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muniimyg · 23 days

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⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ bbydaddy!jk (16) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

series m.list // taglist request closed

note: please prioritize your mental health and peace if the following content is too heavy for you. this portion of the plot has a lot of angst, and arguing. overall contains sensitive topics. thank you all for waiting so well for the break-up reveal!

tw: mentions of anxiety/stress/insomnia/ and postpartum depression,, early pregnancy loss (5 weeks), and self-neglect.

🏷️ permanent taglist:

@joonsjuice @pamzn @defzcl @maryy1300 @whoa-jo @taetaecatboy @jksusawife @un06 @firesighgirl @rrosiitas @butterymin @parkinglot-nights @musicjournalsjdb @kissyfacekoo @jkslvsnella @vampcharxter @bloopkook @somehowukook @bbystarcandykoo

"so... jungkook moved back in, he bought you a new car, and this entire time you've been broken up—you've been sleeping with him?"

it feels stupid to confess everything to your therapist.

you’ve been avoiding this for 9 months now.

today it has to be settled.

it has to be over.

this feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you want to throw up over and over again until you have nothing left inside of you. your lips tighten at the way your therapist blinks at you. you've never really been able to read her, but maybe that's what you like so much about her.

sometimes, it's nice not to know and just to take what people say as they are.

"he's not actually moved back in... he just has more closet space."

your therapist notes something down on her pad. then, she looks at you and simply comments, "i see... is that all you think it is? more closet space?"

"y-yes? n-no... no. okay, it's not like we're not back together though..." you begin to explain yourself.

"but you've been sleeping with him the entire time you guys have been broken up?"

you make a face.

your therapist tilts her head and lets out a light sigh.

"i'm not judging. you two are adults. you both have needs. you both need each other. you both love each other. i'm just clarifying that—"

"okay, yes," you yield. "i have been sleeping with my babydaddy but haven’t gotten back together with him... i mean—we kind of are? to be fair, the break-up wasn’t a real break-up... it just grew into one. i take the blame for the dumping because i was the one who pulled away. so inevitably, i can't help but feel like a villain in all of it... am i? am i the villain? zion had this whole thing about what family is like, a home with another kid from his daycare, and it... it made me feel so guilty. jungkook and i talked about it and worked on it... i know he doesn't blame me, but every time i bring myself closer to... what do i even call this? ... forgiving him? forgiving myself? i d-don't know... all i know is that... every time i want to move on and just be happy—with him. with zion... with my life—i can't find it in me. i pull away, and it hurts everyone around us. sometimes, i wonder if they know it hurts me too."

"what does that mean?" she asks, her tone soft and curious. "good job getting that off your chest. you're doing great, ___."

mumbling a 'thank you,' you sigh and shrug your shoulders. honestly, you can’t think. your mind goes blank. she then sits up, fixing her posture. leaning forward, she makes her observation.

"___, you broke up with jungkook 9 months ago because of the circumstances. sure, he was supportive and understanding, but sometimes, when everything gets too much, the only person who can fix you is yourself. ___, it was a lot. it was heavy. one thing I've noticed about you is that you think and speak as if everything has to be this big thing. you know your emotions are bigger than the problem, yet you suppress them. it's okay to feel them because when you don't, you start to lose yourself. sometimes, it sounds to me like you want to burn the room down for people to empathize with you... for people to see you. for you to see yourself even."

"i don't want to burn anything down—"

"it's an analogy," she explains. "the truth is, for you, being burned out isn’t a thing until you can’t get out of bed. burnout is as simple as not wanting coffee anymore. sometimes, it's losing yourself to stress and anxiety... and people see that. jungkook, your friends, and your parents saw it. you don’t have to prove it. ___, you can’t keep pushing yourself until you can’t run anymore. you have to slow down. you have to let yourself be tired and learn how to rest."

you nod, agreeing with her take. then, you make another confession.

"i understand that," you take a deep breath. "but it’s like… before i knew it, i was upset and unfit for our relationship. i screwed up too early. that's why i broke up with him... but now... i don’t know. the guilt and blame keep pointing in different directions. i don’t know what i'm doing, and i can't do that. i can't not know when it comes to the father of my child and the love of my life."

your therapist purses her lips and offers you a small smile.

"then, ___... is it possible that things are better now? that it's more than his clothes in your home? that the room isn’t burning anymore? is it that maybe... finally, you’re realizing that being tired and burnt out is a part of life? ___, you’ve done nothing but get everything right since your childhood... to let your feelings—good or bad—be true and big isn’t a flaw. it’s you being human."

her words hit you, but not enough to stop your insecurities. with shaky eyes, you ask her, "w-what if i do it again?"

"do what again? burnout?"

"what if i fuck up everything about my life again? my career? motherhood? jungkook and i’s relationship? it hurt so bad... to wake up next to my family and not feel anything. it was so fucking hard... i couldn’t even pretend that i was okay. a-and when i asked for some air... he wasn’t even mad at me. he packed his bags and lost his breath from crying so much. at the door, he asked me if i was sure... and even though i wasn’t; i said yes...." you explain, your voice growing quieter with each word.

suddenly, everything feels so heavy.

if there was ever a time to understand and relate to the feeling of the world being on your shoulders... this would be that moment. taking a breath, you compose yourself.

"i can’t do that again," you vow. "i can’t change my mind."

"you can’t change your mind again or you can’t hurt like that again?"

you pause.

"9 months ago, my mind kept going back and forth whether or not jungkook cared about me," you confess. "but i recently realized he does. he has. he always will... i just don’t know if i can trust him the same as before... i think i’m a horrible person for thinking that. weird, right? especially with how fucking horrible i am to him now."

"that’s not true." your therapist disagrees. "___, it was traumatic. you went through a lot—"

"—and i will never understand how he held himself together. when he was accused of plagiarism at his company, i took those accusations and sued until jungkook’s name was spotless. it was hard on both of us. he didn’t want me to go that far because they were his coworkers—his ‘friends’—but why... why was he so pathetic then? those people were out to ruin him. they quit the company and went to jyp. they proposed work that belonged to jungkook... it was a conflict of interest! when jungkook launched his work with hybe, jyp accused him of plagiarism. hybe cut ties with him and his company gave him so much shit for losing hybe. and i, his girlfriend and mother of his child, risked my career to focus on his case instead of my clients. i chose him. i did everything to fight for him. then, he told me he wanted to settle and stay at the company... i couldn’t believe it... he had his reputation on the line—his career! mine was too and all for what? because he didn’t want to embarrass his friends? because he didn’t want to cause the company more trouble? then, what about me? what about us?"

your therapist looks at you with sincere eyes. she nods, taking your words in.

"___, does he know you’re still upset with his decision?"

"yes," you sigh, recalling how betrayed you felt. "w-we don’t talk about it. how do we? it felt like i wasted 2 months of my life and we lost our—we lost."

your therapist reaches over and offers you the tissue box. you didn’t even realize you were crying... but the silence between you two and the ache from the words that you just said begins to sting your chest.

after a few moments, your therapist softly tells you, "___, i don’t think you left him because you didn’t love him... i think you left because, despite everything, you did. that hurt because it meant loving him and putting him before yourself... on top of that, you were at a state where you should have been put first."

you gulp.

she purses her lips and makes her hit.

"___, do you resent yourself for the loss?"

you clench your fist as your therapist rubs salt into your open wounds. "the self-neglect? the stress? the post-partum depression? the insomia—"

"i resent myself for the loss," you admit. "... and i resent jungkook for losing me."

when you arrive home, jungkook is in the kitchen cooking.

you didn’t expect him to be home. he was supposed to be picking zion up at this time and you were looking forward to some alone time. clearly, you have a lot to think about. as you take off your shoes, jungkook turns his attention to you.

“hi honey,” he smiles brightly.

truth be told, he had a long day. he was running late this morning and had rushed out the door. as he drove to work, he got annoyed with himself.

he forgot to kiss you before he left.

so you can imagine just how excited he is to see you now… especially with all he has planned for tonight.

“we had a meeting today and it ended early. it went really well so i have some news! also, i picked zion up right after my meeting. took him out for a little father-and-son afternoon... then, i dropped him off at your parents—”

“why would you do that?” you snap, putting your things away.

jungkook chuckles. “uh, maybe because i wanna ask you something tonight…”

your body stiffens.

“but we’ll get to that later! do you want to eat first? i’m cooking your favorite—”

“please stop,” you shut your eyes and take a breath. “jungkook, i had a long day. i’m glad yours was good and you got to bond with zion. i appreciate the effort—i just don’t… i don’t like that you dropped zion off at my parents after picking him up early from daycare. why didn’t you just take him home? and thank you for cooking... but i had a late lunch today, so i’m not hungry.”

“is it so bad i want to spend time with you alone?” jungkook asks, his smile fading.

jungkook isn’t stupid.

he knows you’re not in the mood, but he can’t help but push your boundaries a little. besides, communication is always good, right? at least, that’s what he’s been told.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to eat... as long as you ate today. what did you eat?” he attempts.

you move past jungkook as he asks you the question. taking out your phone, you check for any missed messages. jungkook’s eyebrows furrow as you ignore him. he catches your waist and guides you against the kitchen counter. grabbing your phone from your hands, he puts it aside.

“woah,” he pouts. “what’s up? why are you acting like this?”

you look at jungkook and hate yourself. his eyes are so kind and full of love.

you know it.

you feel it.

it hurts so bad.

“what’s with the mood?” he asks, more gently this time.

jungkook moves his hands from your waist to wrap around you. he nuzzles himself into the crook of your neck and hugs you tightly. “if you’re mad at me about something, that’s okay... but be angry here. don’t ignore me. being angry together is better than not being together at all.”

his plea makes your eyes tear up.

this isn’t easy for you either, but to be honest... it’s now or never. tonight, your heart feels especially heavy. you can’t blame it. some people say time heals all wounds—perhaps, this is it.

this is the time limit.

“can i tell you my news?” he asks, partly trying to stall the conversation and partly because it was good news.

“sure.”

“i got a job offer,” jungkook says. “i’d have to do an informal interview but it’s basically mine if i want it. they’re setting up a branch in new york. they want me to go there for 3-6 months and help start everything up. guide and mentor the visual director there—”

“that’s amazing—”

“i don’t want it,” jungkook chuckles. “they told me to sleep on it and make my decision in a month. until then, they offered me a raise! isn’t that great?”

your smile drops.

all of the feelings you’ve been trying to regulate since you stepped out of your therapist's office today feel like they’ve gone out the window. was he serious? he declined such a big step in his career—for a raise?

“jungkook,” you croak. “do you know why we broke up?”

he pulls away.

what a fucking switch up. he doesn’t understand.

for a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. does he reach out to hold yours or keep them by his side? he’s caught off guard. he doesn’t know how to answer you and frankly, he fucking hates this question.

“uh, why are you asking me—”

“what was the other thing?” you ask, already suspecting it. “are you going to ask me to marry you tonight?” you blurt.

he shoves his hand in his pocket.

“jungkook, are you asking me to marry you tonight? yes or no?”

he blinks at you.

his heart is prepared more than ever; “yes.”

“don’t.”

jungkook’s heart drops.

“don’t because you’re saying no or don’t because you want a better proposal?” he attempts to lighten the mood with a smile. he takes his hands out of his pocket and reaches for yours. you don’t let him take it. instead, you shake your head.

“don’t because you don’t even know why we’re broken up.”

instantly, the tension between you two increases. it’s through the roof, actually. it feels like one wrong word, one wrong move, one wrong recalled memory—everything crumbles.

everything fails.

everything faces the end.

