#the end of that family started with a bloody birthing bed

[alicent-archive]

Alicent slept 🙁 in the 🙁 same bed 🙁 that Aemma 🙁 was slaughtered upon 🙁

[theloveinc]

lion hybrid!bakugo x reader - stream of consciousness

(warnings: child loss, child abuse, hybrids, a/b/o terms + dynamics, etc.)

You mated and bonded with lion hybrid!Bakugo when you were young. It was everything you could’ve wanted at the time: he was handsome, he was strong, he had a pride to keep you safe in when times got tough and other hybrids started sniffing around the territory looking to cause trouble.

And he loved you. Every night between you was spent cuddled between the soft silks and furs of his bedsheets, your mouths always touching, your hands always roaming.

It was no wonder you got pregnant with your first litter almost immediately.

Bakugo was ecstatic, of course, as the leader of the pack, he’d always strived to set an example for the rest of his family. He was beyond ready to be a father, leading every hunt after your announcement with ferocity and vigor, eager to come home and split the yield with you; hands still bloodied but always gentle when he touched your belly and purred loud enough to have your baby kicking in tandem.

You gave birth to a single daughter who didn’t survive. A tiny cub who spent her first-and only-hours struggling to breathe. Your midwife, a hyena, said it was nothing anyone could’ve predicted or prevented. No one’s fault but the universe’s.

Your relationship with Bakugo didn’t last much longer after that. His strength, always just and admirable when used against others, became hideous and fearful, used to scare and boast rather than keep safe. He started surrounding himself with only the toughest, most driven lions in your pack, and doing more than just hunting to feed your pride, instead clearing the tundra of everyone who tried standing in his way, or even just defending their own packs. But worst of all, he started lashing out at the other cubs in your pride, as if the grief within him turned to jealousy, and that jealousy made him more animal than man.

You couldn’t stay. Couldn’t watch the man you once loved be eaten away and turned evil by the thought of what was meant to be but wasn’t. Couldn’t handle the thought of bearing no children or many children to a man so cruel he wouldn’t teach them kindness and loyalty, but instead, the skills needed not to just survive, but dominate.

You slipped out, ran as fast and as far as your feet could take you during one of the pride’s night stalks… and despite the withdrawals of being so far from your mate, never looked back, praying for Bakugo to find healing and serenity, and eventually start over.

It’s years later when the alpha of your new pride is bested by a man in another territory and you’re forced to merge with their colony. The journey to their enclave is long, but not difficult, as the women in your new family giggle about what sort of cats and hybrids they’ll meet under new reign and you find joy in their hopefulness.

(You never managed to settle on another mate, had no new babies after the passing of your daughter. No matter how hard you tried, no one seemed to live up to the lion you fell in love with so many years ago, or were willing to take on a woman who already had a mating mark.)

As you reach your new place of resting, however, your skin begins to break out in hives. Your hair seems to stand up on end, sweat pooling in the crevices of your skin despite the cool temperature, and the air begins to reek of something sickening, a scene that only gets worse the longer the day carries on, of an alpha so desperate and angry all the girls begin finding themselves feeling faint—worst of all, you.

It’s when you finally collapse from the oppressive conditions that they leave you with the first woman who pokes her head out wondering about the newest members of their pack, the first new face you’ve seen all day, promising to check in on you once all is settled with your new alpha.

The woman lies you down in her bed, welcoming and kind, her young cubs running back and forth to fetch you water, tea, and blankets as she strokes your head and tells you of what will be your new home. Her daughters are sweet girls, wondering of where you came from and what it was like under your old alpha, though the oldest, nearly ten years old, has a bruise on her cheek which you caress when she goes to lay a cool cloth on your forehead.

“Who did that to you,” you ask, to which everyone in the house is going stiff… and the woman whispers to you that everyone in this pride is suffering under the rule of an alpha who never managed to move on from his mate that ran away years earlier.

[themotherofblood]

byka perzys | part two

rosy riñītsos | part one | masterlist

Dark!Daemyra Targaryen x Crybaby!Reader

A/N: y’all filthies were hungry for part two so here we go, again do not come at me. This is very taboo with dad Daemon and step mom Rhaenyra. Feel free to skip this if it ain’t your cup of tea; I have other vanilla ones. A little angsty start!! Not proof read. I’m going to bed lol I will do it later :)

tw: naive reader, dubcon-ish,breastfeeding (lactation kink), infantilism, incest!, spanking.

It has been eight moons since Rhaenyra Targaryen claimed the Iron Throne, it had been a bloody affair truly- her own kin beheaded and hanging off the gates of the Red Keep as an example.

Usurp the throne and pay its price.

People that Y/N once called family all hung from the gates, her favourite aunt in chains with her little cousins. Daemon and Rhaenyra did their best to keep their children away from the monstrosity that followed with war, however keeping Jace, Luke, Baela and Rhaena proved to being harder. They won the throne regardless with every green supporter executed or incarcerated. Only after Rhaenyra secured her position did she send for her eldest daughter to be brought to King’s Landing from Dragonstone.

The battle had turned both Rhaenyra and Daemon bitter, while to the court they had begun celebrating their victory. With enormous galas being thrown for their children’s engagements. Both Jace and Baela being named future heir to the throne, they had begun being more involved in the politicking while Rhaena and Luke began to make journeys with their grandfather Corlys.

You felt alone in it all- Joff, Aegon and Viserys were all little making them the joy of everyone’s eyes and what remained of you? A mere bastard girl at court with nothing to her name. You were happy that the war ended, that your mother sat the throne; your family whole. You had spent all your life hidden, buried in your books or lost in the gardens. You didn’t care much for courtly attention, what you did care for were your kepa and mūna.

You went from nursing yourself to sleep in between them for many moons to the war making them forget of your existence, you waited, you truly did. However as the days passed, the more scared you became. You would cry yourself to sleep with fear of death, and now you felt alone. You stood at court and yet no one saw you. A giant table set for supper and yet there was just you awaiting your family. They never came.

You had found solace elsewhere, making multiple trips with your lady’s maids to the city as everybody made efforts to sew Kings Landing back to its proper glory, many of Daemon’s gold cloaks would accompany you; not wanting to loose their heads to dark sister. You offered baskets of milk, clothing and food out to the people of flea bottom and perhaps in those few hours you spent with the common people. You felt more seen than you had in over six months, your visits became frequent, and while Daemon and Rhaenyra believed you were holed up deep in the libraries in the Red Keep; you read stories to children at the Blackwater beaches.

You learned of tales of your own birth and how you might have been one of these common people had your father not been so considerate of his own blood. It warmed you heart and yet upset you more. He never spoke of your birth mother and you never questioned him on the matter, not until you sent out your lady’s maid to find the tavern you took birth in. It was weeks until they returned with the name of the tavern, which too they relayed to you with hesitation. A princess in a tavern…blasphemy.

You had found your people, while your mother perished while birthing you, an older tavern wench recognized your lilac eyes the second you set foot into her establishment, they cared for you the first eight moons of your existence until gold cloaks came knocking down their door to retrieve you for your kepus, the King. They did not fight, mayhaps their one child of many would be raised in riches. They closed the bar down as they celebrated your return.

Everyone of the barmaids began hounding you with questions.

“Do ya remember us little lady?” one questioned “I bathed you as babey”

“Aye- but I named ya little fires!” a woman named Chataya replied.

“Tell us litte fires, have ya gotten one of those monsters?” the older woman questioned, you happily smiled as you nodded your head.

“Vermithor.” you said smiling ear to ear.

“Vermithor!” they all cheered as they raised their cups of ale, making you flinch but giggle along. You spent a better part of that afternoon basking in happiness, there wasn’t a single room in the Red Keep that spread with this much joy at your presence.

That evening at the square named you the Princess of Flea Bottom.

A fitting title for a very different reason from when Daemon was named the very thing for his whoring habits.

Just as always even tonight, other than Joffrey everybody seemed to have found themselves occupied.

“Sorry sister, there are council matters.” Jacearys apologised on his and Baela’s behalf for their inability to join you for supper. Lucearys and Rhaena had extended their stay at Driftmark. You had spent the better part of supper scraping your peas from one end to the other as Joffrey went on about his new horse gifted to him by some lord- Massey? Baremon? You weren’t sure which.

“A proper princess finishes her food!” the shrill voice of Septa Marlow scolded you yet again.

That night you attempted something you would have never tried before, you frustrations seemed to have frozen your nervousness as you pattered your way over to the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast with a book in one hand and a doll in another. Hoping that tonight Daemon might read to you for the night, you wouldn’t even beg to lay with them; merely spend a few moments in their company. The queensgaurd placed by their doors already had succumbed to slumber as he leaned against the wall. Your meek nature made it far to easy to evade him as you entered the Queen’s apartments.

The door to their bed chambers were slightly parted as you heard chatter from within, a burst of joy spread through you. After much time they had been in their bed chambers at an acceptable hour, perhaps tonight you might sleep all through the dark skies till the sun graced King’s Landing. You smiled to yourself, already the forming the sentence of request in your head so you wouldn’t stammer while speaking. Running the words over your head twice before approaching the door.

You peaked in, immediately freezing as your knock barely reached the door. You eyes fixated on the image within the chambers. Your heart sunk, small twitches of anxiety moved through your fingers as your gaze fell upon a girl stood in between Daemon and Rhaenyra. Daemon’s lips attacking her neck as she suckled at Rhaenyra’s breasts, your feet took you backwards. Knocking over the vase placed on a side table by the door, a loud crash through the corridor.

Daemon’s eyes immediately shot to the door, furious at whoever would dare interrupt the Queen and her consort, and even more who would dare to peak in. He pushed the whore on the bed and unsheathed his dagger, ready to swing it at whomever he would find at their chamber doors. He heard hurried shuffling feet as pushed the door open with all its might, the queensgaurd placed at the door looking disheveled as he appeared to make himself look coherent. He stumbled to no evidence to who the onlooker might have been, other than a book laid on the ground.

He picked up the book, turning it to read it’s cover. A tale of romance that perhaps only one person would have read it in all of the Red Keep. He shook his head, cursing himself at what you might have seen as he returned inside to grab his cloak. He threw the book at his wife, who looked at him questioningly; she frowned at the cover as Daemon apologized to the doe eyed whore that both Daemon and Rhaenyra would have enjoyed tormenting.

“Sorry pet, here’s your gold.” He placed four gold coins on her lap before leaving to find you.

You ran as fast as your feet would allow, hiking your skirts with both hands as your discarded your doll by the servants chambers, everyone of them shouting at you; concerned of your well being. You had managed to climb over boxes just as you did with trees and jumped over the lower walls, ridding yourself of the Red Keep. You hated it here, you wanted to go home. You wanted everyone to just return to the days at Dragonstone. The metal fencing tugged at your skirts, ripping through a good inch or two of your lavender skirts and dug into the skin of thigh, drawing blood that in the moment you hadn’t registered somewhere in the scuffle you had also misplaced a slipper, leaving your one foot bare as you escaped. You just ran, escaping the vile portrait of another girl nursing on your mother.

Pushing through crowds of people as you ran towards the Dragonpit, Vermithor had already felt your inner turmoil, growling and freeing himself of his chains as he stomped his way out of his holding to the courtyard; awaiting your arrival as he still growled at the dragonkeeper trying to settle him down. They already knew the sudden outraged behaviour of the bronze dragon had to do with your arrival, in the darkness however they couldn’t tell a thing.

You ran towards your dragon, looking behind you to see if anyone followed which you were sure they would. Your father might have been as furious as you were at them, if not worse.

“Vhalar Vermithor!” you yelled at him.

“Soves!”

You hurried to pull yourself onto his wing, yanking your body up onto your leathered saddle. “Sovētēs!” you ordered once more before your dragon pushed its wings back to fly towards the dark skies. You hadn’t even bothered to tie yourself to him, you just held on as your heart hammered within your chest.

Daemon arrived to the dragonpit moments later, already finding a torn piece of your dress stained in blood and your doll discarded at the servant grounds, he cursed under his breath as Caraxes was brought out of his holding. He wasted no time in mounting his dragon after he made sure that the dragon keepers would send word to his wife. Caraxes would hunt them down to be sure, he had to.

Vermithor flew for hours to be sure; you had not a clue of where he took you. Your mind toiled of far worse things.

What were you thinking? The court didn’t want you and neither did your kin. The word bastard began to ring in your ears as you cried high above the clouds. The more Vermithor flew the more it became apparent that he was flying north, the air began to grow colder until he finally landed upon a strip of mountains. You sighed, looking around at the hill forests as you shuffled off him. You yelped out loud feeling the throb in your thigh, you began trembling again.

You wanted to go home.

You wanted to go back to Dragonstone.

Vermithor grunted, already irked that you had distrupted his sleep and yet he sympathized with your sorrow, the cold that had began to seep into your bones that your torn summer gown did nothing to shield you from. The bronze fury let out a gust of fire, circling around himself and you to keep him warm as he snuggled himself on the grass. You shuffled closer to his neck as you rested against the warm reptilian skin, crying into your hands. Afraid and alone.

