#she's not good enough for his grandson

[dandelion-blues]

#7 What if...

Kronos was a somewhat good grandpa?

Percy couldn't say he was relieved when Luke took that knife to himself, there was too much pain in death for that to be the case.

But nonetheless, in that deep seated exhaustion that wove in his very bones, Percy just wanted everything to be over.

Then, as Luke lay dying, his bright blue eyes seared into Percy and made him promise to not forget about the demigods, to make the gods be better.

Percy knew his job wasn’t yet done, because as Luke took his last breath, the shadows overtook the throne room. The hearth just mere embers, and a magical laugh echoed around the chambers.

Annabeth was crying over Luke’s corpse and didn't seem to notice anything wrong in her grief, but Percy did. He always noticed, even though Annabeth would most likely disagree.  She does call him Seaweed Brain after all. But just because Percy doesn't speak up about what he notices doesn’t mean he's dumb.

It's why, when his instincts screamed at him, he raised his sword just as a great metal scythe came sweeping down at him.

“Oh, grandson. I long since outgrow that boy's body, but you fought brilliantly. But now I am back at full power, you will not be able to stop me as you are. Still, for you to not only sense my strike, but stop it… I knew you were special. You really should have joined my side,” Kronos says, his words like honey, as he presses his scythe down upon Percy’s sword. Golden cracks were seeping from Kronos’ bronze skin, showing his divinity leaking through.

Percy snarled, his green eyes blazing with fury, “I'd rather die!”

And Percy looked over to Annabeth for help, but she was not moving, her tears frozen in time on her cheeks.

Percy froze in fear, his heart pounding. Kronos was no longer in Luke's body and his powers restricted. Kronos had his own body now, and his abilities were restored.

However, Percy’s freezing was a fatal mistake, as Kronos pressed on with more force forcing Percy’s sword from his hand.

Percy looked up, his eyes wide in fear as he stared in Kronos golden orbs.

Except as Percy’s sword came clanging to the ground and Kronos swung his scythe. The titan leveled the blade just against his throat.

Kronos croons, “Don’t worry grandson. I couldn’t possibly kill you when I see so much of myself and Rhea in your eyes.”

Percy startles and flinches as Kronos touches Percy’s face gently, pulling black strands behind his ears.

“Hmm?” Kronos hums, “Don’t worry you’ll understand in time. For now just sleep, and we’ll celebrate later when I discipline my kids.”

“Stop-” Percy says, but then he feels a pinch on the back of his neck, and everything fades to black.