“___, i can’t answer your question because i’m not prepared to. honestly, i wasn’t prepared for the break-up. it just happened. it grew into one. ___, you never said, ‘jungkook, it’s over. we’re broken up.’ ... no. you said, ‘jungkook... i can’t breathe anymore. i need air. i need space from us,’ — that’s what you said. but to hell with that, right? we’ve been sleeping together and it’s not like we hate each other. you love me. i know you do... so i really don’t understand why you won’t marry me despite knowing the simple truth—”

you move away from him.

god, it’s so hard to be next to him sometimes.

heading to the cabinets, you take out a glass and pour yourself some water. drinking it, you hear jungkook sigh and groan in frustration.

“are we really going to fight tonight?” he asks, annoyed.

you shrug and put your water down. “shouldn’t we? it’s kind of overdue.”

jungkook scratches the back of his head. his lips tighten and his mind is already dizzy as he asks;

“___, why did you break up with me?”

a beat.

“i wanted more from you.”

he looks at you confused. “the fuck does that mean? sex?”

you shake your head.

“jungkook, i was moving up with my career. you were constantly annoyed that i was overworking myself and that i only cared about zion. you were always mad at me when i brought up work—especially about yours. you didn’t want more. you refused the promotions and all the different leadership roles. you refused more hours—you refused to grow… just like now.”

jungkook huffs. “is this about money again? we’ve never had issues providing for zion and this lifestyle.”

“again?” you chuckle. “honey, it wasn’t about the money. at least to me, it wasn’t. i love you and would have married you regardless of my career path and yours—”

“then why won’t you marry me? you always say you will but you say shit like this. you know it fucks me up, right? this isn’t fair. you can’t keep changing your mind.”

“it’s not that i don’t know what you are to me and what i want,” you take a deep breath. it feels painful to be right. “it’s that marrying you isn’t going to make any of this easier. at least, not right now.”

his eyes are filled with hope.

hope that maybe the reason is childish and not what he knows it really is. he hopes it’s because he left one too many socks inches away from the laundry hamper in your bedroom. he hopes it’s because you got tired of him always queuing his karaoke songs in the car before yours. he hopes it’s because (not really) you actually took an interest in nam joon or something.

most of all, he hopes it’s not what he knows it is.

“jungkook, we were disagreeing on everything. you thought i was greedy for wanting more for myself—for our family—”

“so it’s about whether or not i accept the job offer? i still have a month to think about it. i can’t just leave you and zion. you get that, right? i don’t just leave.” jungkook scoffs in disbelief. “and you act like i didn’t just get promoted. i accepted it, didn’t i? i did so to impress you because i love you. i did it to win you back because i love you.”

“but why didn’t you do it for yourself?” you fuse. “why can’t you want more for yourself?”

“___, i love you—”

you hiss, taking a step away from him. “stop saying you love me when you—”

“when i what?” jungkook steadies his tone. “when i made a decision that you didn’t like? ___, i made a practical choice back then. what other option did i have?”

“you chose wrong,” you cry. “is that what you’ve been waiting for me to say? jungkook, you chose wrong because you were afraid! it wasn’t practical. it was safe. you took the settlement, forgave those friends, and looked stupid while doing it. meanwhile, i risked everything. i fucking fought for you! for what? jungkook, it ruined us.”

jungkook shifts, taking a step closer to you. he runs his hands through his hair and groans.

“___, they have a family too. they fucked up and they apologized. i didn’t go through with the lawsuit because regardless if they deserved it—their families didn’t. their children didn’t. for fucks sake, one of them has a daughter zion’s age—”

a sob escapes your lips.

jungkook’s shoulders slump as he lowers his head. you lower yours too, feeling your tears roll down your cheeks.

“jungkook, i love you,” you weakly admit. “i swear to god, i have never loved anyone more in my life than i have ever loved you. you’re the kindest man i’ve ever met. you empathize with others and put them before your needs. you chased me around like a fucking dog for the last 9 months, completely disregarding any self-respect. truth be told, you gave me a purpose to live. you made me zion’s mom and the love of your life. in so many ways, i don’t deserve you… but i also don’t deserve this. it feels like even when i can't trust you��i still do. it ruins me, jungkook.”

angry, jungkook disagrees.

“what are you fucking talking about—no. don’t say shit like that.”

“you kept me together for so long that i don’t know how to fall apart if you’re not around. jungkook, i had to fall apart. i was so tired then. i was so unhappy and everything you did to hold me together only angered me. it lit this fire inside of me and i felt like i couldn’t touch anything or anyone… why couldn’t you just be sad with me?”

“you fell apart before i could even process what happened—” he recalls, tears threatening his eyes. “___, i was devastated beyond belief. i was sad too. i was afraid too. you don’t think i wanted to cry in bed all day with you? i had to get up. i had to take care of zion and i’m sorry if i held onto you tighter than i should have—but i had to. there was no other way i could’ve lived if i didn’t hold on to you like that. you’re my air. i love you, ___ and in case you didn’t know; it hurt me too. losing our—h-holy fuck. i love you. ___, i love you. please, i love you so much—”

you sob.

you don’t even try to hold yourself together. a heavy cry escapes your lips and jungkook instantly lifts his head and comes to you. he wraps you in his arms as you cry into them.

“i love you,” you whimper. “i don’t blame you for it—really, i don’t. b-but why did you stay? i worked so hard and you chose to stay. i stressed myself out and couldn’t sleep. i felt so betrayed and i wasn’t eating—”

“i know, i know,” he murmurs, holding back his sobs. “i hate myself for it. it was my fault—”

“don’t—”

you pull away and hit his chest.

your eyes sting from all the crying and your throat feels dry. yet, every fiber inside of you feels like it’s on fire. it feels like you’re burning down the room and all jungkook wants to do is slow dance in it.

“jungkook, when you settled, it took something from us. something beautiful—our second—our time.” you slow your breathing to gather the courage to say it.

to say everything.

to say it all and maybe, save it all.

“honey, i d-destroyed and hurt more than you did... and i know you don’t blame me; but am i ever going to stop blaming m-myself?” you sob. “i’m pushed into t-this... corner where it’s all my fault—and it is, you know? if i hadn’t stressed myself over your case and just f-focused on making partner at the firm—if i had just i-ignored the f-feeling of the knife you twisted—it was supposed to be this time around.”

jungkook’s heart breaks.

“9 months...” you say, voice trembling.

“don’t say it like that,” jungkook begs. “my love, i didn’t forget.”

that’s just it.

he hasn’t forgotten either.

yet, his body doesn’t ache like yours does. as much as your heart wants to forgive and find beauty in this tragedy—your body hasn’t healed. all those months ago, when you focused on jungkook’s case and stressed yourself to the bone—you made a mistake. you neglected your health to prioritize everything but yourself.

your breath hitches as you recall everything. a part of you feels relieved to have said it all aloud, but inside, it feels like something has burnt up—like a part of you has died.

you reach for him, cupping his cheeks in your hands. jungkook’s tears spill over, and you gently wipe them away with your thumb.

his body collapses into yours. his sobs wrack his chest as he buries his face in your arms.

jungkook cries for the break-up.

for the hurt that’s grown between you two.

he blames himself even though deep down he knows it’s not his fault.

the ache in his chest feels unbearable. you tighten your hold on him, bracing yourself for what comes next, but before you can speak, your body gives in.

everything does dizzy and you hold your breath.

suddenly, your knees hit the floor, and you collapse in front of jungkook, the weight of it all too much to bear.

“i’m s-sorry,” you choke out. "i can't—fuck. i'm so heartbroken, jungkook. i can't—"

jungkook drops down beside you, pulling you into him. as you cling to each other, you feel his heart racing, his breath catching in his sobs, mirroring your own. he holds you tighter, as if he could take all your pain into himself. if he could, you know he would.

and somehow, in the midst of this overwhelming pain, you feel the strangest thing.

this has to be the most painful moment in your entire relationship, but it’s also the most healing.

after nine months of distance, you finally grieve together.

the grief overwhelms you two.

after what feels like an eternity, you manage to compose yourself, pulling away from his embrace. meanwhile, jungkook is still crying heavily. you reach up, cupping his face in your hands again, wiping the tears from his swollen eyes. he leans into your touch, his lips pressing softly against the palm of your hand, his breathing slowly calming down. but then, he moves closer, and you know what’s coming next.

jungkook tries to kiss you.

you push him away gently, your heart breaking all over again.

“... i think you should go home,” you whisper, your voice tired and cracked.

"___, please—"

"we fought enough tonight. i don't have anything left in me, jungkook... just go."

for a moment, silence hangs in the air, thick with everything left unsaid. there's still more. he swears it. he knows it because his heart races with so many more confessions. so many more things he has to tell you.

like the fact that when you cleared his name, he never felt so loved in his life.

like the fact that when you stressed yourself over him and got upset with his decision—he wanted to take everything back.

like the fact that when he let you cry in bed all day over the loss, he cried as he held and fed zion in the living room.

but now is not the time.

now, the hurt aches and he has to let it. he has to let you fall apart. he has to feel this too because if he doesn't—then he misses it all. he misses everything and he can't do that.

he needs to know.

he needs to learn.

he needs to love.

jungkook swallows hard, his voice barely a whisper. “okay… whatever you want.”

you both stand, your movements slow and heavy. you watch as he gathers his belongings, guilt and disappointment twisting in your stomach. at the door, he pauses, eyes closed as he takes a deep breath.

“what about me?”

his voice breaks the stillness. you feel your heart sink.

“what about you?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer.

“___, i don’t want to go,” he pleads, desperation creeping into his voice. “i… i can’t do this. not again.”

“what do you mean?” you force a weak smile. “this is our first break-up.”

“for real?”

you let out a sad laugh, though it holds no real humor.

“for now.”

jungkook takes a second to compose himself.

“i’m gonna pick up zion and have him sleep over at mine... and it’s okay if you’re still full… just eat a late dinner,” he murmurs softly, eyes cast downward. then, turning toward the door, he looks back one last time, his voice soft but filled with emotion.

“for the record, i thought i was home… but if air, space, and time is what you need, so be it. just know, i hope i’m it in the end. i hope i’m what you need.”

they say the 3-year itch is when the sand timer runs out. it takes two people to flip it over and restart the clock. at your 3-year itch with jungkook, suddenly your careers were where you two scratched.

then, the plagiarism accusations came along. as horrible as it was, you thought this was the perfect opportunity to show jungkook how much you love him. how much were you willing to do for him, and how much could your career benefit you two? at the peak of all this, you didn’t know it.

you were carrying more than just work.

at 5 weeks, 1 week after jungkook settled—time was up.

jungkook sits in his car, crying and staring at the ring that should be on your finger. he can’t help but feel all the sides of it. he shoves it back inside the box and opens the glove compartment. throwing it in, he continues to reflect.

was he insensitive? was he so wrong about not wanting to take the job? the proposal was ill-timed, but was he crazy? weren’t you two doing better? … were you hurting all by yourself this entire time? of course, he hurt too. he was just grieving differently… does that make this his fault? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t care. in the end, losing something is still losing something.

truth be told, it’s no one’s fault.

yet, jungkook hits his steering wheel and continues to sob. he wants to blame something. he needs to. as he searches, his heart screams out;

time.

#jungkook angst #jungkook x yn #jungkook fic #bts angst #jungkook scenario #jungkook dilf #bts scenario #bts imagine #bts parent au #bts fic #jungkook dad au #jungkook exes to lovers #jungkook e2l #jk fic rec

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flowerandblood · 7 months

Text

Object of Delight (3/3)

[ dark • Aemond x Arryn • widow female ]

[ warnings: sex content, oral sex, fingering, smut, angst, domination, swearing, postpartum depression ]

[ description: Aemond is forced to marry a widow from House Arryn as part of the alliance and support of his brother in the war against the Black faction. Despite his initial reluctance, a bond develops between him and his wife that he cannot understand or comprehend. In this chapter I combine several requests into one. The female character has a specific eye and hair color. ]

Part 1 − Object of Desire Part 2 − Object of Despair Epilogue

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

The frequency and fervour with which he fucked his wife caused it to be less than three moons before the measter brought him the joyful news during one of his sparring sessions with Ser Criston, informing him that she was expecting his child.