Daemon had flown for hours, Caraxes had lost the scent of your dragon past the burning ruins in the Riverlands. He returned at dawn, failing to find you as he stomped into his chambers. He explained it all to Rhaenyra who looked terrified, hurrying to send out ravens to every lord to seek for a bronze dragon and their princess dressed in lavender. Daemon made trips himself, scouring through Dragonstone and Driftmark first, knowing the Vermithor spent most his time on those lands. To no avail.

He regretted no reaching out to you sooner, most of it was to blame the monstrosity that clouded Rhaenyra and his blood at the aftermath of the war. The enjoyed paying whores to leave those girls bruised by the morning, how were they to do that two their own zaldrititos. They couldn’t bare the thought of touching you while their demons ran wild in the sheets, you were far too pure to taint so early. Many night they’d free themselves of the council at late hours, Daemon himself would return covered in blood after he “interrogated” the green sympathisers. He’d peer into your bed chambers just as Rhaenyra would, watching a small frown that they would pet away from your sleeping body.

You had fallen asleep at some point, the simmering burnt grass lulled your sobbing frame to sleep as you hid under Vermithor’s wing. Come morning you woke within the same burnt circle, the sun glaring in your eyes as Vermithor rested from a few feet from you; nibbling on a roasted sheep. You shuffled up, groaning at the throb on your thigh, some where along the night the cut had stopped bleeding but left a better part of your gown soaked in blood.

You groaned as you stood up, looking around to have an inkling of where you might be, you limped toward Vermithor. Petting his skin.

“Can you take me home? Dragonstone?” you asked him, hoping he’d be done with his meal soon. His yellow eyes merely looked at you from his periphery before thudding his head to the ground to rest. “Please?”

He moved his snout to push the leftover sheep towards you, before closing his eyes to slumber.

You had begun to venture around the edge of the woods, luckily finding a pond to wash your wound. More tears followed as the gash burned anew, the cruel cold water bringing you much discomfort. Hours went past, you had begged your bronze dragon to take you home a dozen times, to no avail. He had begun to drag himself to a mountain cave, holding his fresh kill within his mouth as he huffed every two breaths; awaiting your limping frame to keep up with him.

Perhaps this was your home now, you were hungry, and ate around the cooked flesh of the kills Vermithor would hunt, you were in pain. Both physically and mentally, perhaps they didn’t care, perhaps they threw another gala as they were rid of their bastard daughter.

“What if she never returns Daemon?” Rhaenyra sighed as she held rocked baby Visenya to bed. “She won’t survive out there.”

“I know that! Don’t you think I know that?” Daemon snapped, still beating himself over your disappearance. “She has her dragon with her, he will protect her.”

Various lords around the seven kingdoms sent out watch parties, hoping to spot the princess or atleast her dragon. Four days past and not a word, until finally a white raven arrived from The Vale. A parchment containing the sightings of Vermithor atop their mountains and talks of Hill tribes and Mountain men attacking whatever that dragon was trying to hide. All attempts to make contact were met with dragon fire, killing the Knights of The Vale and Hill tribes alike.

Daemon was enraged as he rushed to mount Caraxes, armed with Dark Sister while he rode with all his might to arrive at the Eyrie before the dusk began to decorate the horizon. They pointed toward the taller peak, warning him of Mountain men all guarding the cave for any sitting of the bronze fury. Daemon flew above with Caraxes, watching as the savages below shoot arrows and boulder like rocks in the cave; above all he heard the furious roars of Y/N’s dragon. He had burned every last one of them in a fit of rage, the glowing carnage could be seen from miles below the mountains as Caraxes landed with a thud just outside the caves. Daemon approached the dark cave with stealth, singing a Valyrian lullaby that his grand sire sung for his dragon, one that he sang with Y/N while he helped her claim the enormous beast.

You hid behind your dragon’s tail, groaning in pain as a rock yet again bruised your skin. The first two days stop the mountain were peaceful. You had found yourself berries that kept your fed just enough to curb the rumbling, the fresh water pond helped both you and Vermithor and the gash on your thigh began dry as your cleaned them with washed leaves. Your dress on the other hand, went from lavender to dirt brown in no time, your feet covered in little cuts at you rid yourself of your only slipper. Your family consisted of Vermithor and little cave bugs, that was until the people Vermithor was stealing sheep and goats from came knocking- charging at your door.

You had fought them for two days, with barely enough sleep as they kept throwing things and shooting at Vermithor. He burned them and yet more came, then came knights who knew your name. Perhaps green sympathizers that wanted your head, you burned them too. You cowered behind Vermithor sobbing until you heard a familiar lullaby, you cried louder in your hands, you feared you had succumbed to madness.

“Y/N! Riñītsos?” you heard Daemon’s voice bellow in the darkness. You were sure somebody had come for you, and it sure wasn’t Daemon. You huffed pulling yourself onto Vermithor, hoping to scare away whoever it was.

“Dracarys.” you said, making Vermithor let out a blow of fire around the cave. You sat atop him with agony and rage in your eyes, you were exhausted and were sure you would die by the end of the fortnight. That was until the warm glow of the fire flashed the white haired figure stood at the entrance of the cave.

“nyke issa riñītsos.” his voiced echoed through the cave.

“k-kepa?” you bottom lip wobbled as you shuffled off of Vermithor, barely able to hold your own weight together.

As much as Daemon wanted to run to grab you, he couldn’t. The bronze fury still held a murderous stance towards him, he had to wait for you. You feet slowly limped forward to him, clearing your eyes in the little light that remained in the burning darkness. You whispered his name once more to which he replied, holding his arms out until he saw your body in the light.

Frail, your dress covered in soot, dirt and blood. The braids on your hair undone and unruly, stained in dirt and blood too. Wounds on your arms and a bleeding cut on your head, Daemon took in a sharp breath once he finally had you in his arm, you collapsed- whimpering as he rushed to cover your body with his cloak.

“Iksā ȳgha, iksan vaoreznuni.” He whispered against your temple as he pushed you hair away. Daemon carried you to Caraxes, helping you mount him first before situating himself behind you. He was perturbed to be sure, that you would be so reckless but in the moment he felt nothing but relief as he flew back to the Red Keep with you in his arms.

Two days, it had been two days as you graced the world of consciousness and then drifted to slumber again. The day Daemon returned to the Red Keep, carrying your cloaked frame in his arms as your lady’s maids rushed to care for you. Both Rhaenyra and him and sat through the ordeal as the cleaned your wounds, he wanted to backhand every one of your maids as your hissed and cried out as the girls tended your wounds. Upon being tucked in bed, Daemon sat with you for hours, humming a lullaby under his breath as he caressed your silver wisps.

When you had awoken for sure, you had jolted awake. Eyes darting over your canopy until they fell upon Rhaenyra and Daemon sat next to your bed. Both looked tired and yet furious, their faces reminded you of what you had seen, soon filling your relieved heart with bitterness.

“What were you thinking?” Rhaenyra questioned darkly, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

“The Queen asked you something.” Daemon said in addition.

You scoffed at the two of them, frowning at their audacity to question you after what they had done. You groaned as you sat up, shuffling yourself off your bed from the other end. The poppy you were sure they made you consume, helped with your aching joints. Daemon’s chair scrapped as he approached you, holding your arms firmly in his hands as he questioned you once more.

“Nothing, my queen.” you said bitterly, fighting to tear yourself away from his grip.

Your tone irked her even more, far more than you using her title to defy her. “We don’t ask you for much, that you remain with us, and obey us.” she lectured “Perhaps we have been to lenient with you.”

You still said nothing as you scowled at the floor, “Do you know what they do to the girls at Old Town? The ones that behave as poorly as you have!” Daemon scolded you this time as he dragged your body back to your bed. You fought harder against his hold only irking them further.

Daemon held your body down as they plopped you on your belly. You felt them shuffle over you before Rhaenyra lifted your sleep shift from your backside, hastily pulling away at your small clothes.

“Let me go!” you screamed “Damn you, damn both of you!”

Daemon held you face down, muffling your screams as you felt the leather resting against your rear. “How many days did we not sleep proper , sweet wife?”

“Seven days.” she replied with venom in her voice.

“Seven hits.” Daemon agreed. “You better count them!” he warned you.

You felt the first hit throb against your rear, you bit your lip to starve them of a reaction. Another slash of the leather burned against your rear. “You better count if you want her to stop.” Daemon tutted.

“Go to hell!” you spat.

They had not a clue of why you acted this way, surely they would have explained what you saw but your defiance angered them way beyond measure. They wanted their meek, shy girl to return, even if they had to spank it back into you.Another harder hit radiated through your bottom, this time you cried out; only to be hit again when you finally screamed out “One!”

“Have you a clue of how afraid we were?” Daemon scolded along with the leather connecting to your arse again.

“The Vale knights you have killed? The damage alone!” Rhaenyra yelled before spanking you again.

“What if something happened to you? Do you see the wounds under a fortnight alone?” Daemon loosened his hold on you as you succumbed to your punishment, now fighting to sob.

“You could have been killed!” Rhaenyra bellowed as she got her last hit in.

You scurried forward into the bed as Daemon let you go, you hugged your knees as you shielded your face away from them. Your muña would have yelled at you once more but Daemon pulled her out of your chambers as she heaved in anger.

They hated you.

They left you to ponder over what you had done, you killed people, you ran away from home. You were horrible and they hated you now. You hadn’t realized when you began to sob but you did, you lady’s maids visited once to stoke the fires by the hearth before leaving. You sobbed into a pillow, letting every last shred of emotions in your body wet through the silk of your pillow.

Rhaenyra resumed court for the day, still fuming at what her daughter had done. Reparations were made of the dead knights to the Vale as Daemon did his best to calm her down. Perhaps they had gone two far in punishing you, however you needed to understand if not fear leaving this castle ever again. She would have chained you to the bed for all she cared, fighting this hard to sheild you from a war. Atleast her sons knew how to fight, her step daughter by Laena were fierce. You were mouse disguised a dragon, spoiled endlessly. She hated that it had resorted to this and would comfort you sooner than later.

Daemon on the other hand had handed her his belt, the simmering rage he had felt as he held your frail body back to the keep, unsure if you were dead or just asleep in his arms. The pained screams he had to hear as they cleaned your wounds, all because you were too stupid to ask them or yell at them instead of running. He hated himself too, he should have known better. Known that she would wither if left alone for far too long.

They approached your room way after supper, trays of untouched food remained outside your chambers as a lady’s maid informed them of your refusal to move. Rhaenyra huffed as she picked the tray of supper as Daemin held the door open for her, it had been a while since she had fed you herself.

You still remained the fetal position in your bed, small whimpers left your body as the pushed through the bed curtains. At first she believed you were crying your sleep, a prank of guilt ran through them as they saw your reddened rear peaking through your sleep shift.

It wasn’t until you whimpered out more words that they realized you were awake, regressed to a mere child afraid of monster as you cried.

“I-I want to go home,” you said through hiccups.

“You are home,” Daemon whispered as he pulled your onto his lap.

“D-dragonstone, home,” you whimpered.

“Oh, zaldrititos. This is our home now,” Rhaenyra cooed at her.

“No, not my home- daor!” you wailed louder, only growing more distressed as you refused to look at them “Ao vēdros nyke! Daor nyke!”

Rhaenyra gasped, “No- we could never hate you.”

“Always want our riñītsos,” Daemon whispered against your temple.

You shook your head as more furious tears fell from your eyes “The girl! I saw her, s-she was feeding on muña. You want her, n-not me.”

You began to shuffle away from her as reached forward to touch your face “We were afraid of hurting you sweet pea, I never get this angry but we have fought so hard to keep all of you safe.”

“Not knowing where you were was death, do you understand? I couldn’t breathe knowing you were out there, alone.” Rhaenyra confessed.

“You have been alone and angry, we are so sorry riñītsos,” Daemon said as he pushed your hair away. “We should have come for you sooner.”

Daemon began to pepper kisses down your face as Rhaenyra approached you again, this time you let her touch you as she caressed over your bandages.

“kepa,” you whimpered as more tears fell from your eyes. “muña,”

“You need to eat,” he whispered in your ear, nudging you to sit up right. You whined, I wanting to untangle this cocoon you had craved for months. “No, just be here.”

Your tummy grumbled and yet your refused to let this warmth wash away for a stupid cut of steak or mutton. You nuzzled your nose in the peaking curve of Rhaenyra’s bosom, hoping she would let you nurse on her; you felt far to dazed to be refused of such tenderness. Rhaenyra being a mother new exactly what you wanted, she shuffled backwards, tugging at the front strings of her dress robes. Her breasts spilling through the loosely tied corset.

You hungrily latched at her pink nipple, all too inviting at your groaned the second the sweet milk hit your tongue. She tapped your nose to make your suckle gently at her sore breasts and yet your happily lapped as your nurses on her. Daemon shuffled away making you whine, he shook his head at your impatience. Which soon turned to joy as he returned with your discarded doll in one hand; dressed in a brand new red and black dress. His other hand held the book you wanted him to read to you. He slotted himself back in yet again as you smiled around Rhaenyra’s breast.