The last thing he hears is Kronos’ voice comforting him…

~~~

Kronos at first hated all these mortal pests that had the blood of gods in their veins.

Mortals weren’t worthy of such a gift.

Unfortunately, Kronos needed to play along with the pests' plans in order to revive.

However, how he started to view these pests, or rather just one pest, changed when he met the son of his Poseidon, his grandson, Perseus Jackson.

Perseus was different then the other pests - demigods. He was just twelve when Kronos first slipped in his dreams, and already Pereus was powerful, defiant, but then Kronos saw his eyes, Rhea's eyes. Kronos could barely stomach it when he swallowed Poseidon, his son with Rhea's eyes.

But now it seems that another inherited her eyes. The one who would be the doom or savior of Olympus. And should die when he was sixteen.

No, this one would not be the one to fulfill the prophecy. He couldn't be.

Kronos sent the boy nightmares, hoping he would pray to his father. That Poseidon would scue the boy. Except that never happened.

And so the next thing that Kronos could do was set his vessel to poison the daughter of Zeus, so a quest would be sent and the Golden Fleece would be retrieved to not only help heal him, but the daughter of Zeus as well, so she would be the one to fulfill the prophecy.

Of course, everything went downhill from there and that daughter of Zeus ran away from the prophecy and gave it to his grandson.

Huh? When did Kronos start thinking of Perseus as his grandson? From the moment he saw Rhea's eyes.

And after his grandson saved Artemis and by holding Atlas’ weight the gods voted to kill his grandson!

As if he hasn't already saved them and proven himself before!

It made Kronos resolve to tear Olympus down all the more.

And so, even as he had to fight his grandson to do so, he would, for Perseus for power.

Of course no one but Kronos himself knew that he would never mortally injure the boy. It's why when his scythe, which is said to suck the life from one's soul, struck, Perseus was merely fatigued.

And Kronos regularly asked for updates on how Perseus is doing from that daughter of Aphrodite.

It's how he found out Perseus’ powers were growing every day, he was long on his way to ascending.

Oh, and how that daughter of Athena was trying to shackle his grandson to mortality by seducing Perseus of all things. As if that girl would ever be good enough for his grandson! She, he always calls him stupid, and tests him at every opportunity. No! Kronos would not stand for that!

Then, the final battle came. Unfortunately his spy turned traitor and died, but it didn't matter because the battle lines were drawn. And Perseus was practically glowing in his divinity.

It would be soon!

Perseus made his choice, but it was too late to stop Kronos, for he was already healed.

And Kronos fought Perseus one on one. The boy didn't even notice that he glowed, his veins golden. Too fueled by anger to stop and think why he could still move when Kronos stopped time, and that daughter of Athena did not.

Unfortunately, when he noticed that time was stopped all around him, the boy froze, and Kronos took the advantage.

And when Kronos saw the wide eyed fear in those green eyes he reassured him that he would not kill him. How could he, when he came to care for the boy?

However, Perseus startles and flinches as Kronos goes to comfort the boy by face gently, pulling black strands behind his ears.

“Hmm?” Kronos hums, knowing the boy is too brainwashed by the gods and too young to understand, “Don’t worry you’ll understand in time. For now just sleep, and we’ll celebrate later when I discipline my kids.”

“Stop-” Perseus says, but Kronos swiftly pinches a nerve on the boy's neck, and the boy slumps forward into his open arms.

Kronos whispers to his grandson comfortably and holds him like a little one to his chest, “Don't worry, I'll take care of you, my grandson.”

Notes:

Whelp! At least Kronos doesn't want Percy to die. Maybe he'll even do alright with being the new prince of the Titans.

First - Previous - Next "What if...?"

[princeofuchiha]

Something I think about like. Once a week. Is that scene where Fugaku and Mikoto are leaving Itachi to babysit Sasuke for the night because they're going to "Visit Mikoto's parents"

Like...you mean...their grandparents...?

Just. Why is the preset here to leave a young child in charge of a toddler by himself. Instead of simply bringing them along.

Sure, if it was a decent enough trip maybe Itachi couldn't come because he had to be back in time for his mission the next morning but they couldn't have at least brought Sasuke?

Just overall. Why.

Are the kids not welcome in their grandparents home? If not, why the hell not?? They're like the most well behaved, polite kids ever. Even when Sasuke is complaining / whining about not getting his way (which tbh is so fair for his age) he pretty much immediately drops it when he's told no beyond some mild pouting.

Like. What beef do their grandparents have with these two???

The usual explanation in that sort of sitation of "Oh well the grandparents don't like their daughters husband so by extension aren't attached to the grandkids" also hardly applies bc. Fugaku was invited over to visit???

I realize I'm probably reading way too far into a throw away one liner. But like. That scene always makes me want to do a double take every time I see it. It just pulls so many questions up that I realize aren't super relevant but also. I want to know the answer to.

[notbecauseofvictories]

I also think about this a lot with age. I was reading about Elagabalus, who managed to become Roman emperor at 14. While he was very much a puppet of his grandmother, and presumably people knew that (or at least suspected that Julia Maesa wasn't there to bake cookies) I genuinely wonder if this teenager decked out in gold and laurel wreaths rolled up, and all the actual adults in the Senate exchanged Meaningful Glances.

It's heartening sometimes to realize how incredibly ordinary historical figures looked. If you watch a bunch of period dramas, you come away thinking that history was made exclusively by shockingly attractive people---when actually, famous poets with burnished names look more like Jim, The Local Bank Manager; artists who broke the mold wouldn't look out of place scrolling through their phone on the subway. You could walk past the absurdly wealthy doyennes of society in the grocery store and never give them a second glance.

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part 8

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.2k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. No smut. Graphic domestic violence, physical abuse, choking. Non consensual kissing. Hospital setting, nurse!reader, medical inaccuracies. Drowning metaphors. Strong feelings of self loathing, despair, fear, anxiety. Suicidal ideation. Crying. Panic attacks. Bun is unraveling. Comfort. Protective Simon and Johnny. Things are happening.

The girl in the mirror hates you.

It’s easy to tell, by the way she stares, how her eyes glow in the yellow fluorescents of the staff bathroom.

You make her sick.

Your weakness, your stupidity, has cost her, again. As if it hasn’t cost her enough at this point, as if it hasn’t drained her dry over and over until she thought she would die.

Until she thought she wanted to die. 

Someone knocks on the bathroom door.

“Occupied.” You snap, and they huff, turning away to go who knows where.

You peek back over to the girl in the mirror. She still stares at you in disdain, but now it’s more expectant, more… intrigued, like she’s asking, well… what are you going to do?

“What are you going to do, sugar?” Phillip’s hands tighten around your neck, white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun of your apartment. The sound of your windpipe being crushed echoes inside your eardrums, and you flail uselessly, struggling, kicking and hissing and crying to no avail. “Where are you going to run next?” Black spiderweb strings along the outside of your vision, and your palm slaps against his forearm, a pathetic endeavor, as always.

He’s too strong. Too determined. 

You’re an ant. He’s a shoe. 

You’re an early high school grad, on an academic scholarship at school your mom couldn’t afford, and he’s the charismatic grandson of a Texan oil tycoon, the son of a judge, living in a fancy house without roommates in the city.

You want to be a doctor. He wants a housewife. 

You want to be a mother; he promises to beat them out of you. 

You want a life in the sun. He wants to become a shadow himself. 

“Phillip.” You wheeze, air snaking through your teeth. He lowers his ear, like he can’t hear you, a mocking bow that you know he relishes. 

“What’s that?” 

“Can’t- breathe-“ The sigh that answers you is what you imagine a disappointed father sounds like, followed by a tsk, an over developed dramatic show that you’ve come to know so well, and he throws you to the ground in one motion, shoulder smacking against the hard wood floor. 

There’s a tear of muscle. An immediate soreness. Stars dance in your vision. 

“Gotta hand it to you, princess. You were hard to find this time.” 

You don’t have an answer for the girl in mirror.

Even with the turtleneck and the very good makeup, it’s bad. There is no doubt, someone will notice.

And then there will be questions. Nonstop questions, personal questions, private questions. Questions from your boss and an HR rep behind a closed door somewhere, invasive, mandated reporting, logical questions that you must have answers for.

You chew your lip.

It’s not so obvious, maybe, with the turtleneck. The long sleeve under your scrub top covers the tender flesh on your neck, your shoulder, your forearm. It’s second nature, how easily you hide, how perfectly they tuck away, little stories beaten into your skin for no one else but you to feel.

Except for your orbital and cheek bones. 

These are blatant. The ball cap pulled down over most of your face hid them well enough on your way in but now... inflamed, angry skin swells beneath your eye, and while it looks okay, you guess, when you get close, it’s obvious that something is wrong. The foundation and failed attempt at contour can only do so much.

It’s shocking to realize you’re actually mad at him for it.

For being so impulsive.

So sloppy.

But then again, wasn’t that your fault? 

You’re bold. Bolder than ever before. Closer to the top of your breaking point now, angry and beaten down and dying in the black of a bottomless pit. Unable to escape. Unable to climb out. 

You’ve been falling inside it for years, and it’s all you ever do. 

Fall. 

And you’re so, so tired. All you want, is for it to end. 

“That was sick, even for you, Phillip. What are you, some kind of freak? Jerking off all over your ex girlfriend’s-“ The backhand is swift. It rockets across your face, combination of it’s force and the sting making your head spin, and you stumble. 

When you lurch, he presses close, chest to your side, strong fingers digging into your forearm so tight it hurts. 

“Don’t say that.” His lips drag across your cheek, insult to injury where he struck you. They press together in a kiss, a foul, rancid piece of affection, making your stomach turn.“You know I don’t when you call yourself that. I don’t like when you lie, sweet thing. It’s not very nice.”

“It’s not a lie, you Texarkana hillbilly fuck, it’s the tru-“ You’re up against the wall in a single movement, arm twisted so hard you cry out, and he shoves you into place until he’s got you where he likes, face to face, nose to nose. 

“There’s my spitfire. Knew she was in there somewhere.” The nickname almost makes your retch. It’s a flicker of a memory, of yourself before the grave of your now life, the fateful twist that is Phillip Graves. 

“I hate you.” You spit. His eye twitches, and he looks every bit the insane man you know him to be. 

Because this... this is Phillip having fun. This is Phillip playing with his food. Phillip and his toy. 

This is not Phillip’s crazed rage. This is not suit and tie Phillip, rip your hair out from the roots Phillip, beat you until you’re unrecognizable Phillip. 

This isn’t the Phillip who slaughters innocent people. Who murders entire towns for pleasure. 

For a very short moment, your mind drifts to Simon and Johnny. You wonder what they’re doing right now, if they’ve already had their lunch, if Penny visited today. If maybe she napped with her Da safe and snuggled, sweet and asleep dreaming of sugar plums. You think about the light in Johnny’s eyes from last night, the way he looked at his daughter, and Simon, and even you. You remember the press of Simon’s mask covered lips on your forehead, a sweet, comforting piece of affection that you’ve already locked inside your heart. 

You float there. In those feelings, those memories. 

You wish they were here. You wish they could help you. 

The acknowledgement is terrifying. It happens so fast, hardly a second, but in that time, horror shivers down your spine. 

You’d put them in danger, for yourself. Your selfish, stupid self. 

Phillip’s mouth hovers over yours, and you swallow the gag rising in your throat. 

“I can’t stay.” He whispers, pseudo-gentle kisses adorning your nose, your cheek again. “It’s really rotten luck, honestly, you showing back up here today. I was just saying my see you laters.” You’re not religious, but the thoughts come easily regardless. Oh god, thank god. Thank fucking god. You have a chance.“I know you’ll be here when I get back, won’t you? I’m tired of chasing you around the world, sugar.” He gives you another wet, closed lip kiss, and your jaw trembles. “If you’re not, it’ll be that much worse for ya.”

You can do this.

It’s not anything you haven’t done before.

Deep breath. You can do this. 

Stepping outside the bathroom is like taking your first steps as a child. You’re slow, pushing through the burn in your side, the sore agony in your shoulder, the torn cartilage you’re sure is the cause the of the pain in your shoulder.

You can do this. 

Get it together. Get yourself together. You’re not going far. 

You make it down the hall without running into anyone, and once you reach the on-call room, you’re breathing long sighs of relief, sliding the lock into place after the door shuts behind your back.

Two black duffels sit on the floor, staring at you. Mocking you, just like the girl in the mirror.

What are you going to do? 

The receptionist is calling your name. 

You ignore her, trying to make it to the elevators, almost breaking into a run even though you’re in pain, your face throbbing, neck sore beyond belief. 

“Sorry, can you-“ Intercepted on your path, she gasps. “Oh my god, what happened?” 

“I was mugged.” It’s a point-blank response, even though you sound like a frog or a piece of roadkill, and it brokers no argument. You look at her with the flattest gaze imaginable, dissuading her from saying anything else. 

“I- I’m sorry. We’ve been trying to call you.” The hair on the back of your neck rises.

“For what?” 

“We need your room. There’s been a block reserved, and it includes the floor you're on. I'm... sorry.” You’re not able to contain your shock, mouth dropping open, heart cracking into tiny pieces. 

On top of everything. Now this. 

The receptionist peeks at you nervously, waiting on pins and needles for a response. 

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry. The hotel apologizes, the block is paying for a higher rate and-“ 

“It’s fine, really. I needed to check out anyway.” You know it’s not her fault. Hell, you’d be surprised if it wasn’t the hotel’s fault either. It’s not like Phillip wouldn’t move heaven and earth to force you out of hiding. He's more than capable of finding out where you’re staying. 

She gives you another apologetic look before scurrying away, and the elevator doors finally enclose around you, a tidal wave of despair swelling in your heart, dropping you to your knees with gut wrenching sobs.

You’re crying again. Curled up in the on-call bed, your shoulders shake in hysteria, tears and panic overwhelming everything you have left, swallowing you until you can’t see the surface anymore.

Your throat burns. Breathing is like rubbing sandpaper down the back of your tongue, and you wheeze when you try to take deep breaths, shoulder shrieking in misery every time you shift.

You have to get it together. You have to work in an hour. 

But you can’t. You dig deep and try, desperately working to pull something forward, something sane and controlled, but there’s nothing to be found, only acid in your throat. The hysteria mounts. It catches the wind and flies down the hill, crashing into you over and over until your hands are clenched together so tight, even they hurt.

You fucking idiot. You waited too long. You ran out of time. 

You’re dead. 

“Oh my god.” Nia covers her mouth, eyes wide. You hold up a palm.

“It looks way worse than it actually is.” Another nurse peeks around her shoulder, and gasps.

“What happened to you?”

“I was mugged yesterday, getting off the train.”

“Oh my god!”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Yes, I did.” You assuage them to the best of your ability, reassuring their worry. “I filed a report, and they didn’t get anything important. I’m okay. Really.” And then the kicker: “I would tell you if I wasn’t.” You glance at everyone, four or five now, gathered around, and lay on the final piece of the puzzle. False familiarity and the ever present desire to be relevant. “Wouldn’t I, Nia?” You gesture around to expectant faces as if to say, tell them, and she readily agrees.

“Yeah, she totally would.”

Everyone pretty much leaves you alone after that. Patients need checks, meds, all of the usual stuff. You assure Nia once more in private, promising that you’re okay, and she reluctantly leaves you alone too, once you swear up and down.

The only thing that doesn’t leave you alone, is your cellphone.

>Hey, just wanted to check in, see how your day off was yesterday? 

>Bunny :)

There are a few others, alternating like above, Simon first, then Johnny. Asking if you got some rest, if you’re okay, and then a promise not to push.

You ignore them.

You ignore the feeling in your chest at the sight of their incoming text messages, the proof of their care.

You ignore the way it feels to know they’re only a floor below you.

You ignore the fact that when you got here today, all you wanted to do was run to Johnny’s room and settle in that chair next to his bed, curl up close to them, where there’s love, where there’s warmth. 

You ignore it at all.

Get it together. You have a job to do. 

Simon appears at the pit three hours into your shift. There’s no one around, everyone trying to take breaks, cover breaks, or deal with whatever emergency is happening in the moment, except you.

And when you round the corner and spot him, waiting, it takes your breath away.

Half of your reaction is pure fear. The last thing you want is for him to see you like this. Beaten. Broken. Ugly.  

The other half is… something pure. Something enamored. He came up here, why? Is he worried because you didn’t answer? Do they care? 

Still-

You start to turn on your heel, eyes flipping wide and panic startling your heart. You’re barely a shadow, a clip of a person on the other end of the hall and yet-

“Hey, there you are.”

Fuck. The acid starts to rise all over again. You keep your face tilted down towards the floor.

Maybe you can pretend you don’t hear him. You leap back around the corner, practically running towards the on-call room, where your life sits in two black bags, waiting.

You can’t do this. You can’t face them, let them see. 