He explained that he had been summoned by one of her servants when she suddenly fainted, and as it turned out, the cause of her indisposition was his inheritance in her womb.

He couldn't help the smirk of satisfaction and the amused look he threw Cole, for here it appeared that, in fact, her deceased husband had simply failed to perform his duty well − his seed was weak and his lineage would be forgotten.

Although he was buzzing with curiosity and desire to see her now, to take her in this blessed state, he decided not to show his weakness and make it to the end of his training following his daily routine, heading to her chamber immediately after taking a quick bath.

His long white hair was still a little damp when he crossed the threshold of her quarters − the door closed quietly behind him, and he looked at her sleeping figure lying on her bed, covered in thick furs. He hummed, walking slowly closer, recognising that she had made the right decision to rest − in her current state she needed to look out for herself more than before.

He stood over her in silence for a moment, fighting the burning desire to touch her face, to take an unruly strand from her cheek, but hesitated.

He only made gestures that someone might call affectionate after their intense closeness, when she slept snuggled against his naked chest, her hand on which she wore a golden ring in the shape of a sun with a sapphire eye, his gift to her, proof that she was capable of pleasing him both in and out of bed, rested on his heart.

He stroked her soft, smooth hair then, her bare shoulder, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, musing. The fact that she spent the nights with him became natural to them − he did not summon her and she did not wait for his permission, following him to his quarters immediately after supper. They didn't speak much, didn't confide their secrets to each other, instead getting to know each other's bodies intimately.

They were able to lie on their sides in the dark for hours satisfying and teasing each other with their mouths without giving each other fulfilment. He enjoyed watching out of the corner of his eye, trailing his lips over her hot, leaking womanhood as his wife sucked unhurriedly on his cock, licking and teasing it with her pink tongue, her caresses gentle and tender, making his fingers involuntarily clench tighter on the naked skin of her hips right next to his face.

There was something liberating to him in the fact that she did not require him to make confessions or sacrifice his regular daily life; although it had always seemed to him that a wife was merely an extension of her husband and his shadow, she preferred to remain a separate entity and he chose not to overuse the power he had over her, not finding it necessary.

He shuddered, snapped out of his reverie when her eyes opened lazily − she smiled barely visible, softly, perhaps even warmly at the sight of him.

"Are you trying to scare me?" She muttered, turning only to sink deeper into the soft bedding, looking at him calmly, her eyes bright, her face smooth, without a trace of a grimace.

He snorted, amused, turning his head away for a moment only to look at her again, sighing heavily − even though he tried to keep a grave face he knew she had noticed his contentment with the news that had reached him.

"I have been informed that you are carrying my son in your womb." He hummed low, deeply − she blinked, smiling wider.

"I don't know if it will be a son." She replied softly, and he hummed again; she shifted back as he walked closer to her bed and lay on his side, his face turned towards her, laying his head on the pillow right next to hers. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, feeling that although neither of them used words, this was a day of their shared joy, for here was the fruit of their efforts.

He raised his large hand at the thought, unable to contain himself − his fingers took a strand of her black hair and flicked it over her back with a light gesture. She smiled wider, knowing that he couldn't stand it when something covered her face.

Her eyes.

Taking advantage of the fact that he had already touched her, he involuntarily ran his thumb over her soft, plump cheek. He saw that she had closed her eyes, sighing quietly, his gaze focused on her long, dark lashes. His fingers tightened around her neck, drawing her to him and she purred loudly as his swollen lips pressed against hers in a wet, loud, hot kiss.

He pulled away from her with a quiet click, but her lips ran invitingly over his, telling him that she craved more, so he sank into their fleshy texture again, slipping the tip of his tongue between them, a sweet, innocent moan came from her throat causing his cock to throb impatiently in his breeches.

He took her more gently than usual, rocking his hips lazily deep inside her, each time the tip of his swollen manhood rubbing the spot between her muscles, from which a shiver of pleasure ran through her whole body, her fingers tightening on his muscular shoulders, her body beginning to meet his, wordlessly letting him know that he could accelerate his pace.

Her short, slender fingernails dug into the bare skin of his firm buttocks as he began to thrust into her more aggressively, wanting him to do it even harder − he stroked her cheek as she began to babble, asking, begging him to give her what she needed.

"− we need to be more careful now because of the baby − I know, I know you need it, shhh −" He hushed her, closing her mouth with his own, his hands gripped her thighs, with sure, deep thrusts pounding into her at an angle that he knew gave her the greatest pleasure − she arched her back with a sweet moan as his thumb began to tease her bud with circular, intense strokes, her walls began to squeeze him, soaking him all over in her moisture.

"− Aemond −" She mumbled pleadingly, in the way he adored most − he looked down at her panting loudly, resting his free hand on the bed frame in front of him, thrusting into her again and again with the sticky splat of his thighs against her buttocks, his cock throbbing hard, demanding fulfilment.

"− I know − I'll lick you good tonight and slap those buttocks a little − sounds good, hm? −" He gasped, looking at her with affection from which he felt a squeeze in his throat. She nodded her head quickly and cried out − he felt her muscles clench at the very thought, sucking him inside, her cheeks red from exertion and desire, her swollen, full lips parted wide, her hands trailing over his hot flesh.

"− yes − please − fuck me good − o-oh gods −" She mewled sweetly as her body shook with eager, overpowering fulfilment − she tilted her head back, writhing beneath him, her weeping cunt began to clench on him greedily, intensifying his pleasure.

"− good girl −" He exhaled wearily as with a few desperate, sloppy thrusts he came inside her with a loud sigh of relief, looking at her in disbelief.

The woman who had given him what he craved.

"− you did so well for me −" He whispered, leaning over her, being careful not to crush her with his body, sinking his nose into her soft cheek. She wrapped her hands around his waist, stroking his back, making a shiver run along his spine every time her fingers brushed over his hot, sweaty skin.

She knew there was a deeper meaning to what he said and that it didn't just refer to their intense closeness.

Her abdomen swelling from his inheritance was his reason for being proud − his hand lay on it and stroked it involuntarily during the evenings or mornings she spent in his company.

As she lay naked beside him at night, sweaty and welted from what he had done to her, her cunt all puffy and sore from the caresses of his tongue, he hugged his face to her womb, smiling involuntarily when he sometimes managed to feel the movement of the little dragon that was growing inside her.

Despite the maester's recommendation that they should not cohabit with each other when she was in such advanced pregnancy and their strenuous attempts to confine themselves to the use of their mouths alone, as she lay beside him, cuddled with her back to his chest, his manhood swelled involuntarily, slapping against her buttocks.

She would then spread her thighs invitingly, teasing him with the strokes of her hips, tilting her head back, whispering how wet she was, and he, impatiently lifted her higher, forcing the fat head of his cock with their sigh of relief into her tight, throbbing opening, and although they knew they should do it slowly, they fucked each other rough.

"− can't you last a few fucking days without my cock? − isn't it enough that you came on my face tonight? −" He exhaled, listening as his thighs slapped fast against her buttocks with loud smacks, his manhood thrusting into her with ease, her insides slick with her juices, his fingers between her thighs, their tips playing with her clit, not letting her escape.

"− I came having your cock deep inside my mouth − have you forgotten already? −" She gasped and he groaned low at the thought, quickening his pace, clamping his hand around her neck so as not to make it difficult for her to breathe and accidentally hurt the baby − he hid his face in her hair, feeling that he was embarrassingly close to another fulfilment.

"− no − that's not something you can forget − fuck −" He muttered, feeling her sticky walls begin to suck him inside in orgasm, her moisture spilling over his thighs, her moans making him let go, letting his hot seed spill inside her.

"− gods, so good − I can't stop −" He mumbled, and she sighed heavily, moving with him for a moment longer, stroking his arm that embraced her swollen abdomen.

"− me too −"

On the day of the delivery he was restless, pacing around his chamber, full of tension, unable to sit still. She felt the first contractions in the morning and collapsed as her servants helped her dress, whimpering, terrified that it had begun.

He consoled himself with the thought that her mother, the Queen and his sister were with her, that she was not alone, but he could not stop thinking about Aemma, her grandfather's sister and his father's first wife, how she had died and that, although he tried to push the vision away, the birth could prove complicated.

He swallowed hard, running his hand over his face, unwittingly seeing in his mind her pale, lifeless body, her empty violet eyes, her cheeks drenched in tears, her nightgown soaked in blood at the height of her thighs.

He groaned lowly, trying to calm down, repeating to himself that this would not happen, that she was not Aemma and he was not his father.

Hours passed, however, and he still hadn't received any news of her condition − he felt like he was dying inside, for some reason he wanted to weep with despair.

He saw himself with his hands placed deep in the fire of his fireplace, holding his dragon egg, clenching his lips in pain, begging the gods for it to crack.

He shuddered, snapped out of his reverie, rising to his feet as the maester stepped inside his chamber, his attention immediately drawn to the fact that his hands were all dirty in blood.

"Your Grace. You have a son." He said in a trembling voice, and he looked at him dully, as if he did not understand what he had said.

"What about my wife?"

He moved immediately to her chamber when he learned that she had endured the birth very badly, that there was no contact with her, that she had a fever.

That she might not survive.

He didn't even look at the wailing child in his Queen's arms − he walked immediately to the bed where her mother was sobbing, stroking her hands.

She looked exactly as in his vision, pale, her gaze blank, directed somewhere far away, her chemise all red with blood − if it weren't for the fact that her breast was rising and falling in shallow breaths he would have thought she was dead.

"− Your Grace, you shouldn't −" He heard the voice of one of the ladies of the court, but he just stood there looking at her with his lips pressed together, feeling a squeeze in his throat and chest so strong that he had the impression that his whole body had begun to tremble.

He involuntarily moved towards her, climbing onto the bed, leaning on his knees, his trembling hand touched her hot, sweaty cheek, all wet with tears.

"− my love − my love, speak to me −" He whispered, but she didn't even look at him − she only twitched, one last, lonely tear flowed from the corner of her eye.

Something about the sight broke him − he pressed his forehead to her temple, panting hard, her wonderful scent filling his lungs again.

"− don't leave me − don't leave me alone in this world −"

He didn't know if his words had reached her, her fever intensified by the night he had spent by her side with her mother. He sat in a chair watching as she washed her face, already dressed in a clean, snow-white undershirt, covered by thick layers of furs, her body quivering all over, sunk in a deep, restless sleep.

"− I thought the worst was behind her − after that bastard −" She began, but pressed her lips together, as if unable to get it out of her − he looked at her anxiously, feeling his whole body tense up.

She had never told him about her first husband.

Nor had he ever asked about it, not even wanting to recall that another man had had her before him.

"− was he not a good husband? −" He asked impassively − Lady Arryn looked up at him with big eyes, her eyebrows arched in despair and anger at the same time.

Her hair were as dark as his wife's, but her irises were golden and bright, shining in the candlelight around them.

She swallowed loudly, her chin trembling all over, as if she couldn't get it out of her.

"− I − I didn't find out until a year later − that when it turned out she was bleeding, that she wasn't carrying his child − every month he made her sleep in godswood, in just her nightgown − h-he said − gods, he said that until she gave him an heir, she was like his sword, his book, or his horse − her servants took pity on her and when he fell asleep, they would take her to their chambers beneath the stronghold −" She muttered, tears of grief and bitterness running down her face. He looked at her dully, feeling as if he was about to vomit, his stomach painfully clenched − he ran his trembling hand over his face, hearing her words during their wedding night inside his head.

A wife is a gift. Like a sword, a book or a horse.

He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, feeling a burning wetness under his eyelids that he did not let flow.

Her silhouette lying under the weirwood tree, then, as he followed her.