Daemon read through passages like melted butter to the tongue, with every pause he pressed a kiss to you temple or caressed through Rhaenyra’s hair. Before Daemon flipped through the first chapter you had switched to the other breast as you suckled her dry. One thing was to be sure, it would be a while before her miles dried up for good. Not that she cared as she doted over the contentment that washed over your features

You felt content, warm and safe. You were bathed and clean, fed and sated as your were cuddled in between the two people you loved the most. You muña letting your hair as your kepa read you to sleep, the wars had ended, the blood shed seized and perhaps just for a moment. The Red Keep felt like home.

[scorpiussage]

Alfie with a SO who’s pregnant

Is both horrified and ecstatic when he finds out that you’re pregnant.

On the one hand: he gets to start a family with you and that’s all he’s ever wanted. On the other: the fear that he’ll end up like his own waste-of-space father terrifies him.

I think it would take a lot of convincing on your part to calm him down, but once he feels better about the whole thing, he’ll be ready to be a dad.

He’s going to want to do absolutely everything to prepare. He’s going to take classes, read books, baby-proof everything. Seriously, he’s going to be almost extreme in his desire to be prepared.

If you suffer from morning sickness or aches and pains, he’s going to pamper the hell out of you. He’ll have warm baths already drawn, ginger tea brewed and ready, his lap open and waiting to set your feet so he can rub them. You’re having his bloody baby, after all, you deserve the world.

His protectiveness will ramp up as well. From this moment out, you won’t be going anywhere without at least two big burly guards armed to the teeth. Going to the shops? Expect to have to do that with whatever two muscle heads your husband hires. And complaining won't get you anywhere, either, because Alfie will not budge on this issue. You’re so vulnerable and he worries endlessly about your safety.

When your water breaks, Alfie ends up being the calm one who carefully ushers you to the car, the emergency bag already in tow. He’s a total pillar of strength through the entire birthing process and he refuses to be kicked out of the delivery room.

“Tha’s my baby bein’ born, that is! I ain’t fuckin’ leaving my wife here by ‘erself!”

He is definitely one of those husbands who climbs into the bed with you and helps to hold you in whatever birthing position is most comfortable for you.

You can swear and cuss at him all you want, and he takes it so gracefully.

“Yeah, let it out, love, just let it out,” he’ll murmur in your ear, “You’re almost done, you are, just a little more.”

The first cries of the baby have him freezing up and it isn’t until the doctor prompts him that he climbs out of the bed to come cut the cord.

The sex of the baby doesn’t matter to him at all (though if it’s a girl he’s gonna make her a princess and no one is gonna stop him.) He loves your baby from first sight; he actually starts crying; he thinks the baby you both made is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

This man will absolutely hog the baby, you’re not going to get him to hand them over for anything. He will eventually because the baby needs to eat, but as soon as they're done, he’s got them right back in his arms.

Also, no one is going to get to meet this baby for months afterwards because that’s important bonding time for the two of you and the baby. If Ollie or anyone tries to show up at your house, Alfie will shout them away.

When he finally goes back to work after a long paternity leave, he will literally never shut up about his kid.

Oh, Tommy’s here for a meeting? Say, have I told you about how absolutely perfect my child is and shown you all the supporting evidence I keep in my wallet?

Having a baby might actually be the one thing that gets Alfie to quit the bootlegging business. He knows all too well what men like him do to get ahead and most don’t hold back on families or children the way he does.

He also wouldn’t pressure you to have more children than you feel comfortable with. If one baby is all you want to have, then he’ll haul himself to the doctors and get snipped so that the two of you don’t have to worry about it.

Overall, having a baby with Alfie would be a wonderful experience. 💕

[olympeline]

@fireandspiceland’s recent posts made me realise I never knew how much I needed a USUK cardverse/omegaverse combo AU in my life. Well now I do! So have a Situation Involving Them that I just came up with:

The King of each of the four Suit Lands is always an alpha, the Queen an omega, and each kingdom has their own way of choosing their royal pair. In the Land of Spades, the Queen is born with his or her Royal Mark and so taken from their family and raised to rule from a young age. Meanwhile the King gains the Mark once he or she beds the Queen in heat for the first time. This means the Queen is born to rule, but the King can be anyone so long as they’re an alpha. To make sure they get someone worthy, a potential King must face a series of trials. Ending with the most treacherous of all: catching the Spade Queen in the traditional hunting grounds of the Garden of Thorns. Catching the Queen, subduing them, then bringing them back to the castle to be wedded and mated during their next heat. While the Queen can fight to kill, obviously the would-be-Kings can’t. Which puts them at a huge disadvantage right from the start.

The Spade Queen is always a powerful mage so the threat of facing them one-on-one is enough to repel all but the most elite warriors. Nevertheless, there’s usually a new Spade King a year or two after the Queen comes of age. The prize of a kingdom is a big motivator after all. Enough to bring the greatest warriors from all over and make them daring. But - unfortunately for the kingdom - their latest Queen is different. Their latest Queen is one Arthur Kirkland: green-eyed, straw haired, peasant son of a sailor turned Spade Queen-in-Waiting from the moment his midwife spotted the Mark before the cord was even cut. As is traditional, Arthur is a mage. But even for a Spade Queen, he’s not just powerful but stupidly powerful and ruthless with it. He’s also proud, haughty, and absolutely bound and determined that no one, but no one, is going to subdue him. He’s nobody’s broodmare, goddamnit! He’s his own man! Arthur bloody Kirkland is not getting wedded and bedded, not ending up wasting his talents raising litters of babies while some meatheaded brute usurps his place in the kingdom he’s been learning to rule since he was barely more than a babe himself! Arthur has a razor sharp mind and many plans for the Kingdom of Spades. Plans to reform society and make life better for all who live there. Something he can’t do if bound to a Spade King and forced to do his or her bidding. The laws of the land make the King of Spades monarch supreme. The Queen utterly subservient to them and there to birth royal children - Dukes and Duchesses of Spades - who can then be married off to forge alliances with other kingdoms. Excuse Arthur while he seethes at the thought of all of his brilliance being squandered on a life of endless sex followed by birthing royal brats in a nest.

Arthur had his first heat in his early teens and the kingdom officials started the tournaments as soon as he did, confident they’d have a new King of Spades in a year or two at most. Only to grow increasingly horrified as Arthur destroyed every champion brought in to chase him. Most of the time he didn’t even bother to run as a Queen usually would. Instead just calling on his litany of flesh melting, bone shattering spells to finish each encounter in mere minutes. His sixteenth birthday passes, then his eighteenth, nineteenth, on and on. Now the Queen of Spades is close to his twenty-first year and still he’s unmated! Not only that, but his reputation has grown so fearsome that the kingdom officials can barely find any champions willing to face him. The old fossils are close to despair and Arthur is smugger than a smug vendor at a convention of smuggery. He knows if he can make it past his twenty-first birthday then he will legally be an adult and the kingdom’s steward will have no choice but to hand all the powers of monarch supreme over to him. The old King of Spades is long dead and so is the old Queen. Making Arthur the undisputed highest authority in the Kingdom of Spades once he comes of age. Then no one can stop him making himself Queen Regnat, able to rule with no King. Able to change whatever laws he wants. Able to put a stop to these cursed tournaments once and for all and choose his own Spade Prince - not a Spade King, a Spade Prince! Subservient to his Spade Queen! Definitely a Prince - in peace.

He’s so close now, just one more month to go. All the years of training and endless sleepless nights of practicing spellcraft til he keeled over from exhaustion will be worth it. Arthur knows he can do it. He’s powerful now, so, so powerful. Who could ever hope to match the sheer force of his black magic? As far as he knows, there’s only one challenger left who’s been stupid enough not to throw in the towel. A young knight from a minor noble family by the name of Albert or Alfred or some such. Arthur barely listened to the details when Councillor Yao told him he had another challenge coming up. Arthur has practically been through more would-be-Kings than he’s had cups of tea. He’s heard it all before. He’s sure this Alfred or whatever will be no different.

Quite sure.

(This is getting long so end of part 1! Hopefully you guys will be interested in reading more once I type it up. 😘)

[themultifandomgal]

Shelby Sister/Isaiah- Christmas Baby

Christmas Eve and we have all gathered at aunt Polly's house

"Bloody hell YN your huge" Arthur shouts as Isaiah and I walk in, my hand on my very swollen stomach

"Thank you dear brother" i huff walking into the living room

"Maybe instead of staring at your sister you'd like to offer her your seat?" Polly looks at Arthur and John who are sat next to one another with a whisky in hand

"Here have mine" Tommy gets up from his chair "Lizzie would struggled getting up when she was that big. Those sofas are to low”

"Thanks Tom" I say waddling over to the chair, Isaiah and Tommy helping me down

"I'll get you a cuppa" Ada says smiling at me

"Thanks. He or she was meant to be here last week. I'm fed up, my feet ache my back hurts and to top it all off I've been having pains" I complain to my family

"Pains?" aunt Polly questions

"Just the odd pain, I spoke to my doctor apparently it's normal, braxton hicks they're called"

"Baby will be here before the end of the night, mark my words" Esme chuckles. I roll my eyes at my sister in law.

As the evening goes on the pains start to get worse and worse, still thinking it's braxton hicks I decided to go to bed early. However I wake up only after a few hours of sleep in agonising pain and the bed wet

"Polly!" I shout trying to sit up holding my stomach "Polly!" I shout again. Where the bloody hell is she?

Finally the door the the bedroom opens, my nephew Karl is stoop rubbing his eyes

"What's wrong auntie YN?"

"Go and get Polly or your mum or one of your aunts. Now!" I yell probably scaring the little boy. I hear his feet running downstairs then shouting. Eventually Polly, Esme, Lizzie, Linda and Ada are in my room

"Told you baby was going to be here soon" Esme smiles

"Hush you. If your going to be up here then at least be useful and help" Polly scolds "now you don't all need to be in here, Lizzie go and get hot water and some towels, Linda go pray somewhere"

"I'm going to bloody kill him for this Pol" I shout as the pain increases

"You say that now, but wait till the baby is in your arms, you'll want another" Esme laughs

Downstairs Isaiah is pacing up and down as the kids are now all congregated in the living room

"Is auntie YN dying?" Charlie asks he's dad

"Don't be silly Charlie. She's having a baby" one of Johns kids yells the young boy

“Shelby woman do pick there times don’t they”

"Should I be up there with her?" Isaiah asks

"This is woman's business" Arthur says taking his whiskey off the table in front "last thing she will want is you holding her hand. You put the baby in there"

"Dad how did Isaiah put the baby in auntie YN?"

"Now you've done it" John laughs

"Just sit down and drink your whiskey" Tommy rubs his forehead. Isaiah follows what Tommy asks and sits down with his head in his hands

"How do woman do this? how has your Esme had 4 kids?"

"Always said it's worth it in the end" John replies.

The night drags on until I finally give birth to a baby boy just before midnight, his little cries can be heard from a mile away. Polly wraps him up in a bundle of blankets and places him in my arms

"Shhh Shhh" I bounce him trying to settle the baby

"Got a good set of lungs on him" Ada says sitting next to me

"I'll go and let Isaiah know" Esme smiles walking out of the room

"He's beautiful YN" Ada coos. I then hear someone running up the stairs, Isaiah no doubt. The door swings open and within a second he's by my side

"How are you feeling? is he ok?"

"Yes dear he's fine" I chuckle

"And you?" Isaiah asks again

"Im fine, just tired and in need of a good bath" I yawn

"Get some sleep love, we all need to. He'll be waking us all up" Polly says.

I'm not sure how much sleep any of us actually got that night, but the next day I'm sat downstairs rocking the baby while watching the other kids opening up their presents

"Merry Christmas everyone" Polly smiles holding a glass of whiskey in the air.

[jonesyjonesyjonesy]

Wildflowers (pt. xxi.i)

a john paul jones x fem!oc fic

summary: Julia Morgan knew nannying for three girls who had recently lost their mother would come with many challenges. But she never thought their father, the enigmatic musician John Paul Jones, would be causing her the most trouble. And while Julia is not in the business of saving broken men, her tenderness might be meant for more than little girls and wildflowers.

table of contents │ previous chapter

masterlist│ko-fi

notes: nsfw

a/n: it's my birthday and it's julia's birthday and it's everyone's birthday! :)) due to my busy schedule, i'm going to start splitting up longer chapters into two more regularly so i don't have to keep y'all waiting 5ever. anyway. enjoy. and happy birthday, julia.

pt. xxi.i, horned poppy

���I’m afraid he’s taken a leave of absence and sent John Paul Jones in his place. Will that do?”

White lilies. Ugly things.

“Well, these are nice aren’t they?”

I looked at Annie and then back at the flowers. A small card stuck out from amidst the ivory petals.

“Well, don’t just stand there and gawk at it. See who it’s from, hm?” Annie nicked me on the arm with a knuckle.

I sighed and grabbed the card. “White lilies are funeral flowers.”