Something desperate gnaws in the pit of your soul, a howl that begs you to turn back and let him in, let them both in, tell them everything.

It’s selfish, and cruel.

It’s unfair.

He calls your name. You still don’t answer. Your scrub pants swish together as you jog, trying to get away, but the effort is in vain. He’s too quick, long strides overtaking yours at a brisk walk, and just before you reach the door, he positions his body in front of the handle, an immovable wall.

There’s a long moment of silence. You stare up into his face, wide eyed, horrified.

You know what he’s seeing. A failure. A moron. A mess. 

To his credit, his expression does not change. His brow does not furrow. He only stares at you, frozen, slow thawing fury finally glowing in his eyes after a centuries’ long minute.

He reaches, time standing still, the back of his fingers stroking the lightest touch against your tender cheek, and his voice is almost unrecognizable behind the mask when he snarls,

“Who did this to you?”

The tears come in a flood. You don’t understand why the breakdown comes in this moment, why everything crashes into a million little pieces, until you feel a strong, careful arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a broad, warm chest, face tenderly nestled into a black hoodie. It feels… safe. Like a home you haven’t had in a long, long time. Like something you never thought you’d feel again.

Maybe it’s a moment of weakness. Maybe it’s your downfall, another thing for the girl in the mirror to be angry with you about, you’re not sure. You’re not sure about anything except this feeling, this feeling that lights up your heart in an explosion of fireworks, fear and panic and anxiety soothing into sadness, into a homesick feeling for a love, a life you’ve never had.

Maybe it’s a moment of weakness, when you sob his name, when you go limp against him and he holds you steady, a cheek atop your head, soft words washing over you in a whisper.

Maybe it’s a moment of weakness, but right now, you can’t seem to care.

Johnny is distraught.

Simon brings you into his room, still tucked into his side. He’s careful with you, telegraphing all his movements, letting you know where he’s going, reverence rich in his touch like he’s handling glass.

“What in the-“

“Bun says she was mugged.” Simon tells him, and you miss whatever is happening over your bowed head, hands shaking with nerves all over again. “She assures me she’s not hurt but-“

“I’m fine.” You croak, and Johnny jerks, mouth half open in disbelief. The light is dim, casting short shadow across his face, his sweet eyes drenched in worry, and you stand at the foot of his bed, tears waiting on your waterline. “I’m okay, they didn’t really get anything, and I-“

“Come here.” He cuts you off, raising both arms, extending them as wide as he can manage, scooting his hips to the side. It’s a feat, but he hides the grimace of pain well. When you don't budge, he repeats himself, firmly the second time. “Bunny. Come here.”

The shame burns, entrenched in you so deep, you know you’ll never be able to cut it out, and your tears fall unbidden, encouraged by the hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, your heart, an ache that you need soothed so desperately.

You’re out of control. You’re losing your grip. 

You had a moment of weakness but this… this is too much. 

“Please, pretty girl.” He whispers, reaching you where no one else can. Speaking to you through the fog of your doubt, your hatred, your fear.

Your hands shake as you reach for his, and when you sit beside him, hip to thigh, he looks at you like he’s staring at someone other than the person who used to be his nurse. He’s looking at you the way you catch him looking at Simon sometimes. Bright gaze full of love. Of worry.

“I’m okay.”

“No, ye’re not.” He shakes his head. “Ye’re not. This is not okay.” The way he says it feels like he knows, like he understands, and you swallow dry, breathing ragged and shallow. It turns frantic, and he squeezes your knee gently, redirecting your attention. “Hey, shhh. It’s okay. Ye’re safe with us.” Simon sits on the arm of the chair, directly next to the bed.

“Do you need to count your breaths?” He cuts directly to the quick. Will this provide you relief? Will this stop the pain? The agony? 

No. 

“N-no.” You gasp.

“Okay. Just try to breathe, everything’s alright."

I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just this- this happened and then I found out I had to find a new place to stay, and I st-still haven’t, so I have to sleep in the on call room, and I don’t-“

“Whoa, okay. Slow down.” Simon soothes, hand slowly sliding up and down your spine. You relax into it, marginally, clocking the subtle upward tick of Johnny’s lips, firm line shifting into a small smile, and then turning cross. 

“What do ye mean, ye dinnae have a place to stay?”

“My apartment-“ is trashed. Is a scene of a crime. Is a hollow rib cage housing a dead heart. “is being renovated so I’ve been living in a hotel,” Johnny nods, like he knows. Of course he does. What secrets do they have between? Probably none. “But someone reserved a whole block and there’s no vacancies, so I had to check out this morning.” It’s pathetic, the way you’re crying over this, the way you feel, but it’s all so forlorn in this moment, and you can't stop yourself from falling deeper and deeper into a well of despair, hopelessness dragging you to the bottom, trying to drown you. “It’s not a big deal but-“

“It is a big deal.” Johnny declares. “Ye had somethin’ horrible happen to ye, and now this on top of it?” Simon shifts, flat palm and fingers pushing down through the air, and you barely catch it from the corner of the eye. It’s the same kind of sign you give someone when you want them to slow down, and you blink.

What’re you doing?  

“I… I’m fine.” You wince at the croak in your voice, last menthol infused cough drop wearing off, bringing back the raw pain in your windpipe, the gravel grit of bruising in your voice.

“It’s okay to be upset, bun. Anyone would be.” You wipe your face, chasing away the tracks of tears and trying not to wince when you straighten your back.

“I know, but I’m okay. Really.”

“Ye cannae stay in an on-call room.” What?

“Oh… it’s fine. It,” wouldn’t be the first time. “It’s not a big deal.” Simon is watching you, focused with that same blazing intensity that feels like he’s digging around inside your skull. 

“Why don’t you stay with us?”

“What?” You blurt. “No. No, I… I couldn’t. It’s not-“

“Appropriate?” Simon finishes, head cocked. “Johnny isn’t your patient anymore.”

“And we have plenty o’ room. Penny’s still staying with Price’s a lot, because Simon’s here all the time, so it’d be nice and quiet for ye.” Say no. Tell them no.

“I couldn’t. It’s… you hardly know me. You’d invite me to live in your house?” Incredulously, you stare at them, flicking back and forth between two expectant, understanding faces.

“We know ye. Ye try to hide yerself from us, bun, but… ye cannae. Ye light up every room ye step foot in, and I dinnae think we would have made it through this without ye. Ye’re special to us, even if ye cannae accept it.” He winks. “Yet.”

“We want to help, sweetheart. Let us help you.” You’re between a rock and a hard place. An immovable force, and object. Two wills, locking in around you.

But instead of a cage, it’s warm. It’s gentle. It’s… safe.

“I couldn’t encroach.” You’re on autopilot, mouth making sounds that your heart protests. Simon sighs.

“You’re not encroaching. We’re inviting you.”

You would be putting them in danger. 

“I… I can’t.”

“Why?” Johnny’s still got his hand on yours, and he squeezes, carefully. “Talk to us, bunny.”

“Tell us what’s really going on.” Simon is grave, and for a second, air gets stuck in your lungs, fighting to escape.

You cannot tell them. No matter what. You can’t. The turtleneck is too tight, cotton and polyester scratching at your sore skin, and you shiver.

“There… there’s n-nothing going on. What if the people that mugged me,“ come back to finish the job? Track me down? Words die on your tongue, the lamest attempt to push them back withering away. Simon is having none of it.

“We’re special forces, love. No one is going to get to you while you’re with us." He pauses, trapping you, holding you in stasis, and when he repeats himself, it's a dark vow, a promise. "No one.”

If you do this. You have to tell them.

You can trust them. They’ve proven that so far, haven’t they? 

You hardly know them. 

But isn’t that better? 

“I…” Your hand raises instinctively to your throat, and Johnny’s eyes narrow.

“Bunny.” He leans forward at the waist, slow as to not hurt himself, and you sit, frozen, bug eyed, transfixed on his hand that are stretching towards your turtleneck.

You should stop him. You should tell him to back off. You should do something. 

You can't. You don't. You sit there, waiting for the discovery. Waiting for the shame. 

Once he hooks his pointer finger in the top and tugs, it’s over.

Your heart stops in your chest. Johnny burns, dragon flame and rage, incineration boiling over in his body.

“Bleedin’ christ.” He hisses.

“Fucking hell.” Simon echoes, and you close your eyes. You know the tender skin looks bad. Swollen. Angry.

“Please.” You whisper, lower lip quivering, floodgates trying to burst into pieces. “Please I… I can’t talk about it. I c-can’t, I can’t-“

“Okay, okay. Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe now, sweetheart. You’re safe.” You’re crying violently, unable to see, trying to rasp out apologies, and Simon stands, tucking you back into his chest, big hand on the back of your head. Johnny keeps his touch at your back, consistent, reassuring pressure that rubs from the top of your spine down, and he hums delicate, affectionate phrases lilting in heavy Scots’.

The girl in the mirror screams at you inside your head. She calls you a fool. A coward. She tells you the truth, that you’ll only get them hurt, that you know better.

You don’t disagree with a single thing. You know all this to be true.

But for a moment… would it be so bad to indulge? To have one- two good things in your life, even if it’s fleeting. Even if you know how it will end, can you not just have this for yourself, in this suspended moment of time, this chance?

You want it. Them. So desperately, it swells and aches and tugs at you, just as they do.

Time ticks forward, and you do not pull away. You don't try to hide, or evade. You just... exist. Between them. The rock and the hard place. 

“Alright?” Simon murmurs, your tears now stopped, only delicate sniffles sounding from his chest. You nod, shifting backward to take them both in.

“I… if you’ll have me, I’ll… I’ll stay, until I can find a place.” Inky dark shadow flickers across Simon’s face, but sunlight chases it away, happiness crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

“Are ye sure?” Johnny is hopeful, bright, and beautiful, and you tighten your grasp on his hand, holding it like you’ll never let go. You take a deep breath-

You take the plunge.

A moment in the sun. 

“I’m sure.”

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

Real Talk: Ace Didn't Need to Ask For Help, It's On Garp

i always hate when i see comments about how ace was an idiot or ace should have just asked garp for help because, no? like dawg wtf do you mean?

the one thing we have been told repeatedly across the manga and anime is that ace could have lived his entire life being perfect and he still would have ended up on that podium

he could have become a marine, a police officer, a teacher, a chef and all of that would have been reduced to nothing the moment his parentage was discovered

yes, ace became a pirate of his own volition, but sengoku never mentioned his piracy

he never mentioned all the criminal activity ace did as the captain of the spade pirates or even later as the second division leader of the whitebeard pirates

you know what sengoku did bring up though the moment he got on that damn podium? ace's parentage

he mentions nothing that gained ace his bounty to begin with when he gets that den den mushi in his hand. why?

because it doesn't matter that ace is a pirate. what matters is that they are eradicating the last gol d roger's bloodline

bear in mind that they were killing pregnant women and young children who could have even had the slightest possibility of being roger's lover or kin

akainu deadass says that he doesn't care if every other pirate at marineford escapes as long as ace and luffy died and he would ensure their deaths personally. and for what? not their piracy. none of their crimes. not even for ensuring that the truth that certain countries and lands that were actually saved by pirates instead of the marines never got out

but because their fathers were gol d roger and monkey d dragon respectively

solely because of that, he deemed neither of them deserved to live

and as far as garp goes - i love garp as much as the next person but garp has never done anything for ace to trust him enough to ask for help even if he felt he deserved to ask

garp's negligent parenting coupled with the abusive words ace grew up hearing led ace to believe he didn't even deserve to be born. when he even asks garp if his being born was a good thing, garp can't even tell him 'yes'. he just says 'time will tell'. my brother in the blue seas, that is an elementary schooler questioning his right to exist

ace is defeated by blackbeard in episode 325 (chapters 434-441), luffy hears about his execution being set in episode 416 (chapter 522) and then finally ace is killed in episode 483 (chapter 574). that is 158 episodes and 140 chapters total and in that time what ace receives from garp are conversations that boil down to

"you did this to yourself"

"i just wanted you to become a fine marine"

"i don't have sympathy for criminals but i do have sympathy for family"

and garp actively preventing those who wish to save ace from reaching him. yes after akainu strikes ace, garp does react viscerally with instinct to protect his grandson, but that's too little too damn late at that point

garp having his moral dilemmas mean nothing when, however long ace spent in impel down, he isn't trying to help him

garp having his 'wishing things had been different' thoughts mean nothing when garp is preventing people from saving his grandson

there's a reason garp lets dadan beat and berate him when they reunite in windmill village and it's because he knows she's right

over the course of 20 years, garp has consistently chosen work over ace and luffy. as much as i love dadan and co, bandits are not a good choice to have raise your grandkids and then be the surprised pikachu meme when neither of them wish to become marines

garp's inability to see past the system he disdains yet clings onto actively shoots him in the foot

prevents him from seeing that ace is right when he says he never could have become a marine

luffy could have never become a marine. i do hear arguments saying that luffy might have had a fair chance considering garp is biologically his grandfather but i say that's truly up in the air considering how, even with that knowledge, akainu still wants to put luffy on a poster

but that's all to say, asking why ace never asked garp for help is ridiculous

the fuck would ace look like asking the man who has done nothing but

unintentionally fostered ace's resentment towards luffy in their early childhood

told ace it was his own fault he landed where he did

falcon punched marco halfway across marineford

for help?

and that's not even mentioning the fact that up until that point, ace didn't believe he deserved to live. he didn't think he had the right to exist. the only thing that kept him going up until that point was hoping he'd find an answer that justified his being born and his love for luffy and sabo. ace tells luffy in his dying breaths if it weren't for the two of them, he would have gave up on living a long time ago

yes, garp loves ace and luffy

he loves them both dearly but he is also incapable of putting them before work, before his ideals of justice. these two truths can coexist at the same time. garp's stubborn to a fault and his moral dilemma resulted in both inaction and the prevention of ace's escape

so to say that marineford would have gone differently if ace had asked is seriously undermining the character work. because in reality, it's up in the air on whether or not that would have done anything. ace asking garp for help could have gone either way and that's the beauty of the gray area regarding garp's actions during the summit war

and yes, i can get why it's frustrating that ace turned around to fight akainu when he could have just left and got it back in a blood a different time

but aside from ace having a temper about specific topics, we do get an answer as to why he couldn't bring himself to runaway when we finally are able to dive into his past with luffy and sabo:

he doesn't want to run away from any situation because ace is deathly afraid of losing something if running away ends up being the bad call

and in that moment, luffy was behind him

even if akainu hadn't talked down whitebeard, ace would have inevitably turned back around because he wouldn't have been able to shake his fear of losing something or someone he cared about

as long as there is something precious for him to potentially lose, ace will never run

he was doomed from the start

his being the son of gol d roger doomed him from the start

and that's what makes ace so tragic

[alicentflorent]

The scariest thing about viserys is that he, and men like him, do appear to be harmless on the outside. He’s soft spoken, seems to be a bit clueless and naive, he’s generally nice to people and may even seem like a “family man” but behind closed doors you finally get to see his true colours. He has a violent side but he hides it very well. We don’t see his ugliness very often but when we do his actions are clearly abusive.

Viserys showed aggression multiple times behind closed doors, he was misogynistic in the way he viewed women and yes that includes Rhaenyra who he only really started to indulge to ease his guilt of killing her mother. He used aemma as a broodmare and put her through multiple miscarriages and stillbirths before pregnancy killed her, she was pleading with him not to put her through another pregnancy after this one then when she was dying in childbirth he didn’t even allow her to die with dignity, in the way she wanted to. Publicly, He showed love towards Aemma and cried over her death. He allowed Alicent to have some power by letting her have a seat on the council, only after years of rape and forcing her to become a mother of 4 because he was attracted to her teenage body. Both Rhaenyra and Rhaenys reference Alicent as prisoner of her circumstances in both her early years and late years of marriage. He is shown as a doting father and grandfather to Rhaenyra and her kids but ignores the children he forced Alicent to have. Their son loses an eye and he’s only concerned about “rumours” spread about his grandsons. “Look at me” he screams in the face of 10 year old Aemond who just lost his eye and is in severe pain. Then he moves on to scream in 14 year old aegon’s face. Alicent begs him “please Viserys, he’s your blood” and in this scene it’s important to note that the boys did not incriminate their mother when their father was yelling, trying to incite fear into them, they didn’t want their fathers wrath redirected towards their mother. His favouritism of Rhaenyra overshadows his early treatment of her, ignoring her and underestimating her as a worthy heir until daemon mocked his dead son. He always indulged her and never went back on her being heir. He came off as a loyal, loving father who made his daughter a queen in her own right.