He thought she stopped visiting this place when it became apparent that she was expecting his child because walking such long distances began to be difficult for her.

"− my husband did the right thing − he deserved it −" She exclaimed, and he didn't speak again, knowing what she meant.

He only breathed a sigh of relief the next day when her fever had diminished and she was still breathing. She would wake up and only babble, her mother would feed her and help her dress, and he would just be beside her, overseeing everything, wanting to make sure nothing escaped his attention.

He knew that his son was in the care of his mother and sister.

As she began to regain consciousness, it was decided to introduce their son to her − one of the wet nurses, a plump woman with a wide smile brought in her arms an infant with his white hair and her mother's golden eyes. He smiled involuntarily at the sight, hoping that the appearance of her child would give her strength.

"Look, my Lady. It's your little boy. Would you like to feed him?" The woman asked softly, but his wife merely looked away, tense, staring out of the window, her fingers clenched on the thick fur that covered her. He pressed his lips together at the sight, feeling that something was happening deep inside her, that something had taken place during the birth that had broken her.

She did not want to look at the baby, touch it or feed it − she only expressed in a weak voice her satisfaction that their child was healthy.

Her mother tried to persuade her to at least take her son in her arms, that she would then immediately feel maternal love and attachment, but she shook her head quickly, tears running down her face as if she didn't even want to imagine it.

"− Your Grace, I'm afraid a heavy birth has caused your wife to lose her senses, she is rejecting her own child − I believe that at this point she is dangerous to Your Highness' son and should be left alone for a while to calm down −" The maester told him as he left her chamber to change and refresh himself, his lips tightened into a thin line at his words.

"− weigh your words − my wife is suffering, and you are to find the cause of it −" He hissed, furious, the man swallowed hard and nodded, not speaking again.

When he returned to her quarters, he noticed to his surprise that her bed was empty, her mother asleep in her chair, tired, no one else around.

He went outside in a panic, wondering where she could have gone, heading towards the godswood, however, he froze in a half-step walking down the corridor when he noticed that the door to the chamber his son slept in was ajar.

He walked slowly inside and stopped, noticing her silhouette sitting next to the cradle, looking blankly at the sleeping infant, her face indifferent and expressionless. She lifted her gaze to him at last, as if snapped out of her reverie, her eyebrows arched in pain, her fingers clenched on the fabric of her nightgown.

"What's going to happen to me now?" She muttered in a trembling voice and he shook his head, not understanding what she was asking.

"I do not follow." He replied; she lowered her gaze, her lower lip quivered, tears ran down her cheeks − she seemed to have fallen into some kind of state of panic.

"Now that I've given you a son. What are you going to do with me? Will you pretend I don't exist? Will you find yourself a lover?"

He stared at her stunned, feeling the quick pounding of his heart and the squeeze in his throat, horrified at the direction her thoughts were taking.

"Where did those words come from?" He asked in disbelief, feeling that he was struggling to breathe, his hands clenched into fists.

She hid her face in her hands, shaking her head, bursting into a loud sobs as if something inside her had cracked.

"I can't. I can't, I can't, I can't." She squirmed, drawing in air loudly − he moved towards her, kneeling in front of her, pressing her face to his chest.

"Calm down. Please." He whispered, her fingers clenching tightly on the material of his green tunic in a helpless gesture of despair.

"I am worn out. I'm a worn-out, empty vessel. There's nothing more I can give you." She whimpered, and he clamped his eyelids shut, pulling her close. Her body fell to the ground right beside him, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, cuddling her into himself like a small child, stroking her soft dark hair reassuringly.

"You are my wife. I will never betray you or our family. We can wait with begetting another child until you are ready. After all, we have our ways of doing that, don't we?" He asked in a soft, trembling voice, trying to comfort her, to let her understand that nothing was over, but on the contrary, in his eyes, it had only just begun.

"I've been contemplating for some time that I should take you in front of that guard who looks at you so shamelessly when you're wearing gowns of thinner material. When your breasts are visible through it. That would give him something to think about, hm? And the most important thing. Vhagar. The mother of my child must know what it means to ride a dragon." He hummed into her ear, playing with strands of her hair, feeling her shiver at his words, that she was returning to him, her body no longer trembling, her breathing calming.

"I thought I'd already ridden the world's greatest dragon." She whispered, and he involuntarily smirked and snorted, kissing her hair.

"Not like this."

They stayed like that for a while in each other's embrace, sitting on the floor, stroking each other's cheeks, shoulders and hair, for the first time so close, so tender, so sincere. They shuddered when they heard sobbing and whimpering coming from the cradle − they both rose and he turned his head, calling the guard, telling them to bring a nursemaid.

"No." She said softly, coming closer, leaning over the cradle, taking their son into her arms. She embraced him and began rocking him, shushing him reassuringly as she looked at his face.

"− hello, little one − I know − it's not your fault −" She muttered with difficulty, tears in her eyes − he looked at this sight with a squeezed throat and swallowed heavily.

"− come here − are you hungry? −" She asked, sitting down on the window sill, slipping the material of her nightgown off her shoulder, exposing her breast, all swollen, full of milk − he felt his manhood throb involuntarily in his breeches at this sight.

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief as their son, nestled against her breast, found her nipple and, in a natural, subconscious instinct, began to suck on it greedily, clamping his small hand over her skin.

She looked at their child with curiosity and some kind of warmth that moved him.

He approached her, leaning over her, kissing the top of her head, sinking his nose into her soft hair, looking out of the corner of his eye at this almost mythological sight of a woman feeding her offspring.

"− what did you name our son? −" She asked quietly, and he felt hot in his chest hearing her use the word our.

"− I waited with this decision for you − you are his mother −" He replied softly, taking an unruly strand of her hair from her face. She mused, looking at the infant suckled to her breast and smiled softly.

"− Jaehaerys −" She whispered, and he hummed under his breath, delighted that they had thought of the same thing.

Of their common ancestor.

"− so Jaehaerys it will be −"

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httpswritings · 6 months

Text

Postpartum Depression - Alexia Putellas x Reader

Warnings: self harm, depression, panic attack, mentions of wounds, bad pregnancy, death mentions and similar.

Word count: 1,7k

Summary: You experience a panic attack derived from postpartum depression.

A/N: -

Alexia had arrived home from training and some media duties. She was exhausted and only looked forward to seeing you and your daughter and getting some cuddles.

Little did she know what was happening.

She heard loud cries from your daughter Martina.

When she entered the living room, you were on the floor, with your baby in your arms, also crying without looking at her.

“Bebita, what's wrong?” Alexia rushed to get closer to you.

She looked at your daughter, who was shaking, not only because of the crying but because you were shaking too and proceeded to hold her delicately.

Your face had a reddish colour and your chest showed a rapid breathing pattern.

What scared Alexia the most was that you were crying without any tears.

It was a mixture of agony and rage.

Your girlfriend had never seen you in this state of distress, so she felt lost.

Alexia had her one-month-old baby in her arms, crying uncontrollably, while she had her girlfriend in front of her, almost collapsing in what probably was a panic attack.

“Amor? What happened?” She tried to sound as soft as possible, not wanting to scare you.

She thought that the baby had fallen, and that's why you were in that state of nervousness, but after looking in detail throughout your daughter's body, Alexia saw that there were no signs of harm.

“Make her stop, Ale. Please,” you begged almost silently, but in a split second, you snapped at your girlfriend, “Get away from me. You both. Out. Please.”

She didn't question yoir request, getting out of the living room rapidly as she tried to calm Martina down.

Alexia had been suspecting that you could be experiencing post-partum depression, but she didn't know how to address the situation.

You had lost your sparkle. You didn't look in the mirror anymore. Not only that, but you felt like a whole different person, and Alexia was aware.

She had left this go too far until your mind couldn't take it anymore.

Alexia called her mother and urged her to come to your flat.

Thankfully, Eli lived only 20 minutes far away from home.

For Alexia, it was probably the longest twenty minutes of her life.

She couldn't manage to calm Martina down and she was hearing how in pain you were.

Her mind was full of her daughter and her girlfriend's shouting and she felt her insides rip apart.

Finally, Eli entered the flat.

“I need you to take care of Martina. I need to take care of...” Alexia stopped talking when she noticed that you had stopped crying, which only made her worry more about your state.

She left your daughter in her mother's arms and entered abruptly into the living room.

She found you still on the floor with scratches all over your body.

Your hands were aggressively grabbing your hair, trying to pluck it.

“Bebita... Can I get closer to you?”

You looked at her. Alexia had a scared expression, and you broke down crying.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I can't do it anymore.”

“Amor... It's okay, bebé. I'm here. Let me hold you, sí?”

You nodded, and Alexia got closer to your body.

She held your hands, which were still grabbing aggressively your hair, but she didn't succeed in getting them to let go.

She caressed your hands, leaving soft kisses on them, as you continued crying.

“I've got you, mi amor. I'm right here.”

“I don't like her, Alexia. I'm so sorry but I can't see her as mine. I can't be her mother. I'm not her mother.” You repeated over and over.

Alexia couldn't deny that hearing you say those things hurt her, but she didn't let you go.

She didn't understand what you meant, and that scared her.

She looked at your scratches; most of them had a little blood coming out.

What led you to end up hurting yourself?

Still, Alexia kept holding you.

With you in her arms, you couldn't do anything that hurt you.

She knew that she'd do anything to protect you from yourself.

Eli entered the living room. She had left her granddaughter peacefully sleeping on the cot that was placed in your bedroom.

She placed herself in front of you, looking at your body, especially your arms.

After examining the situation and after asking you a few questions, Eli came to the conclusion of what seemed to be the cause.

“Listen, love. You may not see it now, but what you're experiencing is a common situation for many women. More than you know. It's normal to think that you don't love or don't feel a connection to your baby. But safety here is the priority. Not only the baby's but everyone's, including yourself. If you need professional help, you must ask for it. No one is going to shame you. We are all going to be by your side, taking care of you. Right, Ale?”

Alexia nodded, leaving a soft kiss on your head.

“You've experienced an episode common in women who are struggling after having given birth, and you've hurt yourself,” she said, looking at your wrists and your hands, which were still grabbing your hair.

“If it's not treated, the whole situation can get worse, not only towards you but towards Martina or Alexia. It's not a rational situation, so don't think you're a monster, because you're not. But I want you to be safe. And that implies asking for professional help.”

You cried as your mind showed you the worst scenarios you could think of. You didn't want to hurt anybody, not Alexia and especially not your one-month-old baby.

You remembered how excited you were when you told Alexia that you were carrying your daughter on your belly, feeling that you wouldn't be able to wait all those months until you had Alexia's little version in your arms.

Now, those memories seem so strange to you.

“Alexia, I want you to look for a psychologist specialized in maternity. I'm taking the baby with me tonight so you both can have some clarity. If this gets worse, I want you to go to the hospital or call an ambulance, and of course, call me or call your sister.”

You saw Eli exiting your home with your baby in her arms, making you cry again, and Alexia rushed to hold you.

“Ale, I don't feel anything. I'm seeing my baby leave my side, and I don't feel the need to go after her. I feel relieved. I'm a monster. I'm so sorry because neither you nor Martina deserve to be next to me.”

Alexia couldn't hold back her tears anymore. She hated herself for letting you end up in this state. She should've been more thoughtful, more caring, more empathetic.

“No, amor, that's not true. I deserve to have you as a partner, and our baby deserves to have you as a mother. If you need some time to get used to it, it'll be alright. Amor, you went through pregnancy and labor. There's no way I'm blaming you for feeling like this.”

“Giving birth was the most painful thing I've ever experienced, Alexia. I feel numb since that happened. It's like I'm not able to feel anything after feeling so much pain. I truly thought my body was going to rip apart.”

“See? It's not easy to experience motherhood the way you have experienced it. That's why you deserve us, your family, and we'll wait for you as long as you need. Let's do this, amor: you'll let me take care of your wounds, and then I'll prepare you a warm bath, and while you're taking it, I'll look up some educational stuff about everything related to this, just like my mother said. Is that alright?”

