stumbled upon this video!

basically her process is writing everything down in a story format. like just write every detail that comes to mind then create ANOTHER document where u take your prose and start breaking it down into a script like format adding in a bunch of visuals u want and THEN you storyboard from the script. it made a lot of stuff click

and then i edited the process to work for me as someone who's super scattered w my lore. so what im doing now is taking where i want my story to start and just writing. and as each character or story detail is introduced i go to a special section of the document called notes and write out a random bit of lore associated with that. and i'll even write out future events i know i want to happen so when i get to them in the actual chronological story prose i can take what ive already written and insert it into the timeline

so for example when as im following one stream of conscious as to how i want the first chapter to open and i get to an oc's introduction i bold the oc's name and then make a section where i then dump all of the character history that bounces around in my head. and then i go back to the chronological story. and another thing that's helped is when im plotting my story when two characters have an interaction or a character has an interaction w something important that explains a bit of their character i write a breakdown on that moment in that point in time.

for the longest ive tried to do everything chronologically and only write something down once it comes up in the timeline but im accepting that it is NOT the best way for me to work 😭😭😭😭but its been soooooo nice to let myself run free. i'll write out a character's whole backstory in my random tidbit document and then sprinkle it in bit by bit in the chronological timeline document

and it really helps stave away the feelings of being overwhelmed/pressure to be perfectly organized as u write on the first go. ik my process is specifically for comics but even if ure writing a novel maybe this can be of some help 💖

[seaofsplitpeace]

Every fucking queer love story I consume completely ruins me

[yeyinde]

baby blues

John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader

pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao

Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.

The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.

All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.

And god, was he ever fucking good at it.

If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors. 

It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time. 

Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life. 

Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust. 

How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean? 

The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it. 

It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.

You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.

A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words. 

But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him. 

Especially him. 

When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much. 

Even now—

Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things. 

Even this. 

He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way. 

And you—

Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always. 

—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures. 

He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—

The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—

They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.

Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried. 

But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort. 

Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—

Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too. 

All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was. 

And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—

Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like. 

“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—

But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl. 

She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding. 

It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly. 

He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored. 

He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—

Still thinks of him. 

“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.” 

Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution. 

He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man. 

“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.” 

He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms. 

“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”

He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose. 

But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection. 

It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive. 

And he is. 

Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own. 

But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse. 

He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More. 

But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle. 

“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”

She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean. 

“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”

You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones. 

He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for. 

“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”

It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare. 

This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)

“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”

Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.

“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—

It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart. 

—his daughter. Fuck’s sake. 

He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place. 

“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in. 

“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.” 

“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” 

Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”

He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in. 

And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks. 

“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”

He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”

“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”

He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.” 

You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose. 

The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.” 

And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”

“I do.”

“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—

“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”

“So was he.” 

You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.

“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft. 

He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep. 

But the real reason is this:

He's just not ready to let her go. 

Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer. 

Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—

She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her. 

(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)

So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her. 

(The heart itself for you—)

And maybe—

Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John. 

Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:

“John, I'm—”

Pregnant. 

He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—

Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they? 

Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill. 

You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—

“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.” 

“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)

But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did. 

(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs. 

“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)

He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—

There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan. 

Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection. 

Just like it is now. But—

He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton. 

Complete, maybe. 

“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.” 

“You'll be fine.” 

The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth. 

“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.” 

Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—

Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—

“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.” 

You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears. 

When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.” 

“I had help.”

It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you. 

The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink. 

Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches. 

“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.” 

The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission. 

“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”

“M’not doin' anythin’, love.” 

“Fuck you, John—”

He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.” 

It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind. 

Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you. 

The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent. 

There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face. 

She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest. 

It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—

Chemical. 

Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.

Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start. 

Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving. 

Needy. Full of greed. 

Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it. 

He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team. 

But for now—

The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct. 

He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.

“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered. 

Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.

“Of the best kind, though, mm?” 

In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John. 

So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"

And she giggles.

[fastandcarlos]

Overwhelmed With Love : ̗̀➛ Lando Norris

summary: having family at the race is always fun, but bringing your baby girl to the paddock too excites lando like never before

“Cover your eyes!” You shouted out to Lando, holding your daughter close to your side as she covered her mouth, muffling her laughter.

“Hurry up,” Lando chuckled, bouncing on his toes as he waited for you two to appear. You opened the door to Lando’s driver’s room, checking his eyes were closed before walking in, shushing your daughter as her eyes lit up at the sight of her father.

You counted down from three before Lando moved his hands, opening up his eyes. A gasp escaped from him as his daughter smiled back, dressed in a perfectly sized papaya race suit.

“We thought we’d get something, just in case people didn’t know who we were cheering for,” you laughed as Lando stood up, opening his arms up and taking your daughter into them. He leaned across and pressed a kiss to the top of your head before studying his baby girl closely, admiring how beautiful she looked.

It was one of those rare occasions where Lando was speechless; you could tell from watching him his breath had been taken. He always loved seeing you in papaya, but seeing his little girl was something else.

“You look beautiful,” he cooed pressing several kisses against the top of your daughter’s head. She squirmed in his hold as Lando showered her with affection. “I really am the luckiest man in the world.”

After a few moments Lando walked over to you too, snaking his arm around your waist. He nodded in your direction, taking note of the papaya shirt that you wore too.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he admitted, his heart racing a million miles an hour as he looked between the two of you.

“We thought we’d surprise you,” you mused, brushing a hand through his messy hair. “Do you remember all those years ago when you told me this was a dream of yours?”

“Of course, I just never imagined that it would actually come true,” Lando whispered, finding himself overcome with emotion, “maybe I always hoped it would come true, but I never thought that it would feel as good as this.”

You gave Lando a moment as he tried his best to compose himself, having to remind himself that there was still a race to win this weekend, despite already feeling like he’d won the world having you and your daughter there to cheer him on all weekend.

“I love you,” Lando whispered, handing your daughter back across to you, “and I love you as well little lady,” he added, kissing your daughter once again.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Throughout the day you found yourself swarmed by friends, family, photographers, and random people around the paddock who wanted to compliment your daughter. She always generated quite the crowd obsessing over her, but dressed in her papaya, she had certainly found a new audience.

And Lando was keen to fuss over the two of you as much as he possibly could too. He was desperate to take your daughter around the media pen with him, but you quickly intervened, reminding him how chaotic it could be sometimes.

But watching your daughter with his closest friends meant the most to Lando. Daniel especially seemed to have captured your daughter’s heart, she was constantly messing with the curls in his hair whilst he tickled her sides dressed in orange again and again.

When the race came around, Lando didn’t want to leave. He found the two of you the perfect space to be able to watch the race, for his dad to keep an eye on you, and to give him easy access back to you as soon as the race was over. You insisted time and time again for Lando not to fuss, but he never listened to you.

The moment the race was done, Lando was before you. He was sweaty, tired, but it was all worth it to see the wide grin on your daughter’s face. He took hold of her straight away, kissing against your lips before being beckoned over. Lando’s advisors reminded him that the media pen waited, his eyes hopefully looking at you. You pondered for a moment before nodding, trusting that Lando would be able to take your daughter and keep her safe with him.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

“Lando, as much as I’d love to talk about your race, we can’t ignore your biggest fan,” Natalie grinned, reaching across and poking your daughter’s tummy. “It must feel incredible to be able to have your family here with you for today’s race.”

“I love my job, and I love my family and being able to marry the two together is a dream for me right now,” Lando smiled in reply, bouncing your daughter gently. “I had no idea this little one was going to be dressed in papaya today, I always insisted that she would definitely rock the colour, but I had no clue that she would look as good as this. She was definitely my lucky charm, that’s why I’ve ended up in P2 today.”

“I know from speaking to your lovely partner that they try to get out to as many races as possible to watch you and cheer you on, are you possibly trying to give us a future world champion? You’ve got to be giving her some tips whilst she’s here, right?” Natalie then asked, watching Lando gush about his family once again.

“She’s only two, I’m not sure about future world champion yet, although I wouldn’t say no one day,” Lando chuckled, continually glancing at your daughter to check on her. “Just having them here though and knowing that they’re safe is most important as far as I’m concerned. I love being able to get out of my car and immediately just see my family waiting to give me the biggest cuddle in the world.”

“I’m sure that you’ve got plenty of fun things to be getting up to now that race weekend is over, so I won’t keep you any longer,” Natalie smiled as she brought the interview to a close. “Have a great evening,” she noted, tickling your daughter one final time before seeing Lando and your little girl off to the next interview.

“I don’t know why your mummy was ever so worried to bring you here, this is the easy bit,” Lando whispered to her as they walked around. “I think I might be more worried that if you get spoilt anymore, you’re going to end up loving your Uncle Carlos and your Uncle Oscar much more than you love your daddy.”

Truthfully, you knew you never had anything to worry about, Lando would go to the end of the world for your little girl before he let anything happen to her. He loved being able to show her off, listen to people gush about her knowing that she was all his. Every time she was at the paddock it brought a tear to his eye, it was everything that he had ever wanted from the moment the two of you first found out that you were expecting.

He’d spent years having his family cheer him on, encourage him when he was down and celebrate those highs with him too. And now that he had his own little one to do all of that with too, Lando couldn’t wait for the future with your little girl, to help her chase her dreams and fill her with an overwhelming amount of love too.

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[kairologia]

Your 12th house gifts and areas you struggle with most, according to your rising sign.

The 12th House is traditionally a desolate, dark, and isolating place. But what insights might you gain, were you to confront and explore that which you've been avoiding? Not unlike how every chart has a “natal promise”, every 12H has positive potential and negative burdens to show for itself. Here, we shall dive into that. Use Whole Sign Houses.

P.S: one configuration cannot explain everything about you as a person with a full-chart and a bunch of unique personal experiences, so if you do not relate to everything, that’s fine. ♥

— Aries Rising with Pisces in the 12H:

· Gift: Aries risings are profoundly intuitive & empathetic and this fact is oft understated. These people tend to be blessed with creativity & plenty of artistic gifts, and are incredibly inspirational to those around them. The teacher that inspires their students so profoundly they remain unforgotten even decades later, the hype man that supports their friend group’s endeavors most — these archetypes are found across the zodiac spectrum, but at an unusually high concentration among Aries risings.

· Struggle: they tend to feel overwhelmed by their unspoken emotions and have a hard time asserting personal boundaries. Aries rising natives tend to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and have a hard time keeping things in. If they *feel* something, they will make it known.

— Taurus Rising with Aries in the 12H:

· Gift: Taurus risings are blessed with incredible resiliency, & can overcome anything if they so desire. They tend to enjoy most & even be skilled at artistic pursuits that revolve around the erotic &/or grotesque. They are rarely put off by things, and are the type of people that can listen to you vent about all sorts of topics, no matter how ‘gross’ or taboo.

· Struggle: ironically, Taurus rising natives tend to simultaneously be very impatient while also being inclined to repressing and internalizing all sorts of emotions, not unlike a dormant volcano, leading to inner and outer conflict. They tend to be hot-headed and struggle letting go of matters they found hurtful.

— Gemini Rising with Taurus in the 12H:

· Gift: These people are incredibly grounded intellectually and it shines through their mental clarity and ability to communicate with precision. Though they may appear scatterbrained to others, their mind palace is incredibly well-compartmentalized. They tend to be great at artistic pursuits that call upon multiple senses at once and provide strong sensorial experiences.