Viserys could have represented a certain type of terrible man, the kind that hides behind his harmless good guy image. The show could have addressed that he is just as bad as his brother daemon but with more self control and enough denial to think of himself as a better man. Deep enough in his own deception to convince us that he was the good brother when he’s just another brand of bad. They could have addressed the damage he did to his wives and children. They could have told the audience that yes you also fell for his act and the deceptive portrayal we gave you because men like viserys will have you fooled in real life. Instead the show, which claimed to be a feminist retelling of martins work made this weak king and horrible man be praised as good husband, father and king. Never allowed his suriviving wife or daughters or even his sons be angry at him or dare to blame him.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

OKAY HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT.

Grandma cat!reader. Who was a old women who got experimented on and turned into a smiling critter but like the caretaker of the smiling critters.

Often seen walking around with a scruffed smiling critter hanging from her mouth(somehow-) and overfeeding the smiling critters or children.

How would a saved dogday and (maybe) good catnap react to the player bringing them to readers containment room. (She was locked in before the Hour of Joy due to something and just stayed there)?

I just want to see them get some sort of parental love 🥹😖

- Marshmellow🤍

I swear ya'll are gonna make me cry with these requests /nm <3

.....

Dogday

In your old age, you didn't wanna retire from Playtime Co. and spend the remainder of your life laying around, waiting for your body and mind to deteriorate.

So instead you became one of the few willing volunteers for the Bigger Bodies Initiative, being turned into a Smiling Critter (which made you especially happy since your grandkids adored the toyline and cartoon show).

In the show, the gang mentioned a grandma character several times (albeit she was unseen) and with Catnap being recalled from all promo materials, Playtime Co. took creative liberties and made you the newest feline replacement, fitted with a cinnamon scent and pie necklace.

Your tagline was something like "The Smiling Critters take care of our orphans, but who takes care of them? Why, their Grandma [Y/n], of course! She's full of love and wisdom!"

True to that, you became the caretaker of the Critters and children, ensuring everyone's fed well and staying out of trouble.

The incident with Bron (Thomas/Experiment 1199) had scientists rethinking how they'd introduce willing experiments to those...well..less-than-willing.

So you had a supervised introduction to the SCs (with children also present to discourage them from reacting violently). You were even given a containment cell you could retreat to in case of emergencies.

Luckily, you never had to use that room--as they accepted you and began calling you "grandma" since day one.

Dogday, especially, got attached to you.

You called him "DD" and "Doggy-Dearie".

Being a bit taller than the rest of them allows you to pick them up by the scuff of their necks if they're being too rowdy (Kickin and Hoppy, especially).

Even so, you're very sweet to all of them, letting them snuggle up to you as you shared stories and made them food so they could keep up with the little ones.

All was well in the Playhouse up until the Hour of Joy of course.

But you were unaware of it since Catnap sabotaged your room's lock, keeping you trapped to lower the Smiling Critters' morale.

Dogday was 100% convinced you were dead.

However you survived long enough for the Employee's arrival years later, never knowing what happened to the factory..

After rescuing Dogday, they find your door and powered it up, allowing the two entry into the perfectly intact space within.

Your fur was matted and you looked sickly, but you still jump up upon seeing the state your dear "grandson" was in.

It devastated you.

"My word..Dog-Dearie.." Your heart shatters. "Your legs..where are they? Where is everyone?"

Something inside of him ultimately breaks as he realizes you were alive...and you were here all along.

"G-Grandma...! Oh...god..I-I thought you were--" He crawls away from the Employee and towards you, sobbing into your lap. "You were h-here..this whole time! I-I wanted to see you, but..C-Catnap..he.."

"Shh, shhh..I'm here now, my sweet pup. It's alright." You hush, stroking his ears and resting a paw on his back, before looking to the Employee. "You must be terribly confused..as am I.."

After explaining your role--and calming Dogday down--the two tell you about what's happened to the factory, and at first you can't believe it...

Until you all wander through the Playhouse and see the horrid state it's in, but they're confused as to why none of the mini Critters attack you.

Only then do you mention feeding them over the years through little vents and holes in the walls, keeping their hunger moderately satiated.

Dogday feels awful, and even more upset at Catnap for lying about your fate.

But still, you don't show any ill-will towards any of the Smiling Critters, even if one of them had betrayed you all.

Instead you just let Dogday cling to you as you escape together and try your best to keep up.

Catnap

Like the rest of the Smiling Critters, Catnap considered you family and often went to you for snacks and such.

Or if he needs a break from trying to put all the rowdy orphans to bed in Home Sweet Home. Only then is he given permission to see you.

He always liked curling up in your lap, purring while you stroke his fur and tell him a story (which is sometimes an event from your old human life, albeit you do accidentally confuse yourself since ofc you're not supposed to remember any details of your old life).

The Prototype sees this as a problem, as Theodore Catnap was getting a bit too comfortable with his life here and needed a reminder of his mission....and so he tells him the truth.

About how you not only worked at the factory until you reached retirement age...but you were also a willing participant in the experiments.

And suddenly, he couldn't look at you the same way anymore. Only with resentment.

It wasn't fair.

You got to lead a long and fulfilling life. Theodore barely got the chance to grow up and be a normal kid.

You had the procedure and associated risks explained to you clear as day. Theodore never had the luxury of being warned ahead of time before he was grabbed and put under the knife after recovering from the incident with the green grabpack hand.

All he wanted was to free the others, but he ended up becoming their warden instead.

He almost forgot all of that because of you.

He refuses your food now, and you worry for him when you see how skinny he becomes as the months pass.

But he's very cryptic in the way he talks to you, the other SCs, and the staff...so you didn't know for sure what you did to upset him so much.

"Catnap, dearie..you're skin and bones. Let me-"

"I know what you were, and what you've become...the Prototype told me so."

You don't know what to say. What could you say when he kept talking about this "Prototype" person?

Despite his hatred, the SCs were conditioned to love you regardless, and so before the Hour of Joy Catnap decided to sabotage the locks of your containment room.

That way, he wouldn't be tempted to kill you...and he'd spare you from the grief of what he ends up doing to the other SCs, including Dogday.

Years later, when the Employee finally knocks some sense into him after saving him from being sacrificed to the Prototype, he takes them to your room, believing you to be dead from starvation.

Instead, though, they break you out and he discovers you're very much alive.

And Catnap just breaks down, groveling and begging for your forgiveness.

You were the one who always tried to reach out and comfort him, giving him some relief from the misery of being trapped in this factory....and he pushed you away.

But you don't hate him for locking you up, realizing that he still cared about you after all this time. Even when the Prototype told him about your past.

He wanted to keep you safe.

That alone proves he had a heart, and you reassure him of that as he cuddles up to you for a little while.

Once he's calmer, you go with him, Dogday (assuming he was saved), and the Employee to meet with Poppy and Kissy--both of whom are relieved to see you alive

[fallstaticexit]

The Art of Being Seen - a Nancy Landgraab story

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔗𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢- 𝔚𝔦𝔣𝔢

Prev / Next / Beginning / Pillowfort

Part III - Wife - Nancy recalls her life as a wife, mother, and businesswoman (we begin at the year 1998 and then time skip to 2007 and again to 2015). Nancy has chosen to put her past behind her and is working hard to continue elevating her family's business while raising two rambunctious boys with her husband and business partner, but is it all truly enough to keep her past and her desires at bay? Can she continue playing the perfect wife and mother when temptation shows up at her front door?

Trigger Warnings: infidelity, drug use, sex and nudity.

Transcript under the cut

Nancy Narrates: [Geoffrey proposed our junior year of university. I said yes]

Nancy Narrates: [Not a minute after graduation, I was walking down the aisle. I was ready to become a wife]

Nancy Narrates: [Ready for my parents to look at me with pride in their eyes]

Nancy Narrates: [I was going to be great]

Nancy Narrates: [On that day, I made a vow to my best friend]

Nancy Narrates: [A promise to stand by his side, in sickness and in health]

Nancy Narrates: [To be true and faithful to him]

Nancy Narrates: [So help me God]

Nancy Narrates: [I decided to pack away my past and leave it all behind me. This was the life I chose. I chose to be good. Normal. I chose him, and all that came with it]

Geoffrey: Goinggg uuup!

Nancy: [laughs]

Nancy: [whispers] Hey, you’re not asleep, are you?

Geoffrey: [grumbles] M’sorry. Too drunk for more, I think.

Nancy: [chuckles] It’s fine. You can sleep.

Geoffrey: [sighs] Hey. I wanna have a buncha babies.

Nancy: Oh, so you’re really drunk then.

Geoffrey: M’serious. Want 4 boys, 4 girls. All name Geoffrey Jr. and Nancy Jr. At least one’s named is Zachary.

Nancy: Hey, listen here, lover boy. Let’s just enjoy this. Just you and me and us trying not to drown in the work my parents give us.

Geoffrey: And then babies?

Nancy: [hums] Maybe babies. Give me a year to think about it, ok?

Geoffrey: [sighs happily] I love you. My wife.

Nancy: I love you too.

Nancy Narrates: [I was elated. I was a woman who was capable of loving a man. I was a woman who was capable of making love. I’ve never felt more hopeful. My future never felt so bright-]

Nancy Narrates: [And just like that, the high was over]

Geoffrey: Hey, Nance? Are you missing work again today? Your mom has been really... erm, Queenie-ish the past week with you being out. I’m scared she’s going to actually bite me. [chuckles nervously]

Nancy: Damn you, Geoffrey! What happened to a year? It’s barely been 90 days!

Geoffrey: Wha-

Nancy: I should have known, you can barely pull out of the driveway properly!

Geoffrey: Wait, you’re pregnant?

Nancy: [scoffs] You don’t sound very sorry about it!

Geoffrey: You’re pregnant! I’m going to be a dad?!

Geoffrey: [sings] I’m your baby’s daaadddy!

Nancy: [sniffles, laughs] I can’t believe you did this. I could strangle you.

Geoffrey: Hey, we did this. Me and you.

Nancy: God, what are we going to do with a baby? I don’t even think I’ve ever met a baby.

Geoffrey: We got this, Nancy. It’s us, we’re talking about. We’ll be great!

Nancy Narrates: [Who would have thought; a wife and soon a mother. This was the life I chose]

-

Queenie: You should head home, Nancy. I’ve scheduled you a prenatal massage to your residence for this evening. I’ll have my intern take over your projects for the time being.

Nancy: Oh. Thank you, mother. That’s very kind of you.

Queenie: It’s the least I could do. You are carrying my grandson, after all.

Queenie: [murmurs] My lucky girl.

Nancy Narrates: [A wife, a mother, the perfect daughter]

-

Nancy: [howls]

Doctor: We’re going to give one big push, ok mom? You’re doing great! Ok, now push, Mrs. Landgraab!

Geoffrey: You are doing great, Nancy! Wow! You’re amazing! That’s it, just keep breathing. In and out. In and out-

Nancy: Aughhhh! Geoffrey, shut the fuck up!

Geoffrey: Okay!

Doctor: And push!

[infant wails]

Doctor: Congratulations mom and dad! A boy!

Nancy Narrates: [This was the life I chose]

[pseudowho]

Grandpapamin

(help me find the Nanami artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

When Nanami Kento becomes a grandfather...

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento thought the happiest day of his life was when he became a father...but then, his baby had a baby.

It was like love...squared.

He and you dutifully took care of your daughter's house while she was in labour. Kento pruned the plants, and baked, and paced, and paced, and paced.

While Kento knew in his heart his daughter was being well cared-for, he felt stunningly unable to protect her while she went through the biggest day of her life.

In the night, you woke, and your hand brushed out across the sheets for Kento...only to find him not there.

You creep through the house, and find him sat in the armchair by lamplight, his eyes glistening with tears as he goes through an old box, full of photographs of his baby, little onesies, a handprint in clay, a decoration she made at school, her first drawings and handwriting.

You sit with him, in front of the fire, warm and reminiscent, of those long-short years when your babies were babies.

"...she'll be alright?" He worries aloud.

"She'll be more than alright. She'll be amazing," you reassure, kissing his greying temples, stroking crow's feet.

You lead him back to bed, his hand dry, like soft warm leather, and you hold each other with the earnest familiarity of an aged love.

When Kento's phone rings at 7:37 in the morning, a time he never forgets, he is out of bed with a lithe hop, answering, desperate for news.

A sweet, swooping joy, an excited wake-up, an embrace and relief; his grandchild is born, and everyone is safe.

Kento has a grandson; his daughter is resplendent, pink-cheeked, exhausted and proud. Kento holds her close, shedding tears into her hair as she cradles his new grandson; "I'm so proud of you, darling. I always have been. You deserve him."

He drives his daughter and her partner home, knowing they are exhausted.

Kento and you never overstay your welcome; you ensure the new family is comfortable, give kisses and hasty reassurances that you are both just a phone call away, and go home.

Kento cannot stop jiggling his leg in delight on the way home. He is imagining all the wonderful things he wants to do with his new grandson.

Kento calls everyone-- Gojo, Yuuji, Ino, Higuruma. Everyone is delighted. Everyone secretly wants him to be their grandfather.

It is only when Kento and you have gone, that your partner opens the freezer-- "Oh my god!" They exclaim, laughing, "I think your dad has cooked enough to last us a month!" Kento has, obviously. He believes in being organised.

Kento spends the next few years of his life being a thoroughly naughty responsible grandfather.

Visiting Grandpapamin? Oh, only the finest will do.

While Kento always plans wonderful meals with you, his daughter turns her back for just one minute, and returns to find her son with a treat in his hand.

Kento pleads ignorance as he slides the biscuit tin back into the cupboard, a glint in his eye.

Wickedly good at hide and seek. Teaches his grandson all the tricks.

Takes his grandson down to the river, Kento in some waders, his grandson in shorts and rubber boots up to his knees, with little nets, glass jars on strings.

Kento has a reference book for everything; birds, fish, flowers, trees...he and his grandson catch minnows, his grandson splashing, holding his little round cheeks in joy.

Kento thinks his heart might burst, retaliating playfully when his grandson splashes him, giggling.

Kento's grandson is well-versed on the flora and fauna by the little river, by the time he is a grown man. All he wanted to inherit from his grandfather was the old reference books they pored over together.

His grandson inherits Kento's Cursed-sight too, a truth which Kento feels deeply responsible for, as he did when it passed down to his daughter. He fears for his grandson and the terrifying visions he will see in the world.

One day, you catch Kento teaching himself little magic tricks. He curses as he gets tangled in long colourful handkerchiefs; you laugh and blush as he pulls garish flowers out of his sleeve for you. He shows them to his grandson like he has known how to do magic his whole life.

After long sunny days in the garden and by the river, you often find Kento asleep with his snoozing grandson drooling on his chest. You take a photo, every single time, put a blanket over them and leave them in peace.

Kento, who tucks you under his arm on the sofa when they've all gone home, your evenings as intimate as they have always been.

Kento would rather his daughter didn't spend all of her hard-earned money on daycare. Instead, Grandpapamin arrives at her house at 7:30am sharp, ready to babysit ahead of the workday.

The days are silly, wholesome. Tears and tantrums are swiftly, calmly de-escalated. Kento can and will persuade and bribe at mealtimes.

Kento who is just disappointed when his grandson behaves badly-- and that is so much worse than angry.

Kento who takes such good care of his and your health, determined to spend as many healthy years with his family as possible. His old scars ache and creak though; he longs for the sun and sea.

The next year, his grandson is big enough to carry Kento's birthday cake to him, and Kento grumbles, pink-eared as he mulishly accepts a chorus of "Happy birthday". There is an envelope with the cake.

"What's this?" He grumbles again, shooting his daughter a chastising look, "I told you you didn't have to get me anything." She smiles at him, lovely brown eyes twinkling. Kento looks inside-- tickets. Flight tickets. He looks up in surprise, eyebrows raised.

"Kuantan?" He presses, excited despite his earlier chastisement.

"I thought we could all go. Together."

Though his blade hangs up on the wall, proud and displayed, at your insistence, Kento feels like he has been bestowed with the luck of the gods, to have dodged every bullet to get here.

His old scarred burns tingle and prickle, his eyepatch is old and worn, but his grandchildren never feared him; he is just Grandpapamin. He bakes. He takes them to the river. He teaches them how to whittle. He gives the best advice. He wears the softest cardigans.

Kento, who spends the golden years of his life with you, his world, the one who hung the stars.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch

Chapter One: My Dream

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Let's celebrate the first episode of season 2 with a new story! I'm publishing this before the show airs, so let's say a tentative prayer in case the first episode is Blood & Cheese. Thank you for reading! (⁠*⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠)⁠/⁠～⁠♡

Chapter Warnings: sexism (it's a patriarchal feudalistic society), brief descriptions of childbirth and death related to it, Alicent being delulu.