The flowers had arrived while I was on my morning school run. Bounteous lilies in a fine crystal vase. Expensive. But…deathly.

“You are a snob, Julia,” Annie sniffed. “You should be grateful he thought of you at all.

She was right about that. I had to be grateful that John remembered me on my birthday at all. I had to take it as a good sign.

I unsheathed the card and read it aloud. “Happy birthday, Julia. With love.”

Annie’s eyes bulged. “With love?”

I flushed. “It’s just an expression.”

“A very strong expression,” Annie grumbled.

While outwardly I remained calm, inside I was reeling. Love was not a word John and I had exchanged. Even “like” would have felt  too strong to utter though everything between us would point to at least “like”.

As if sensing my spiraling, Annie floated toward the door to the outside. “Come on, laundry doesn’t dry itself.”

I followed her outside and sighed. 28 years old. Another birthday in another home that wasn’t my own with a family that wasn’t mine. One that I wanted to be mine more than I should have allowed myself to want. 

Annie and I went to work on hanging the wash. Time dribbled by easily, approaching the next hour. A September breeze shifted all the dresses hanging from the clothesline; a row of ghosts wafted in the morning light.

My fingers were starting to ache from pinching clothespins over and over. Bloody dryer was on the fritz, leaving Annie up to her chin in wet laundry and nothing to do with it but hang it out on the lawn. The poles hadn’t been used in eons, as made clear by their chipping white paint.

And while the chore was a bit pedantic, it was also meditative. After the first line, I’d found my rhythm and technique, how to hang up tartan skirts, socks and knickers, blouses with tiny, undissolvable stains hidden on the collar.

Anything to distract me from the date.

“Help me with this, would you?”

Annie was trying to straighten out a damp bed sheet with her small wingspan.

I smiled and wandered over, taking one end from her and spreading it as far down the line as it would go.

“That bloody machine…wasting all my time.”

Hearing Annie curse made me giggle. “Repairman should be here sometime this week.”

“Laundry doesn’t stop for a repairman, does it, Julia?” Annie said with a sigh. She clipped a pin to her end of the sheet, then one in the middle. “Blast, I don’t have another one.”

“I’m afraid I’m out too.”

She grunted in annoyance. “Hold on.”

Annie skittered away before I could say another word, leaving me standing there with the wet sheet in my hand, its dampness dripping down my arm, underneath the cuff of my jumper. I tilted my head to the side and sighed, looking up to the sky. It was slightly overcast, but the peeks of sun through the clouds were generous and brilliant.

My birthday always was more introspective than I liked it to be, especially as I got older and remained unmarried. This being my first birthday in several years without Nick in my life, I was starting to wonder if maybe I should have just gone along with him to Paris and forgotten the whole lot of my freedom. I might have been engaged by now.

Now, now, Julia, you know that’s not what you want.

Nick so rarely crossed my mind since I’d ended things. Even more so once John became the object of my fantasies and affections.

I leaned into my hip. “Come on, Annie, my arm’s getting tired.”

I was met only with silence.

I groaned, my head dipping back.

Get on with it, then.

I dropped the sheet and marched over to one of the pairs of socks I’d hung, clasped the two of them together on one, and then returned to hang up my end of the sheet.

But just as soon as I clipped the end of the sheet to the line, the opposite side fell to the ground. I huffed, marching back over to hang up that end. I scanned the ground for the pin, finding it under the drape of white, pinned it back up and sighed. A job done.

Then, the other end fell.

I stared at the fallen sheet and started to laugh. This was getting ridiculous. I went back to the opposite end, pinned it up and –

The telltale flumf of the sheet falling on the other end.

I turned on my heel, laser-focused on the fallen sheet.

That was too many coincidences in a row. “Annie…” I said with a sly smile. “Are you being clever?”

I ran back to the end and pinned it up. Again, the other end, fallen.

“You think I don’t get enough cheekiness around here with three little girls, eh?” I snuck back to the other end. Instead of pinning it back up, I grabbed the sheet and poked my head around the other side.

No one was there.

“Oh, come on. This is ridicu –” I flipped around just in time to catch the shoe of my tormentor as they hid behind the curtain once again.

And that was not Annie’s shoe.

My heart pounded. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. I could have sworn that it was John’s shoe.

“John?”

Silence. Just the waving of the sheet in the wind. Taunting me. Reminding me what an idiot I must be to think for a second it would be John.

Still my heart stayed in my throat. I crept back to the other end of the sheet. “If you’re playing a trick on me…”

You’ll what? Leap into his arms and beg him to never leave again? Be realistic…

I grabbed the end of the sheet and took a deep breath. “I swear to god, I’ll –”

Two arms enveloped me from behind, absorbing me into a tight embrace. I screamed and squirmed, but before I could see who my laundry ghost was, their lips told me, pressed against mine in a tender, familiar kiss.

John .

My body broke into goosebumps as my heart soared toward the sky. Weightless, wrapped in his arms, I had to believe this was some fever dream. I pushed a hand against his chest, drawing myself away to see his face, make sure he was really real. “John, what are you doing here?”

If I hadn’t been totally infatuated with him before, I was certainly infatuated now. His darling smile, prickling at the dimples to see me had me swooning and the glimmer in his eye made me melt. A lethal combination to a girl trying to remain sensible. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“You – mm –” John interrupted me with a kiss. “ – know it is. But you wished me happy birthday on the telephone last night and –”

“That’s not nearly the same as wishing you a happy birthday in person, is it?”

I gaped, totally unable to comprehend what was happening. “This can’t possibly be happening.”

John grinned. “Aren’t I real enough for you?”

None of this felt real. John was touching me, kissing me, like some sort of dream I’ve had in the weeks since he’d left. “Yes, yes, but I really don’t –” I sighed and closed my eyes to get my thoughts straight. “You came out here to see me?”

John nodded.

“For my birthday?”

He nodded again. I brushed a lock of his hair back and tucked it behind his ear, grinning unbelievably wide. “Really?”

John threaded his arm around my shoulder, pulling me near again for what seemed like another kiss. His nose grazed mine as he whispered into my mouth, “Julia, you mustn’t be so surprised I came home to celebrate your birthday.”

But I was. Unbelievably surprised. Even more than that, I was surprised by his charisma. I’d noticed it coming more and more forward since Montreux, since we fell into each other’s arms. Now, though, it was heightened. Nearly theatrical.

“Now you two have ruined a perfectly clean sheet!” Annie yelled from the house.

I flushed and pointed at John. “His fault!”

“I should have known you’d be a snitch,” John teased, unrolling us from the sheet. “She should be grateful it’s not ruined in other ways.”

I gaped at him. “John.”

John grinned mischievously as he balled up the sheet. I still couldn't believe he was right in front of me. “Come along, dear.”

I followed at John’s heels, trying desperately not to spend too much time looking at the way his trousers squeezed his backside. “Where are we going?”

“A surprise.”

“At least let me change,” I argued, pulling at the cuffs of my sweater.

“No time,” John smiled over his shoulder and grabbed me by the hand. “You look perfect for our purposes anyway.”

I didn’t think so. I’d thrown on a frock and tried to cut the chill with a ratty old sweater that I’d acquired at the farm, an inheritance from dead Uncle Donal. Not to mention a pair of old leather boots that needed a good shining.

John and I waltzed into the kitchen where Annie was waiting with a hamper in her hands. “Alright, be good you two.”

I stared at the wicker hamper as she held it out toward us. “Where were you keeping that?”

She shrugged, a sly smile to match John’s on her face.

“Thank you, Annie dear,” John said, taking the basket and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“You made that for us?” I asked in shock.

“No, I made it for the Queen of England,” Annie said with a roll of her eyes. Her sass turned into a smile. “Go on, birthday girl.”

I could barely believe it. The woman who’d admonished us for so much as kissing was now encouraging us to venture into the wide world together. I threw my arms around her neck. “You knew everything, didn't you?”

Annie chuckled and patted my back. “It was all him, I just aided and abetted, alright?”

“Julia, come on!” John called from the front hall.

I felt dizzy with joy as I ran through Warren House and out the front door, only to be gob smacked again by the sight of a darling Rolls convertible, which I was able to identify by the ornament on the hood. “What is this?”

John dropped the basket in the backseat. “You like it?”

“Is this yours?”

“Oh, God, no,” John said with a scoff. “I got rid of mine years ago. Borrowed this from Bonz. So, we have to be good.”

I smiled and approached the car carefully. “I’m even afraid to touch it.”

“Oh, well a lady should never have to touch the car,” John said, opening the passenger door for me.

“Thank you,” I said with a genteel look over my shoulder.

He was so smug as he shut the door behind me. And I’d allow it, considering everything he’d done to surprise me this morning. If it all ended right here and he said this was all there was, it would have been enough.

John rounded the car and leapt into the driver’s seat without opening the door as if he was some sort of Hollywood dandy. “You ready, then?”

“Who are you and what have you done with John Baldwin?”

“I’m afraid he’s taken a leave of absence and sent John Paul Jones in his place. Will that do?”

I reached over and grabbed his chin. “You smarmy, little –”

“Prick?”

I smashed my lips against his as answer. Yes, obviously.

John sighed into my kiss as if tension from all the work he’d done was melting away just at my touch. What a far cry this all was from our first meeting. Him hiding his identify from me, trying to be an average widower.  Now, here he was, flashy and bold, strutting around like a peacock.

I was charmed. I won’t lie.

Breaking the kiss before it went too far, John straightened up. “Alright, one more thing.”

“John, no more things. No more surprises,” I said.

“Just a little thing.” He reached down and tapped the glovebox. “In here.”

I took a deep breath and opened the glovebox as John slid on a pair of aviators. Handsome arse. Burnt orange flashed from inside the glovebox. “No.”

John didn’t reply, revving the engine.

“No, John, this is –” I snatched the small box and admired the small Hermes logo. “Please, this is much too much.”

“Just open it would you?”

I lifted the lid and undid the wrapping paper as John swerved the car out of the driveway and down Warren Lane. Inside was a silk scarf, decorated with periwinkle loops and golden birds.

“Since I wouldn’t let you cut up the curtains,” John said. 

I lifted the scarf out of the box, watching it flutter delicately in the breeze. “I hate to even think of the absurd amount you paid for this.”

John smiled. “Put it on, Julie Andrews.”

“Ah, you're Robert in John’s clothing, are you?” I started to fold the scarf into a kerchief shape for my hair.

Wordlessly, John turned on the radio. A jazzy melody wafted through the speakers.

I delicately knotted the luxe fabric at the base of my skull and peered into the wing mirror. With my bare face and frumpy sweater, I didn’t feel like I was a girl who belonged in a Rolls with a silk scarf in her hair. However, when I felt John’s hand on my knee, I knew I just had to accept that this was my reality. He nudged me closer to him. “Let me look at you.”

I flipped around to face him, smiling maudlinly. “The hills are alive…” I lilted.

John grinned. “Looks perfect with your eyes.

I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek, teeny bristles of hair against my lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome darling.”

Where had this smokey-voiced, Casanova come from? Had Bonzo given him some midland pointers? Maybe Pat had really pulled all the strings. Or was this the man John was far before the broken heart?

I bade myself not to think about it too hard and to enjoy it. It was my birthday after all.

“Where are we going?” I asked, tucking my chin on his shoulder as we mazed through Crowborough.

“Well, we’ve got a hamper courtesy of Annie and you’ve got a kerchief ala Fraulein Maria, the Alps perhaps?”

I smacked him on the arm. “Cheeky.”

“Always.”

I couldn’t ignore how wonderful he smelled. How much I’d missed him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it also heightens the senses. And everything about his touch, his smell, the way he looked…

Made me absolutely feral.

“I thought I’d take you down to the shore. Is that alright with you?”

I smiled. “I haven’t been to the shore in years.”

“Obviously you’re overdue for a visit then.”

“Yes,” I replied, the open road curling out before us. “Yes, I am.”

The shore at Normans Bay was nearly an hour’s drive, but the time ticked by quickly at John’s side. We had much to catch up on, things we couldn’t get from our nightly chats. Closeness, the kind I could only get from hearing his breath through the phone.

We didn’t have to talk. It was that simple at this point. The radio crooned, the English countryside plowed by, and we simply existed in the same space.

It was as close to love as I had felt the entire time I’d been falling for him. Dangerous. Unavoidable.

“Seems like old times…” the radio sang.

“So how’d you sneak away?” I murmured to John.

“Having you to walk with…”

“Zeppelin’s four members, isn’t it? All I have to do is throw a fit now and then, disappear, and then I’m welcomed back with open arms. Can’t get on with only three.”

“Seems like old times, having you to talk with.”

I pushed my face into his shoulder. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming here to see me, did you?”

“No, of course not. They’d have a field day with that.”

Acceptable, especially based on the way I’d asked the question. Still, I would have loved to have been sung from the rooftops.

I moved back to my side of the car and leaned on the door, letting the wind whip through my hair and kerchief. “This was quite a surprise, John.”

“That was my goal.”

I grabbed the hem of my skirt. My legs felt light as arousal crept up my thighs. “I’ve missed you.”