· Struggle: Gemini rising natives tend to overanalyze emotions, which hinders the spontaneity and adaptative quality associated with other Gemini placements. They also tend to repress their desire for relational pleasure and connection, and have a hard time accepting that even they desire to connect with others.

— Cancer Rising with Gemini in the 12H:

· Gift: Cancer risings are capable of understanding the perspective of others with incredible ease, which grants them a versatile penmanship & communication skillset. They tend to excel at communication, writing, teaching, getting things across, as no matter how complex the topic at hand they will manage to break it down to others in a manner that is simple enough to be understood by anyone — in part explaining why they tend to be so great with kids.

· Struggle: Cancer rising natives often have a hard time reconciling rational thought with emotional intuition, leading to indecision — growing up, possibly as a defense mechanism, most Cancer risings tend to pick one end of the emotion vs reason spectrum and sticking to it, leading to unavoidable inner tension in adulthood.

— Leo Rising with Cancer in the 12H:

· Gift: not unlike Aries risings, their intuitive senses & understanding of other people’s hidden emotions are widely underestimated. Their ability to foster deep emotional connections with others & nurture those around them is second to none. They also tend to have the very rich & versatile emotional inner world that is often associated with water moons – in part explaining why they’re known for their creativity & dramatic flair.

· Struggle: Leo risings have a tendency to retreat into isolation upon feeling vulnerable. They tend to repress their feelings from the outside world, and hardly feel comfortable enough to let anyone in. In more extreme cases, there might even be a propensity towards denying certain emotions and repressing them altogether. They have a very polished facade & a strong sense of self, and consequently will hardly appreciate breaking out of character.

— Virgo Rising with Leo in the 12H:

· Gift: Virgo risings are known for telling it like it is — their authentic manner of self-expression and courage to confront anything that gets in their way is their signature brand. Though many Virgo risings tend to prefer blending in and going unnoticed, they’re in actuality extremely creative, and will hardly let other people’s narrative steer them at will.

- Struggle: a Virgo rising’s biggest critic is themselves, and oftentimes they tend to forget that their own desire to be perfect may not be shared by others, as most people value authenticity over perfection — leading to Virgo rising natives feeling rejected by those around them, as their desire to advise and help is inextricably linked to their sense of self. They tend not to realize that said advice is often unwarranted and unsought for, consequently taking everything to heart, which may result in them struggling with self-acceptance and vulnerability.

— Libra Rising with Virgo in the 12H:

· Gift: Libra risings have mastered the art of knowing that multiple things can be true at once, & their analytical minds are loaded with insight into hidden dynamics & truths. They tend to favor a practical approach to resolving emotional conflicts, which makes them seem as though they fear & avoid conflict, when in truth they had already assessed the situation and figured out the best path to returning to center.

· Struggle: Libra risings repress thought & opinion to keep the peace, & consequently feel as though their opinions matter less or not at all to those around them — which, once brought up, might come across as a point of confusion to those around them who generally value their insights immensely. They also tend to overanalyze emotions, be it their own or those of others, and thus struggle with expressing deeper feelings, or believing others to begin with, leading to inner conflict.

— Scorpio Rising with Libra in the 12H:

· Gift: Scorpio risings posess the ability to understand subconscious patterns no matter how convoluted they may be. Even at times where they struggle with understanding themselves, their emotions, desires and behavioural patterns, those of others are hardly a secret to them.

· Struggle: the 12th house is a lesson on balance & compromise for Scorpio risings. Their desire for harmony in inner conflicts is often at odds with their own subjectivity & inclination towards taking extremes in their daily lives, so they tend to struggle immensely with balance. They simultaneously obsess over & repress their hidden desires & preferences, leading to power struggles within the self. They also tend to struggle with forming connections with others, whether it’s due to failed past connections or an inherent fear of commitment or merely an extreme sense of detachment.

— Sagittarius Rising with Scorpio in the 12H:

· Gift: Sagittarius risings are known for their fearlessness and inclination towards spiritual & occult pursuits. A Sagittarius rising is never one to say no to or back down from new experiences, and have a sense of freedom that is defining to their personhood. Everyday is a potential new lesson to these people.

· Struggle: the same sense of freedom may lead to their tendency towards escapism. They tend to struggle with confronting their less superficial, deeper emotions, & may repress their anger a lot in their youth — leading to their being a lot more explosive and thrill-seeking in adulthood. Sagittarius risings are the type to prefer trying anything – even things many would advise against, just to prove a point, whether to themselves or others – as they believe they have no teacher other than life itself.

— Capricorn Rising with Sagittarius in the 12H:

· Gift: Capricorn risings are known for their philosophical perspective & optimistic outlook on challenges, which often translates to an ability to grow wiser at a faster rate than their peers. Their beliefs & values play a crucial role in their selfhood, so they tend to invest a lot of time into spiritual pursuits.

· Struggle: the flip side of their beliefs and values shaping their inner world in a way that is hard to get across to others is that they may be the type to struggle with forming connections with people who do not share the same beliefs & philosophies. They also tend to fear failure more than anything, & struggle to surrender to their own place in the grander scheme of things — these two points are inextricably linked and in order to grow past either, you as a Capricorn rising ought to address both simultaneously.

— Aquarius Rising with Capricorn in the 12H :

· Gift: Incredibly disciplined and persevering in confronting their inner fears. Overtime, they tend to develop a sense of stability and self-mastery that is second to none. While not intuitive in the stereotypical sense, they tend to have inexplicable hunches about things that hardly ever turn out to be incorrect. They tend to live well with & within chaos, sometimes at the expense of their well-being.

· Struggle: they tend to repress emotions and have a strong fear of vulnerability, which hinders their ability to form intimate connections and grow emotionally — they feel as though they have a built-in indestructible wall blocking them out & holding them back from everyone else. They may struggle with becoming responsible, or feel as though they matured too soon. Sometimes, it’s a bit of both.

— Pisces Rising with Aquarius in the 12H:

· Gift: Pisces risings are infinitely more rational than they are believed to be. They have an uncanny approach to understanding subconscious patterns, & tend to reason their way through any situation before reaching a judgement. Very insightful people who tend to be incredibly inquisitive as well, and would prod answers out of anyone if they so desire.

· Struggle: Pisces risings tend to isolate often, whether as a way to recalibrate or just out of preference. Natives of this rising sign, especially those with Air moons, often struggle with detachment and may find it hard to relate to statements implying they are inclined towards emotionality. These people often have or had a “weird kid” reputation ascribed to them by their peers that often stuck well into adulthood.

If you’d like a reading, more details can be found here!

[huda-yousef]

Urgent Assistance Needed for Leaving Gaza 🍉

I have lost dear loved ones in my life, leaving me with a deep and enduring pain. Over time, life has become even more difficult due to the harsh circumstances we are enduring. The lack of food and water, the absence of medical care, and the spread of diseases all make life seem devoid of meaning.

Despite my numerous attempts to overcome this pain and return to a semblance of normal life, I find myself constantly trapped in the memories of those painful moments. Every day feels like a rehash of those losses, making life seem tasteless and hopeless.

Due to the war, obtaining water and food has become a daily struggle. After our home was bombed, we had to move to an overcrowded area where water barely reaches us. We stand in long lines under the scorching sun to fill a few bottles, and food has become extremely scarce. When we do manage to get enough food, we have to cook over an open fire due to the lack of gas and electricity.

Not only that, but we are also facing a severe shortage of medicines, and hospitals are overwhelmed with patients, making it almost impossible to receive treatment. The proliferation of insects in the area adds another layer of hardship to our lives.

Despite all this pain and devastation, I continue to fight to keep my remaining family together. In this destruction we live in, I try to find a glimmer of hope, no matter how small, so that I can keep going.

We need your support to help us through this crisis. Your donations can provide us with the food, water, and medicines we need to survive. Every contribution, no matter how small, makes a significant difference in our lives.

We thank you from the bottom of our hearts for your support and generosity during these difficult times.

@acridid-s @asharestupia

@vriendjes @lappyisgaming @jonpertwee

@sailorminimoon @itssovaa

@earth-dad @karamelmikaelsons @butchdataset @lesvibes @squishysphealgirl

@prismatic-starstuff @fliptop @bell-bones @friendly-jester @aristotels

@solarpunkcast @plum-soup @fiomeras @fithragaer @vaporize-employers

@sealbf @moveslikekeithrichards @andva-ri

@thehopeof @servalias

@amethyst-halo @bsideheart @murderbot @tomiyeee @odddogs

@vamptits @rthko@flouryhedgehog

@t4tvampireisms @mordhiobhail @bOnkcreat

@lemon-wedges @holedyke @jerseyclown

@bakwaas @eastgaysian @tf2yuri @bongjoonheaux

@romanceyourdemons

@hametsukaishi @slashermilf@witchywitchy @shimamitsu @jewishvitya@plswtfdontdoitagain utchfeygela @danijaci @pinayelf @dogesterone

@professorllayton @bilal-salah0 @q @wnq-writers @appsa @ashwantsafreepalestine @neptunerings @kyotospartyart @imlight @samreich @awesomepeoplehangingouttogether @postanagramgenerator @afroelfe @love-personal @blogdopastel

@rainbowsnowflake @saint-oleander @jackironsides @f4rfields @cassandragemini

@nvoembers @ardl@someguywithaname-blog

@giritina @arcaneglitch

@shiskabubble @novrium @skellyweb @theywontletmebeprincipal@gnomepng

@oursapphirestars @messilymoonlit

@thesoulshyperrealaslacreatura @genderascendant @liquidpaperfoundation

@frizzdotbizz @fitzfunnymoments @clownluverr

@skunkes @chardis20

@milkshakehaver @call-me-rucy @professor-glasses @acridid-s @asharestupid

@vriendjes @lappyisgaming @jonpertwee

@sailorminimoon @itssovaa

@earth-dad @karamelmikaelsons @butchdataset @lesvibes @squishysphealgirl

@prismatic-starstuff @fliptop @bell-bones @friendly-jester @aristotels

[noxtivagus]

c:

[charmedreincarnation]

Success story navigation

I've been getting so many asks with questions that feel like they can't be answered any differently than things I've already covered. It's as if I'm receiving the same queries over and over, and I understand the frustration that comes with feeling unheard. I've also received numerous messages from people who are really at the end of their journey, feeling lost and defeated. Whether it's because you've seen no progress despite your efforts, you've been at it for years without tangible results, or you've tried everything with no success, or perhaps your life has even gotten worse with the law or other obstacles – I get it, I truly do.

I want to address the overwhelming sense of despair that comes when you've exhausted every option for so many years and still see no light at the end of the tunnel. To those of you who feel like you're standing at a billions crossroads with nowhere to turn, to those who feel like you’ve put in years to this journey, to those who feel like you’re life has gotten worse even with the law, know that you're not alone. It's incredibly difficult when you've invested so much of yourself only to feel stuck or worse.

That's why I'm going to link success stories that I believe align with the mindset you likely have. By following their journey and tweaking it to suit your circumstances, hopefully, you can find the success they did.

There's nothing more I can say that I haven't already answered or said, but I hope these stories can provide a new perspective and the encouragement you need. May they guide you in finding the path that leads to the success you seek. Remember, it’s often at our lowest moments that we find the strength to rise again.