You impulsively kissed Alexia.

“You know, the only moment I wasn't scared when I was in labor was when you kissed me. The doctors were encouraging me to push. Martina was about to be born. Everything happened so fast and slowly at the same time. I felt my insides stretching, and then I started to cry in pain. You remember it, right? And then you kissed me so softly that you managed to stop the time for a few seconds. I felt safe even if I wasn't, even if I almost died while delivering our little girl. What was supposed to be the most beautiful day of my life was the most scary and horrible thing I've ever experienced. I looked at you after what I thought was going to be our last kiss, and I told you how much I loved you: “T'estimo molt.” It was my way of saying goodbye to you, amor. What mattered most to me at that moment was that whether I died or not, I wanted to make sure you knew how much I loved you.”

Alexia wasn't able to say a word.

Everything had gone so fast, that she didn't have time to process the fact that you almost died while giving birth.

It's as if her mind had blocked that memory out.

She didn't realize that you were saying goodbye, and the possibility of having lost you that day made her almost want to die.

She didn't imagine a life were you weren't by her side.

“I'm so sorry, mi amor. God... you almost died...” She said looking at the wall with a blank stare.

Alexia felt the impulse to hug you so tightly as if she was going to lose you, that you felt pain in your stomach.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Joder! I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“Ale, it's fine. I know it's been like one month but I'm still recovering from labor.”

“Let's go to the hospital.”

“No.”

“Ye—”

“Alexia, I said no.” Your response was harsher than you expected.

“Listen, Ale. I'm okay. I'd let you call an ambulance or drag me to the nearest hospital if I wasn't fine, but I'm good. My wounds are not, but they aren't anything that we cannot heal at home. I don't want to enter a hospital if it's not necessary. Not again. I don't feel prepared.”

“Okay. But...What about what my mother said? Do you feel comfortable with the idea of getting professional help?”

“No. But I guess—I know that I need to. So I'll do it. But no hospitals for the moment.”

“Okay, bebita. No hospitals for the moment.”

#alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #woso #woso imagine #woso x reader

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dumbbitchgalore · 2 months

Note

Price with an PPD wife 😭

Postpartum depression??

I got you gurl!! 💕💕💕

John is very considerate when it comes to this, he understands it well. I headcanon him being the the oldest son in his family and he has a bunch of younger siblings and a deadbeat dad.

He’s seen his mother struggle with such a diagnosis, not being able to get out of bed, the resentment they harbour towards their newborn. He’s seen it all so he’s compassionate and caring.

He’ll take you through it. Make sure you’re comfortable and try to wrap his head around how you feel. He reminds you of the reasons why you guys tried for a baby and how excited you both were for them to come into this world.

Over the months, he does get frustrated but keeps it well hidden. He knows there’s no use and it’ll only backfire the progress you’ve made.

You don’t wanna breastfeed the baby? He understands, he’ll feed the baby for you but at the same time softly tell you why it’s important. He won’t force it on you, he’ll be mindful of his words, taking into consideration of your point of view. Ultimately, he won’t argue but simply guide you.

If at any point he becomes frustrated, he’s mother will scold him, reminding him of everything that he’s seen happen to her. Chiding him into not making the same mistake as his father.

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sukunas-wife · 8 months

Note

Would you be willing to write about Sukuna and a reader with post partum depression and body dysmorphia, with him trying to comprehend it and help? If not, that's fine.

Also could I be 🥀 anon?

I’ve never experienced postpartum. But I'll do my best after a little info dive 🥺🤍

You were holding onto Sukuna’s arm, it wasn’t enough to just hold his hand. You were pulling him down over you and he was worried. You tried to bury your face in his shoulder. He wanted to hold you but this wasn’t this place or time to hold you. You cried into his shoulder feeling the overwhelming pain and pressure in your body had you arching your back and finally you fell against the bed. You felt the wave of relief hit you when you heard that cry, your boy's little cry and whines. You did your best to sit up but you were a mess. Tired, sore and emotionally spent for the past 2 hours.

“Lady Y/n,” the medical aid’s assistant helped you to take your son. Sukuna looked like a proud bird. His chest was puffed out, there was a glimmer in his eye and a smug but soft smile. He gave a small show of affection when he leaned down pressed his lips to your head, laying a hand on your stomach rubbing soothing circles, “You did well y/n.”

You smiled, tired eyes looking up at him, your son latched to your chest. “‘’M so tired.” He stood up placing a hand on your head, slowly and carefully brushing your hair back, “You’ll be able to rest soon enough.

——————

This was the first time Sukuna had seen you broken, you were crying, trembling and holding Yuji who was also crying. You felt him come into the room but you felt hopeless you couldn’t even call out to him. You felt yourself curl over Yuji holding him closer to your chest.

“…y/n” Sukuna’s voice wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t comforting. It was full of concern and softer than how he’d usually demand your attention. You didn’t answer him as you tried to silence your shaky breaths. You felt him come up behind you, you shook your head no. He slid Yuji from your hold carrying him with one set of arms. With the other he turned you to face him. He didn't look at you, instead pulling you against his chest and holding you close. He didn't understand why you were crying or what caused this. He was just relieved that you seemed to cling to him instead of pushing him away. At least he knew it wasn’t his fault. Eventually his back started to hurt and Yuji started to whine threatening to cry. Your red puffy eyes looked so tired, “He won’t take..” you trailed off looking down, Sukuna was still confused won’t take what?? You didn't bother trying to explain because it felt like you couldn’t, instead you pressed your forehead to his chest staring at the floor and tearing up again. You were a mess, but his mess still, so he was going to do his best and try to maybe help.

It took another 30 minutes of trying to comfort you while you were in your distressed state. Before you could try to speak to him.

You explained to him how you were trying to breastfeed Yuji when he woke you up crying, but he wouldn’t take to your breast. How his screams and cries were tearing into your heart. You did your best to comfort him but you couldn’t, he wouldn’t calm down and you felt helpless and no one was there to help you. You felt like you couldn’t do it right, you couldn’t feed him, you couldn’t calm him down, you couldn’t get him to stop crying, you were his mother you should be able to take care of him like no one else. This led to you pulling away from Sukuna and sitting on the edge of your shred bed. One arm wrapped around your stomach, you were still bigger in size you could feel it. One hand came up to cover your mouth while you tried to hold back your cries. Sukuna was standing there doing his best to comfort Yuji in his arms while watching you all he could think was ‘Damnit when did humans become so emotional what the hell am I supposed to do to fix this?? Shut it brat I’m having a crisis too you're just hungry…’

He looked around before he took his place next to you, he was confused but not as distraught as you were. You felt sick, you couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him. “Come here.” He pulled you into his lap even as you protested, you didn’t feel comfortable in your own body, you didn’t want him to touch you so freely. He shushed you when you tried to smack his chest, you stilled against him when he squeezed your side against his chest with another hand rubbing your back trying to calm you down. He still held Yuji firmly in his arms, “…sukuna…” your voice was quiet. He shushed you, “you’ve done nothing wrong y/n, but Yuji needs to eat.”

You looked up at him, his hand touched your shoulder brushing at the edge of your robe. You placed your hand over his, looking up at him your eyes still looked so tired but you were looking for support, for something. His eyes softened, your hand guiding him as you slowly slipped the shoulder down to expose your chest. He brought Yuji closer to your chest, wrapped an arm around you, and you took Yuji into your arms. His cries quieted when you brought him to your chest, but he wouldn’t latch. You tried to guide him to your nipple but he wouldn’t take it again. Sukuna watched how you became distressed again, he. He had two arms wrapped around your back, one of his free arms moved to support Yuji’s head, the other cautiously under yours where you held Yuji. The hand on Yuji’s head moved to take his chin between two of his fingers, one arm from around your back moved up to take your breast in his hand, he guided Yuji to your breast carefully pulling his mouth open just enough to take your nipple. He latched onto you and you felt a small wave of relief and you heard Sukuna let out a chuckle, “just needed a little help.”

——————

A few weeks had passed and you felt slightly better, but breast feeding on ocasión was a three person party of You, Yuji and Sukuna. You had started to feel better physically, which meant Sukuna was beside you not trusting your silly little human helpers. No one could take care of you like he could. But that also didn't mean he didn't get impatient when you’d walk a little slowly, which led to you sitting on a stone bench and refusing to get up which led to him standing there throwing squinting at you as you turned your nose up and away at him. The both of you would be stuck in this sit/stand off for a good bit until Sukuna would walk off and come back with something for you to eat or until he caved and pulled you up over his shoulder, it was very rarely that you would cave because you always had a point when you would say, “You did this to me MR I WANT A SON so now YOU are going to put up with me and my little slow walk that you caused.” Followed by your angry pout and crossed arms.

Yet when you felt tired, hopeless and the depression started to kick in Sukuna was still hopelessly confused as to why you were feeling this. But there he was trying to learn how or what to do. He too was having a crisis every other day when you were beyond exhausted and he had to carry Yuji around with him only coming to poke the sleeping tiger when Yuji was hungry. There he was having to pick you up and support your drowsy sleep heavy body against his w so you could breastfeed. He was a single father by day, man looking for a second heir at night. To which you would almost agree but you’d always fall asleep before he could get back from putting Yuji down to sleep.

——————

“Sukuna!” Your voice was cheery, it had been just over 6 months since you pushed Yuji out but here you stood beside your bed in front of Sukuna with your robes wide open. “I didn't pee when I sneezed.” You were so excited to show him this, he was groggy blinking at you nodding along. Yuji was sleeping on his chest, caged in and protected by his four arms. “Wonderful, we’ll have a feast.” He knocked out snoring and you just looked at him with a small smile. He really had taken on a bigger role than you expected him to.

“King of curses hm?” You walked over pulling Yuji from his arm cage, “King of Snoring is starting to sound the same.”

You stretched out your arms, leaning back and holding Yuji up. “How’s my little prince now that I can actually hold you up hm?” He cooed, little hands stretching at you. “Aww.” You held him against your chest and he curled against you, little squinty eyes barely opening to look at you, “you look just like your daddy…” you gently grazed the back of your pointer finger against his chubby cheek.

I tried 🥹🤍 But I can always retry if it’s not up to code little extra promo

Permanent: @sakuxxi @mercymccann @certainduckanchor @najiiix @bakugou-katsukis-wife @amitiel-truth @souyasplushie @mylovelessnightmare @ynjimenez

@dolliira

Squishy: @sad-darksoul @satorisgirl @bontensbabygirl @lupita97lm @queen-luna-007 @venus-seeks

@cyder-puff @simpforyoubitch @domainofmarie @ilovemybabies378

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schizopositivity · 10 months

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If you're talking about mental health issues in someone who just gave birth, don't just call it "postpartum" and only mean postpartum depression and assume everyone only understands that means postpartum depression, because postpartum psychosis exists too.

When you're talking about neurodiversity/mental illness, don't just say "the spectrum" and only mean the autism spectrum and assume everyone understands that only means the autism spectrum, because the schizophrenia spectrum exists too.

I understand that most people think that schizophrenia or psychosis isn't the norm. Most people don't include us in general conversations. But that doesn't mean we don't exist. Postpartum psychosis is very real and should be talked about more. Schizophrenia is a spectrum and more people should understand that.

Those of us with psychosis or schizophrenia are used to being excluded but it hurts a bit more when we're being completely excluded from conversations specifically about mental illness. By defaulting "postpartum" or "the spectrum" to not include us, it feels like you're saying postpartum psychosis doesn't exist, or schizophrenia isn't also a spectrum. When you treat postpartum or the spectrum as if they only mean one thing, it implies that there is no other postpartum mental health conditions, or no other mental illness spectrums. It's not that hard to add an extra word to be specific.