“You know I’ve missed you, Julia.”

I had been trying to understand all this time if our relationship was more than just physical to John. And now, here I was, struggling not to feel turned on. My body hadn’t expected him. I was taken off-guard, each and every part of me.

John leaving was like a withdrawal from my system, the way it felt when I went from doing cocaine everyday after school to hiding myself on the farm while I was with child. Shakingly needy. Touching myself in the late hours, the early hours, the in between hours.

Now, here he was in the flesh.

And we’d already gone far too long without touching each other in the deepest ways.

I curled my fingers under the hem of my skirt and spread my legs.

“Julia…”

“What?”

“You know what.”

I pulled my fingers further up my thigh.

John fiddled with his glasses. “God dammit, Julia. You want me to run the car off the road?”

“I’ve barely done anything.”

John took a deep breath. “I can fucking smell you from here.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

The car abruptly veered off the road into an embankment. I nearly screamed before realizing John was responsible for the change in direction. He ripped the keys from the ignition and dived toward me, pressing me up against the door, lips on mine, ravenous lips, tongue ripping into my mouth. I braced myself, one hand against the headrest, the other against the dash.

His sunglasses knocked up against my face. He trembled to grab them throwing them onto the ground without another thought.

I wrapped my leg around his hip, pulling him flat against me. My entire body bucked against him, his touch utterly enthralling from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

“I was trying to be good,” John growled, moving his lips to my neck.

His teeth sunk into my skin. I let out a long sigh in response.

“I was going to wait,” he went on.

John’s hands slid from my calves and up my thighs, jerking my skirt up to my waist.

“But you and your fucking…” John shook his head like he’d just been hit with an anvil. “God almighty, Julia, I can’t control myself around you.”

I bit my tongue through a smile. “You never have to control yourself around me.”

John pushed my panties down (also not attractive, to complement the already dowdy outfit), then ducked under my skirt, his mouth sealing tight to my center.

My head dipped back toward the sky, jaw falling open as I welcomed his lips to my groin. I could barely even calculate the things wrong with this situation. In a car on an open road, a convertible with the top down, an employer with his children’s nanny.

A continued dance between secret and broadcast. This was the thing that plagued me while I was away from John.

But while I was with him, it drove me fucking mental.

John moaned into my dripping core. I jerked in response, hooking my hands over the window well at my shoulders. “Oh my god…”

His tongue slid from my perineum up to my clit, snaring the sensitive pearl with a snap of his lips.

My body seized, then collapsed again. A whimper, a moan, a breath.

I felt a drop of rain square between my eyebrows and was immediately snapped out of my reverie. I could only think about Bonzo’s car. The leather interior and anything else that might be ruined by the rain. “John, it’s –”

He locked his hands under my ass, pressing his mouth harder to me.

I bucked again. “John, the –“ A few more drops of rain. More suction of his mouth. “Please, we have to – oh god, I have to –”

John’s mouth was unyielding. I had to give into him. The warmth of his mouth, the cool kiss of the rain, the same amount of opposition that had been in our dynamic since the very beginning.

I grabbed onto his shoulder as best I could. John moaned once, twice, three times, each one building, shaking my sense free until the orgasm trembled free. I keened, raindrops tumbling onto my tongue, down my throat. “John, please,” I begged, gripping his jacket. “John, I need –”

John reemerged from under my skirt and slid up the length of my body to catch my mouth in another longing kiss. I tasted myself on his mouth.

Fit perfectly in the cradle of my legs, John rested, catching his breath against me. His fingers curled around the door. “Fuck,” he growled. “What do I do with you?”

“That. Again and again, please.”

John coked his head against my chest, smiling lopsidedly, a sheen across his lips and cheeks.

The rain intensified, from a drizzle to a steady cadence which finally snapped John back into gear. “Shit, the top.”

“I’ll help you,” I said, dragging myself out of the car and into the rain.

Like a sketch out of a Marx Brothers movie, we managed the top of the Rolls about halfway before it stuck. We switched sides a couple of times, trying to figure out what we’d done wrong, until John realized the fucking thing was automatic and went up and down with the push of a button . “How do we keep up with these newfangled gadgets, eh?” he asked, settling back into his spot with a damp squelch.

“It’s alright, you old fuddy-duddy,” I cooed.

“Says the girl celebrating a birthday.”

“Twenty-eight, over the hill, I know.”

“Well, it’s a very beautiful hill.”

I smacked him on the arm. “Drive, you.”

We set back off on our trajectory to Normans Bay, quickly leaving behind the patch of rain we’d been hit with for cooler temperatures and wider blue skies. The closer we got to the sea, the more I could smell it in the air and eventually, see it in the distance.

“Oh, wait, wait. I have to pull over,” John remarked.

“What for?”

The car rolled to a stop one more. He nodded back over his shoulder toward a flower cart at the side of the road. “Flowers. For you of course.”

I screwed my forehead together. “More flowers?”

John’s forehead matched mine in confusion. “What?”

“You already got me flowers. You sent lilies. This morning.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Didn’t you?” I asked.

John shook his head slowly. “No, I didn’t send you flowers.”

“Then who…” I trailed off, my heart beating with anxiety. “Please don’t joke with me, you didn’t send me those flowers?”

John half-smiled. All of the charisma he’d rode in on, suddenly caput. “I know I’m not the only man who admires you, Julia.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was still horrified to think of who could have possibly sent them. It was a short list, but none of the options were desirable. Nick Westerling being the first three names on the list.

John hurried off and fetched a spray of wildflowers from the seller. I watched through the wing mirror as his coat and hair whipped in the wind as he handed over a generous couple quid for the bouquet. He returned as quick as he’d made off, bashfully handing over the flowers. I took them with much more tenderness than I’d received the lilies this morning, pressing my nose into the fragrant spray. “You mustn’t give me anything more.”

He merely smiled.

Before he could start the car for us to finally make off to Normans Bay, I leaned over and slid my lips across the lobe of his ear. “You’re the only man I care to be admired by. I promise.”

John gratefully accepted my kiss, leaning back in his seat, a hand against my waist. I grabbed a yellow poppy from the bunch, remembering the poem from our Flower Fairies book. Only grows on the seashore. I tucked the flower in his hair. “There. Now everyone will know.”

He flushed, laughing bashfully like a schoolboy. “Damn this long hair.”

“I think it’s darling,” I said, sitting back in my spot.

John looked me over, considering each and every part of me. The yellow flower over his ear added a warmth to his face blush couldn’t seem to encapsulate on its own. Then, he smiled, put the car in gear and took a deep breath. “Next stop, Normans Bay.”

And though I laughed and sang along on the radio, I held my tongue back from what I really thought. That I never cared if we ever got to the shore at all. I could die happy in this moment.

Not even noon and this was already, most certainly, my best birthday to date.

tag list: @jimmys-zeppelin, @kari-12-10, @grxtsch, @digitcc, @ritacaroline, @kyunisixx, @salixfragilis, @rebel-without-a-zeppelin, @jimmypages, @dollyvandal, @cassiana-on-dark-side, @thepinklovewitch, @faisonsunreve, @sastrugie, @seventieswhore, @t4ngerinedr3am, @mayspringcome, @barrettavenue, @foreverandadaydarling, @glimmerofsanity, @montereypopgroupie, @lzep, @jimmysdragonsuit13, @n0quart3r, @larsgoingtomars, @paginate54, @leveeisbreaking (let me know if you’d like to be added 💋)

[esther-dot]

"You look pale, Sansa," Cersei observed. "Is your red flower still blooming?"- Sansa(ACOK IV)

"You gave me a rose. A red rose."- Sansa(ASOS I).

"A scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals had been strewn between the sheets."- Sansa(ASOS III).

Sansa's period is describe as red flower. It means she was ready to bear Joffery children. Loras gave her red rose which meant nothing to him. His family used Sansa trust for their gain. Tyrion and Sansa wedding bed was decorated with rose petals.

So much Lyanna connection who was associated with blue rose. Rhaegar gave her blue rose crown at tourney. Lyanna was clutching winter roses in her dying bed after giving birth to Jon. The room filled with petals and blood.

Oh, I did not remember the rose petals on her wedding night 👀

You're right that roses follow both Sansa and Lyanna's stories in an interesting way. We don’t know much of Lyanna's feelings, only that it all ends in tragedy, for Sansa we have infatuation/disillusionment (Loras), her period/terror (Joffrey), marriage (Tyrion). If their stories are aligned with roses being the points of correlation, we could say that Rhaegar has the Loras and then potentially Tyrion beats for Lyanna (infatuation, disillusionment, forced marriage?) and that Robert was in the Joffrey role (absolutely did not want to marry him).

The other thing that it's interesting is that Sansa's first "moonblood" leaves her in a bloody bed, and Ned describes Lyanna as in her bed of blood, so we're getting the beginning and the end of motherhood (or the potential for it, rather) in this world (many people have pointed out that Martin has radically overestimated how many women died in childbirth, but let's just roll with him here). And we have Cersei voice her thoughts on what it means to be a woman, that funnily enough, sound a little like what Lyanna thought it would mean if she were forced to marry Robert

The queen's face was hard and angry. "Would that I could take a sword to their necks myself." Her voice was starting to slur. "When we were little, Jaime and I were so much alike that even our lord father could not tell us apart. Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other's clothes and spend a whole day each as the other. Yet even so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. 'What do I get?' I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime's lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood." (ACOK, Sansa VI)

There's this idea of a woman's glory being won in childbirth that comes up a few times, the notion that that is her war, and of course, we have Dalla who gives birth while they're under attack to emphasize it (ASOS, Jon X), so Sansa's moonblood being associated with violent assault (her dream) and then a siege isn’t surprising.

Let’s hope roses will occur later on a more positive way for our girl!

[mania-sama]

rule #11 - my dream, my addiction

Rule #11 - My Dream, My Addiction - Fish in a Birdcage

➼ information ❧ Demon Slayer ❧ Pairing: Agatsuma Zenitsu & Hashibara Inosuke & Kamado Tanjirou, Kamado Nezuko & Kamado Tanjirou ❧ Tags: ptsd, nightmares, flashbacks, hallucinations, suicide attempt (not intentional - think mugen train), mild hurt/comfort, angst, self-harm (same thing), butterfly estate, post-mugen train arc ❧ Summary: Tanjiro has unhealed trauma from the Mugen Train Arc. It ends in nightmares and bloody necks. ❧ Word Count: 2,170 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 28 October 2023

➼ whumptober 2023 ❧ Day 25: Nightmares | Flashback | "Why didn't you save me?" ❧ Previous Day ❧ Next Day ❧ Masterlist

It starts with a nightmare.

Tanjiro stands on the snowy mountain of his birth, his sword gripped tightly in his right hand. His family quivers before him, doused in blood and grime from their gruesome deaths. Their breaths form crystallized ice clouds in front of them. The snow is stained a deep crimson-red.

A horrible sense of deja vu settles over Tanjiro like a thick blanket. Flakes fall on him from the trees shaking in the howling wind. It brushes through his hair and bites his skin in icy blasts. The stomachs, limbs, and necks of his family ooze blood like muddy sand slipping between fingers. They would be unrecognizable if the primary features of their faces had not been carefully preserved and mostly unharmed. Blood forths and spills from their lips all the same.

Tanjiro has been here before.

“Why didn’t you save me?” The youngest one croons, his hands reaching out as he stumbles across the snow to get to his older brother. Tanjiro trembles as he lifts his arm and presses his sword to his neck. He can’t afford to stay here for any longer. The more he sees their mutilated bodies and betrayed expressions, the more he wants to stay and nurse them back to health.

He knows they aren’t real. They can’t be. They’re all manufactured dreams of his worst fears to keep him asleep. He has to cut off his head. He needs to kill the lower-rank demon. He needs to cut off his head. He needs to be decapitated before it’s too late.

His blade presses into his neck, and his eyes snap open at the scent of his own blood. The blade drops unceremoniously from his hands and onto the empty space on the bed beside him. The only light coming into the dark room comes from the shining moon and stars, and the air is gentle with the new spring warmth. The beams above him are devoid of any blood or gore.

The room only contains him and the sounds of his gasping breaths. His neck stings, and he gingerly presses his hand to the new wound. It’s not deep by any means — only a surface-level scratch, but he’s going to have a hard time explaining this away.

Tanjiro catches his breath in the silence of his room. His palm becomes warm and sticky as the cut continues to bleed. Spring should be warm, but he feels an impenetrable chill settle deep in his bones. It’s the cold of the mountain the day his family died, and it’s the deep-seated regret that he couldn’t save them.

It’s just a nightmare, he tells himself. The demon has been annihilated.

It’s not as reassuring as he hoped it would be.

—

The nightmare occurs again the following night.

It’s only slightly different. Instead of being outside, he finds himself in the middle of the house. The walls are coated with his family’s entrails, and the ground is one large puddle of blood and intestines. His youngest sister crawls to him and asks why he didn’t save them.