The ultimate success story with everything you need, mindset, tips, LOA, and Edward Art

For people who struggle with intrusive thoughts and mindset and want to use that to their advantage

My personal favorite success story

Simple Success story for those who prefer to affirm and persist

Very easy pragmatic success story (maba shortcut)

Age and years it took to succeed doesn’t matter success story

You can shift with desperation and bad circumstances success story

Yes you only need your imagination success story

Everything is possible stop asking

It's easy to feel alone, but remember that whatever you're going through, someone else has also faced similar challenges. We all start in different places; some may have an easier beginning than others, but we share the same equal potential to achieve greatness. It's important to acknowledge that while our journeys might differ, our ability to overcome obstacles and reach our potential is universal. Embrace the shared human experience and take comfort in knowing that you have the power within you to rise above and become the best version of yourself. Realizing this is just as important as becoming the richest hottest bitch with the mastery of the void and shifting okay. You’re not alone, you’re very powerful, and you CAN do it. Everyone has the potential to do it, you’ll have hurdles but where in life do you not!? You can struggle here with those journey or just struggle with the life you don’t want like everyone else. Nothing in life is easy, choose the hard path to get where you want so you can be happy forever, I promise it’s worth it.

This covers all the asks I’ve gotten. I really hope the struggle comes to an end for you guys. I know how hard all of you work, and I am truly happy and grateful to see how much you all love yourselves to put yourselves through an amount that sometimes seems pointless and fake, but it will be worth it. That’s just something you have to allow yourself to understand.

[hoshifighting]

Seventeen reaction, when you do something that turns them on while you ride them, making them cum really quickly.

HipHop team | Vocal team | Performance team

Jeonghan 

with your hands bound behind your back, you felt a surge of arousal coursing through you. your movements were constrained, adding an extra layer of intensity to the experience as you rode him.

but it was your pretty pleas that proved to be jeonghan's undoing. the sight of you, vulnerable and begging so beautifully, sent a shockwave of desire through him, his self-control slipping away with each breathy entreaty that escaped your lips.

with furrowed brows and bitten lips, jeonghan moaned loudly, his hips jerking upwards as he spilled himself inside you, his release coming faster than he had anticipated. your pussy filled with his hot cum, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity.

you stopped your movements, looking at him in confusion as he buried his face in his arm, overcome with embarrassment at his lack of control. he couldn't bear to meet your gaze, his cheeks flushed  with shame.

"i'm sorry," he muttered, his voice muffled against his arm.

you reached out to gently stroke his cheek, a soft smile playing on your lips. "it's okay," you reassured him, your touch filled with understanding and affection. "we can take it slow."

jeonghan nodded gratefully, his eyes unable to meet yours as he whispered, "ride me until you cum baby. i want you to cum too."

Joshua

as you straddled joshua's hips, riding him with fervent intensity, a mischievous grin danced across your lips. with each clench of your muscles, you could feel joshua's cock throbbing inside you, his gasps of pleasure music to your ears.

but it was when you unleashed your pompoarism skills on him that joshua's control shattered completely. the tight grip of your pussy sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through him, and with a strangled gasp, he spilled himself inside you, his release coming faster than usual.

as he lay beneath you, panting heavily, joshua couldn't help but sulk at you cutely, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his lack of control.

he looked up at you with a sulky pout, his lips forming into a cute frown as he tried to compose himself. "i just… i want to make you feel good too," he admitted shyly, his eyes finally meeting yours.

you smiled back at him, your heart swelling with love and affection for the adorable man beneath you. "and you always do," you whispered, your words filled with sincerity as you resumed your movements, riding him with slow and deliberate strokes, making him tremble. 

Woozi 

your movements were passionate and unrestrained, each hump bringing him closer to the edge. but it was when your mouth met the skin of his neck that things took a sudden turn. with each tender kiss and gentle nip, you left a promise of hickeys on his milky skin, the idea of the bruises sending shivers down woozi's spine.

he whimpered beneath you, his body trembling with arousal as he felt the tingling sensation spread from his neck to his cock. the thought of the marks you were leaving on him, visible evidence of your passion and desire, was enough to push him over the edge.

with a cute whine, woozi came undone beneath you, his release coming faster than he had anticipated. he looked up at you from underneath, his cheeks flushed crimson with embarrassment as he met your gaze.

the redness spread from his neck to his face, the intensity of his arousal written plainly on his features. but despite his embarrassment, there was a spark of desire burning in his eyes, a silent plea for more.

you leaned down to press a tender kiss to his lips, your fingers gentle as they brushed against his cheek. "you're so beautiful," you whispered, your voice filled with love and adoration.

Seokmin 

as you straddled seokmin's hips, your hands gently wrapping around his neck, a tension coiled in your stomach, stealing your breath away. despite the breathlessness, your hips continued to move with an unrelenting rhythm, driving him wild with desire.

your lips brushed against his ear, and in a soft, whispered confession, you poured out your heart. "you mean everything to me," you murmured, your words a declaration of love and devotion.

seokmin's heart swelled with emotion at your words, his body trembling with overwhelming desire. the intensity of your confession pushed him over the edge, his release crashing over him in a wave of ecstasy.

with a whimper, seokmin surrendered to the pleasure, his cheeks flushing crimson with embarrassment as he panted hard, trying to catch his breath.

but despite the breathlessness and the heat of the moment, there was a warmth spreading through seokmin's chest, a profound sense of love and contentment that filled him to the brim.

"i feel the same," he whispered, his voice barely above a whisper as he held you close, his heart overflowing with love for you.

Seungkwan 

the pleasure of his cock filling your wet pussy sending waves of ecstasy through you, you couldn't help but moan sultrily his nickname, "mhmm kwannie..."

the sound of his nickname on your lips was the final straw for seungkwan. with a strangled groan, he lifted your hips off him, his release spilling over you in hot, sticky ribbons.

covering his face with his hand, seungkwan's cheeks burned bright red with embarrassment. he couldn't believe he had cum so quickly, all because of your teasing.

"you played dirty," he sulked, his voice muffled against his hand.

feigning innocence, you tilted your head and batted your eyelashes innocently. "who, me?" you replied, your tone dripping with faux innocence.

seungkwan shot you a playful glare, his embarrassment fading as a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. despite the embarrassment, there was a spark of mischief in his eyes, a silent promise of payback.

[vincentintheflesh]

Head On Over

“Damn, I look so fucking hot..” He mumbled to himself as he admired the picture of his exposed self.

“Wonder which one I should use for the next post..”

…

Draft edited 05/04/2015

Sup guys! Jason here.

As you can see, I’ve been taking pictures of myself out in the open and exposed! Why? Well, people don’t really pass by these areas and it gives me this weird (but good) feeling when I show myself off. Not in the kind of way where you feel like you could get caught- but in a way where someone is actively watching you. No one was ever there when I checked around though. Dunno. I swear I never got this feeling before getting to this place but it’s prob nothing.

Aside from my sexy little shots, everything here is pretty cool. Lots of nature, sunlight, mountains, and hot locals. One of the guys here in particular has really stuck in my mind. He didn’t really do anything interesting- he just seems to be everywhere. Dunno how he does it but I see him at least 3 times whenever I go out, and he has a different outfit on each time. Not gonna lie I was a bit creeped out because I thought he was stalking me. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized that he never glanced in my direction until I approached him. I was able to talk to him a bit and I guess he’s cool and pretty hot up close. Also noticed something about his neck but I didn’t say anything.

He also told me that I was welcome to “head on over” anytime. Wasn’t sure if I really wanted to enter a stranger’s house at first,  but we’d already talked for a good bit so why not? What could go wrong? I could totally beat his ass if needed to. And I’m pretty sure that this area is relatively safe too so maybe he won’t kill me lol. Don’t really have much else to do anyway since my vacation is almost over. Might as well have a bit more fun before I go.

Draft edited 05/05/2015

Alright, I’m heading over to that guy’s house. Wish me luck dudes.

…

“Hey! Good to see you, Jason.” He nonchalantly said as he waved his muscular left arm at Jason. His smile was wide as he sat up from his shaded porch to walk towards him. As he moved into the sun, his hard and defined muscles revealed its chiseled form under its light. 

“What’s up, man.” Jason returned the smile, his eyes darting between the man’s face and abs.

“Come on in.” He said with a knowing smirk  “I’ve only got milk for drinks right now. Is that alright?”

“..You hinting at something?”

“...No.” He smirked as he pulled the door open.

…

The moment I walked through that door… I suddenly remembered the pictures that I took of myself and the feeling of it. Huh, that’s random.

Before I could question it any further, his voice pulls my attention towards him.

“Follow me.” He said in his usual friendly manner.

I immediately listened for some reason. I assumed that he was going to lead me to the living room or something, but he just kept bringing me to these doorless, empty, and identical hallways. We occasionally took a few turns but that was it. And throughout it all, he seemed a bit.. Out of it? Each time I tried to make conversation, he just gave me clipped answers with that same smile. What was up with him..? 

I looked behind me, contemplating whether or not I should leave but only saw the endless hallway.

“Oh- we’re almost there! Don’t turn around just yet!” He suddenly called to me from farther ahead. At this point, I really didn’t want to be here anymore. When I tried to just leave though, my feet just wouldn’t budge. It was like the carpet was gripping onto me whenever I tried to step away from the man, so the only way was towards him.

Ugh…

We eventually reached a room that seemed to somewhat resemble a living room. Wooden floor, two couches and a table.. And that was it. No windows or decorations. I knew it- this guy was a weirdo… I sigh as I stepped forward.

…

The moment he stepped into the room, he was overcome by an overwhelming numbness.

“…”

“…”

… Wait.. Why does my neck- Why can’t I feel anything…? 

“Sorry- ” the man apologetically said as he turned to me.

What’s going on..? 

“I’ve really been needing this..and so has the house so… Yeah.”

He shrugged. There was a bent smile on his lips.

“But I’ll take good care of your body, alright? It’s a promise.”

What the fuck is he talking about?? What’s happening?!

I tried to scream as I felt his cold hands gently clasp around my neck. And then, they suddenly tightened and pulled upwards.

Pop

“There we go!”

My eyes widened as I looked down after hearing the noise.

Is that.. 

My body? 

…

The man gently placed Jason’s head down onto the little table, facing him in a way that guaranteed that he would see what was about to happen. He silently smirked at Jason as he roamed his hands around the headless body’s bulging muscles. As he did so, his hands slowly inched towards his pants… and suddenly, the body’s semi-hardened package straining against his jocks was in full view for both Jason and the man. Jason couldn’t believe his eyes as he witnessed what was unfolding. His very own body twitched and squirmed whilst under the mercy of the grinning man.

For a moment, he stopped his groping and stepped back.

“Alright, give it to him.” He said, clapping his hands twice.

Just then, the spot of the ceiling directly above the body began to twist and morph as if it were slime. It only did so for a few seconds until something familiar emerged from it. A hint of recognition passed through Jason’s eyes as he watched it cleanly plunge onto the stump of his headless body. He glanced between the man that brought him here, and the head. They shared the same dark hair, dark eyes, stubble, thick eyebrows, styled hair, and mismatching skin tones on their necks… Suddenly, everything made sense to him.

The newly attached head slowly opened its eyes and looked around. Its lips curled into a smirk when its eyes fell upon Jason’s bodiless form. 