I know this isn't a huge deal, and I might just be nit picking. But I think these two examples show how those of us with psychosis or schizophrenia are always excluded, even from other mentally ill people. Many people don't know that postpartum psychosis even exists. Many people don't know that schizophrenia is also a spectrum. And the general understanding won't change, if the only people using inclusive language are those of us who have it.

#postpartum #postpartum depression #postpartum psychosis #the spectrum #autism spectrum #autism spectrum disorder #autism #psychosis #schizoprenia #schizophrenia spectrum #schizophrenia spectrum disorder #mental illness #nd #neurodivergent #schizophrenic #actuallyschizophrenic #mental health awareness #pseriouslypsychotic

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randombush3 · 10 months

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audentes fortuna iuvat

alexia putellas x reader

part one, part two

words: 9541

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks III

content warnings: there’s some (a lot of) cheating + postpartum depression. it’s more frustrating than sad though x

notes: this covers 2019-22(ish). It was SUPPOSED to be the last part. It’s not anymore. I’m gonna do a fourth to deal w the mess I have created in a more self-indulgent amount of words than the 3k i had planned. That will probably have smut in it 😛

“Y/n left me.”

The limousine you are in is completely black, save for the white lines being measured out right next to you.

“What?” says Jenni.

“She left me,” Alexia says once more. The hotel room is a non-committal beige. They lie in the same bed, the older of the two welcoming her lost teammate wordlessly and without judgement. Tomorrow, they will return to Barcelona, losers yet another time. “She moved back to london. She took Nico.”

“She can’t just take Nico, can she?”

“Y/n, how’s Nico?” Your stomach turns, but whether that is provoked by the thought of the baby boy you left crying in your father’s arms or by the white powder outlining the rim of the woman’s nostrils, you don’t know.

Your son’s creasing eyes, red face, and grabbing hands appear in front of you. He screams as you walk away. He doesn’t understand why he has not smelt Alexia in weeks, and he misses the comfort of home.

Everyone waits for your answer. No one comments on the bags under your eyes. “He's fine,” you say with a smile. “He loves it here.”

“I think she is depressed,” Alexia tells Jenni, comforted by the arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close and tightly and reminding her that she is not as alone as you have made her feel. “She told me that she couldn’t be in Barcelona anymore, but she said that without giving me a chance to come with her. Her bags were packed before the conversation started — she might as well have called me from the plane.”

“Are you angry at her?”

“Yes.”

Alexia thinks about it.

“No.”

“No,” you say when they point at your very own line. The drug holds a place of both familiarity and hatred in your heart. The fine, white powder reminds you of greatness – of being the most successful girl group in the UK – but, also, of hospital visits. It’s not a past addiction, but it could have been. You light a cigarette instead, though it will make the vehicle reek. “I can't. I have a son.”

“You’re not a saint.” They boo. “You’re allowed to have fun. I saw you the other day, and you had no qualms with any drugs then.”

“No, I'm not a saint,” you reply. You regret that night — however little you remember. “But I am a mother.”

“Is it that thing? Postpartum?” Jenni asks. “The baby blues are really shitty, I've heard, but they’re not supposed to cripple you. Maybe the relationship has other issues.”

“I'm not angry at her, Jenni,” Alexia repeats. “I miss Nico. He looks like her. He has started to look a lot more like her now.”

“He would definitely suit those sparkly bralettes.” Jenni giggles at the thought.

With an understandable lack of good humour, Alexia ponders something more realistic. “He would suit a Barcelona kit.”

“He would be made for it. You are his mother.”

“I'm not angry at her,” Alexia says for the third time, just to make herself believe it. Just to carve those words into her bones and tell herself that it isn’t anger, what she’s feeling. “I don't want to be angry at her. I think I'm going to see if I can move to arsenal.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Well, I'm not angry at her.”

“Alexia.” Jenni cups her cheek tenderly. “Ale.” She knows she shouldn’t. She’s not angry at you, and so there is no punishment needed. Not that… Not that kissing Jenni would ever be utilised as a weapon to get back at you. Or that she’d actually kiss her.

“Daddy, I can't get him tonight. No, I don't want to stay over. Daddy, I…” You hate the baby. You hate yourself. You hate that Spain hasn’t done well, and that your fiancée is disappointed that nothing is how it was supposed to be. Alexia is probably lying awake in bed, missing her son, and missing you. You expect one of her teammates to call you soon, and tell her that she needs you. You’re her person. “I'm going to get some sleep and I'll pick him up tomorrow. Probably around lunchtime, okay?”

“Alexia, bésame.”

…

You had passively bought your house. It’s how property sale works when you’re a celebrity. People are always willing to do things for you if you know the price, and it never hurts to use your name to add a new flashy level to whatever stupid business they are running. It’s a mutual exploitation, to some extent.

Highgate is beautiful. The house is beautiful.

The reception room, with its high, decorated ceilings, is your favourite place to numbly take in the twisted jigsaw of your life when Nico has cried himself to sleep. The nursery is on the first floor. He is near enough for safety, but at a distance that allows you to regret all the mistakes you have made.

You watch him roll over onto his stomach, eyes trained on the baby monitor though your fingers graze the ivory keys of your new piano, attempting to compose something worthwhile. At this rate, your solo career is going to fail just like your relationship seems to be doing.

Yesterday, while Alexia seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth, you came out. It was an off-hand comment during the Graham Norton Show. A quick ‘my fiancée named him. She’s from Barcelona’ was all it took. You hope Alexia, wherever she may be, has heard about it. Jenni would have told her. You trust Jenni to be somewhat on your side because she always has been.

The doorbell rings just as you sniffle, wiping away the tear that slips down your cheek. “Don’t be pathetic,” you mutter to yourself. “You didn’t pay five million pounds to sit here and cry. You chose to come back home.”

Being in England – colder, drearier, lonelier England – has made you realise that your decision was not the right one. Or maybe it was. It has proven that you are as terrible a mother as you convinced yourself you were back in Barcelona, and it has also shoved the cavity Alexia leaves in your life when you refuse her entry right down your throat in the form of a constant lump and a dull stabbing in your chest whenever you think about anything past whether Nico has had anything to eat. You can’t even feed him properly, despite it being supposedly in your nature. You buy formula from the nearest Waitrose.

The doorbell rings again.

The insistence is not uncommon seeing as you are, at the minute, the English press’s number one target. You open the CCTV app on your phone so that you can decide whether or not to ignore the potential stalker, and your heart rate spikes when you see the hooded figure standing on the porch. Back to the door, it is not possible to determine the threat. A well-buried maternal instinct kicks in for once, and you ensure that Nico is still peacefully out cold before getting up to answer the door with the poker from the Victorian fireplace firmly in your grip. Just in case.

You are a mother, in whatever capacity you have decided that role looks like, and so you undo the three latches on the door with brave, protective fingers. The baby monitor’s volume has increased, and the fuzz of white noise is audible if Nico were to make a sound. The vague repulsion at the idea of it all is only an aftertaste in your silent prayer for the hooded figure to not want to kill you. Some sick part of your brain imagines Nico dead, as well. It tortures you.

The poker in your other hand, for the most fleeting of moments, is almost plunged into your chest. The imaginary, self-inflicted wound makes you think of the blood and how the baby upstairs would wail until someone found him. The grimace of annoyance on your lips is nothing new, but you have no more time to torment yourself because the doorbell is pressed again, rather impatiently.

You open the door and the hooded figure is right in front of you. “He’s asleep,” you say, the Spanish foreign on your tongue.

Alexia shrugs, and her hood falls down, revealing the brunette tendrils that hang from her slowly sinking bun. “I came for you,” she replies, so earnestly that it is as if nothing ever happened: past pain forgotten and replaced by sprouting memories of soft kisses and mornings where leaving was too hard to do. Some of them, you think, are not real. They don’t seem to be. Your blank stare is unsettling. You almost don’t believe her. “Can we talk?” she tries, and you notice the team-issued duffle on the tiled floor she is standing on. Then, from the pocket of her hoodie, she extracts a pastry box. The plastic window is filled with circles of different colours, and she holds out the macaroons to you as if to bribe her way into a home in which she is unsure she belongs to.

Stepping aside, leaning the poker against the wall by the door, you scratch at the bare skin of your neck. Alexia, while sweeping an arm down to collect her bag, fixes her gaze onto the ring you are wearing, and the diamond glistens with hope that this can all be fixed. “Would you like to come inside?”

She swallows the whine of anguish that tears her heart open at the idea that this might never be her house to live in, too, and she follows you dutifully as you lead her through hallways far more luxurious than the flat in Barcelona could ever be. This is what you left her for – the person you are, no longer in worn clothing with messy hair, is quite the opposite of the woman with her back to her moments before she had to focus on football. The necklace draped on your sharpened collarbones is new, and she does not dare believe what she has been hearing is true. Yes, there are pictures, but she trusts you. She will always trust you.

“Have a seat,” you say, gesturing to the wooden dining table. It is clean enough for her to determine that it is unused. Alexia places the macaroons in front of her, and aches at how you sit at the opposite end.

“I…”

“I thought you were going to give me all the time that I needed.” It is a statement of distance, as if your location is not enough.

Alexia, eyes widening at how unwelcome she suddenly feels, needs only to remind herself of the impending date of the wedding. It is beginning to loom uncomfortably, with the excitement of getting married drained out like a low tide on a deserted beach. “We have two weeks. If it isn’t going to happen, then you should tell me now. We have to give everyone notice so that they can cancel their flights.” Your silence spurs her on. “You will need to contact the wedding planner, because you refused to let me have a hand in any of it so I don’t even have their number. I’m sorry that you won’t be able to wear your dress. Vivienne Westwood is a big thing for you, I know. I’m sorry that it’s inconvenient.”

“But Alexia,” you whisper, “I don’t not want to get married.”

Her eyebrows furrow, head tilted slightly to the left. “I know. That is why I am saying this.”

Your voice grows louder. “No, no. Sorry, that wasn’t the easiest thing to understand.” Across the dining table, your love that has faltered, that has hesitated and been reconsidered and been stamped down over the past month, extends towards her: its final destination, always and forever. Alexia feels it grab her by the throat, wrenching the words from her before she can even formulate a thought in response, and her body is so drawn to you, in such a powerful fashion, that she pushes her chair out from the table with a grating scrape and is stepping towards you with a finality that makes her wonder if she’ll ever leave your side.

As she approaches, the idea that she is here becomes a little too real. You have played with the fantasy of it, of course, but the tenderness in her usually fierce eyes does not match the anger you had expected, and, in the most feeble fashion, you have never felt more apologetic in your life.

“I’m so sorry,” you begin to say. Tears stream down your face with freed anguish, and the words are so simple yet they bear the weight of your entire soul. “I’m so sorry, darling. I made a mistake, and I have been met with the most crushing of realisations: I can’t do this without you, Alexia.” I still want to marry you, Alexia.

The room seems to close in on your despair, attempting to bottle it, almost, and keep you trapped underneath a haze of emotions you don’t quite know how to sort through. “I… I’m beginning to hate him.” The confession hangs heavy over Alexia’s bowed head as she stands frozen in place, stuck in her journey towards you but unable to arrive. “I’m acutely aware of how cruel it is,” you continue, this next admission being what agonises you the most. It floods the room with guilt, and your voice trembles with self-condemnation that reigns harsher than any other voice in your head.

“It’s ridiculous. I’m evil and I’m wrong, and I just feel like it is inherently in my nature to be like this, as though some fault has been built into me with warning signs we evidently ignored.” You struggle to breathe. “I wish I could take back the day we decided to have him,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper, lips doused in tears, skin searing with shame when Alexia cups your cheek with a strong, calloused hand. “He should not have to be stuck with me as a mother.”