When Viserys Targaryen's wife, Aemma of House Arryn, had failed pregnancy after failed pregnancy, a girl was a welcomed result. It proved not only to Aemma herself and her King Husband that she could produce a child but to the realm that there was hope for a son, a much-preferred result.

“My dreams, my dreams! What has become of their sweetness? What indeed has become of my youth?” - Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin

If a daughter were to be born seconds before a brother, it did not matter. He was the heir. If she was born decades before a boy, it did not matter. He was the heir. Or so the realm believed until the reign of Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Son of Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen, Grandson to the Old King Jaehaerys.

Queen Consort Aemma Arryn died in pursuit of something she could not control, screaming, wailing, begging her husband not to cut her open, but he did not listen, for the birth of a son was more important than the life of a woman.

The infant Baelon Targaryen died a day later, leaving King Viserys a widower with only a daughter with the same fair skin and hair as the woman he murdered. The woman who laid slain on her birthing bed, bright blue irises now glassy, blood pooling from her womb, was given a Targaryen funeral along with the Heir for a Day, as her good brother called him, her last surviving child whispering, “dragon fire” through tears, with the encouragement of the same man who lusted after her and the throne.

The result of a mother’s and son’s death gave way to grief and anger. Viserys, blinded by the insults levied against his dead child, broke centuries of tradition and named Westeros’ first female heir Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Daemon Targaryen was furious at the abuse of being cast aside for a girl of ten and four and took to Dragonstone, the rightful seat of the Iron Throne's successor, with his whore, Lady Misery, an enslaved Lysene sold into the sex trade that became the Prince's favorite mistress.

Daemon did not hate his niece. He loved his family far more than anyone believed, so he surrendered when the Realm's Delight flew on her dragon to confront her uncle.

Less than a year later, not nearly long enough to mourn the death of two people, Viserys Targaryen married Alicent of House Hightower, daughter of the Hand and dearest friend to his daughter. The King saw the union as an act of fortunate duty and desire instead of love. On that much, the young Alicent Hightower could agree. Perhaps, he thought, it was a way to ensure his daughter would always have her closest Lady around, but Viserys was a fool . He could not see past his blinding grief and selfish lust that he tore the two girls apart.

Rhaenyra Targaryen's mother was a girl her age, a girl she longed to have to accompany her on Syrax, explore the East, and eat cake, but that was never meant to be. The Gods provided as quickly as they took, and her lifelong confidant viewed her with such hate and distaste that Rhaenyra soon began to consider her the same.

“Stepdaughter,” Alicent called her at the Princess's wedding feast to Ser Laenor of House Velaryon. Her voice laced with enough venom, and her dress so green you would mistake her for a snake. This gave Rhaenyra a sickening feeling in her gut, which soon hardened into one of cool indifference.

And that was how they lived.

Silent and icy indifference as Queen Alicent walked through the Targaryen halls of the Red Keep in Hightower Green, birthing the King his first surviving sons and second daughter.

However, there was a moment of repreave in the Queen's and the Princess's glacial flippancy when her forgotten ally fell pregnant for the first time.

Alicent could not help herself from caring for her old friend during her first pregnancy. She quickly fell back into the role of her Lady, supplying Rhaenyra with food, oils, clothing, and occasionally companionship during the quarrelsome nine moons.

The Queen had almost found it within her heart to forgive Rhaenyra for her lies and false swearing beneath the Heart Tree all those years ago, and she did until the labors when she saw the brown tuft of hair atop a young babe's head.

At the time, Alicent did not have a moment to contemplate what that meant before her friend screamed, holding on so tightly to her hand that she thought it might break as the rest of the infant emerged. The babe's face was so purple and cord wrapped around their neck that Alicent nearly cried, fearing life had repeated itself. The nursemaids quickly cut the blue and pink veiny line that connected the child to its mother, turning the babe upside down and spanking it on the back until its cries rang out throughout Maegor’s Holdfast.

A girl.

There, screaming and curling their once lifeless fist, were you , the firstborn child of Rhaenyra Targaryen, only by a mere moment, finally breathing and wailing as they swaddled you in an embroidered black and red cloth, a boy soon following.

“What shall you name them, your highness?” the eldest midwife asked, nearly as out of air as Rhaenyra.

“We…” the princess breathed heavily, positioning herself in the birthing chair. “We had only thought of a boy with the help of Lord Corlys. Jacaerys,” she panted, her cheeks tinged pink, either from exertion or embarrassment from being so thoughtless. Alicent did not know.

The nurse holding Rhaenyra’s son passed him to her, all eyes lingering on that same flattened-down dark hair. “Shall we wait for the Prince, your highness?” another question, holding the unnamed girl.

“I think,” Rhaenyra groans, shifting her weight to account for the new one, “we shall be waiting for a while should my husband suddenly return from his travels.” She glanced at Alicent, watching her once closest friend pick at the skin of her nails. She grinned, a brilliant idea coming to mind as she ordered the maid to give her daughter to the Queen. 

Alicent's doe eyes widened as she accepted. She peered down at the tiny bundle before her, still crying, purple face now a deep red and full of life. The Queen did not know what came over her as she leaned, bringing the child’s blotchy forehead to her lips, inhaling the unique scent only a newborn has. She noticed the muscles around where the babe's brows should be twitching, opening her eyes to reveal a mirror of Alicent’s own looking at her.

The Queen forgot for a moment that she was not her own and that she should be alarmed that the child's eyes bore no resemblance to their parents. Yet the Queen continued to smile down at the small fidgeting bundle in her grasp, her arms wiggling themselves out of their confines to clench and unclench. The cries now became softer but still there. Sounds that used to cause Alicent great distress now soothe her uneasy soul like a salve to a wound. 

“What shall we call her, my Queen?” Rhaenyra questioned, a crooked smile on her face as Alicent broke from her revere. Her plush lips parted in surprise, looking as if a deer caught grazing alone in a field.

The Queen appeared bewildered, unprepared for such a monumental task; all faces turned to her. “I… I am unsure, Princess. I did not come prepared for such an honor.”

Rhaenyra kept the same lopsided grin on her lips, showing the tips of her white teeth. “Tis all mine. It's an honor to have the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms name my first born daughter.”

“An honor I accept gladly,” Alicent rushed, worried that her refusal would shatter their peace.

She paused, pursing her lips in thought. Despite having three and another on the way, she had never named a child. Helaena was the closest she had ever gotten, a familiar name within the Reach but made to fit the traditional Targaryen spelling. Alicent would have something to herself, one tiny sliver of something that belonged to her, and she was unsure what to do with it. She was confident that Rhaenyra would be content with any name she chose, but she wanted it to be unique, to mean something more than just a word.

Alicent thought of her mother then—her darling mother, whom she barely had a chance to spend life with before a fever took her. A mother that her father said she looked like an extension of, and suddenly, only one name felt right.

The Queen was constantly conflicted about every choice she made, every move. From the food she ate to the clothes she wore, Alicent always worried herself over it, wondering if she had made the correct decision, but in this, she was sure. No man, woman, or God could sway her from this choice. It was right. The Queen could feel it in the marrow of her bones that it was so.

“Aelora.”

Aelora, my light.

The King came bursting moments later, a servant dressed in a crimson gown, white apron, and cap standing anxiously beside him. He immediately went straight into the room, brushing past his wife in favor of his daughter. Alicent felt a sour taste in her mouth at the notion, pulling the quiet lump tighter to her chest.

“A boy and a girl!” Viserys excitedly hollered, Rhaenyra passing Jacaerys to him. Anxiousness settled over the birthing chamber, the midwives and maids observing with worrisome eyes at the head of brown hair. “ Ah! And I see they have inherited my favorite cousin's hair.”

He held the newborn with a reverence Alicent had never seen with her own, and she stepped back into the shadows of the onlookers. She peered down, catching the babe's eyes shut and face slack, still with the fresh scent of birth. She brought you to her forehead again as she took in this brief moment of joy, nose nuzzling the infant’s as she grunted at the intrusion.

“Aelora, the Gods’ Light. My shining light,” she whispered so softly against the babe's satin-smooth skin that it drifted into the air like dust, lost in the wind. 

“Oh, and her eyes, too!” Viserys beamed, hoisting Jacaerys into the air as the wetnurses squealed in terror. “She will make a fine queen one day, and should the Gods allow it, you, a king.” Rhaenyra laughed at her father's antics, already planning the children’s marriage. She was too high on the feeling of birthing not one but two healthy babes, a boy and a girl, no less to care. Alicent's amber eyes flicked to her husband and then to your plump face, a frown pulling her lips.

Aegon had come quickly and without fuss. Though Alicent was merely a girl of ten and six when it happened, the moments leading up to it frightened her thoroughly. She worried her nails down to the quick, the pink fleshy beds exposed and bleeding whenever she would use too harsh of a grip.

She knew of what happened to Aemma Arryn, that the babe was stuck and couldn't turn to leave the womb, at least to the Maester’s belief. He gave the King a choice, not the woman who was writhing in pain as her body contracted, to either let the process play out with the chance that the child and his wife could perish or have him slice her open from hip to hip, dig through her guts and blood to pry the child out. Aemma Arryn had no voice in the matter from what she heard from the midwives, as her husband allowed a man to pull Prince Baelon straight from her womb.

Alicent did not want to face the same fate and prayed to the Mother day after day, night after night, until her knees were yellow and blue, and even then, she continued her efforts. She was alone in all this, with no one to confide in. Her father had told her to do her duty when she expressed concern. He assured her the King would allow no such thing if she did everything correctly. He offered no comfort, and Alicent longed for her dearest Princess. Her prayers were answered when that fateful day came, and the labors lasted no more than an hour.

She birthed a healthy boy with blonde hair and purple eyes, but even then, Viserys did not act the way he was now with Rhaenyra's children. A means to end all the uncertainty of an heir, her father said in words of solace. She hadn't understood what he meant then. Rhaenyra was the heir, crowned Princess of Dragonstone, and Lords swore allegiance to her across the realm. To Alicent, there was no uncertainty until there was.

Until Otto Hightower planted the rot that festered and spread in her mind that the girl she grew up alongside, the girl she spent so many days and nights with, the girl that had said she would forget her duty and fly off across the world eating nothing but cake with her friend by her side, would murder Alicent's children so they could not depose her reign.

She did not believe Rhaenyra was capable of cruelty, but then again, she had once considered her incapable of lying to her and was proven wrong.

She began to fuss as if the infant in her embrace could sense the Queen's unrest. Her delicate little face scrunched up as Alicent bounced her softly, cooing soothingly. She smiled despite her unpleasantness within, unfazed by the sudden outburst, unlike when Helaena had her fits as a child. Her daughter would have to meet her niece and nephew, along with Aegon. Aemond was too young. She wouldn't be able to keep a close eye on him.

Though he was half the size of Aegon when he was born, he had grown twice as fierce. At barely three years old, his nursemaids had to ceaselessly follow the moonlight-haired boy less than a step away lest he jump down a flight of stairs just to see if he could. Once, when Alicent dismissed the servants from Aemond's chambers as he readied for bed, she turned her back on him for a singular blink, and he opened his balcony doors and climbed over the railing to get a better view of the night sky. Alicent remembered how he kicked and screamed as she yanked him from the ledge, saying words and phrases she never knew, even at the age she was now.

“My Queen,” the wetnurse called like she had repeated herself as Alicent looked at the girl. “The young Princess needs her first feeding.” The woman held out her arms for her to hand over the fussing bundle, a calm but concerned expression on her face.

Alicent refused, curling her limbs as the babe squirmed, her cries becoming ear-piercing screams. She knew the child needed to eat but could not force her body to release the girl. It was as if her very bones denied the movement that was not keeping the hungry infant close to her. The fleeting thought that Alicent could feed the girl herself crossed her mind, but she shook it away, realizing the ludacrisy of it. It was improper for a woman of nobility to nurse their child. That's what the maids were for, the Queen told herself.

The wetnurse peered at her curiously, walking a pace closer, but Alicent stepped back as if she attempted to harm her. “The King has not held her yet,” she protested, looking towards her King-Husband in an attempt to prolong her time.

“All is well, Alicent. What kind of King refuses to let their babe grandchild eat?” he jested, tilting his head to the side playfully and exposing a gaping smile. It made Alicent want to vomit.

When she doesn't move to listen, the Queen stared at her husband like her silence could serve as a rejection of his words. Viserys sighed as Rhaenyra watched with piqued interest, wordlessly handing Jacaerys to another maid.

“Alicent, give her the child.”

She hesitated again, her brown eyes flickering to Rhaenyra when she did not offer for Alicent to stay while the maids worked. Once again, she mused bitterly, watching the infant intently as she relented. I give my dream away to you. A dream that was never indeed mine.

The Queen bowed to the Princess, congratulating her on the success as she took her leave, hand splaying over the swollen stomach of her emerald green gown. It felt too tight, the once smooth fabric now itching at her skin, the fine hairs on her arms catching between the threads.

How stupid she was to believe in Rhaenyra’s kindness. She felt like a girl again, the same girl who stood beneath the Weirwood, listening to her friend swear on her mother’s memory that she had not lain with a man, only to find out there was moontea delivered to her chambers.

A sudden kick was sent to the Queen's abdomen, halting her brisk pace as she doubled over within the pale redstone hall. Ser Criston Cole arrived moments later, helping her rise to her feet. She soothed the afflicted area with her palm, no doubt the cause being her own making. Despite the growing life inside of her, the Queen has now done it four times. Alicent believed the moment she laid her wide amber eyes on yours was the closest she had ever felt to being whole with someone in her life. It’s as if the child's very being was now a part of her, and every moment she was away, it felt as if she was missing a piece of her soul.

Rhaenyra flaunts and does as she pleases, lies, and tricks all she pleases. It made Alicent furious with a rage she had not felt for nearly a decade. Aelora will not become like her mother. The Green Queen will not allow it, even if she has to twist and shape the clay of Aelora's mind into something of her own. Aelora is her dream. She is the Gods' shining light, and Alicent will be damned if she allows Rhaenyra to blacken her glow.

Septon Eustace's Recount of Princess Aelora I Targaryen's Early Life

The young Velaryon princess, later taking her mother’s namesake, grew into a spritely and mischievous child, playing jests on her Septa and Prince Aemond with the aid of her brothers and the eldest of the Queen’s children, Prince Aegon. She did not develop into a traditional Targaryen beauty with blonde hair and violet eyes; instead, she had a golden chestnut crown with eyes to match. Many said she resembled Queen Alicent, though if anyone made the error of voicing it, they faced Princess Rhaenyra’s wrath.

Though her features were plain by Targaryen standards, the realm rejoiced in her beauty. Lords and ladies commissioned portraits of her countenance throughout the kingdom, proudly displaying a halcyon halo of red rubies adorning the top of her divine facade. The common folk coined the name “The Gods' Light” for the sweet girl. A glimpse of her was as close as one would get to the Maiden, and they cherished it whenever Princess Rhaenyra's faction made rare journeys to the Grand Sept.

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

I'm excited to write for my favorite war criminal, Visenya Incarnate, Aemond Targaryen. I'm just super happy to write Aemond smut! I'm also taking a different approach to this story because it will solely be based on the show (to the best of my ability), not the book, and will be released with the same progression. It will have accounts of the reader's life through the eyes of the Maester's. Of course, there will be some cannon divergence and whatnot, considering we're introducing a new character into the fray. This fic will also be a lot darker than what I've written in the past, including content such as childhood sexual assault and the after-effects of it, self-harm, depression, suicide, and unhealthy sibling dynamics/relationships.

This story is told from the second person's perspective. The reader only has a name for the sake of a title and the description of Strong features.

Y'all have no idea how fulfilling writing has been for me. It's given me purpose when I've felt like I had none. It's helped my mental health by giving me an outlet for self-expression and a good source of distraction from all the worries I have in life. I wish I could get paid for this!

I hope y'all will enjoy the story as much as I will writing it, and of course, thank you so much for taking the time to read this. You genuinely have no idea how much your support means to me, but I will continue to express it in the best way I know how. ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

Ps. Alicent's mom's name is unknown in the show and the book, so I'm creating a name that combines my original idea with traditional Targaryen spelling.