“Finally…”

Its right arm rose up and bent into a flex, while its other hand made its way down to its bulging jock, firmly squeezing it.

“Mmmm… Fuuuuck…” It moaned as it began to peel away its jockstrap to free his throbbing member.

As it controlled Jason’s limbs to feel its stolen muscles up, the other man approached his body from behind, pressing his tented pants against his bubble butt. The two of them lustfully grinned at each other before pressing their lips together. Their tongues twisted into each other whilst their warm bodies grazed on one another. The head began to stroke his hardened length and the man hungrily rubbed his cock against his ass, the both of them desperate for a release. The man then pulled away and repositioned himself in front of the body. He kneeled down and quickly took its length deep into his throat. Wet squelches of his mouth echoed throughout the room as he relentlessly thrusted his head back and forth.

The body thief reeled its head back and grunted in pleasure. It thrusted forward, grasping the man’s head as he erupted, warm drops of white leaking out from the corners of the man’s mouth.

And throughout all of this, Jason could only watch as a bystander- hindered by his bodiless form. 

“...It’s… cold…” he finally said. His eyelids became heavy as he drifted off to a deep slumber. The ceiling shifts again, twisting and turning. This time, thick tendrils emerge from it, reaching down onto Jason’s head and encircling it. As if accepting an offering, it pulled his head into itself.

“Do you think he’ll mind a little makeover?” The man nonchalantly asked the head as he looked at the ceiling.

“Well, who would mind looking like me… or rather, us?” The head replied with a laugh.

The man smiled “Hm, no one of course- but we’ll need to find a body for him.”

“Right right… But why don’t we have a bit more fun before that..?”

“I'm all yours.”

[maysileeewrites]

it looks better on you || Coriolanus Snow

18+ content; mdni!

summary: Coriolanus is obsessed with you wearing his clothes | based off of this concept post

my Coryo masterlist

Coriolanus Snow is positively obsessed with you wearing his clothes.

Whenever he sees you in one of his shirts or sweaters, it’s like he can’t think straight anymore, every single thought wiped from his head - except one: you’re absolutely mesmerizing, somehow even more beautiful and enchanting, wearing his clothes. 

You’re his - and you wearing his clothes is just one more way for him to mark you as his, to show everyone that you belong to him, and only him. 

No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to fuck you. No one else gets to fall asleep next to you, wake up next to you. No one else gets to feel the immense, overwhelming satisfaction that always overcomes him when you’re wearing his clothes. 

No one else - just him. 

As it should be, Coriolanus thinks, smirking as he watches you poring over your University books at your desk from his position on your bed. Initially, he came over to your apartment so that you could study for your test next week together. Though he hasn’t really gotten a lot of actual studying done.

You’re just too damn distracting. 

You always are, but especially now - wearing his shirt and playing with the hem of it while you’re trying to memorize the text you’re currently reading, your other hand absentmindedly running through your hair, your lips silently moving - it’s like he can’t think straight. 

His eyes are fixed on you, following your every move. 

The way you screw your eyes shut as you sigh frustratedly - probably trying to remember a particularly difficult aspect of your textbook article. The way your fingers keep playing with the hem of his shirt. 

Really, he thinks, watching you sigh in frustration and slamming your textbook shot, throwing it a dirty look, his clothes look so good on you - almost better than they do on him. 

„Something wrong, love?“, he asks you, getting up from your bed and walking over to your desk, where you’re still sitting in your desk chair, head in your hands. 

You shake your head, sighing again. „No, it’s just this stupid biochemistry test … I just can’t get the hang of this stuff, which means that I’ll fail that test next week, which will bring my overall grade down and-“

„Hey“, Coriolanus interrupts your nervous ramblings, stepping closer to you and taking your hands in his, gently pulling them away from your face. He squeezes your hands, before bringing up one hand and gently brushing his knuckles over your cheek. 

You sigh, closing your eyes and leaning into his comforting touch. 

„I know that this is all a bit overwhelming right now, but you won’t fail that test, you hear me? You won’t - I’ll make sure of that. Even if it means that we have to spend every minute this weekend studying.“ 

„But, Coryo-“, you try to say, but he shakes his head, his eyes finding yours. 

„You won’t fail, trust me“, he says, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your hairline. „We’ll continue studying for this, I promise, but right now, you need a break.“ His gentle, yet firm voice tells you that he won’t take an objection for an answer. 

You sigh, even though you know your boyfriend only has your best interests at heart. He can be so stubborn sometimes …

„A distraction …“, he continues, something in his voice changing that causes you to shiver involuntarily as he leans down, stepping between your legs, looking at you with a teasing smirk on his face. 

„What do you-“ 

Your words are swallowed by his hungry, wild kiss. 

You make a surprised noise, wrapping your arms around Coriolanus’s neck out of pure instinct as his hands settle on your waist, drawing you closer to him as he keeps kissing you, his tongue coaxing your mouth open. You can’t help but moan as you feel his tongue moving against yours. 

Then, suddenly, he’s picking you up from your chair and you wrap your legs around his waist out of instinct as he carries you over to your bed, not once breaking the kiss. Your back hits your soft mattress and Coriolanus swallows the surprised noise you make with his hungry, desperate kisses. 

He breaks the kiss then, looking down at you with a teasing smirk on his lips, before lowering his head to the crook of your neck, sucking at the soft, sensitive skin. His lips curl into a possessive smirk when he hears the mewling, panting noises you make. 

He knows that he’ll leave bruises on your skin - pretty, purple marks that will mark you as his, showing everyone who you belong to. 

„Coryo!“, you gasp, trying to make sense of the world, tangling your hands in his blonde curls and trying to ground yourself, as he continues to relentlessly suck at your soft skin, all the while grinding his hips into yours, creating a delicious, nerve-wrecking tension. 

His lips leave a trail on your skin, from the soft, sensitive skin of your neck, to your collarbone and then lower and lower, until the hem of his shirt you’re wearing gets in the way. 

Breathlessly, your hands leave his hair and you reach down, trying to free yourself from the bothersome garment, but then suddenly, Coryo’s hands are there as well, stoping your motions. 

„No, keep it on“, Coriolanus says, reaching out with his hands to tug the dark grey shirt you’re currently wearing - one of his that you’ve ‚borrowed‘ - back down. His voice is low, his eyes are dark, the expression in them sinful and challenging - a promise. (A threat.) 

„It looks better on you anyways.“ 

You swallow upon hearing the arrogant possessiveness in his voice and clench your thighs together. 

When he notices, Coriolanus just smirks at you. 

You whine, reaching for his hands. „Please, Coryo“, you beg, your eyes finding his. You can’t have him teasing you - not right now, not when he’s already got you this worked up. 

„Please what?“, he asks, still smirking. 

„Please, just - touch me; just do something, Coryo, please.“ 

When he still doesn’t react to your pleas, just keeps smirking at you, you reach out with one of your hands, brushing over the bulge in his pants, before growing bolder and cupping his already hardened length through the material of his trousers. 

Coriolanus closes his eyes then, a low moan escaping his lips. 

„Fuck.“ 

His voice is something between a groan and a whimper as you keep stroking him through the fabric. 

For a split second you toy with the thought of doing the same thing to him he did to you - teasing him, edging him on, only to cruelly withdraw your touch at the last second. But he looks so good right now, his head thrown back, his eyes screwed shut, his lips slightly open, soft whimpers escaping him, you can’t bring yourself to do so. 

You don’t need to - because the next thing you know, Coriolanus is impatiently swatting your hand away, getting rid of his trousers and briefs in mere seconds, before placing his hands on your waist, shifting you, until you’re straddling his lap, your legs on either side of him, your core brushing against his erection. 

You can’t help the loud moan that escapes you then - the friction feels so good and you just want to feel him inside you already. 

„Coryo-“, you start to say, but his hand is already there at your core, roughly yanking at the thin material of your panties. You hear the material tear and you gasp loudly, when, without warning, he pushes two fingers inside you, curling them inside you, immediately finding your sweet spot. 

„Y-you really o-owe me a v-visit to the clothing store“, you pant, trying to form a cohesive sentence as Coriolanus continues to pump his fingers in and out of you at a merciless pace, hitting your sweet spot with every thrust of his fingers. 

Coriolanus just smirks, groaning when he feels your walls clenching around his fingers. „Fuck, not yet“, he pants, removing his hand and causing you to whimper at the sudden feeling of emptiness. „Need to feel you, need to be inside you.“ 

All you can manage is a nod, moaning when he positions you in his lap. You try once again to take of the shirt you’re still wearing, but Coriolanus swats your hands away once again. 

„Keep it on“, he says, his voice low and dangerous. 

All you can manage is a weak nod, because then his grip on your waist is tightening, shifting you forward even more until you’re sinking down on his hard length. 

„Fuck, Coryo.“ Your voice is nothing more than a breathless whimper as you continue to sink down on him, trying to adjust to the stretch. 

Coriolanus however, is too impatient to give you time to adjust, bucking up his hips to thrust up into you the moment you’re fully seated. 

You whimper, feeling his cock hit that spot inside you that has you seeing stars. 

Coriolanus groans, his grip on your waist tightening to guide your movements as he continues to thrust up into you. „Fuck, baby, you look so good riding my cock like that, wearing my shirt …“

You whimper, squeezing your walls around him. 

Coriolanus groans again, his expression clouded with pleasure. „Fuck, keep doing that and I’m not going to last long …“ 

You can’t help it - your walls squeeze around him again. 

A strangled moan escapes him then and you whimper when his thrusts get harder and faster and one of his hands finds its way to your core, brushing over the bundle of sensitive nerves. 

„Fuck- Coryo, please“, you whimper, as the pressure inside you keeps building and building and building. 

„Don’t worry, I’ve got you“, he says, as he continues to thrust into you at a relentless pace, his fingers teasing your clit. 

You do your best to meet his movements with your own, glad for his bruising grip on your hip, guiding your movements. 

„Just like that, you’re doing so good“, Coriolanus praises, sitting up to claim your lips in a hungry kiss. 

You whimper, overcome by all these different sensations - Coriolanus moving unrelentlessly inside you, his fingers on your clit, his lips on yours; turning you to mush in his arms. 

„Coryo!“, you breathlessly try to warn him when you feel your walls clenching around him again, you’re so close and you just want to feel your sweet release. 

„I’ve got you“, he repeats his earlier sentiment, his thrusts becoming even more erratic. „I’ve got you - fuck, you look so good, I could watch you riding me in my clothes forever, fuck-“

It’s his words that do you in, sending you over the edge. 

You come with a loud cry, his name on your lips, shaking in his grip, your walls squeezing him. 

„Fuck, fuck-“

It only takes two more thrusts and then Coriolanus is coming as well, spilling inside you. 

„Fuck, Coryo“, you whimper, still overly sensitive from your orgasm. 

„I’ve got you“, he repeats, pulling out of you, before closing his arms around you, shifting you around until your head lands on his chest and your back hits the soft mattress of the bed. 

You close your eyes as he settles a hand on your stomach, drawing you even closer for a moment. 

You stay like that for a long moment, both of you trying to catch your breath. 

Once you’ve calmed down enough, you notice how unbearably hot you feel - Coriolanus’s body heat is more than warm enough, but you’re still wearing his shirt that’s now drenched through with your sweat. 