The cut on his neck is deeper, and Tanjiro has a harder time explaining the injury to the girls of the Butterfly Mansion. He doesn’t lie to them, necessarily, just withholds bits of information that may paint a slightly different picture were they to know of them. He tells them he had a nightmare, and he gripped his sword in his sleep. When he woke up, he was startled and accidentally cut his neck.

That’s all. No lies. Tanjiro isn’t a liar.

Yet.

The odd look Zenitsu gives him during training doesn’t settle well in his stomach.

—

It happens again. And again. And again.

Tanjiro starts to dread sleeping. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s transported back to that snowy mountain, his entire family standing before him, pleading and begging and screaming. Guilt fills his lungs, a feeling he’s become familiarized with the more days he spends at Nezuko’s side —  a breathing reminder of his past and continuous failures.

There comes a point when he becomes used to jolting awake to a blade stuck in his neck and sweating in overwhelming dread for the remainder of the night. He strikes the same place every time, so the wound never has time to fully heal before it's reopened. Subsequently, the scar does not go unnoticed, and his vague explanations are becoming less and less believable. 

He starts lying. He says there was a deadly bug on his neck, and when he was training, he tripped and struck himself. They were all accidents, he lies. Every single one of them.

Zentisu cornered him, once, and yelled at him for scaring both him and the girls. Insouke hasn’t said much, but Tanjiro knows he doesn’t express his emotions in the same way as everyone else. He knows soon, Inosuke’s strife will rear its head in a more obvious manner.

Sleep begins to evade him. His heart races when he lays a hand on his bed, and his exhaustion from the day disperses when he gently lays his blade by his side. Tanjiro changed scenery; he brought his blankets down on the floor in a makeshift mat and deposited his sword in the corner of the room. He thinks that this, though won’t rid him of his nightmares, will at least protect him from involuntary self-harm.

Nothing changes. 

His unconscious body unravels the blankets and walks to the sword. Dead asleep, he grabs his sword and pierces his neck at the same time he does in his dream. He falls to the ground, awake, and holds his bleeding, pulsing vein in his hands. The afterimage of his family dies before him. The demon takes their precious, short lives.

Tanjiro doesn’t know what to do, so he does nothing. He cleans the sword of his blood and prays the dizziness from blood loss will leave before he is “woken” for breakfast and training.

—

Avoiding sleep takes his bad situation into something much, much worse.

He only did it once. He told himself: “What would happen if I didn’t allow my mind to destroy myself unconsciously?” It was meant to be an experiment.

During training, when Insouke gets cut from the bark of a tree, Tanjiro smells the distinct pungent scent of iron. And, even though it’s the middle of spring, he stands on a snowy mountain. He meets the gaze of his mother, her mouth frothing with red, clotted saliva and pupils blown wide despite the glaring brightness of the winter sun.

“Why did you leave us?” She begs, her hands reaching out to grasp Tanjiro’s coat. “You let the demon eat us.”

He doesn’t have time to think. This lower-rank demon will not taint his memories of his dead family. They are the only things that remain of them. The snow gets into his stinging eyes, and he brings his blade to his neck. He presses, and he hears a panicked scream.

“Tanjiro! What are you doing? Tanjiro!”

Zenitsu wrestles Tanjiro’s blade out of his tight grip, and Tanjiro falls to his knees. He can’t breathe. His wound seeps down his neck in a thick, warm tsunami. His scraping fingers do nothing to staunch the flow, and he tries desperately to save himself through Recovering Breathing. His friend grasps his shoulders and shouts: “Inosuke! Help me! He just tried to decapitate himself!”

Tanjiro just tried to decapitate himself. 

He wasn’t asleep. Perhaps that allowed him to cut deeper than usual; his breathing became controlled, and his muscles tightened to make it all the way through his own throat. He still can’t quite catch his breath, and his life force steadily leaves him in dangerous waves.

Inosuke and Zenitsu carry him back to the Butterfly Mansion, oddly quiet in the concentration. Aoi and the young girls take him in immediately. They are worried, if not terrified, but care for him anyway. Tanjiro doesn’t die — in fact, he thinks he’s been closer to meeting his maker than he was when he cut his neck.

Still.

“What were you thinking? What were you doing?” Zenitsu keeps yelling, and Tanjiro doesn’t have an answer for him. He stares down at trembling hands, his chin straining against the fresh bandages protecting his wound. “All this time you’ve been doing this to yourself! Have you? Answer me, Tanjiro! Answer me!”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says sullenly. Inosuke has made himself scarce, likely unable to comprehend Tanjiro’s apparent suicide attempt. “I’m not suicidal. I just… I’ve been having nightmares.”

Zenitsu doesn’t believe him. Tanjiro wonders if he even believes himself.

—

His blade only gets confiscated during the night. The girls believe his innocence when they see for themselves his sleep-walking suicides, and they appeal that Tanjiro cannot physically restrain himself until the damage is done. He remains a member of the Slayer Corps.

Inosuke doesn’t bring up the incident, not once, but he watches Tanjiro a little more closely than usual. Zenitsu remains angry with him, and his ire is only strengthened when it happens again.

They are assigned a mission to clear a demon terrorizing the families living on the lake. It has a special affinity for children under the age of ten. Preying on the weak is easy, a sign of weakness in itself. Tanjiro doesn’t know what the need is for all three of them to go there, but he does not question it.

He soon discovers the purpose when he’s face to face with the demon munching on a child’s bones. It only takes a second for his arms to lift the blade and slash.

Metal scrapes on metal, sending sparks flying and heat to break the snowy illusion. Tanjiro turns his head and comes face to face with two chipped blades stuck between his neck and his own sword. He releases the pressure, but still, Inosuke does not move.

“Sit this one, Conpachiro,” Inosuke says, his voice low and angry. “The Mugen Train runs through your mind. Chug, chug, chug! You are not dreaming anymore! That demon is dead! Dead!”

“I have—” Tanjiro doesn’t get a word in before Inosuke sucker punches him in the mouth. His jaw bursts with pain, and blood steadily drips from his lips.

“Fight, and you will die. Is this what you want? To die?” He breathes heavily out of his mouth, and his fist flexes, as if ready to send out another punch. “We are not worthless weaklings! Just leave this demon to us!”

Beside him, Zenitsu talks in his sleep. “Focus on saving yourself.”

Tanjiro knows why all three of them were sent.

Only two would be fighting the demon. One would be fighting himself.

Every time he sees the broken, half-devoured body of the young girl, he’s transported back to the mountain, back to the house, back to his dead family. When he gets a whiff of the blood being spilled, it’s the same.

He has a sick, twisting feeling in his gut. Deja vu. It’s the fight with the lower-rank demon, except everything has changed. The goal is not to kill himself with each “dream” he’s pulled into.

The goal is to stand in front of his family and beg for their forgiveness.

A snake sinks its teeth into his lungs, and he fights. He brings his blade to his neck every time, but Zenitsu or Inosuke is there to protect him. It prolongs the fight with the demon, but Nezuko pulls herself out of the box to participate. She protects the blindsides from the thunder and beast breathers as they stick their swords out to guard Tanjiro’s neck.

It must take him an hour, two hours, or three. But there comes a time when he stands before his family, throws his sword on the ground with as much effort as he can, and collapses onto his knees. He ignores the pounding of his heart and the thoughts in his head screaming at him to decapitate himself, that the lower-rank demon is winning, that all of his struggling and fighting will be for nothing.

He buries his head in the snow, and he says, “Forgive me.”

It only clears when Insouke roughly shakes him out of it, bringing him to the present. It doesn’t rid the grief tearing into his lungs, or the horrible, overriding guilt weighing him down.

But it does prevent his neck wound from reopening.

It’s not much. Tanjiro has the feeling that his nightmares aren’t over, that he’ll train tomorrow and he’ll be back on the snowy mountain. He knows that blood will drip from his pulsing vein.

But it’s a start. As long as his friends and sister are by his side, there may come a day when he no longer tries to kill himself. There may even be a time when he doesn’t throw himself into danger, where his remorse doesn’t drag his body into the nearest sacrifice play. It may be a pipe dream, yet a dream is better than nothing at all.

[merrock]

CHARACTER INFORMATION

face claim: Monica Raymund

full name: Tamara Hayes

nickname(s) / goes by: Tam

pronouns & gender: cis woman, she/her

sexuality: Bisexual

birth date: 07/03/1986 (37)

birth place: Nova Scotia, CA

arrival to merrock: Recently returned June 2024

housing: New home in the suburbs

occupation: Paediatrician

work place: Merrock Hospital

family: only child (adopted), possible extended family connections

relationship status: divorced / single

PERSONALITY

Warm, humble and outgoing, Tamara is the big sister that she never got to be for those around her. She is honest and benevolent with a huge heart, but her kindness should not be mistaken for weakness. If you've wronged her, she'll let you know, and try to resolve whatever issue.

WRITTEN BY: Tash (she/her), GMT+10

BACKGROUND / BIO

triggering / sensitive content warnings: infertility, bullying

Darkness. That’s all that Tamara saw when trying to recollect her earliest memories. Anything prior to her fourth birthday was a mystery, as if her life truly only began the moment she was welcomed into a new home, loved and cared for from that moment on. Mr and Mrs Hayes were a couple cursed with the inability to reproduce, leaving them with the options of surrogacy and adoption. They chose the latter, welcoming Tamara into their home. Adjusting to her new family was as easy as breathing. She couldn’t put a face to her mother or father, but now she could. And that alone made her over the moon. She had someone to teach her how to read and write, how to ride a bike and someone who would tuck her in bed at night. Sure, there were moments when Tamara lashed out in a child-sized rage over not being allowed a candy bar before dinner, and not wanting to have a bath, but overall the good outweighed the bad.

Life was great. Tamara had a loving family, food in her stomach, a roof over her head and passion in her heart. She was forever grateful, and over the years she became a genuinely kind human. Unfortunately, other students didn't take well to her adoption and Tamara was bullied about her biological parents giving her away. She didn't take well to this, and after little assistance from the school, well... someone ended up with a bloodied nose. It was safe to say that she was suspended from school for a week, but the fact that she offered the other student instant assistance helped her case. She wasn't a bad person, just in a bad situation. After this incident, and with some guidance from career counsellors, Tamara began focusing on working towards becoming a doctor. She wanted to do good in the world. She didn't want to be judge, jury, or executioner; just yearned to help others. Her parents couldn't have been prouder, even though their daughter was onto her next adventure.

Tamara moved to Merrock in 2015 after finishing her postgraduate degree in medicine at MSVU. Between countless hours working at the local hospital and trying to explore her new town, love wasn't something Tamara imagined she'd find. She'd quickly become fond of Cage Newman; a local carpenter, who had the most beautiful boy. She found herself not only head over heels for him, but the family that they had become. Tamara had everything she'd ever dreamed of. She had an amazing job, had formed lasting friendships and found who she believed was the love of her life. It all seemed like something straight out of a fairy tale.

Regardless of her perfect life, nothing could get rid of the aching feeling in her bones. She wanted to go through pregnancy and birth for herself. She had loved Colton like he was her own, but Tamara couldn’t stop herself from wanting that experience. The world seemed to crumble around them piece by piece, their picture perfect family tearing at the seams. They both seemed to want different things — so as quick as it had started, it was over. Cage had left town to explore the world with Colton, giving Tamara time to gather her things once their divorce had been finalised. Instead of moving through her feelings, she returned home to her parents and dove into her work. Determined to advance, and to help families and the littlest of patients, Tamara turned to paediatrics.

It had been years since she had returned to Maine. She missed the life that she had built, and the Merrockites that brought life to the town. There was unfinished business that needed to be resolved in order for her to move on with her life. After some back and forth communication, Tamara was welcomed back to Merrock Hospital, and purchased her first home in the suburbs.

[novaxanomaly]

Birth of Eboni

A/N: this little thing is a piece that is concerning my own characters and an RP partners characters. please do not steal or claim as your own.

Tagging: @co11ywobbles, @deadshot6969, @salty-space-gremlin

Wordcount: 2043 words

TW: blood, death, birth, fear.

Muses used: Kage, Tsuki, Akina, Kuragami, Kagemi, Donovan.

To say that he was surprised when Akina came to him and told him she was pregnant, would be an understatement. He personally never thought that he would ever have children again, being extra careful not to let it happen. After all, that last time he had a family, it ended in tragedy.

But now, Akina is huge and round in the belly, the whole pregnancy Kage would demand she let him or Tsuki do whatever work that was needing to be done. He even, willingly, went on missions instead of Akina, to prevent any injury to the elf and their unborn baby. When there were no missions, no threats, no negative things, Kage would take advantage and cuddle up to Akina and talk to the baby growing in her womb. He would tell the unborn baby stories and sing.

Today, though, he was out with his siblings, making Tsuki promise to keep Akina at least safe in the cottage.

“Oh, Kage look at this one, it's so you!” Kagemi squealed, holding up a tiny black colored baby outfit with the words 'Daddy's Little Shadow' printed across the front of the onesie and the matching pants had hearts. “I mean, have you figured out what the gender is?”