Your chest heaves, and you are finished. You have never verbalised it before now, and it is impossible to decide whether it has helped remove the lead lining of your heart where it has been bolstered against your will. Her other hand steadily rises to your face, but then, with only a second of hesitation, she is pulling you upwards and enveloping you in her embrace. You feel a little bit closer to her. “Mi amor,” Alexia murmurs, tone cracked with sorrow and regret. “Lo siento mucho. Desearía haber sabido, desearía haber estado allí para ti.”

Gently, she tilts your face upwards to meet her gaze. “You are not evil and no estás equivocada. Estoy aquí ahora, y no te dejaré enfrentar esto sola nunca más.” You collapse into her. “I’m here, cariño, and I am not going anywhere.”

The sentiment is wonderful, and Alexia makes good on her word.

When Nico begins to cry, the sound piercing through your choked sobs, Alexia realises she has missed all of her life with you. Being separated and being apart due to work, she now knows, are two excruciatingly different things. The whiny wails from upstairs visibly jar you, though you pull away from Alexia to attend to him. “I will do it,” she declares, though her firmness is not mean. “Sit down. Eat the macaroons – they’re… ‘to die for’?” You nod with instinctive encouragement. “Sí. They’re to die for. Try. Jenni says that the pink ones are the best.”

“Jenni picked them out?” you ask with a briefly regained humour, eyebrows raising. “Had to get your friend to choose your apology gift?” In truth, neither of you know what Alexia would be apologising for, but Nico’s crying grows more incessant and Alexia is climbing the carpeted staircase before the topic can be discussed.

Alexia reaches her son with tears brimming in her eyes. The failure of Spain at the World Cup is amplified by the idea that she has disappointed him, though he does not yet possess the tools to pledge his allegiance to her country. In fact, Nico has been sleeping in Manchester United attire (your father has been his primary carer of late, and he does not charge you money, so the price is obviously Alexia’s sanity). She is more than glad to smell his nappy, and delighted about the opportunity to change him into something less hideous.

“Mama loves you so much,” she tells him as she manoeuvres his chubby legs into a plain, inoffensive onesie. “I promise, petit. I am going to help her, okay? And we are going to get through this together.” Alexia forgets about the taste of Jenni’s lips and the heat between them. “Mama just doesn’t see the direction she is going in. It is like her eyes are covered, and she is telling herself that she is walking down the wrong path, but this is not true. You are the most special thing in the world to us. You are the sunrise, the sunset, and the hours of the day.”

She pauses to stand him up on his tiny feet, hands hoisted underneath his armpits. He is heavier than when she last held him, but she is stronger than before, too. Women’s football is growing, along with her muscles. Nico babbles out a vague reply, but Alexia hears what he is trying to say. “I agree. We’ll be alright.” And, with all her heart, it rings true.

…

The following day, she calls the doctor for you, script written out on a piece of paper in front of her, translated perfectly so that her concern does not waver the information she needs to tell the receptionist. The clinic is famous and discreet, and they are quick to prescribe you antidepressants before the week draws to a close. You won’t be able to drink at your wedding, and everyone might think you are pregnant again, but Alexia reassures you that it will be worth it.

Wrapped up in your own bubble, the three of you enjoy London in a way that isn’t possible in Barcelona.

Here, Alexia has no commitment to football. There are no training sessions she must rush off to, there are no teammates to pry, and no one else to interfere with your private little routine. You quite like it, and she does too. It is only temporary, before you fly out to Menorca and hand Nico off to Eli in order to enjoy your respective bachelorette parties and then, in exactly seven days, your wedding itself.

“You’re still smoking,” Alexia says disapprovingly, the sleep in her voice enough to make you feel a pang of guilt. It’s late at night when Nico has finally been soothed from his aching gums, and she has been able to climb back into bed expecting to find you asleep already. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m still smoking,” you tell her. She sighs at the way you parrot her words, but presses an affectionate kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulders despite the lingering smell of cigarettes. “If I can’t drink, I’m going to smoke. This is Hollywood.”

“This is Highgate.” Her accent curls around the name with something a little too foreign for her to ever consider this place home. “Why are you awake?” she repeats.

You look down at the open notebook in your lap, the pages either blank or full of crossed-out lyrics. “He was so loud, but I can’t seem to write anything either so, really, it has been quite redundant.”

“I had to get a glass full of ice and hold it to my fingers so that I could help him. I could have lost some very important assets, but it seemed to do the trick.” He’s teething. You’re telling yourself that the antidepressants are little pills of miracle, and have kicked in already. “Feel.” She presses two freezing fingers to your cheek, and you gasp, flinching away from her.

“There’s a teething ring downstairs, you know,” you tell her. She shrugs. Maybe it isn’t clean. “Don’t give yourself frostbite. I happen to quite like your fingers.”

Alexia’s smirk is beyond suggestive, and her lips hit your neck once more with an entirely different heat to them. “Yeah?” You push her head away. “I bet it would feel good. Nice and cold.”

“You’re delirious.”

She continues to kiss you. “I don’t know what that means,” she mumbles into your neck, until her lips reach your face and she is near climbing into your lap – notebook long pushed onto the floor. “Dímelo en español.”

“No lo sé.”

“Ah. Una palabra inteligente.”

“Claro.”

She laughs into the kiss she presses against your lips. She never has never felt like this with anyone else. Never this relaxed, or loved, or safe. “Me vas a matar con tu inteligencia y voy a sentirme estúpida para siempre.”

“I love you,” you state softly. “I love every part of you.” Alexia, in that moment, decides to never do what she did with Jenni again, and to never break your heart by informing you of her betrayal.

…

You’re married.

You’re married to Alexia, a woman who bears the beauty of a goddess and the strength and will of someone who could capture the sun and tame the fire that rages on its surface.

You admire her as she sleeps so peacefully beside you, tanned skin warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows of the hotel room. Later, you will get on the ferry, go back to Barcelona, and then fly to Capri for three days alone before Alexia’s preseason starts. Aside from a few meetings with Dave, you theoretically aren’t swamped with anything. You’ll be joining her in her city with Nico with a bit more permanence than last time.

Alexia buries her face in the covers, crawling into your open arms the minute the sunlight rouses her. “Everything is sore,” she groans, her bare skin slightly sticking to yours, the sweat from last night not yet gone.

“What happened to ‘mi vida, one more time won’t hurt’?” you tease, impersonating her heavy accent over your English with enough drama to get her to elicit another grumble. This time, it’s something about being bullied. “Darling, we have to get up. We’re having breakfast with our parents, and apparently Nico has been upset that we got a night to ourselves.”

“Pobrecito,” she replies with a newfound level of English sarcasm. She spent the wedding reception avoiding the dance floor, engaged in a long conversation with your father. The topics spanned over most areas of life, and briefly touched upon how you are doing now. Alexia, with much pleasure, confirmed the improvement, however miniscule it has been. She is very proud of you, and he is too. “I only want one thing for breakfast.”

Her hands begin to roam, the band of her wedding ring hitting your pubic bone. “Mi vida, one more time won’t hurt,” she mocks you from before but in her sexier, Spanish husk, sucking at your collarbone, straddling your waist.

You replace your near moan with a thoughtful hum. “I really want pancakes. Do you think they’ll make me some?”

Downstairs, where it is brighter and impossible to conceal the hickeys on both of your necks, you greet your parents, brother, Anya, and Gio. Alexia’s mother, her sister, and Jenni are sitting at the table, too. Your baby is pretending he isn’t teething, and grinning like an angel.

“How’s married life?” Anya asks as you take a seat opposite her, Alexia to your right. The table has a gradient of bilingualism, but Gio discovered that she picks up Spanish quite easily considering she can already speak one romance language. “We’ve already found, like, four articles talking about it.”

“How?” you ask, but you are not offended.

Gio shrugs. “Drones, I guess. Nothing bad, though. Some speculation about the other bride – if the article does mention that. Most talk is on the dress.” It was a bloody good dress. “And I suspect that there’ll be a juicy little question about who was your Maid of Honour.”

“Don’t be salty,” you tell her. The MOH issue was sorted out years ago – perhaps 2015 – when you binged Friends together despite having watched it thousands of times before. Anya has been yours, Gio will be hers, and you will be Gio’s. And they say trios never work.

“I left Mia with her dad for this.”

“You shouldn’t have had a baby with a man-slag,” Anya says with a snort, enjoying her second mimosa and Gio’s grimace at the idea of her daughter having to put up with her father’s revolving door of one-night-stands. “You’re one to make terrible decisions. At least our girl over here’s married someone who looks at her like she’s hung the moon.”

Alexia turns to you with a smile, as if on cue, with Nico in her lap. You glance at his rounded cheeks and shining eyes, looking back up at your friends as though to check they are still there. Alexia leans forwards so that she can whisper in your ear. “Te amo. Nico, también. Mi familia es perfecta.”

…

Returning to Barcelona comes with one negotiated condition on your part. You buy a bigger apartment, where there is space for an office and extra bedrooms. Alexia says her teammates will be taking the piss out of her grand new place the minute she sees it, but she is more than content to contribute to the finances with her new-and-improved salary for this season. “It’s weird to think that I’m from Mollet,” murmurs Alexia, standing in the middle of the large lounge area, surrounded by boxes. Most are from your old flat, but a few have been flown in from London. Alexia wanted you to have your Grammy with you. “This place is so fancy.”

“It’s half of what the men’s team get,” you remind her, holding Nico with care as he gnaws away on a frozen carrot. His saliva drips onto you, but the antidepressants are working, and the therapy has been effective enough for you to start taking childcare in turns. (You had tried to previously, but Alexia wanted you to focus on yourself, knowing that things will change for all of you once the season started.) “Hey.” You place your hand on her shoulder. She tickles Nico’s chin. “We deserve this. You deserve this. Why don’t you host one of your team’s dinners? I’ll take Nico round to your mum’s – God knows she’d love to shove some food down my throat, too.”

She shakes her head, strands of brown unstraightened due to the stress of the move and falling out of her bun with a determination to defy her hair bobble. “They would kill me if I did it without you. They’re all far too grateful that you invited Taylor Swift to our wedding.”

“She’s a friend.” If you hadn’t been distracted by various other happenings that night, you’d have clocked that Alexia’s side of the guests were completely up to their ears in celebrities they’d never expected to meet. “Okay, so do you want me to stay here?”

“I always want you to stay here,” she answers.

“Not what I meant.”

“I won’t take it back.”

Nico babbles an incoherent yet cutely Spanish-y noise, though his words are getting closer to being said at the old age of eight months. Then, suddenly, something in him clicks. “Mama,” he squeals, his little fist scrunching up the fabric of your t-shirt. “Mamama.”

“Nicolau!” Alexia replies with just as much enthusiasm, cupping his cheeks. She kisses his nose, and then his forehead, and then his chubby knees and socked feet. “Nicolau, sí, la mama et té a las mans! Bon noi, el meu bon i intel·ligent noi.”

“Does that count?”

“Mama,” Nico repeats, tugging your earlobe. “Mama. Mama.” It is easy to forget about the (lessening) resentment you harbour when he speaks. Alexia gets him to say it as many times as she can before he goes back to his carrot, but, even then, the two of you stay in that spot, marvelling at your creation.

Slowly, she turns around in a circle, absorbing the plain walls and towers of boxes. “This is going to be good. Life is going to be good,” you declare with such a firmness that it has to be true. “Darling, let’s get to unpacking and then we can think about a date for this dinner party.”

“We are going to plan the party?” She raises her eyebrows at you. “Is this party going to start at five o’clock?”

“Not all of us shit yellow and red.” (In a national sense – you’d have haemorrhoids for United any day of the week.)

Alexia takes Nico off you, in a show of cultural dominance. You’re actually outnumbered, considering he isn’t a British Citizen, and though he shares no DNA with your wife, he has inherited the same ability to narrow his eyes just enough to serve absolute cunt whenever he so pleases. If you weren’t feeling so ganged up on, you’d be a little impressed. “Nico y yo vamos a hacer croquetas de jamón. Adiós.”