You press a quick kiss to his cheek, ignoring the protesting noise Coriolanus makes as you move to sit up again. 

„My turn“, is all you say, as you finally take off his shirt and throw it to the floor, baring your chest to him. 

„What-“ Coriolanus’s remark is swallowed by the loud moan that escapes his lips when you settle back down in his lap, brushing against his erection. 

„My turn“, you repeat, grinning, „and I think it looks better on the floor.“ 

You swallow his reply with a hungry, desperate kiss. And judging by the way he’s squirming beneath you, trying to brush against your core, he probably doesn’t mind too much. 

someone please get me some holy water so I can cleanse my mind from these smutty thoughts

It’s finally here!! Sorry that it took me so long to get to it, but I’ve been in quite a writing slump these last few days.

Anyways, I’m wishing you all a Happy New Year <3 and thank you so much for all the love you’ve shown my writing lately! Here’s to more content in 2024!! :)

tagging:

@qoopeeya @honey-flustered @spectr3inl0ve @reader-bookling123 @itsnocturna @toogardenheart @theamuz @livius-codex @dominqueeekk @ebsmind @damagdcoda @snows-wife

[reidmaniac]

echoes of tomorrow. | spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: pregnancy, emotional distress, relationship strain, work-related stress, kinda angst with a happy ending, not proofread

- - -

the apartment was eerily quiet, save for the soft ticking of the wall clock. you lay in bed alone, the absence of spencer’s warmth a stark contrast to the cool emptiness surrounding you. his late-night work had become a routine, and tonight, the silence felt heavier than usual.

you stared at the ceiling, the darkness pressing in on you. your thoughts were consumed by the small white pregnancy test on the nightstand, a constant reminder of the life growing inside you. the results had been positive, and you had spent countless sleepless nights wrestling with your fears and uncertainties.

the loneliness was unbearable, amplifying every worry you had. the echo of your thoughts felt like a cruel joke—how could you possibly handle this on your own? the emotional weight was suffocating, and the more you waited, the more the fear that spencer might not be ready for this overwhelmed you.

you glanced at the clock. it was nearly midnight, and spencer’s absence felt like an abyss. every creak of the apartment seemed to mock your solitude, reminding you of the growing distance between you two. you wondered if he would be able to understand, to be there for you when you needed him most.

the soft sound of the apartment door opening startled you from your thoughts. you heard spencer’s tired voice call out, “hey, i’m home.”

your heart sank. you were about to face the reality you had been dreading. you had to tell him, but you could hardly find the strength to get out of bed. after a few moments, you forced yourself to sit up and steady your nerves.

spencer entered the bedroom, his face lined with exhaustion. he tried to smile, but it faltered as he noticed your tear-streaked face. “what’s wrong? why are you crying?”

you took a shaky breath, fighting to keep your voice steady. “spence, there’s something important i need to tell you.”

he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, his concern deepening. you reached for the pregnancy test and handed it to him, your hands trembling.

spencer’s eyes widened as he looked at the test, and for a moment, the room was filled with a heavy silence. his gaze shot back to you, a mixture of shock and worry etched on his face. “are you… are you pregnant?”

you nodded, the tears now flowing freely. “yeah. i’ve been feeling a bit off and i so scared to tell you until i knew. i didn’t want to add more stress to your work, and i didn’t know how to handle this alone. and then i took the test and it confirmed-“

spencer cut you off, cupping your face in his hands and giving you a gentle kiss. it was so gentle, yet so so loving, and you melted into his touch.

as he pulls back, spencer’s expression softens as he placed the test on the nightstand and reached out to hold your hands. “i’m so sorry i wasn’t here earlier. i wish i could have been with you through this. we don’t have to have all the answers right now. we’ll get through this together.”

the sincerity in his voice was a balm to your troubled heart, and the loneliness that had weighed so heavily on you began to ease. you leaned into him, the flood of emotions overcoming you. “i’ve been so afraid, spencer. i didn’t want to burden you, but i couldn’t do this alone.”

spencer wrapped his arms around you, his touch both comforting and reassuring. “you’re not a burden. we’re in this together, and we’ll figure it out. i’m here now, and i promise we’ll face this as a team.”

with his arms around you, the fear and loneliness slowly began to dissipate. the future was still uncertain, but spencer’s presence gave you the strength to face it. the days ahead would be challenging, but with his support, you felt a glimmer of hope.

as you both began to navigate this new chapter, you realized that while the journey might be difficult, it was one you wouldn’t have to face alone. together, you embraced the future with a renewed sense of purpose, ready to build a life for the family you were about to create.

[choism]

Jester's Game | b.tc

Captain Buggy x Pirate!afab!Reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff (If you squint)

Summary: Trying to overtake Captain Buggy's ship leaves you asking questions, and surprisingly, getting answers

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: top!buggy, afab!reader, unprotected sex (pls dont), cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, squirting, rough sex, gentle sex (yeah wild), inappropriate use of detached limbs, spit as lube (also a no no), overstimulation, pet names (sweetheart, princess)

A/N: WOOHOO ITS MY FIRST NON KPOP FIC!! I knew I would write for other stuff eventually but I definitely did not expect it to be a recent hyperfixation. Buggy just has me bricked up okay! Anyway I hope y'all enjoy, don't forget to let me know what you thought of the fic in the tags !

It’s a rather unfortunate series of events, really. Sure, you could’ve told your navigator to sail away from the ship with the giant clown crossbones flag. Yeah, it might’ve helped if you had told your crew that they were about to fight some of the toughest pirates in the East Blue. But where’s the fun in that? As their captain, it’s your job to seek the adventure, and well, this was an adventure all right.

It started with you telling your men to approach, cannons firing, your crew hopping their ship, the infamous ship commandeered by none other Buggy The Clown. Yes, the ship your measly crew has decided to board. Listen, it was strategic! Buggy had somehow gotten the map to the grand line back, and your ship just so happened to be within the vicinity of his, so why not seek the opportunity to take it? Well that was your first mistake.

Now, you find yourself here, hands bound behind your back and kneeling with your crew in front of Buggy’s stupid, dumb throne in his stupid, dumb circus tent cabin.

“You all truly are fools for thinking you could take on my band of freaks,” Buggy lazily sprawls over his throne, seemingly unimpressed by your, in his words, ‘lackluster crew’.

“It’s funny actually, how pathetic it was, I mean even Mohji got in a few punches! Ha! Truly a fine show.” The man you assume being the Mohji that Buggy had just poked fun at, slumps his shoulders sadly at his jab. “Now, time to get to the good stuff…” Buggy trails off, standing up and taking a few strides in your direction, his dirty boots stopping directly in front of you. He detaches his hand and uses it to lift your head, pointing your chin up to look him in the eye.

Looking up, you spit and it lands on his cheek, he simply swipes it off with his attached, gloved hand. “So what if you defeated us, it doesn’t make you any better of a pirate, and doesn’t get you any closer to the One Piece.” You tilt your head and smirk. He may have overcome your crew, but he will never overcome your overwhelming ego and pride. It matches his just as equally.

“Ah, that's where you’re wrong, princess,” His grin is just as wide as yours, and briefly you’re confused, what could he mean? “Given your set of thieving skills, probably some of the best in the East Blue, I’ve heard, you’re gonna join my band of freaks, and I’m not giving you a choice sweetheart,” Buggy removes his hand from your chin, and it floats to his arm, re-attaching itself.

“Boys, throw their crew overboard, we have no use for them.” He rolls his eyes and sits back on his throne, “Oh! And go show them to their new quarters, make them feel at home.” Buggy laughs a deep boisterous laugh, one that genuinely sends shivers down your spine.

The pirates lead you into, what is actually, quite a nice room in the lower deck of the cabin, lit by a few candles, and a cot in the corner. Surprisingly, they cut you out of your ropes, and shut the door without locking it. What’s their deal? Don’t they know you can escape at any time if you wanted? Sneak out and steal one of their emergency boats, and sail to the nearest Island? Granted, you aren’t sure where the nearest Island is, you’re a thief, not a navigator.

Instead of worrying about escaping, you roam the small room, admiring your surroundings. The whole ship is clown themed, front he flags to the cabin to everything, but this room is different. Not a single sign of jester-like decorations anywhere. In fact, it’s as if this cabin was decorated specifically for you. Before you can think more of it, the door opens suddenly.

Buggy enters, and closes the door behind him. When he enters you’re sitting on the cot, legs crossed and unamused.

“Not thinking about escaping? Not that you could anyway, we are miles away from the nearest island, and realistically it would take you days to get there on one of our measly boats.” He rolls his eyes, as if annoyed by how small and fragile the boats are, before sitting backwards on the chair at the short desk next to the cot.

“So what do you even need a thief for? Why am I here?” You blurt, already growing impatient from the lack of information being given to you.

“I need you for many reasons, being a thief is only one of them, sweetheart.” Buggy grins and removes his hat, setting it on the desk. “You already have connections at the grand line, and while I know you need my map to get there, I know that you know the people I need to talk to, to gain safe entry without slaughtering half the fucking pirates there.” He leans back and relaxes a bit, observing your facial features.

“And why do you think any of the people I know would want to help you? You’re just some lowly pirate.” You spit at him, angered by his casualness. In what world would you even willingly help him? Who does he think he is?

“Ha…Me? A lowly pirate? This coming from the literal captain of a crew is hilarious! Tell me another joke, please.” He grins knowingly, he knows how to get a rise out of you for sure. You look over his facial expression, smugness overtakes his face and it makes your stomach twist, not with disgust though for some odd reason, with another feeling you don’t quite recognize. 

This whole situation has you feeling all kinds of anxious. How did you just happen to raid the ship of a pirate who just happened to need you for this specific thing, and why is his presence making you feel so…weird? Something isn’t right here, and it can’t be because of your connections to the grand line. No, he’s hiding something. 

“What are you hiding, clown? There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

His face drops, and he gets suddenly very serious, “Listen here, princess,” Buggy gets up from the chair and gets close to you, leaning down, your noses almost touching. “You’re gonna get me to the grand line, I don’t care if I have to torture it out of you, got it? No more questions tonight.” He gets up and suddenly grins very brightly, as if nothing ever happened. “Night night!” Buggy walks out and slams the door, then you hear a locking sound.

Fuck, he locked you in your room. You should’ve expected this, honestly. The way he reacted to your question was so strange. You knew there was something fishy, but you didn’t think whatever it was could’ve prompted that kind of reaction out of him. 

***

The next day you wake up to yelling outside of your cramped room. Yawning, you get up and put your ear to the door,

“I’m sorry Captain Buggy! I didn’t know that was their ship I swear I promise!”

You hear what sounds like a kick to the jaw and a yelp,

“Didn’t know? Didn’t know?! You couldn’t tell by the giant crossbones flag that very obviously bares their symbol? I’m tired of you, someone go throw him off the deck.”

You hear screams and pleads of “No please!” and “I didn’t know I’m sorry captain!” before hearing water splash, then silence, then- oh shit footsteps coming towards your room. You scramble back to your cot and lay down, pretending to sleep. You hear a couple of knocks before hearing a feint “What the fuck am I doing, I go where I want!” Before Buggy barges into the room after unlocking it.

“Get up, I know you heard everything.” He spits gruffly, sitting back in the chair again the same way as yesterday. You sit up abruptly. Last night you couldn’t shake this feeling, of what you felt when Buggy had gotten so serious, and it’s just gotten worse being in his presence. Your abdomen feels hot, your ears feel hot, everything feels hot. It’s like butterflies in your stomach if the butterflies were armed with knives.