Pronunciation: Uh-lore-uh, Ae-lore-uh

Origin: Latin

Meaning: dream, dreamer, shining light.

Biblical Meaning: God is light, God's light.

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf

[zweiginator]

i crave inexperienced art like air. he’s never touched anyone except himself so his first time with you is a flurry of questions. “is this good?” “there?” “too much?” he’s so sickeningly sweet about it to the point you have to just take control. whether it’s his hand or his dick, you forcefully grab either and show him how while getting yourself there. he’s moaning and spilling in his pants like he’s 15 again. (i’m ovulating and going INSANE rn.)

mmmm art who is repressed. art whose grandma is very traditional and wants her grandson to be respectable, kind, and masculine in the chivalrous, soft way as the young men in her generation were.

so while she never outright said art should save himself, he would be far too guilty if he had sex. so he doesn't.

and as a twenty year old sophomore in college, he has done a good job at fulfilling this promise. he's only touched himself a handful of times; he doesn't remember how each time began--he just felt like he had to.

but after each time, each desperate thrust into his fist, each pass of his thumb over his aching cockhead, each time he came until he was shaking and out of breath--he felt so guilty. just dirty.

he can't imagine how bad he will feel after having real sex.

and he doesn't even worry about the possibility until he meets you. a pretty girl in his class who is so kind. you're so airy. he doesn't know how to explain himself or exactly what that means--he guesses that you're just sort of like a big breath. you feel good, natural, easy.

he can't help himself, looking at your body. his eyes pass over you and he wonders, like a pervert--like a bad, bad boy--what you look like underneath your clothes. the perk of your nipples, the curve of your breast. he wonders how your waist would feel. and he is really, really curious about your pussy. he's never seen one. but he doesn't just want to look it up to quench that thirst, that desire. he only wants to see yours.

you come over to his house to study quite a bit. you like how sweet he is. so hospitable; he always has drinks and a snack waiting for you. always listens to your ideas. always compliments how smart you are.

but art feels like a monster. he feels like a wretched excuse for a man. because whenever you leave, he has to touch himself. he gets that same ache in his stomach, his balls. he needs to cum. he hates that word, but it's true. he spits in his hand and fucks his fist and dreams of it being you. dreams of you taking from him, taking his virginity. having him all for yourself. whatever you fucking want, he would give it to you. your name spurts from his mouth like the ropes of cum that coat his hands.

and he scrubs his body raw afterwards. hates himself.

but soon, touching himself isn't enough. the more you come over to study, the more he gets those evil aching sensations but not to touch himself--to touch you. your skin looks so soft. you smell so good. your lips are glossy. he likes how they curl up when you smile.

he cuts you off as you're talking.

"can i please kiss you?" his request is quiet, his voice full of trepidation.

"yes. i was wondering when you would."

art didn't realize you were waiting for him. he launches forward. to hover on top of you on the couch. he's lazily made out with a girl before, but it wasn't anything serious, and they both sucked at it.

art's kisses are eager, his lips ache for more the second they close upon your own. he wants to do it again and again. so his mouth opens wider and he experiments. pushes his tongue against yours. he moans into your mouth, moans your name again and again. he's so desperate to touch you, but he doesn't know how. you push his hand under your shirt; you're not wearing a bra.

he feels the impossibly supple skin, the peak of your nipples.

"fuck--" he whimpers, rolling it between his fingers.

this time you moan. it makes him so hard. he doesn't know how someone could be this hard.

"is this good? do you like this?" the way art asks it isn't in the sexually charged way, it's a sincere question; he's worried he's doing a bad job. that you don't like this.

but you pull him back in. a 'yes' rolls from your lips as you nibble on his and your hand snakes down his torso. he's toned an hard there. he's harder when you feel his cock, straining.

and when you palm him, it's lazy. but art mewls against the corner of your mouth; he's basically drooling. his mouth falls open and you realize he's cumming. his hips jerk and he hides his face because god, that's embarrassing.

"we gotta get your stamina up." you whisper against his neck.

art nods and bites back a smile because you said we and not you.

[spideyhexx]

oct. 1st - on trial

ModernLawStudent!Coriolanus Snow x Reader

mdni! cw; cunnilingus (yeah that's it ) wc; 2.6k

kinktober2024 masterlist

a/n; enjoy the first day of kinktober :) also the title does not make sense cause the plot changed mid-writing but i like the title so nobody speak on it

Coriolanus lets out a big sigh as the hot shower water cascades down his body. 

If he could, he would erase the day from his memory. He woke up late, which means you woke up late, and both of you scrambled to get ready for your respective morning classes. You handled that easier, but Coriolanus was brimming with anxiety over the mere notion he might be late to class. 

He sat through his first one of the day, hoping to dear god his stomach wouldn’t rumble too loudly since he did not have time to have a decent breakfast. All he ate was half a granola bar while walking to class and he learned very quickly it was not enough to satisfy him for even thirty minutes. 

After the class, he treated himself to a breakfast sandwich from the campus’ best cafeteria. One plus of the day. But then his second class had a pop quiz. Which he promptly almost failed. Close enough to failing that he had to ignore your texts about something he can’t remember now. 

He went to the library after to decompress. Coriolanus decompressed, however, by reading yet another book for his psych class which had a midterm coming up. He needed five sources and he was running thin, and the book his professor suggested to him was so long, he wanted to say some choice words in an email, but he held back. 

He was a speedy reader anyway, it wouldn’t be so bad. 

But it is bad. Coriolanus has to reread every other sentence because of the way this apparent academic scholar writes. He usually would pride himself on being able to handle some of the densest texts, but none of this was getting through to him. 

To make matters worse, his grandmother kept him on the phone for an hour. Yes, an hour. She could not figure out her login for something and Coriolanus, being the ever so gracious grandson that he is, spent the time helping her, but by the time he hung up, he wanted to rip his hair out. 

So yeah, the shower was good. Really fucking good. He pays attention to the time though, not wanting to take too long and use up all the hot water before you come home. 

Coriolanus does the basics. He washes his body, rubbing every spot he can as if it will wipe the day clean. Give him a refresh. No shampoo today, since he cleaned his hair yesterday, but he does wet it, smoothing his hands back against his wettened curls so it’s out of his eyes. 

He turns the shower off and grabs the towel hanging on the hook, drying off a bit of his chest, ruffling it in his hair, then he wraps it around his waist, stepping onto the bathmat in front of the sink mirror. 

With a washcloth, Coriolanus wipes the steam from the mirror, then opens the right side drawer of the counter to take out his skincare. 

He almost feels a bit of relaxed excitement in the tips of his fingers that he’s finally at the end of his day. Like all is well and soon you’ll be home, and he can cuddle up with you and listen to you ramble about whatever show you’ve been watching. He never tells you how much he loves that, but he’s sure you know. 

Coriolanus clips the front curls of his hair back so they don’t get in his face, opting for the soft pink ones that you compliment all the time. 

Right as he grabs his cleanser, he hears the front door open and close shut. He smiles at himself in the mirror, rinsing his hands in the sink. 

He can hear a muffled groan from you, then the sound of a cabinet closing a bit louder than it should be. 

Coriolanus already opens his mouth to speak right when there are three incessant knocks on the bathroom door, “Are you-,” he cuts himself off, “Come in.”

The door opens, revealing an exasperated-looking you, rivaling Coriolanus’ freshly showered ease. He raises his brow, “What? What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t get those cookies I asked you to pick up,” you say, and in any other circumstance, he might laugh at the statement, since it sounded so minuscule, but the look on your face told him to keep that in. 

“You asked me to get cookies?”

You roll your eyes, “I texted you like three times if you could pick them up for me.”

Oh. The texts he ignored. He gives a sheepish smile, “Oh, I’m sorry, I just had a bad day and-”

“Yeah, so did I, but you can’t ignore my texts, Coriolanus, even if you couldn’t go to the store or whatever, I would’ve appreciated you responding or something.”

He nods. But his face returns to its blank slate which he could tell annoyed you. “What happened?”

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face as you lean against the doorway. He can tell you’re trying not to look at his stomach and his cheeks heat up at the thought of that. 

“It’s not worth it, just a shitty day and you always do this. You always ignore my texts when I’m asking for something.”

“I didn’t open the text, I didn’t know,” Coriolanus says, his voice more soft than defensive, but you take it that way. How could you not? You’re already so worked up from your day. You feel bad he also had a not-so-kind day, but you can say full-heartedly that you would text him back regardless if the day was going bad. 

Coriolanus was a good boyfriend, but he was also an awful texter. 

“You should have opened it,” you tell him and he nods, fingers fiddling with the edge of his towel at his hip. You can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose to entice you or if he’s just nervous. 

“Are you gonna tell me what happened? Besides the waking up late thing.” Coriolanus raises his brow at you, and your eyes dart to the pink clips in his hair. 

“Ran into Festus,” you mutter and it earns a scoff from Coriolanus. That vapid human was the bane of his existence and your ex rolled into one. He couldn’t believe you even dated a guy like that. Coriolanus was sure you were joking when you told him that Festus was an ex. You were not. 

“Vague,” he calls you out for how short your explanation is, and he wants to hear the details so bad. He knows you’ll never go back to him, so the little blip of jealousy in the pit of his stomach is only there for a few seconds before it vanishes. But Festus had to have said something to you for you to deem your entire day as, ‘shitty.’ 

Coriolanus can tell you don’t want to talk about it. So as the silence lingers on in the still-hot bathroom from his shower, he lets out his own sigh. He reaches for your wrist, which you reluctantly let him take. 

“I really wanted those cookies,” you mumble, as he pulls you closer, until your back against the bathroom counter next to him. 

“I’ll go out and get them,” he says, his thumb rubbing circles to your inner wrist, sending a bit of heat into your skin. 

His words make you stiffen a little and you study his face with a furrowed brow, “You hate going out after your showers.”

He replies immediately, “I do,” and his voice comes out more like a whisper. Your hand is brought to his side, and you naturally caress your fingertips to his stomach, feeling the bit of muscle there, just as his head dips down to kiss the side of your neck. 

“Thank you, then,” you whisper back, although you don’t need to. It’s just the two of you in this apartment. In this bathroom. The warmth from his shower starting to get to you. Coriolanus raises his head back and looks over your face. He’s contemplating. You know the look well. 

But you can only watch it for a few seconds because he’s made a decision. Unceremoniously, Coriolanus kneels on the tiled ground in front of you, head tilted up to see your face. His nose twitches and he grabs his discarded pants, putting them under his knees so they don’t get uncomfortable. 

“What’re you doing?” You could take a guess, but with Coriolanus, sometimes your guesses were always more fun than what he had in store. 

His eyes lock to the space between your legs, then back up at you.

Nevermind. What he had in store sounds fun as fuck. 

Coriolanus’ hands touch your knees, then slowly caress their way up to the top of your thighs, “Yes?” 

He is not sure what’s compelled him to do this, seeing as he’s never eaten you out in this way before. Maybe it was your annoyance. Maybe it sparked something in him he did not want to admit to. Maybe it’s the fact you were staring at his mostly naked figure and he wanted you to join him on that front. It’s mostly the annoyance. 

You nod, “Yeah,” and his fingers, shaky yet quickly, undo the button and zipper of your pants. 

He tugs them down, then remembers your shoes. With a curse under his breath, Coriolanus unties your sneakers and takes them off you, tugging your pants off the rest of the way, then trailing his hands back up your legs. 

You rest back against the counter, both hands against the cool stone of it as his breath hits your inner thigh. 

No matter how much it stirs a giddy feeling in him, Coriolanus can’t take his eyes off of your face as he leaves the softest of kisses on your thigh. He’s been between your legs so many times, but every time feels like he’s discovering some new part of you, like there must be an area of your skin he hasn’t touched, that’s begging for his lips to grace it. Your breath is hitching andyour hand rests on his head. 

He nuzzles his head against your other thigh as his teeth graze the skin right at the edge of your underwear.  

The exhale you let out causes tingles to spread throughout his body, “too slow?” 

“No,” you tell him, your fingers lightly threading into his semi-wet hair. Coryo flattens his tongue on the skin of your inner thigh, licking up to the edge of your panties. He skims his tongue along the line until he gets to your hip. A small kiss lands on it, and you let out a breathy chuckle, “Maybe a little too slow.”

He smiles, tracing his tongue back down to the dip of your thigh, and feels you tighten your hand to his hair. 

“Maybe we should-oh.”

You’re cut off by the press of his nose over the cotton of your panties, his tongue flicking out to lick against the cloth as his hands rub to your hips, toying with the waistband. 

“Mhm,” he replies, rubbing his nose against you at a slow, languid pace, the smell of you enticing him, he curses silently at himself for not doing this for you recently. 

“Coryo,” you breathe out, and he mumbles an apology that makes you laugh. 

“What? No, no sorry, this is…oh my god,” your voice trails off as he presses a wet kiss right over where your clit is. 

Not able to keep this going much longer, Coriolanus tugs your underwear down, letting you kick them off, and he gives you no time to say anything. He buries his nose into you, groaning at the wetness you’ve accumulated from all of his previous actions. 

Both of your hands find his hair, messing up the clips that are still there, but not knocking them out. His eyes watch you, hooded and dazed from the taste of you. The way his tongue teases your entrance, dipping in for only a second before moving out, has you whining for him already. 

He moves up to your clit, swirling with the muscle of his tongue and sucking it to his mouth, relishing in the way you pull his hair. 

You let him dig his hands into your thighs, half to hold you up for him and because the strong grip is one you feel only now and then with him. He always expressed not wanting to bruise you like that, but you wanted his tight hold on you. 

“Coryo, shit, shit,” you mutter as he sucks on the sensitive bud more harshly, then licks his tongue back to your entrance, lapping against you like a needy dog looking for water. 

“Mhm mmm,” he mumbles against you, fingers pressing into the back of your thighs like he’s urging you forward. 

But he pulls back a little, lips shiny and red, the ache in his lower region increasing from the whimper you let out at the loss of contact. He splotches kisses on your thigh, “It’s okay…it’s okay, I’m gonna make you come, just give me a moment.” 

You notice how heavy his breath is, almost as if he’s on the verge of finishing himself, but he steels himself quickly. His kisses never stop, caressing every part of your inner thighs, before he trails back to your cunt, lapping eagerly, and smiling when you moan at the contact. 

“I know, that’s what you wanted,” he mumbles, his hands slipping up to your ass and pushing you to his face. 

“Fuck,” you grunt out, unable to stop the jerk of your hips from his touch. Coriolanus’ eyes close at the movement, feeling his nose bump back into you. You give another test, but it’s awkward from this angle. 

Coriolanus can’t think. Your taste, your sounds, the fact he can feel you pulse as he licks you, he’s sent into a complete overdrive. 

He moves one of your legs up and over his shoulder, slotting him more comfortably between your legs and effectively making you gasp out and hold to him tighter. 

“C’mon, do it now,” he encourages, pushing on your backside and helping you grind against his tongue. It snaps something inside of you. To rub yourself down on him and feel how hungry he is to take whatever you give him. 

“God…fuck you for holding back on me,” you say through a moan. He’d laugh if he wasn’t buried in your pussy, desperate to taste the release fast approaching you, wracking through your body and waiting for that last chord to be struck. 

You can’t recall when he’s been this insatiable, but you can’t complain. Maybe you two needed this. 

“I’m so close,” you say, though you don’t need to. Your hips rock against his face, his nose catching and rubbing against your clit just right with every other thrust, and Coriolanus fucks his tongue as deep as he can in you. He tries to keep his eyes open as you let out a shaky moan, but it’s difficult. With your taste and with your hands tightening in his hair so hard it burns his scalp, he has to close his eyes as your orgasm rips through you. 

Your hips stutter and he grips the backs of your thighs tighter, making sure you don’t fall. His tongue licks up everything he can until you feel too sensitive and gently push his head back. The hair clips hang on to his curls for dear life. You can see how hard he is under the white towel, begging for attention.

The whole bottom half of his face is wet. His mouth parted and his lips redder, almost swollen-looking. 

“My knees hurt,” he whispers. And you lightly tap his cheek in a scolding manner, sending him a lazy grin.

[bumblesimagines]

Gold and Green

Request: Yes or No

Summary: To further secure the Lannisters to the Green's side, Otto Hightower arranges a marriage between his grandson, Aemond Targaryen, and the Lannister twins younger sister.

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, arranged marriage trope, mentions of Targcest/incest, mentions of Luke's death, kinda short i wasn't sure what to do with this guy, fluff?

Took my time getting to this mf