“Yeah, Akina wouldn't let me go to the appointment for that ultrasound... so you would have to ask her.” Kage sighed, he was not excited about buying clothes for the baby, it didn't feel like a thing he should be doing, but Akina had scolded him and kicked him out of the house because of how much time he had been spending with her and their unborn baby. “I like that one, put it in the carriage. But we should probably get something for a boy too, just in case.”

Kuragami chuckled. 'You know, Brother, I don't see why you are so upset about hanging out with us. Before Akina got pregnant, we would hang out weekly.” He said, wondering what was bothering their oldest triplet sibling. Kuragami was never told about the Tragedy with his last family. Only Kagemi knows, and refuses to tell anyone because it isn't her story to tell.

“I... I am just a … worried dad, OK?” Kage said finally. “can we leave it at that?”

“You do know that there is such thing as too much worry, right?” Kura asked, a small smile on his lips to let Kage know that he was not trying to start a problem. “You need to understand that we are around to help also, I mean, Brother, I have kids too, so I get it. I worry too, I told you what happened to Jett.”

“Yeah... well, at least your kids are alive, brother.” Kage countered in a soft voice, low so only his siblings could hear with the heightened hearing they all had. Kura frowned in response to the comment and glanced to Kagemi, who simply closed her eyes and nodded.

“Why have you never told me this?” Kura asked.

“Not really something I want to willingly remember... but if it wasn't for Kagemi, I would have killed myself.” he sighed, “Kura, I had a wife and a son, my daughter hadn't been born yet. I came home from the group hunt the tribe does, and found my wife and son dead and bloody on my bed, my wife's pregnant belly still moving.” Kage told Kura the story, still speaking in the low tone, he looked into his younger sibling's matching ethereal blue eyes and continued. “Our unborn child was suffocating in the womb because my wife had died, so I tried to save it. I cut her belly open, carefully and pulled my daughter out and held her in my arms as I tried to clean her off. I watched the light fade from her beautiful blue eyes, brother. She took her last breath in my arms. I just don't want that happening to Akina, and this baby...not if I can actually prevent it.”

Kuragami nodded, another small warm smile forming on his lips, “I can understand your fear, brother, I almost lost Oisin... a while ago, but it was such a close call. So I at least understand a tiny bit what you mean.”

Kage was grateful that Kura understood his worry, and they continued to do the shopping. “I better be able to meet my new niece or nephew when they are born!” Kagemi chimed happily as Kage's phone began to ring.

It was Tsuki's ringtone, which made the shadow demon furrow his brows, as he answered the call.

“Tsuki, everything alright?”he asked.

“Oh, Kage, baby!” he heard the vampire fuss, and he furrowed his brows more, till he heard Akina in the background cry out in pain.

In the middle of the store, all three shadow demons winced and shadow blades appeared in their hands.

“Akina?” Kage questioned, not wanting to over react, after the conversation he had just had with his brother, his teeth were clenched and knuckles were white.

“Kage, um, I think the baby is coming... what should I do?!” Tsuki sounded like he was in distress, “Kage, babe, I … there is a lot of blood... I am scared...”

that was when Kage realized that his vampire lover was scared that he might feed on Akina. Because of the smell of all the blood. Kage swore under his breath and closed his eyes to think.

“Tsuki, calm down, its natural for the blood, but remember? I keep a stash of mine for you in that mini fridge in the bedroom. Grab a bag and sip from it. Call an ambulance and I will meet you at the hospital. OK?”

“Oh! Right! I am sorry, Kage, I forgot. I will do that now. See you soon.” and the vampire hung up on him.

Kage looked between his siblings and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

Kuragami was the first to say something, just as Kage started to get consumed by shadows. The shadows dissipated and he tilted his head at Kura. “Kagemi, would you mind finishing the shopping, and I will drive Kage to the hospital? It would be a bit strange for him to shadow walk there when she isn't there just yet.” Kura watched Kage rub his face.

“No worries, I will wait till one of you call me and I will visit then. Don't be surprised if I buy a bit extra, cuz now I know diapers are a most.” Kagemi giggled and winked at her brothers. “Now go, I will see you both soon.”

Kura and Kage Shadow walked to the car, to cut time down, but then they drive from the store, to the hospital, and met with Tsuki.

“Kage!” he cried out when he saw Kage walk in. “They took her to a room and she made me wait for you.”

Kage nodded and was rushed by the vampire trying to find comfort, and Kage granted it, wrapping his arms around the shorter one and pulling him onto his lap sideways as he sat in a waiting room chair. “It will be alright, OK? It will.”

“Excuse me, Which one of you is Miss Akina's husband?” A doctor came over.

“I... that would be me, though we haven't gotten married yet.” Kage rose his hand and stood, moving Tsuki to the seat next to him. “Is everything alright? Is the baby born yet?”

“No, she is still in active labor, and insisted that we get a mister Kage?”

“Yeah that is me, we both are her lovers, we are in a poly relationship.” Kage felt the need to also include Tsuki, “But he gets queasy with blood.” Kage said, shrugging at Tsuki, trying to save him from any issues that might arise.

“Well, come with me, and the others have to stay out here.” the doctor motioned for Kage to follow her and he looked back at Tsuki and Kuragami, worry plastered on his face. He caught his brother nodding calmly, as if to tell him everything will be fine.

Kage followed the Doctor and sighed as they entered the room Akina lay in.

“Baby!” he called out, “I am here.” he rushed to her side and she made grabby hands at him. Her face was filled with pain and she was sweating, he grabbed her hand and kissed her now white knuckles just as another contraction hit her. She screamed and a few nurses practically ducked from fear.

“Kage, it hurts so bad!” she fusses at him and he couldn't help but chuckle.

“I know baby, but I am here now, you can do this. Help push our child into this world so I can finally meet them.” he calmly commanded her. It was like the words were Akina's final helping hand to be strong enough to deliver their precious creation unto the world.

A few hours later, Kage was handed the black haired baby, wrapped in a blanket after being cleaned. He had been so focused on making sure Akina was alright, that he was caught off guard by the nurse handing the bundle to him.

“Here is your new baby girl, Daddy.” the nurse said with a smile, and Kage took the child and held her close, moving back to his wife.

“Akina, you did it.” he whispered to her, and she looked up at him with drowsiness. “She is just as beautiful as her mother.” he smiled at Akina. “What shall we call her?”

“Eboni.” Akina replied sleepily, and Kage leaned down to show her the child. “perfect mix of us all.” she added with a sleepy grin.

“Rest baby, I will stay up with our Eboni.” Kage said sweetly to Akina, and she nodded, reaching over and gently booping the baby on the nose.

“Good night my darling girl.” she said and soon the elf was fast asleep.

Kage stayed awake the whole night, no one was able to visit because it had gotten to be too late, but Kage didn't mind. He still had a fear: of his little girl dying in his arms. So he chose to stay up all night, letting Akina rest and him watching the infant sleep soundly in his arms.

“Papa will always be here for you by daughter.” he smiled down at the sleeping baby, tears slowly blurring his vision as the first rays of the morning sun shined through the window. It had been a long night, but his baby girl was still breathing and now stirred and fussed for her first taste of food. He grabbed a formula bottle from the side table and shook it up, quickly getting it ready. He let out a small chuckle through his tears, that no one would see later, and moved the nipple of the bottle to her tiny lips. “eat up my darling.” he said and she opened her eyes along with opening her lips.

Eboni looked up at Kage with beautiful crystal blue eyes that briefly turned ethereal to match his, and then back to the pretty crystal blue. Kage smirked down at her, “You are a mischievous one, aren't you?” he whispered, and chuckled. Of course the infant wouldn't answer, she couldn't speak yet, he knew that, but she showed him that she definitely had shadow demon on her blood. “Papa's little survivor.” she leaned down and kissed her forehead, just as there was a knock at the door or the room.

“Good Morning!” Kagemi's voice rang out through the room, and he looked up to find his pregnant sister and her boyfriend walking in with a few shopping bags from the place they went to yesterday.

“She made it through the night, Gemi.” he blinked away his tears quickly, not wanting anyone else to see them.

“We all knew she would, brother, now let me see her!” Kagemi pouted and reached for the bundle in his arms, causing him to let out a small laugh, because Donovan rolled his eyes.

[ortizrio]

"Make death proud to take us."

FULL NAME: Rio Ortiz AGE: 36 DATE OF BIRTH: December 12th PLACE OF BIRTH: Monument, CO GENDER IDENTIFICATION: Cis man, he/him SPECIES: Werewolf (born) NEIGHBORHOOD: White Oaks OCCUPATION: Mechanic at Bolt's Auto Repair Shop, Volunteer firefighter FACE CLAIM: Carlos Miranda

WANTED CONNECTIONS | INSPIRATION | HEADCANONS

headcanons

Rio may be a bit misguided and make poor choices, but no one could say he's not loyal.

biography

trigger warnings; drug use mention, sexual promiscuity

Rio was never known for taking the path of least resistance. He learned on the fly and often the hard way, with skinned knees, split lips, and bloody knuckles. He was scrappy and small in his youth, but could stand up against the best of them. See, he had this seemingly wild aggression within him at times, a short fuse that got him in trouble on a regular interval and landed him in the principal's office often; often enough that he carved his name into the corner of the plastic seat (and maybe earned a few extra days of detention for it, too).

He was still young when he was first told of his family's wolf linage and taught better avenues of controlling that aggression that so often made appearances. It gave him even more of a reason to paste on a sly smile when others teased him for whatever reason in class - because he had a secret none of the rest of them had. He could turn into a wolf. He was barely a teenager when he first turned and started running with the Ortiz pack It didn't take too long for him to learn about the wolf that slept within and the power it gave him. Or at least, the power it made him feel he had.

Towards the end of high school and into college Rio started getting into more reckless territory. He could often be found drinking himself into oblivion or dabbling in an assortment of drugs. More often than not he was finding someone else's bed to spend the night in, his dorm room quickly gathering dust. He hadn't really known what he'd wanted to study when he'd first signed away thousands of dollars to the collegiate institution and he left still not knowing the answer to that. But no one could say he didn't have a good time.

Amelia had been in and out of his life since youth; a friend from the neighborhood of his childhood memories, a classmate who kept him somewhat in line, and part of the reason he'd decided to go to college at all - even if he wasted away the years and pissed away the money. When she came to him confused and upset, talking about an attack in the woods and showing him the bite on her arm just after a full moon...well, what was happening to her wasn't the only surprise of that night. Rio helped guide her through the transition as best he could, hoping he could at least ease some of her worries and maybe even help her find the good things about what had happened to her.

When Amelia came to him explaining that she was pregnant, Rio hadn't been sure how to take it. He had certainly never been the type to want to be tied down and was probably the furthest from one's typical 'father figure' image. But she had never asked anything of him more than she knew he could give - she fully gave him an out not to be in the child's life at all if he'd wanted it. But that hadn't felt right. They'd done this together and made this beautiful baby boy - and the minute he saw him Rio couldn't even give a second thought to walking away. He followed her to Greywood to help raise his kid - and he hasn't left yet. So maybe settling down a little wasn't that bad.

“what power did he attain when settling in Greywood?”

Rio developed the ability of mimicry in which he is able to experience and utilize both their power they may have attained in Greywood and the additional power attributes of their species, but he must be in physical contact with the person to do so.

[blossomtide]

( ahn hyoseop, cis male, he/him) — one day the sea will sing of CYRUS MIHALIS, the thirty one year old priest from the town of cynefin. there will be verses about bloodied knuckles and torn skin, yellowing bruises next to new ones / faint light at the end of dark, long tunnel / an empty chapel with sunlight streaming in through the windows, a lone figure kneeling down with head bowed in silence / a hug so tight that it knocked air out of your lungs, desperate and remorseful enough it felt like you’ll never part again for another lifetime / a childhood memory of careful, gentle hands picking you up from the sofa as you sleep and carrying you to bed in the hums of their hymn, about a person who is trained in the magic of khemia. the land will know them as someone caring and attentive, but perhaps, you’ll hear the old crones hiss that they are stubborn and secretive. only the shadows of the ocean floor will bear witness to the truth. ╱ rae, 26, any pronouns, gmt +7.

Profile.

FULL NAME Cyrus Mihalis AGE Thirty-One BIRTH DATE August 1st GENDER & PRONOUNS He/Him ORIENTATION Demiromantic/sexual RELATIONSHIP STATUS Married

KHEMIA Anima OCCUPATION Priest (New Faith) CURRENT RESIDENCE Cynefin, Clwyd-isle

PARENTS Unknown SIBLINGS Unknown PARTNER Sion Lee (husband, alive) CHILDREN Ahri Lee (daughter, alive); Yuri Lee (daughter, alive)

HEIGHT 188cm / 6’2” WEIGHT 72kg / 159 lbs EYE COLOR Dark Brown HAIR COLOR Black SCARS Various scars all over his body. Usually wears long sleeved clothes to cover the ones on his arms

FACECLAIM Ahn Hyoseop CHARACTER INSPO Shiro Fujimoto (Blue Exorcist), Ja’far ( Magi), Kaeya (Genshin Impact), Qifrey (Witch Hat Atelier), Jesse Venetian/Jung Yuseo (When the Third Wheel Strikes Back)

Summary.