“Yes, I did hear, what do you mean by my symbol? I thought bumping into you was a coincidence?” Buggy smiles faintly, and chuckles.

“Yes, it was, I wasn’t informed of what ship we attacked, just that my men captured you all, oh but when I saw you…I knew.” Buggy stands up and motions for you to do the same, getting so close to you, your chests almost touch. He brings his hand to your arm, caressing down the length before gripping your wrist harshly, causing you to wince. “Do you….” he trails off, “Do you really not remember me?” He brings his eyes from your arm to your face, making direct eye contact.

You struggle to find words, what does he mean, remember? Yeah, he gives you a strange feeling everytime you're near him, but you’ve never met this man in your entire life. You think. Honestly you can’t remember anything before the age of seventeen.

“I– no, no I don’t…”

His smile fades, and he lets go of you, “I thought you would remember once you saw me, we were on Gold Roger’s crew together years ago, but you went missing after a particularly tough battle.” He pauses, thinking carefully about what to say next, “You– We– We were close, and I was devastated, I thought you were dead.” He’s being surprisingly vulnerable right now, and it’s kind of scaring you.

“I don’t really remember anything before I turned seventeen, All I know is one day I woke up on an island, a group of pirates took me in, I left, and I’ve been on my own since. The only reason I am where I am today is because I wanted to find who I was, and I figured I could find that out at the grand line.” You feel overwhelmingly sad. Why are you sad? You don’t even know him.

There’s a long silence between the two of you, it’s uncomfortable, tight, and makes you want to leave, until he says, “Let me show you.” He says abruptly, and you think you see a blush across his face.

“Sorry, I mean, please,” Buggy steps into your space again, this time his eyes flit between your lips and your eyes, back to your lips. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find you, I’m sorry you had to go through that, I missed you so much y/n” That was the first time he’s said your name this entire time, but it’s not one you recognize.

“Is that my name?” Your lip quivers, he’s so close now, your lips are inches apart.

“Yes it is, y/n, sweetheart, princess, I’ll call you whatever you want, just let me show you.” The thick air has disappeared and is now replaced with tension. Something deeper, heavier, fills the room. But it’s not a bad thing.

“Let me show you who you were to me.”

You let his face drop to yours, and your lips finally connect.

The kiss is slow, languid. It’s like his lips were meant to connect with yours. Buggy wraps his arms around your waist. Pulling you in closer, and kissing you deeper. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you let him kiss you as deep as he wants. The pace quickens and he slots his leg in between yours, rubbing against your pants and providing much needed friction.

You moan into his touch and he walks the both of you backwards until the back of your knees reach the bed. He lowers you onto it and hovers above you, kissing you again before departing. “Is this okay?” Buggy asks, brushes his hands underneath the bottom of your shirt, slowly lifting it.

“Only if you return the favor.” He chuckles and lowers his head to your neck, sucking and biting gently while riding up your shirt until your chest is exposed. You sit up briefly to take off your shirt and as promised, he does the same. He isn’t overly ripped like most pirates are, but he’s still well toned. His muscles flex as he shifts lower, kissing down your chest, down your stomach and stopping just above the navel.

“When I saw you were the one my men captured, it took my breath away,” He lifts your hips so he can remove your pants and undergarments, “I was scared, anxious, I didn’t know what to do, so I pretended I knew you for your skills, not for your past.” After removing everything, he pushes back, kissing your thighs before sitting up, taking his gloves off with his teeth and throwing them to the side. Man that was hot.

Buggy detaches one of his hands and lets it roam up your torso, reaches your neck and gives it a gentle squeeze. Before leading his fingers over your mouth, asking for entry. You grant it and his index and middle finger slip into your mouth, swirling your saliva around and coating them generously. “When you suspected I knew more, I didn’t know what to do. When you boarded I just knew you by name, not face, there was no way I could’ve expected this.”

He removes his hand from your mouth and moves it down to your center, rubbing through your folds gently and inserting two fingers, scissoring you open and prepping you for what's to come. Buggy uses his still detached hand to remove his own trousers, his cock springing free from its confines. He strokes it slowly, clearly getting off to his detached hand fingering you open.

“Buggy…” You moan, you can’t even reply or form a sentence, the pleasure too good.

“Shhh just relax sweetheart, I’ll take care of you.” He brings his hand away from your now dripping cunt, reattaching it and leaning down. You feel his breathe over your core, he kisses your clit before taking it in his mouth, lapping up your taste and fucking you onto his tongue. You can feel your orgasm approaching quickly as he flits between sucking on your clit and tonguing inside of you, but he pulls away.

“Fuck! Why’d you–”

You’re interrupted by his cock entering you and your legs being lifted by his hands so he can enter as deep as possible. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full before. His cock fits so nice and feels so good and he hasn’t even moved yet.

“Fuck you’re so tight and wet for me, so fucking good huh? Letting me fuck you like this.” His pupils are so blown out, he watches his own cock pull out and start to thrust into you, it just fuels your arousal further. Buggy starts out slow, just getting you used to his size before he picks up the pace, fucking into you even deeper and faster.

“Shit, gonna cum Buggy please.” He moves your legs to prop onto his shoulders and he grabs onto your waist, pushing down and holding you in place as he fucks into you roughly.

“Gonna cum for me? Go ahead sweetheart. Cum all over my cock.” He moves his hand over your abdomen and presses down, the pressure making you feel dizzy. You feel white hot, the band finally snapping as you come. “Fuck, gonna cum soon too, gonna fill you up so good.”

Buggy relentlessly fucks into your cunt, overstimulating you and causing a pressure to build that’s unfamiliar. “Wait Buggy I, fuck I feel weird it feels good.” Soon, with a loud cry you feel a wetness rush between your legs, causing you to let out a loud string of moans and curses.

“Squirting for me already? God you’re full of surprises. Shit, I’m coming.” A few more snaps of his hips and you feel his hot cum fill you up, as promised. It feels so good. He slows down and pulls out, his load leaking out of you and onto the sheets below. “So good for me.” He whispers, leaning down and kissing you gently. He cleans the both of you up quickly and gets dressed, ready to go back to his quarters for the night.

“Wait Buggy, before you go…” You trail off and he turns around, listening intently. “If you don’t mind, can you tell me more about my- about our, past? I need to know where I came from, what happened.” Buggy smiles gently, walking up and kissing you on the forehead.

“Of course princess, later”

© Choism 2023. do not repost or translate.

[rae-writes]

the things we [didn't] forget about

om boys x reader

wc : 2.k

warnings : angst, hurt-comfort, depictions of lesson 16, non-detailed panic attack+ptsd

synopsis : Even things locked away and forgotten can be remembered by the body that experienced it

It all happened so sudden. But terror can do that to a person. 

Terror is cold and dark and it curls around someone like a viper; encasing their ankles so they can’t run, slithering up their legs to squeeze at their abdomen so hard it feels like they’re going to be sick, winding around and around their chest so tight they can’t breathe, and even tighter around their neck so every cry for help is lodged inside. 

Terror doesn’t end there, either. It festers inside of them, flowing through their veins and arteries— ice cold so they begin to shiver, though their bodies are confused when they begin to sweat from the panic. 

And suddenly, that viper unravels, bringing every feeling rushing back to that person all at once- so fast it sends their mind crashing to figure out exactly what is happening and what they’re really feeling and what’s actually real and are they even safe— 

It was only a couple seconds. Only a couple seconds where the body freezes up and this domino effect of emotions lines up before tipping into a hysterical reaction.  It’s overwhelming; and that’s when the sound comes out.

Mephisto had simply thrown a tape measure over your head from behind, swiftly and casually pulling it taut around your neck to get your measurements for the choker that would be going with your festival outfit. 

Yet no matter how gentle his actions were, no matter how non-restricting the tape measure was, the feeling hurdled you right back to that night. 

The night of your death. The night Belphie killed you. 

And you let out a blood curdling scream. 

The common room around you melted into the attic, the thin measuring tape being replaced by Belphie’s tail slyly sliding around your neck from behind before tightening and crushing your windpipe. 

You knew it wasn’t real. You’d moved past that night, forgiven Belphie, made amends. The nightmares ended, the anxiety of being close to the sloth demon became none— you had overcome the incident. 

But as you tripped backwards over your own two feet, screaming and crying and scrambling even further back, you think that maybe you hadn’t forgotten. Maybe you’d just buried it deep, deep down, not wanting to ever think of it again; the memory was still there, however. Still in full color with full intensity. 

For a moment, the others might’ve been confused. Scared, worried, startled. But when your hands shot up to check over your throat, fingers poking and prodding at the skin to make sure everything was still as it should be, they knew.

†

Lucifer, for the first time, doesn’t think about his actions as he moves, covering your body with his own as his wings shield you from your surroundings. His feet moved on their own, body driven by the sole instinct- the need- to just protect you. Even if there was nothing to physically protect you from, even if he couldn’t reach into your mind and just erase the bad memories, he shields you with his body because he wants you to know he’s there. He’s there and he’s not going to let anything past him until you’re ready because you are all that’s on his mind right now, all that’s at the forefront of his heart right now, and so he’ll stay right there on the floor with you pressed against him like glue for as long as you want; even when your cries stop and you relax in his hold, he won’t move until you’re ready to get up. His fingers brush away hair from your face, cradling your cheeks as he keeps you hidden away in his wings, feathers brushing over your skin softly every time exhales. He’s not going anywhere, this, he can promise.

Mammon was by your side in an instant, arms winding around you comfortingly to pull you into his lap, cradling you so gently and so softly. He forces his scent to envelop you, for his voice to be the only one you hear, for his warmth to seep into your skin until you’re able to look up at him with swollen eyes. He’s drying all your tears, cooing sweet nothings because dammit, he couldn’t protect you when it actually happened, so he’s sure as hell going to protect you now. His fingers caress your neck, soothing over the red lines you caused, tapping almost playfully over your pulse point; his voice comes out unusually soft and sweet as he pours out his heart in hopes that it’ll drown out the darkness you’re facing. He loves you so fucking much, you know? He’d do anything for you. Anything and everything, and he’s never going to leave your side, and he’s always going to try and protect you. He swears. 

Levi has the immediate instinct to run and hide, but as he listens to your cries and watches you frantically make sure your neck isn't broken, the instinct changes to wanting to run and hide with you wrapped safely in his arms. His tail curls around you, replacing the discomfort of terror, and instead making you feel protected— he might not be confident in himself, especially when he couldn’t do anything to help you last time, but he’s confident in his love for you and that makes his eyes flare in determination. Swiftly, he’ll lift you with his tail and pull you into his arms and just take you away to the safety of his bathtub-bed; here, he can protect you. Here, you can feel safe with just him and the porcelain tub wall pressed against you. Here, he can hide you away and not let anyone come through that door until you’re ready. Here- right now- he can protect you, and until you’re ready, he won’t move an inch. 