~~~

Aemond hardly knew what to make of marriage life. 

He knew what one was expected to do as a couple: attend formal events, ensure both houses prevailed, and have many, many children to continue the bloodline. But, as he came to learn, he had little idea what to do outside of expectations.

No amount of histories or studying or even reading childish romantic tales told him how to be a husband, and he hardly had anyone to model what a proper and good lord-husband was supposed to look like. His father had hardly cared for his mother and his brother barely paid Helaena any attention outside of awkward, forced interactions. 

Aemond found it infuriating, simply put. He mastered everything he put his mind to. He'd claimed the biggest dragon in the world as a mere boy; lost an eye and replaced it with a sapphire; excelled in swordsmanship and combat; perfected the art of speaking, writing, and understanding High Valryian; studied the histories and listened to the septas dutifully to the point he could recall any tale down to the smallest of details. The perfect heir, if he had to be honest, but hardly anything that'd help him be a good husband. He refused to be like Aegon, refused to allow himself to steep down to his brother's level of indifference toward his sister-wife. 

His dear mother had been little help, merely telling him to 'be a kind and dutiful husband' when he questioned her, but he understood why she herself would have little experience knowing what a husband should look like. His grandsire simply told him to hurry and consummate the marriage once his wife's monthly blood had finished, to court her with gifts and such if he so wished. 

So, he gave his grandsire's advice a try and searched for a necklace befitting for a lioness of the west. 

"Wife," Aemond instinctively called into their shared bedchambers as he stepped inside, his single eye searching the room as the door slid shut behind him until he noticed her sitting on one of the couches. She looked beautiful, clad in the gold and red colors of House Lannister. He'd much prefer her in green but he hardly found it appropriate to push the subject when they barely spoke. Her handmaidens curtsied upon seeing him before resuming their tasks.

"Husband." (Y/N) responded in greeting, her tone somewhat monotone and attention largely focused on her embroidery. He understood why she and Helaena got along so easily, perhaps he should've inquired his sister instead. "How was your day, My Lord?"

"Busy, as always. War is on the horizon, I fear." He tried not to think about Lucerys, or the memory of watching bits and pieces of Arrax descend into the ocean. He'd meant to frighten him, humiliate him as he and his brother had done to him years prior, but he'd forgotten Vhagar wasn't a mere mindless creature nor a weapon he could control. She followed his orders because she wanted to, not because she had to. 

"Wasn't it always?" She asked, though it wasn't a question meant to be answered. A masked statement to avoid offending him. He knew what the courtiers whispered behind his back since his return from Storm's End. Kinslayer. A title spat and whispered with disdain because who would be cruel enough to kill their own blood?

(Y/N) exhaled through her nose and peered over her shoulder when a handmaiden poured steaming water into the tub. She stood up, handing her embroidery off to one dutiful handmaiden and smoothing out her dress with her hands. She stepped around the couch and strode toward her desk, her fingers raising to remove her earrings and set them aside. Her eyes flickered to his reflection in the mirror as he strode toward her, gently setting the silver box on the desk. 

"For you, My Lady." He murmured and took a step back, clasping his hands behind his back and watching her eye the box. (Y/N) opened it and hummed, trailing her finger over the necklace within. Gold, to resemble House Lannister, with a glimmering emerald in the center to resemble House Hightower. The union of their two houses, of their blood. "I hope it is to your liking." 

"It is quite beautiful, Husband. Thank you." She told him, unclipping the necklace around her neck and setting it down. His wife studied the gift, her eyes lingering on it for a moment longer before she turned toward her handmaidens and dismissed them with a wave of her hand. They finished their task swiftly and curtsied deeply before leaving the room. Aemond couldn't help but tilt his head. His wife still needed to prepare for the night. 

"Wife-"

"Help me undress, Husband." (Y/N) told him, striding toward the tub and casting a glance over her shoulder at him. Aemond followed silently and reached forward, carefully undoing the laces of her dress and helping her slide it off her body. His eye jumped away, out of respect and instinct but he forced himself to look back. She was his wife, after all. 

Offering her his hand, he held hers as she stepped into the tub and lowered down into the warm water, a hum of contentment escaping her. Aemond took a seat on the stool by the tug, his long fingers curling around a soapy rag and beginning to gingerly rub it along her shoulders.

Her lips curled upward, her eyes following his movements before they trailed up his arm and to his face. He paused when her hand raised from the edge of the tub, stiffening when she tugged the eyepatch away to reveal the sapphire in place of his missing eye. 

"You needn't wear this around me, Husband." She told him, placing the eyepatch in the palm of his free hand. "I am not a silly little girl like some of the ladies here. I do not frighten easily." 

His own lips curled at that, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He expected such an attitude from a Lannister, although her older brother, Tyland, hardly gave the same impression as her. He shrunk back easily when challenged during meetings and had the attitude of a cub over a lion. "I shall like to introduce you to Vhagar then, Wife." Aemond ran the rag along the underside of her arm, slowly lifting it until he could brush his lips over her knuckles. 

"I'm certain we'll get along." (Y/N) responded, her hand turning over to cup Aemond's chin. He leaned into her touch and savored it, for he hadn't received such a gentle caress since the death of his nephew. His mother had shrunk back from him, whether from fear or disgust of what he'd done. No mother would find the news of her child getting their hands bloody appealing. He had to give her time to adjust. 

Aemond smiled against her skin. "Yes, I believe so as well." He agreed, feeling her palm slide against his jawline and cheek. Her thumb brushed over the scar thoughtfully, not a glimmer of disgust on her face.

She'd make a lovely queen, he noted. They'd make a lovely ruling couple, far better than his older siblings and even his parents. If only he'd allowed Aegon to escape when he had the chance. 

"I believe we ought to consummate the marriage soon, Husband." The light teasing tone in her voice made him grin. 

"Yes, we should. Perhaps... tonight."

[lemonlover1110]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

Satoru Gojo

[Chapter 14] Long-Awaited

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Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

You become busier and busier as the charity event comes up, and you’re extremely nervous once the day hits. If everything goes to shit, the blame won’t fall on you because this is Satoru’s event– He could berate you for… something, but you aren’t getting fired. You’ve seen him go back to his old shell, whenever you look at him you start to see glimpses of his eighteen-year-old self, and it takes everything in you to put up a cold front.

The night finally arrives, and you’re getting yourself ready for the exciting event. You’re wearing a simple long black dress, and you’re finishing up the effortless makeup that you told yourself you wouldn’t spend too much time on. Yet, you find yourself wiping away the most minor mistake and redoing the step all over again. 

“Ren’s got a tummy ache and doesn’t want you to go.” Your mom leans on the doorframe of the bathroom, and you sigh before you stick out your bottom lip. Your baby boy has been as clingy as ever, and as much as you wish to spend the rest of your evening with him, you have to leave. You still have to work.

“Ren, come here, baby!” You yell, and your mother moves out of the way so the boy can pass to the bathroom. It’s taking longer than usual for him to pop up. You crouch down when he’s in front of you, and you kiss his cheek, leaving a stain of red lipstick on his skin. You would laugh at the sight, but worry consumes you when your lips touch his skin and you feel it warm. The back of your hand touches his forehead, and you look up at your mother, “He does have a slight fever. Nothing worrying though.”

“I’ll keep a close eye on my favorite grandson.” Your mother says, making you chuckle. Ren is her only grandson, of course he’s going to be her favorite. You doubt she’ll be getting more in the future. She grabs your son’s hand to take him out of the bathroom so you can finish getting ready without your clingy baby by your side. “You want some ice cream, honey? We can do whatever you want when your mom leaves.”

You’re almost going to tell your mom to not allow the child to do whatever he wants when you’re gone, but surprisingly enough, you hear him reject the offer. It makes your brows furrow, but you try to put yourself in his shoes. When you have a cold the only thing you want is to lay in bed, snuggled up in a blanket so you understand. You try to focus on doing your makeup since you have to get going soon, after all, you have to show up early to help set up the event. You’re not invited, you’re responsible for helping set up. In other words, this is part of your job.

Ren doesn’t want you to leave when he sees you walk toward the door, but you assure him that you’ll be back soon. Tomorrow you’d do whatever he wants to do but you have to leave for the night. He reluctantly agrees, and you leave him behind to begin your work night.