TW: mentions of violence.

- Started life as a street urchin/war orphan, was taken in by Sion Lee’s family when he was around 8 or so (probably, no one knew his real birthdate). Then they got separated a few years later. 

- Cyrus tried to find them and traveled to different regions, often earning money through mugging/pickpocketing and even entered street fighting rings in one region due to decent prize money for each win. It became a steady income for him that he thought of staying in that region for a while until he gathered decent funding to continue his search. 

- The local ringleader wasn't too pleased with him due to certain things and told their underlings to cripple him as he was tossed into some alley and left to die. A wandering pilgrim happened to pass by and saved him from the brink of death and took him in. 

- Years later he officially became a priest and was sent to Cynefin about 6 or 7 years ago. He’s not actually that devout but he knows better than to say this out loud. Cyrus is an agnostic but he’s not going to trample on those who have more specific belief, he’s come to terms that if some people can find comfort and hope in prayers, they should be allowed to do that in peace as long as it doesn’t harm themselves or others.  

- The pilgrim who saved him became his adoptive parent and they probably could guess his line of thought hence why Cyrus was sent to Cynefin. A person who’s flexible in his belief is probably more suited with the people there, though Cyrus (jokingly) thinks he’s just being demoted.

- Ends up reuniting with Sion Lee in Cynefin and they get married not long after with their twin daughters born in the following year. 

- Uses a prosthetic leg that his husband specifically made for him. Before he used one given by his adoptive parent but that old one was a lot more limiting than the one Sion made for him as he constantly tinkers with it to make it more comfortable for Cyrus. 

Personality.

- The Cyrus Mihalis of today is known by those around him as an amiable individual who wouldn’t hesitate to lend his help to those in need. He has a mild temperament, appearing to be a harmless clergyman who manages a small private orchard in his family home as his hobby. He can be found greeting people he meets with a gentle smile. His eyes become a lot livelier whenever he talks about his little family of four or when gardening comes up as a conversational topic. 

- He often uses his anima magic to aid those plagued with anxiety. He’d hold their hands and ask them to tell him their worries. As he listens to their woes, Cyrus would use his magic to help them to calm down and encourage them to find logical solutions together.

- Although he also cherishes his friends and neighbors, no one really knows what the young priest is truly like as Cyrus often tries to maintain a respectable distance between himself and other people.

Connections.

Tba.

[waitingforwinterwinds]

Game of Thrones - 58 EDDARD XV (pages 604-613)

After an unknown length of time in sensory deprivation prison, Ned gets a visit from Varys who catches him up on the state of things, and reminds Ned he still has people to protect or not.

The reader, having spent far too long trying to estimate the size of a courtyard with asymmetric garden beds from pictures that were all in isometric views and is thus quite grumpy, is being perhaps a little unkind to the characters tonight.

-

Cracks ran down his face, fissures opening in his flesh, and he reached up and ripped the mask away. It was not Robert at all; it was Littlefinger, grinning, mocking him. When he opened his mouth to speak, his lies turned into pale grey moths and took wing.

Petyr wishes he looked as cool as Gandalf doing that (and he's not even real.

ewwww, that's disturbing

I still kinda wish that had made it into the show. They cut out such good mental health update moments!!!

Not surprised Ned's going through the mental wringer though, between the pre-existing mental exhaustion, the pain from his leg, what ever coming of milk of the poppy is doing and the full on sensory deprivation of this cell? Ick. Like seriously ick, this is like the black magic recipe for near instant mental breakdown.

Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty laurel in Lyanna's lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost. Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark.

I feel like that is such a good metaphor for that whole thing. A large chunk (not necessarily the majority, but certainly not a small number from my observations) tend to think Lyanna and Rhaegar were romantic (I blame the show, just as a default maneuver because it saves time) but he was a married man and she was a literal child. She died giving birth at sixteen. Which means she had to have been with Rhaegar since closer to at least fifteen, but almost certainly younger. If this happened in the modern era, we'd be disgusted. Or maybe the 'but it's so romantic true love, secret marriage UwU' crew would do a flip and join the 'this young girl clearly seduced this married man with her feminine wiles' brigade. Goodness knows the bullshit in Hollywood proves that's a real reaction people have.

But back to the metaphor.

Because part of the narrative, especially the one driven by the show, really tried to dress it up like it was supposed to be romantic, this 'love' that dragged an entire country to bloody war, but underneath, once you start to actually look, if you start to feel it out, it's nasty and full of pain.

But also: how heavy must the weight of this gotten for Ned? The guilt for not saving her, for not keeping his promise perfectly, for the harm trying to keep that promise caused, intentional or not? And he has this weird "Even now, he was a Stark of Winterfell, and his grief and rage froze hard inside him." thing going on.

I am prescribing this entire family to therapy.

"- They taught me that each man has a role to play, in life as well as in mummery. So it is at court. The King's Justice must be fearsome, the master of coin must be frugal, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard must be valiant... and the master of whispers must be sly and obsequious and without scruple. A courageous informer is as useless as a cowardly knight." ... "Your own ends. What ends are those, Lord Varys?" "Peace," Varys replied without hesitation. ... "I want you to serve the realm," Varys said. ... "- Tell me, Lord Varys, who do you truly serve?" Varys smiled thinly. "Why, the realm, my good lord, how could you ever doubt that? -"

Is that how you sleep at night Varys? By telling yourself 'it's just your job, what could you possibly do to help people?' Is that how you justify yourself? Everything you do is for the people, it's all for the peace. Then why not stop Jon Arryn's murder? Why not stop Littlefinger sewing the seeds that started this farce? Or did your information somehow miss that when you seemingly know everything else?

Either you know everything, and you allowed this all to happen, or you don't know as much as you claim. Which is it, Varys?

You disparage Ned's honour and the court for playing the game of thrones in much the same breath. Did it never occur to you, that the reason the game of thrones goes on, is because corruption is allowed to fester within the establishment of power, because any time someone with honour or a sense of actual justice tries to do anything to better the government, they get cut down and left to rot in a ditch.

"Or are you in league with Littelfinger?" That seemed to amuse the eunuch. "I would sooner wed the Black Goat of Qohor. -"

Now I'm just imagining Littelfinger and Varys playing little league baseball, complete with uniforms. "Black Goat of Qohor" hmm? hang on a tic... ... Not sure if Satan or Christmas (Gävle) Goat.

Awww, Rhaenys' kitten was called Balerion, that's so cute.

This world is so cruel. It shouldn't be, but the people who would say "it's not fair, so I'll make it fair" either never have the power to do so, or don't have the power to do so long enough to actually do so.

[myckicade]

I should have been in bed nearly two hours ago, but this thing is haunting me.

I'm going to repeat some points I've already posted, but some things bear repeating.

That was the worst series finale I have ever seen. I thought the finale of Preacher was an ugly little fiasco. My word. It will be hard to top this one! Holy frickle-dickles.

(The X-Files, Supernatural, Fullmetal Alchemist... I'm used to pain, but this tempted me to break out the Jack Daniels).

So, yeah. Ding-dong, the cunt bag... -s are all dead? What was the fucking point of that? EZ, completely expected, especially when it was said, 'We've all been talking'. It was a bit of a push for the poetic, that EZ would pull a Mark Antony quote, then get Julius Caesared. (I feel like I made a comment about that last season, but it might have been a verbal conversation). Anywho. I just don't understand the point of the rest. (After a few hours of sleep, I might be able to gather what they were going for, but we shall see). Taking out Bottles, of all people...

I see some fix-it fics in my future. Some out of spite.

I liked Potter in Sons. I did. He was responsible for his share of shit, but his character was well-written. They ruined him in Mayans, so hard. He's come across half-crazed, and tipping off his axis. I'm so disgusted that he's still walking around, King of the Fucking Hill. If ANYONE needed to catch a bullet - aside from EZ - it was old Pot-Ash.

*ahems*

I'm actually really mad that Emily got her way, too. Not just because of Miguel, but because of the utterly simplistic way it went down. (Let's face it, that wasn't a terribly inventive plot she cooked up). Killing Miguel was just the quick way to tie up another useless loose end, leaving the Gallindo family no different than the rest of the story.

Fucking. Pointless.

List of Other Pointless Things Bugging Me:

* Letty's rage. Don't get me wrong, I'm over the damned moon that she and Sally are in the clear. But, that Letty found Sally, and the bloody trailer, and just... abandoned everything? C'mon.

* Bringing Taza back. Again, y'all know I was ELATED to see the bastard, but not to get him on-screen again?? I find solace in the fact that I didn't have to watch him die.

* Angel spotting the pictures and letters in Miguel's hand during Felipe's funeral. I had hope, and it went NOWHERE. As expected. As usual.

* Sofia's pregnancy, and death. I assume the pregnancy was to make her pointless death more tragic, but it was still a waste of time. (Bitch is no Cleopatra). If EZ had found out? Yeah, maybe. I know the broad was a loose end, too. No question. Had to eradicate (nearly) all that was EZ's. It was just the same writing as the rest of the season:

Sloppy, and lazy.

* The war. That wasn't a war. That was a bunch of kids taking turns beating each other up on their way home from school.

* The pipeline. There was no fixing that shit, and we spent the bulk of the FINAL MOTHERFUCKING SEASON on it.

There's more, but my brain aches for rest.

A Couple of Things I Enjoyed:

* Marcus getting the chance to be a good father. It was nice, given his relationship with Jax Teller. He saw a father lose it all, and now he's getting to have it all. Bonus Dad Points for doing the skin-to-skin contact with the baby. That was just beautiful. ❤️.

- It was also a reminder to keep at the birth control. 🤣. When Marcus started talking about not getting to see his son's children, I got to thinking about how the guy I'm seeing is two-and-a-half decades older than me, and... Yeah. Math, indeed. You didn't need to know that, but there it is!

* That was a nice chat on the bridge. It was. Brought me back to my own childhood, and moments where I had to stay strong to protect my own brother. Solid, believable stuff, right there.

Dude. Was that really all that I enjoyed?

Fuck the J.D. It's time for the Jose Cuervo.

Catch y'all on the fic side.

-Mycki

[eldest-daughter-musings]

maybe you’re so caught up fighting your wars

you’ve made up in your head who you’re fighting them for

you sing praise to a being, a god “merciful, rich in love”

“we’re all in gods army, for his kingdom above!”

fuck the box you’ve put her in

wars bring death, so does one ever really win?

your words pierce deep in the hearts of “the lost”

the ones you’re determined to “save at any cost”

and by save, we know there’s a code and it screams

“repent and agree or your dead to me”

because you know all that there is to know

about where we came from and where we will go

the tally runs long, the toll of “gods war”

countless dead to you, who you “fought so hard for”

is your god smiling down on you seated above??

are you overflowing with joy, peace, gentleness and love??

as the river of blood rushes through your own streets

back turned, you resign yourself - not to soil your feet

climbing up, over bodies, making way through the door

of the steeple you worship, a safe haven after war.

inside at last with the people you love

saved warriors too, also crowned from above.

the cream of the crop, thank god for these people

fighting the good fight inside of your steeple.

your eyes scan the room for your daughter and son

they’re both usually here, but you see only one.

“where is your sister?”, you ask the young man.

“did you not hear, parent? she was scared and she ran”

“No boy, i did not see her out on the street,

only bloodied bodies of our conquests, dead at my feet”

then you hear the synth pad and your focus is taken.

your daughters’ whereabouts can wait - son must be mistaken.

you sing, and you cry, and you raise your hands high

to be healed from the war you’ve been fighting day and night.

speaking in tongues like a disoriented mob,

you say a prayer for your daughter, you’ve done your job.

the synth pad stops, you wipe your eyes and hug your friends -

peace be with you, a new person when the service ends.

you make way down the isle and back to the door,

up and over the bodies you had scaled once before.

you grab hold of a shoe on the foot of the fallen - weird,

it looks just like one that belongs to your daughter.

oh well.

up and over the pile, the streets are stained red,

past the spoils of war you walk home to your bed.

you sleep soundly knowing you’ve pleased the high king

today’s battle was won, tomorrow a repeat of everything.

a bedtime prayer for those you hope you can save

before they meet their demise and fiery eternal grave

my mother, my father, my brother alike -

my family at birth, became strangers through life.

“there’s nothing more important than family”, they say

until one of the members starts thinking astray.

and by astray, I mean thinking for themselves,

done reciting ancient texts collecting dust on the shelves.

i’d say thanks for your prayers, but they won’t do much good.

maybe if you had noticed that it was my foot,

my shoe that you used to leverage your weight

was attached to my body, once living, now late.

my blood joins the river that flows down from your steeple

my body crushed under weight of other inadequate people

did you recognize me, when did I join the lost?

will you notice my absence? or crusade on for “the cause?”

I met her today, the god i’ve prayed and cried out to.

shes different than I learned, and I wish you all knew.

there’s no use for an army that’s killing their own

in the name of a woman who burned down her own throne.

I wept and my heart realized this is it:

she just smiled without speaking and welcomed me in.