Satan is startled, as he’s used to you being the calm one while he has outbursts— he has no idea what to do at first when you begin crying, and that makes him so angry because he should know how to comfort you. But how does someone comfort a person who’s having flashbacks from when they died? With careful steps and raised hands, like he’s trying not to spook a cat, he approaches you and whispers your name as a question, scrambling to wrap you in his arms once you reach out for him. He still doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say- what to even think- so almost absentmindedly, he’ll begin reading you his favorite book aloud from just memory alone. He doesn’t know how many chapters in he gets, but he does know that once you begin to relax in his arms, he’s relaxing himself because this, now, is familiar territory but even when it’s not, he’s never going to leave you alone. Ever. 

Asmo immediately begins fretting over your poor swollen eyes and blotchy red cheeks, trying to hide away his panic so he can focus on you instead. He gently dabs at your face with his silk handkerchief, citing off as many positive uses for it before he’s at a loss when the small squared fabric is completely soaked and you’re still crying. He’ll get unusually quiet after that, clamoring his way into your lap so he can wrap as much of his body around you as he can; this is his way of protecting you. Of letting you know that no one is going to hurt you again if he’s here- they’ll have to go right through him first…you shouldn’t cry, you know? But if it’ll make you feel better when you’re done, just let it out, and he’ll be happy to pamper you afterwards! He might not know exactly what to do right now, but he’ll be here anyway. Just for you, always for you. 

Beel is frozen, unable to move as he just stares at the sight of you breaking down with wide eyes; he was there. He remembers vividly what happened, but he also knew that everyone had moved past it in some way— but seeing you like this after so long? …Slowly, maybe as to not startle you- or maybe because he’s scared himself- he lowers himself to the floor beside you and ushers you in his lap. He might not know what to say or do, but he knows how to silently comfort, and that’s exactly what he does as he absentmindedly rocks you back and forth, quietly offering you bites of his snack as you start calming down. He might not be as vocal as some of his other brothers, but his love speaks volumes through the silence, and he just loves you so much. He rests his head on top of yours and promises he’ll always be there for you. . .and, quietly so no one else can hear, he apologizes for not being there that night. Apologizes for not being quick enough, for not knowing something was wrong, for letting his twin spiral so much out of control that he snapped…he’s so sorry. But he’ll be there for the rest of time— because he loves you. 

Belphie is backing away himself, completely mortified by your reaction; he did this to you and he already made it a point of making sure you knew he’d never forgive himself, but seeing you be dragged back forcefully into that experience felt like his heart was getting ripped out of his chest. His vision was getting blurry, chest heaving with stuttering breaths as he spiraled and not even Beel could pull him out of it— the only thing that saved him from breaking down was you. You crying out for him, you reaching out for him as your sobs quieted down into soft whimpers of his name. You wanted him to comfort you, even if he was the reason you were having such a bad flashback in the first place. And so he cries loudly, dropping to his knees and shakily crawling over to you, wrapping you in his arms as he utters apology after apology. He loves you so much and he’s sorry, he’s sorry- so sorry- so, so sorry. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. 

Diavolo is a bit frazzled at first, molten hues wide in surprise before the feeling of guilt creeps over him. He’d been the one who ordered you to go back in time- he’d been so curious as to how the door opened that he hadn’t thought about the possibility of Belphegor hurting you…he also takes a slow approach, making sure you see him in your line of sight before he lowers himself to the ground. He doesn’t touch you, instead waiting for you to come to him first, but for some reason the first words that manage to come out of his mouth are ‘I’m sorry’. It almost brings tears to his own eyes when you scramble to him and try to bury yourself in his embrace, sobbing harshly against his chest; he doesn’t let you go. And he won’t, not until he knows you’re in a better state of mind. He failed you that day…but he won’t make the same mistake twice.

Barbatos was even more frazzled than Diavolo, even more guilty— because he was the one who sent you back. This is one of the rare times everyone sees him lose his composure because, truly, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do and that scares him because you’re on the ground crying and he doesn’t know how to help you. For the first time in a really long time, he resorts to relying on his instincts rather than his head; he pulls you up in his arms, moving to settle down in a chair with you on his lap rather than being on the floor, and his fingers begin making soothing circles along the skin of your neck. He smoothes over where you accidentally scratched yourself, quietly reassuring you that he’ll be by your side and help you through it all— this, anything, and everything.

+

Simeon isn’t quite sure why you’re in such distress, but when he sees the look Lucifer has, he knows there’s a serious reason behind it. He forces his way past everyone without bothering to keep his polite smile on his face— his eyebrows are furrowed, his lips are tugged into a distressed frown, and there’s a slight shake to his hand as he softly caresses your cheek. He sends a wave of tranquility washing over you and pulls you into his arms when you slump in a sudden spell of exhaustion from his magic. There’s a searing surge of possessiveness that causes him to hold you tight and give the glare to anyone who tries to come closer; he knows it must be something to do with one of the demons because of how they’re looking at each other, so he’ll whisper assurances and promises to you as he sways you back and forth. He’s your guardian angel, remember? He’ll give everything he has to keep you safe, he promises. 

[platonic] Luke jumps when he hears you scream, eyes going wide and teary when he watches you start crying— he doesn’t know what happened and what is happening, all he knows is that you’re upset and that’s enough for him to practically fly across the room. He’s at your side in seconds, small frame latching onto you as he attempts to to fire off a million questions, but he’s starting to cry with you, so a lot of his words are jumbled. He’s so frustrated because all the demons- and even Solomon- are sharing a knowing expression, but he just doesn’t know why. It makes him cry harder but he ignores the fact that he’s doing it in front of everyone else and wobbly exclaims that he’s going to protect you! No matter what, no matter what it’s against— he’s your guardian angel! So he’s gonna be by your side against anything!

Solomon can’t help the grim expression that crosses his face, eyes stormy as he stands back and watches everyone fret over you. A strong possessive urge to protect you flares up suddenly and he also can’t help his snappy tone as he demands everyone get out of his way. He’s bringing you to your feet with magic, wrapping his arms gingerly around your waist as he turns your back to all the others in the room, making you see just him. He doesn’t try to hide the worry plastered over his face as he examines you, verifying there’s nothing physically wrong with you before focusing on reassuring you. He’s firm in the way he promises he’ll make sure nothing bad will happen to you again, swearing that he’ll protect you with every ounce of his being. He was livid when he found out what happened- and he’s livid even now knowing that you still have mental scars from it- but the only thing he can do is be there for you. And he’s going to. No one can stop him. 

Mephisto is horrified, thinking he hurt you somehow even though he’s certain he didn’t accidentally scratch you or pull the tape measure too tight. The knowing glance- and reassuring ‘you didn’t do this’ shake of the head from his lord- made him feel no less panicked, though he at least knew you weren't hurt— physically. With a quiet, almost hesitant voice, he’ll call out for you and get on his knees to softly apologize.  He’s completely out of his element when you crawl into his lap and bury your face in his neck, and yet he pulls you impossibly closer; whatever you want, whatever you need, he’ll be at your beck and call. His time, his attention, his money, his affection- it’s always been all yours and he’ll do anything to make you happy, you know that?

[freedomfireflies]

Bite Me*

Summary: Part of Halloween Kinktober, Freaky Fun

The one where your boyfriend, Harry, is a vampire.

And you wish you could feel what he felt.

Word Count: 3.2k

*Contains Mature and Explicit content! Please only consume what you feel comfortable with!💞You are so much more important!*

“Easy…easy, sweet dove. Need to relax for me. Can smell how nervous you are. Take a deep breath, hm?”

Shaky fingers gather in front of your stomach as you nod nervously. Staring up at your boyfriend with anticipation and remorse. “Sorry, I just…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, reaching up to brush some hair behind your ear. “There is nothing wrong with you, darling. It’s chemical. You’re meant to feel nervous around me. It’s nature’s design. To keep you safe.”

You nod again, catching a glimmer of light from the sharp tooth peeking out from behind his lip. “I know, I just…I wish it would stop. I wish we could just be, you know? Without me being so…”

He studies you for a moment, a look of adoration on his face as he hums again and cups your cheek. “I know.”

You nestle into his touch rather contently before he begins to smile, now dipping down to nudge his nose with yours. 

“If you want…I can make the bad feeling go away,” he whispers with a slight purr. “Can make it all better again.”

Hopeful, your lashes flutter. “Really?”

He nods once. “Mhm. Just wanna help you, dove. Want you to feel good.”

And now you understand what he means, the thought sending a spark down to your toes. It’s rare he feeds from you. After all, he considers the act to be degrading and disrespectful. He only ever feeds from animals or blood bags unless you’ve specifically asked.

But the truth is, you love when he feeds from you. For a plethora of reasons, one of which being the overwhelming sense of need and dependance on him that follows. Or the way his eyes grow darker and his entire demeanor changes. How much stronger he becomes feeding on human blood, specifically the blood of someone he loves.

But another reason lies with his fangs. The venom that becomes injected into your bloodstream, forcing you to feel whatever emotion or desire he feels. 

It’s a trick used to lure and calm his prey into submission while he feeds, but you find another use for it. Because if he’s filled with serenity or anger or lust…you feel it, too. You feel him. Only him.

And it’s your absolute favorite feeling in the world.

His other hand now reaches for your neck, fingers gently tapping the sides of your throat. “Just say the word, darling. And I’ll give you anything you want.”

You feel your chest deflate, all the air evaporating from your lungs as he slowly urges you back against the wall. Bracing you there as he awaits your decision.

He knows what you want. And he knows that you’d tell him otherwise. 

Your fingers tangle in the dark shirt on his chest, desperate to keep him near you. “Do it. Please.”

He tilts your head back, letting his lip curl up until his fang is revealed. “Are you sure, my dove?”

Another fervent nod. “Yes. Please, Har…please, need to feel it. Need to feel you.”

He leans closer, letting the tips of his sharp teeth graze over the sensitive skin of your throat. Right above your pulse point. “Gotta be really sure, darling. Don’t want to hurt you. Or lose control.”

“You won’t,” you exhale, feeling more confident than you sound. “Know you won’t.”

Truth be told, you wouldn’t mind if he did. Even in his darkest moments, he remains your fiercest protector. Never allowing anyone to hurt you.

Not even himself.

You feel him breathe against your neck, perhaps preparing himself for what he’s about to do. Or maybe he’s indulging in your smell. Reveling in the realization of what he’s about to do. What he’s about to taste.

Then, almost as if overcome with a surge of confidence, he bites down – hard. Enough to break the skin and allow his venom to travel into your system.

It’s instantaneous, the feeling. The way your muscles dissolve into jelly, the way your mind fills with a certain haze, and the way your stomach begins to coil.

It’s overwhelming, but it’s him. And you whimper as his other hand falls to your hip to keep you steady, making sure you remain upright and in his arms.

He waits a moment or two to make sure the venom has taken effect before he slowly retracts his fangs and pulls away. You know if he’d punctured you any deeper or kept the sharp teeth inside of you any longer, the taste of your blood would have driven him mad. Tempting him beyond reason until he began to lose control.

But he knows his limits by now. Knows exactly how far he can push himself around you, and you admire him for it.

Your legs shake as you slump against the wall, held up by his grip as he studies you carefully. Looking for signs of remorse or panic.

He’s learned a trick for sucking a majority of the poison out of your system – if it were to come to that. And while it’s tricky and tedious, you know he’d do it in a heartbeat if he felt you were in danger or if you regretted your choice.

Instead, you simply smile at him, and nod languidly. “M’good, Har,” you assure him. “M’so good.”