The moment you get to the hall, you dread all the work you have to do. At first you’re worried, thinking about Ren, but ensuring that everything turns out as desired is what takes over your mind. You’re the one that’s making sure everything turns out as perfect as possible, which should be Satoru’s duty, yet he’s nowhere to be found. But you’re sure he’s worried since it’s his first big event, so you give him the benefit of the doubt.

Ten minutes before guests are expected to arrive, your boss finally appears. Satoru looks as handsome as ever, wearing a black tuxedo, his hair slicked back. You try not to admire how good he looks, but you’re sure he notices. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Sayo took forever to get ready.” He puffs out a breath, and you peek your head to find the woman, but you don’t see her. “She’s in the car… Apparently her makeup still wasn’t ready.”

“Oh…” You respond, and you try to tell him that everything is set. Decorations are set. Drinks are ready, food as well. We’re just waiting on guests.” You inform him, and you can tell by the way that he looks you up and down, he isn’t listening to you. You feel yourself get more and more nervous with every passing second. “Mr. Gojo?”

“You look stunning.” He compliments you, and your face gets warm. You don’t respond though, you change the topic back to the event that’s about to happen, although Satoru doesn’t want to listen to it. The place looks perfect– Plus, he can’t do much now. He grabs two glasses from a tray that sits idle on a table, and he hands one to you. “To a great event.”

“Too early to cheer, is it not? No one has gotten here yet.” You respond. You almost feel bad for responding to him like that, so you assure him, “I think it’ll be fine though.”

He clinks his glass with yours, and you watch him bring the glass up to his lips and take a sip. You follow his lead, and you put it down immediately after. You feel your heart flutter as you look at him, and you force your eyes to avert.

“Will you need me the rest of the night, Mr. Gojo? My cat is sick and I want to leave early to take care of him.” You share, and his brows perk up. He ends up nodding his head, not wanting you to leave early for a stupid cat. “What exactly do you need? I thought you and your wife handled everything else.”

“Just need you around… You represent the company.” He says, and your brows furrow.

“I thought you did since you’re the president.” You tell him.

“And you’re my assistant, therefore, you also represent the company.” He argues. You look at the entrance of the hall, and you watch how Sayo walks in, wearing a stunning red dress. She always manages to make you look inferior, simply by walking inside a room. You understand why Satoru chose her over you, if you were in his shoes, you wouldn’t hesitate.

You look back at him, expecting him to watch her with his mouth agape, but he’s staring at you. You sheepishly smile at him, bowing down your head before walking away. At the very least, you’ll have Shoko and Suguru with you. In the end, you’ll manage to sneak out to go back to being with your son.

Hours go by, and the event progresses smoothly, Satoru makes a beautiful speech that leaves you surprised– Something that reminds you of his old self. It’s refreshing to see that he has the ability to be the man that he once was, even if it’s for a split second. You’re seated with Suguru and Shoko, and you converse to kill time.

“How is Ren, by the way?” Suguru asks, and you smile at the mention of your son. You’ve gotten no calls, so you can assume that he’s doing better.

“Poor baby is sick. I just want to leave to be by his side.” You respond, and it catches Shoko’s attention.

“Sick? What does he have?” She questions.

“A cold, didn’t seem anything bad when I left.” You answer. After you answer, her mind drifts elsewhere, and for the first time in the night, you follow her eyes. Her gaze is set on the woman that’s next to Satoru. She spends around a minute staring at Sayo, before she feels your eyes on her. She rolls her eyes before standing up and walking away from the table. It’s a weird reaction, so your response is to follow after her to ask about it.

You stand up to follow after her, but just as you rise from the chair, Satoru approaches your table. “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving.”

“I have to talk to Shoko.” You say, and you walk away from the table to go after her. Satoru’s brows furrow and he takes a seat beside Suguru, asking,

“What’s up with them?” 

“Wish I knew.” Suguru answers. “Shoko’s been out of it.”

Satoru then mentions your name, “How’s your relationship progressing? Do you see something more in the future with her?”

“Satoru, focus on your event.” Suguru shuts it down immediately. “Everything is going well, don’t ruin your night by finding out about something you don’t want to hear.”

“It’s just a question, geez.” Satoru rolls his eyes before standing up. He’s about to leave the table, approach another one and ask how everything is going so far. He mutters, “I’m allowed to ask, aren’t we friends?”

“That’s the one part of my life that you aren’t allowed to ask. Not after what you did.” Suguru responds, making Satoru scoff before walking away.

While they sort their problems out, you look for Shoko, finding her in the bathroom. She fixes her makeup, and you clear your throat before asking, “Everything okay?”

“Mind your business.” She sounds hostile, and you don’t want to push her boundaries. But she’s your friend, and you’re wildly curious to know why she’s been so focused on Sayo. She stops fixing her makeup and glares at you. “If you aren’t going to fix your makeup or pee, then leave.”

“Do you like her?” You ask, since it’s the only possible explanation. Of course, she could also like Satoru, but you doubt that she does. Shoko has never really been interested in men.

“I told you to mind your business.” She repeats. You decide not to push it further. You decide to take a short break, taking your phone out of your purse to check if you’ve missed anything. It hasn’t ringed once so you’re not too worried. You realize that you accidentally silenced your phone, and when you check, you feel your heart drop.

Shoko looks at you through the mirror, watching as you turn a color that’s not your own, your eyes widening. She forgets that she’s mad at you and worriedly asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Ren’s in the hospital, I have to go.” And she watches as you run out of the bathroom, and she stands dumbfounded.

When you get to the emergency room, Ren has already been moved to a private room. He’s laying in the hospital bed, not in as much pain as before since he got his medicine. You look at your mother, who sits beside her grandson, giving all her attention to him.

“What is it?” You ask, worry translating in your voice.

“An appendicitis. He has surgery very early in the morning.” Your mother answers. She watches the tears that have accumulated in your eyes stream down your face as you look at your son. You should’ve listened to him and stayed when he told you he was sick. “I contacted Mrs. Gojo before coming to the hospital and she arranged for everything to be quick. She’s stopping once the event finishes.”

“Thank the lord for the power of her money.” You answer, going to Ren’s side. He fights back his sleep, his lids heavy and closing on their own. You kiss the top of his head, and grab his little hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier, honey.”

“It’s okay.” He says, although he could’ve used you by his side when he was getting injected.

“I promise that after this, we’re going to spend a lot more time together.” You respond, and you’d be worried about making an empty promise, but you’re done. You’re quitting. Your job is consuming you, and you need to pay more attention to the little boy that’s in front of you. He’s your everything, and time goes by fast. You then look at your mother, “You can go, mom. I’ll keep you updated.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m leaving.” She tells you, and a chuckle leaves your lips. Nerves were eating her alive when the doctors took him to run some tests on him, she can’t sleep soundly tonight if she isn’t close to Ren. Her stomach growls and she says, “I might get some food. But I’ll be back.”

“Of course, mom. I’ll be here.” You try to smile at him. You take a seat in her old seat, and you keep your eyes on Ren. His eyes keep closing on their own, and you lay your head on the empty space of the bed, about to fall asleep just like him. 

Ren has been your entire world for the time that he’s been alive, you have no idea what you’d do if something would happen to him. You still can’t wrap your head around the fact that when he took his first breath, he automatically became your first priority. You’d die for him.

You slowly drift off, and you hear Ren mutter ‘daddy’, and you feel your heart swell. He’s probably thinking about his dad again, and you begin to wonder how he imagines his father. Does Ren think they look alike? Because they certainly do, they’re practically twins.

Until you hear it again, and you lift up your head to look at your son. Yet, Ren’s eyes are wide open, and you’re paralyzed. You can’t move your head to look at the direction Ren looks.

Your eyes follow his gaze, and you nearly puke at the sight. Wide blue eyes are staring at the both of you. He takes deep heavy breaths, completely baffled at the sight that’s in front of him.

You murmur, “Satoru…”

So Ren isn’t a cat.

[poppy-metal]

envisioning citygirl!reader getting forced by her dad to go stay with grandma in bumfuck nowhere america bc of some reason and she is so not happy with it bc how is one supposed to have a brat summer amongst the corn?? ofc she’s not as peeved when she realizes her grandma’s ranch hand is an incredibly hot art donaldson and she suddenly spends all her time on the front porch in the shortest denim shorts she owns sipping sweet tea and letting it drip down her chin and neck whenever she feels him watching her as he fixes her grandma’s fence and she flirts with him sososo hard but art is a good ! christian ! man ! the type to have a high school sweetheart who has a promise ring that matches his own! he’s only working at your grandma’s ranch to save up for the engagement ring,,,,but he doesn’t mind the newfound attention from you with your sultry smiles and filthy mouth. he doesn’t mind that at night when he’s all needy and alone he’s thinking of bending you over the railing of that front porch and pounding into you while he’s fisting his cock as long as he doesn’t cave in no matter how hard you try

hhhhhh

seducing him into fucking you on the guestroom you're staying in for the summer - promising you won't tell - you're only here for a few short months, and it's a big commitment he's making, signing his life away to one woman so early? besides - doesn't he want to be good at sex for when he gets hitched? does he want to be a one pump chump?

he doesn't. your reasoning makes just enough sense to him to condone his cheating- it's just for practice - just to get good at it by the time he proposes to his sweetheart. and you'll be long gone by then - it has nothing to do with the fact that he's weak and just wants to stick his dick in something warm and wet so badly - he's tired of being so good all the time - being the perfect church going golden boy, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect son and grandson, perfect everything else.

he wants to be imperfect for once, maybe. give into his desires and be wicked. even if it's just for him - just a secret.

it's just for the summer. it's just for practice.

that's what you both tell yourselves anyway, when you drag him into the barn when your grandma is making lunch and sink to your knees to show him what it feels like to have a warm mouth around his cock. encouraging him on how to hold your head - how to flex his hips - "look at me." you tell him, tonguing the head, "you have to look at me and tell me how good it is." then you add, "that's what girls like." so he thinks you're just coaching him, and not just speaking on your own desires, which you are. you have no fucking clue what his stupid little girlfriend would be into- you only care that his calloused hand slides against your cheek. fingers in your hair - "it does feel good." he breathes, eyes looking panied as you sink your mouth down around him. all the way to the base. "you're so fucking pretty - oh my god -"

it's just for the summer. it's just for practice. that's what you tell yourselves when you shyly part your legs and let him tongue gently at your swollen pussy. when he moans at your taste and delves his tongue between your fat lips and licks inside - and you clench your hands in his hair and rut against his face - he's a fucking natural at it, you tell him. fucking magical with that tongue - jesus god. makes your legs shake as you drench his tongue in your cum not five minutes later -

it's just for the summer it's just for practice when you sink down onto his cock in the loft above the barn, warm stacks of hay surrounding you and not the most comfortable but you can't risk it in your bedroom today - not when so many guests are over - but you can't stay away from eachother either - under the guise of teaching him "how a girl rides someone." when really you just want to be close to him - feel those warm work worn hands on your hips, guiding you up and down on his hard cock - and the ruse is temporarily forgotten when he switches you, and you're on your back and he's sliding over you and back in you, rolling his hips - he's gotten so fucking good at sex - so good at fucking - your legs wrap your his moving hip and you kiss eachother, warm and wet and it feels alot like making love - the kind of sex he's mean to have with his girlfriend and future wife - and not with you, his secret summer paramore. you push that thought away, muffle your whimpers into his warm shoulder and hold him close.

it's just for the summer. it's just practice.

[ellewod]

the stupidity that is alicent’s and otto’s behavior truly baffles me. they seem so frustrated because they feel like they cannot control aegon. they see him as this uneducated, foolish, drunken boy — a miserable means to an end.

they do not believe in him or his ability to actually be a good king. that is not the problem. however, them letting aegon know so openly that they don’t really support him, that he is just a puppet for them to push around as they see fit — that is a mistake and a very foolish one at that.

i know we call him failking, but i honestly believe aegon is not — provided he receives the support and counsel he needs, in a way that he needs! not by people belittling him, shouting at him, making him feel small. but by listening to his concerns and respecting his feelings.

we see him being kind to the smallfolk, showing interest in their concerns. the way he treats them may be shortsighted and naive, yet he treats them with kindness — something the smallfolk will appreciate! he does not make fun of their concerns and he tries to help. otto should have simply given aegon clearer instructions beforehand and explained what the crown’s limitations are (regarding costs etc.)

aegon would have listened, given otto explained properly and respectfully! in a manner that is expected when speaking to the king. yet otto continues to treat aegon like he is still only his grandson and a stupid one at that.

aegon seeks counsel! he seeks his mother’s opinion CONSTANTLY. after jaehaerys gets brutally murdered and otto advises aegon to use his little son’s death as green propaganda, aegon is repulsed and he is right to feel that way! he asks ”mother?“, searching for alicent’s support in his grieving situation.

yet, when alicent approves otto’s idea, aegon agrees.

later on, we see aegon — after being scolded by alicent for taking action; for trying, and after being told that he will never be the king his father was — DIRECTLY asking ”what would you have me do, mother?“

and alicent is foolish enough to YET AGAIN disrespect him by answering ”do simply what is needed of you; nothing“.

the utter cruelty; jaehaerys died mere moments ago. the utter disrespect; alicent doesn’t care about his grief. she doesn’t see him as worthy, not of her sympathies or her support.

this goes way back to season one when aegon says ”i did not ask for this. i’ve done everything you asked me to and i try so hard but it will never be enough for you or father.“

well if that’s not the bitter truth, aegon.