He seems to exhale a grateful breath, thumb stroking your cheek gently as he now glances over your wound. “I need to clean it—"

“No,” you whimper, keeping him close. “Not yet. Don’t go yet.”

He chuckles, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “All right, dove. I’m here. How do you feel, hm? You feel calm yet?”

You nod again before your lashes flutter. “Yeah. Calm, and…and happy, I think?”

He hums. “I imagine. You do make me happy.”

“It’s strange, though,” you admit, brows furrowing in thought. “Feels…heightened. Or more potent. There’s this…this yearning. This need for something.”

He regards you for a moment more. Curious and seemingly amused by your confusion before suddenly, your eyes snap to his.

You suck in a sharp inhale – something akin to a gasp. “Are you…are you horny?”

You expect his surprise, but all you find is smug fascination. “Well,” he begins slowly, letting his knuckles graze delicately beneath your jaw, “the term horny is a little juvenile. And it could never even begin to describe what I feel for you.”

He steps closer, lips ghosting just above yours while you feel your breath hitch.

“But…yes,” he whispers, glancing down at your mouth with a smile. “I suppose I am. Can’t exactly help it, darling, can I? When you look…and taste…and smell so goddamn divine.”

Another whimper bleeds from your throat as he begins to guide you away from the wall and toward the bed just to the left of you.

“Tell me…how does it feel, dove, hm?” he murmurs, touch strong yet determined. “Do you feel me? Feel how much I need you?”

This nod is quick and zealous. Because you do. It’s all you feel. This desire to have – to take and ruin. In the best possible way. It’s a similar sensation to the lust you already feel for him. Your hunger to explore the dangerous but loving man you call your own.

“Yeah?” He’s grinning like a mad man at the way you so quickly fall apart. “Can I tell you a secret, darling?” 

You whimper pitfully as you gaze up at him.

Lowering his voice, he tightens his grip. “When I’m with you…I always feel like this.”

With that, he nudges you down to sit on the mattress before surging forward to press his lips to yours. Kissing you so hard, you feel dizzy. It’s perfection. Like quenching a burning flame. Like taking that first drink of water on a hot day. Fixing a desperate need – succumbing to a craving. 

And it feels as though this kiss fixes every one of your problems. Because it does – he does. Breaks you and puts you back together again all in the same moment. It’s almost addicting. You feel insatiable, hands disappearing into his curls as you yank him down until his chest is flush with yours.

The two of you roll and writhe around on the bed for a minute or two before he leans back to offer you air. He knows you won’t take a moment to breathe otherwise, and his smug smirk merely worsens the ache between your thighs.

“Not so nervous now, hm?” he muses.

You hook your leg around his hip and attempt to grind yourself against his thigh. “Please…”

“Please what, dove?” He presses his lips to the base of your throat, trailing them down your sternum and toward your chest. “What’s it feel like, what do you need?”

But you don’t have any answer for him. Instead, all you can do is stare at the stunningly generous man as he works his way down your body. As he unbuttons your shirt and kisses over the swell of your breast. 

The stain of your blood from his lips smears across your nipple before he takes it into his mouth. Sucking and licking at the tender skin while he kneads the other one in his palm.

You arch from the mattress, desperate to disappear into his strong frame while he chuckles darkly and allows his fangs to reemerge. 

He uses them sparingly – not as a weapon but as a toy. A tool in the game of your lust.

The sharp edge pricks your skin, enough to make you gasp his name and tug on him harder. He smiles a bit bigger and carries on with his quest. Moving down your stomach and toward the waistband of your pants.

Cold, nimble fingers pop the buttons free and tug the fabric down your legs. Revealing your trembling thighs to his hungry gaze. He looks at you like you’ve been served to him on a platter. But not in the way another vampire might.

No, Harry’s look of mesmeric adoration lies in the idea of your body. In the warmth of your cunt and the soft skin of your legs. In the way you draw him in, the way you hold him, clench around him.

It’s hard for him to feel most things these days. 

But he always feels you.

He settles his body near your ankles, providing him the right angle and amount of space to spread you open and study you.

His thumb reaches for you. Pushes into your clit before dragging down between your folds as you gasp.

His expression reveals nothing. No inkling as to what he’s thinking but you know his mind is running wild with ideas.

He finds your soaked little hole, circling it once before dragging the wet substance back up and through. 

“Shh,” he coos, taming your desolate cries. “It’s okay, dove. I’ve got you.”

“Har,” you whimper, fingers itching to reach for him as he settles onto his stomach. “Please…”

You can see the reflection of light on his fangs. The way they extend past his red, swollen lips and ghost above your skin.

He nips at your hip a time or two – a slight sting that dissolves into something excruciatingly pleasurable – before he dances his mouth down. Torturing you with what’s to come instead of simply giving it to you.

“You smell divine, darling,” he purrs, groaning deep within the back of his throat. “Just might kill me again.”

You’d laugh if you had the strength, instead peering down your body at him with a desperate need. “H, I need…need—”

“Need me, hm?” He exhales a gentle breath across your clit and it’s so very cold. But it makes you jump, a new wave of arousal seeming to soak the sheets beneath. “Need me to make it better, yeah?”

You nod swiftly. “Yes…yeah. Hurts, Har.”

“Hurts?” he repeats with faux sympathy. “Oh, dove. Bet it does. Bet it’s all achy.”

Your head moves on its own accord, and you feel your stomach quiver when his cool hands curl around your thighs, keeping them spread.

“I imagine,” he whispers, returning his eyes to your pussy. “Cause I know how much it aches for me.”

He dives in, tongue lapping at your warmth and wetness without mercy as you cling to the sheets and arch from the bed.

His arms fold over your hips, keeping you pressed down and pliable to his intentions as he begins. Licking, sucking, and nibbling at certain spots – but never the spot you need him most.

The tantalizing edge of his fang grazes your soft, sensitive cunt. Sometimes harder, sometimes softer. But always impatient, desperate to feel you anyway he can.

Truth be told, you suppose he enjoys feeding on you this way just as much. In fact, this is what he claims is his nourishment whenever he’s feeling weak and unwell. One taste of your pussy and he’s a changed man.

He has you every day. Makes sure you’re at his beck and call – which you already are, anyway. 

If he’s working, if he’s cooking, if he’s reading. He merely gives you a look and calls you by that familiarly loving nickname, and next thing you know, you’re sitting on his face.

The stretch of your muscles is almost distracting, but not nearly as distracting as his groans of pleasure. The way he curses to himself as he swallows you down. Nudging at your cunt with his mouth like you’re the best meal he’s ever had.

And then…those perfect lips find your clit. He sucks, and moans, and you cry out his name. Grasping onto his hair in a futile attempt at stability and more.

He lets you tug him closer. You imagine – if he were still alive – he’d be suffocated by your pussy. Which…he’d probably enjoy.

As it is, he continues his ministrations almost mercilessly while you squirm beneath him and attempt to buck up against his tongue.

“I know,” he whispers, almost soothingly, and it feels like a vast contrast to the way he forces you into so much pleasure. “Know, darling. Can hear your pretty, little heart racing. Try to breathe, yeah? While you still can.”

You suck in a greedy gasp, eager to obey, as you focus on the sounds coming from between your thighs. It’s sinful and sensual and it echoes around the room until it’s all you hear.

“Doing so good, babydove,” he murmurs, glancing up just long enough to see the first tear slip from your eye. “It’s a lot right now, I know. I know, but you can take it. Always do so good for me. Let me see you cum, yeah? Let me see this pretty pussy cum for me.”

And you want to more than anything. Chasing the need in your own belly along with the need from his venom. The combined rush of ecstasy that makes stars explode across your eyelids as more destitute sounds fall from your tongue. 

His hands suddenly slip beneath your back, forcing you from the bed as he repositions you and nearly pulls you right through him. 

Large fingers grope the tender flesh of your ass as he holds you against his mouth and sucks the sensitive nerves between puckered lips. 

“Tell me,” he ushers softly, a golden hue to those vivid eyes watching you closely. “Tell me how bad I need you. Tell me how much I love you—”

“Har,” you gasp, trembling in his touch. “Can’t…can’t…m’gonna cum, I…please—”

“Try. Tell me. Tell me that you feel me—”

“I do,” you whine. “I do, I feel you. Feel you, Har. So good. It’s so good, please—”

“All right, darling. You gonna let me taste you? Need to taste you, darling. Can’t live without it—”

“Harry—”

He pulls away just enough to raise his hand and smack it down your cunt. The cold metal of his ring catching your clit before two more spanks are laid in succession.

You moan loudly – almost undone by the eroticism itself – before he dips back down, and grazes the delicate bud with the edge of his fang.

You feel him slip a finger inside. Pumping you once – twice – before he adds a second. Wanting to fill you and finger-fuck you to the edge as quickly as possible.

It hits you then. Overpowers you and knocks the wind from your lungs. 

You fall apart in his hands, against his tongue. Moaning and whimpering as your toes curl and your eyes roll to the back of your head. It feels as though you cum twice as hard – perhaps a result of the venom or the symbolism of his need for you. The way your taste has satisfied his thirst.

“Yes, yes…there you go, that’s my fucking girl.” His tone is rough but riddled with lust. He groans like he’s never been filled with so much devotion. An anxious almost obsessed sound that drags your orgasm on at least a few seconds longer. “Give it to me, dove…fucking give it to me—”

“Harry—” You gasp his name like it’s the last sound you’ll ever make. Tears building in your eyes before they cascade down your warm cheeks. 

Ever the sadist, Harry works you through until your cunt is throbbing and far too sensitive to the touch. Despite your cries and whimpers for mercy, he carries on. Thrusting, licking, and sucking until you can hardly breathe.

Eventually he releases you and leans back. Perhaps able to hear the erratic racing of your pulse beneath your chest as he now works to hush your anxious mewling.

Crawling up your body with care, his fangs retract, and he buries his face in your neck to keep you still. Pressing his chest to yours in an effort to help calm you.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, lips grazing your skin as he speaks. “It’s okay, dove. You’re okay. God, did so fucking good for me, darling. Always taste so good, make me so happy.”

You tiredly grasp onto his arms, needing to hold onto him just as tightly as he’s holding onto you. Wanting to share in this moment as he smirks against your throat. 

“You okay?” he asks you now. “You’re nervous again.”

“No, I’m…I’m okay,” you assure him through a pant. “I just…it feels so good. So…heavy, you know? Overwhelming.”

He chuckles softly and pushes up onto his elbows to get a good look at you. Thumb finding your cheekbone as he traces the delicate curve of your face with great adoration. “Are you saying I overwhelm you?”

You nod, smiling giddily as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. “In the best possible way.”

Grinning himself, he leans down to capture your lips with his. And it’s soft and slow and an oddly angelic end to such a devilish evening.

“Har?” you whisper, lashes fluttering shut as you nose your way under his jaw.

“Yes, dove?”

Your kisses trail below his ear, making his fingers flex. “You know what I think?”

“What's that, darling?”

You begin to smirk wickedly as you slip your hand around the back of his neck and tug him closer. Allowing the edge of your teeth to finally make contact with his skin.

He stills.

“I think it’s my turn now.”

Just wanna put in a quick note and clarify that even though she was feeling a bit of his horniness and desire, she was still very much horny all on her own HAHAHA this was 1000000% consented to from beginning to end from both parties!

Also vampire!harry is so fun?? And I loved this?? WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME??

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Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

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