“Darling, the kitchen isn’t–” But you cut yourself off, deciding that she can discover that on her own, along with the criminally empty fridge. You don’t hide your smugness at all when she finds you in your almost-finished bedroom, wearing a look of utter disappointment and mumbling out a heartbroken request for a food delivery as soon as possible.

…

November marks three years of being together and, also, four weeks of having Alexia’s ‘DNA’ – a pomeranian called Nala, whose Instagram account is run by her favourite parent after you called it silly and told your wife you’d much rather attend to your own seventeen million followers.

Towards the end of the month, after a well-spent morning and then a family outing to Barcelona Zoo, Alexia meets Jenni Hermoso in a restaurant in what Jenni calls ‘your new rich-people neighbourhood’ in her text to Alexia.

Alexia, really and truly, is happy to have her best friend back in Barcelona. She missed her last year, when Jenni had returned to Atleti, and that separation maybe made what happened the night Spain was knocked out of the World Cup just that bit more understandable. “You’re a Culer, no matter how hard you try to fight it,” Alexia had said when she had climbed back into her own bed, not wanting to fall asleep in Jenni’s arms. “It was terrible to not have Y/n or you.”

You and Jenni: Alexia’s people.

“How’s your wife?” Jenni asks with a grin, two glasses of wine into a pleasant evening at an expensive restaurant. “You’ve left her with Nico, so something must be working.”

In truth, you have been determined to get better. There were articles released not long after the photos of your wedding were circulated, and those speculated a lot about how you are finding motherhood. The baby pictured, captured by long-range lenses and invasive drones, was the world’s first glimpse at what Nico Putellas L/n looks like, and reminded many of them that you had a child to care for when in London, yet were frequently spotted at nightclubs and parties. You rise to most challenges, however, and find it a lot easier to adapt to weekly therapy sessions and pills every morning when you have a wrongful image to disprove.

“It’s as if it never happened,” Alexia says, both with pride and surprise. “She now seeks to spend time with him. She takes him with her to the recording studio – the album’s coming along well.” It’s your first on your own. Nico plays with one mixing desk, while Dave (flown in from London with the promise that the Barcelona sun will do wonders for his wife’s misery) plays with another. “And… Jenni, we’ve been talking. The clinic that we used for Nico asked us if we wanted to reserve sperm when we first had him, and now they have called asking if now is a good time. I think… I think that she is really considering it. She told me yesterday that her therapist wants me to sit in on the next session, so we can go over how we can make this time different.”

Jenni frowns, which is not what the woman opposite her had expected at all. “Why are you two having more children? You’re only twenty-five, Ale. Isn’t this going to affect your career?”

“The men do it all the time.” She’s done a spot of research. They are younger than her when their girlfriends start getting pregnant, and they continue to play with the added admiration that they are fathers as well.

“Yes, but they have the benefit of getting paid millions. They don’t have to fight with their federation for pitches or pay, and they can focus on football without their career sparking controversy for even existing.”

“Then my children will grow up with a mother who fights for change.”

“Or they grow up with a pop star who only wants things she cannot have and a footballer who can’t spend any time with them because she is too busy speaking at various conventions so that the next league match isn’t cancelled.”

“Jenni, do you think your opinion would be different if Y/n was a man?”

This elicits laughter from the other woman, who rolls her eyes in a way that can only be described as condescending. “Alexia, you’re forgetting that I’m a lesbian too, which is a magnificent feat.” Jenni references the kiss they shared, and what happened after that. “But, no. I don’t. I want you to be the greatest footballer in the world, and you want that too. What are you going to do when Y/n tells you she wants to move back to England? Are you going to give up your future here for her?”

The waiter interrupts briefly, collecting their empty plates and carting them off with a mission to retrieve the bill after a sharply declined offer for the dessert menu. “You don’t even know if that will happen,” Alexia scoffs, though she is a little sad that her exciting news hasn’t been well-received. “I was going to say that I’d think about the name Jennifer if it ends up being a girl, but now I’m leaning more towards María…”

She is kicked under the table, and she has to hold in her cry of pain because this restaurant is one of your favourite places to eat. “Mapi cannot have this victory over me. She’d be insufferable. Ale, you simply aren’t allowed to do that.” There’s another kick, but it is more playful this time.

Alexia laughs, smiling and thankful that the tension has diffused. “I’m only joking. Y/n has a list scribbled in the back of her lyric book. She’ll probably be called Elena.” That is much more acceptable to Jenni’s ears, and she files that information away for next year, when she’ll tell Mapi that Alexia doesn’t like her name.

…

It works. Alexia and you are lucky. The doctor tells Alexia that, if she were a man, the two of you would have to be extremely careful. Your wife marvels at your ability to destroy your body and stay fertile, but she supposes that you are not the kind of woman to be a lesbian. Sometimes, she wakes up in a cold sweat, believing that you have changed your mind and left her.

The New Year is a fresh start. Alexia decides to fix the (not so) hidden cracks in your relationship. She confides in her newly-acquired therapist. She may have made a mistake once; the secret is sandwiched between her worries about your susceptibility to depression and how Nico is a decided food critic.

Though the therapist, a lovely bilingual woman named Sofía, raises her eyebrows, she does not pry. She slides a paper calling card over to Alexia. The paper squeaks along the coffee table between the two comfortable armchairs of the office. “I specialise in couples. Seeing as your wife is already a client of mine, I think you should consider a joint session.” Alexia is new to the idea of mental health. Before, she had been too focused on football to care about it. Even when her father died, any professional she spoke to was only hearing how her mind worked because she knew it was what was best for her performance. “And, Alexia.” She looks up at the therapist with a small, nervous smile. “Congratulations on the pregnancy. I am sure Nico will make a wonderful older brother.”

Morning sickness drags you out of your shared bed most days.

Alexia asks you about couples’ therapy when you have finished your dry-heaving one morning.

“I mean,” you begin before pausing, gulping down the sour taste in your mouth and hoping nothing else is trying to hit the toilet water until tomorrow. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” She is dressed in her training kit, but she slings her jumper over your shoulders as soon as you shiver. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“It would do no harm.” As long as Sofía does not bring up Alexia’s confession, your statement will ring true. “You book the appointment. It’ll be easier to work around your schedule that way.”

“When are you flying back to London?” Her question is not filled with hatred for the city, but with resignation to the fact that your job involves you being stretched between here and there.

“Not until next month. I thought that I could take Nico to an away game with my dad if I got a flight for Saturday. The rest of the week would be interviews and photoshoots.”

“How’s the album doing?”

So far, your songs are only written when Alexia has paid you enough attention to swirl your thoughts and blur your vision. It is in these moments that the lingering, sinking weight inside of you dissipates. “Dave remains hopeful. It won’t fail, but I need it to be better than what we currently have.”

Shamelessly, Alexia is aware of her effect on your songs. She smirks; “Alba has been begging to babysit, you know.” With no care for your current state, Alexia’s eyes rake up and down your body. You grow embarrassed by how you are slumped over the toilet, and how she is standing above you as though she runs your world. “You look beautiful, mi amor,” she murmurs as you bashfully duck your head between your bent arms.

“You’re a flirt.” It feels too late for her to still be in the flat. “And you’re going to miss training if you don’t get a move on. There are eggs in the fridge, and Nico definitely liked the omelette you made him a few days ago. He’ll be waking up soon.”

A small sigh escapes the midfielder’s lips, but the prospect of the things she loves most in the world appearing in her life consecutively is enough to convince her to pad her way out the bathroom, swanning into the corridor with a little grin on her face as she sings out ‘bon dia’ to an impressively multilingual toddler and heads into the kitchen with the domestic intention of getting breakfast started. She leaves an omelette out for you, which you attack shortly after Alexia and Nico disappear into their daily routine. She drops him off at preschool, and you pick him up a few hours later, taking him first for lunch with Alba, and then to the studio.

You come home to a showered Alexia who is memorising her most recent match. She lets Nico slide into her lap without hesitation, but she stays focused on the football even when he tugs on the strands of hair falling out of ponytail. You marvel at the idea of having enough room in your heart for so much love. You decide that you are not like Alexia, though it is not necessarily a terrible thing. A further observation from watching your wife settle her son with a calm, muttered Catalan telling-off, coaxing him into loving football as though he does not already, is that you are so very content with your life at the moment.

But 2020 kind of sucks.

For the entire world.

You’re cut off from your home in any other manner than a digital one, and being stuck in a luxurious penthouse in Barcelona isn’t the worst fate, but it really isn’t ideal.

Elena, however, has the benefit of coming into the world with ever (physically) present parents, who could recite the java script for Zoom given that they spend hours on therapy calls. Elena, bright and smiley and the picture of her mother, spends the first few months of her life in a happy, happy family, protected by an entire football team and a fierce older brother. (And a yappy Pomerianian called Nala.)

“Y/n doesn’t like the name María,” Jenni tells Mapi when Alexia sends the first picture of your new addition to the Barcelona group chat.

“The next baby is going to be a Jennifer,” Mapi says, to both the forward and the unimpressed midfielder walking a few paces in front of such a silly conversation. “For that, I can only feel sorry for her.”

…

The routine changes the following year.

It starts with an abrupt but expected conversation. One that Alexia has been dreading.

Your album – the first one that is just you – was released two months ago, and it has done too well. Selfishly, Alexia had hoped it would fail. You have enough money, and she is earning more and more each season. Success, unfortunately, means that this little life can no longer exist. Or can it?

“I have to do it,” you whisper to her, tears in your eyes though the smell of sex still lingers. The quietness of a child-free apartment allows for you to hear her gulp. “It’ll be different this time, darling, but I can’t be here anymore. I can’t fly out to London every few days. I can’t leave you with a five-month-old and a toddler when you are training every day and playing matches every weekend. It’s not fair on anyone.”

Alexia kisses your bare shoulder, hands slipping round your waist as she pulls your sweaty body into her. Her chest presses against your back, but she is only behind you in this bed. She does not agree with you. She does not support it. But, like she always does, she bites her tongue. “If that’s what you want,” she replies, and part of you dies with the thought that she does not really care. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. For us.” And she tells Jenni all about it when she goes to see her a week later – the flimsy excuse of meeting a childhood friend for dinner enough to wrap a cloth around your eyes and leave you at home with a screaming toddler and a baby whose only flaw is that she grows distraught the moment she is put down.

In the dimly lit living room, the tension hangs thick in the air. You lock eyes. “Why can't you just move with us? Everyone will want you, darling, and life would be easier,” you plead, a month down the line. The house in Highgate has been readied for your more permanent return.

Alexia takes a deep breath, her gaze unwavering. “Why can't you get it into your head that I'm not leaving Spain or Barcelona? This is my home.”

“What about the children? School? Life? My career? Does it mean nothing to you?”

Her eyes soften. Your heart breaks, and the piece of you that has already died somehow dies again. “I'm thinking of the children. All the time, I think of them. About the reputation of my name – their name. Putellas, the greatest in the world, or Putellas, the one with potential wasted at West Ham?”

“You're being selfish, Lex,” you snap. “This is an opportunity for all of us, not just me. Think about their future!”

“Their future is here, in the culture they know, the languages they speak. I won't strip them of their identity for the sake of a 'better' life. And my career? I've worked too hard to build what I have here. I won't throw it away.” I don’t want to throw it away. Underscored by Don’t leave me again.

The room echoes with the weight of her voice. “Their identity comes from both of us.” It’s too final for either of your liking. Elena begins to cry in her cot. “I want to try it. I want you to be open to trying it.”

She gestures to the suitcases by the door. “Trying it and doing it are two different things. You’re taking them from me!”

“You’re probably going to love life without them anyway!” you shout. You feel like the crying baby, except the tears rolling down your cheeks carry much more suffering than hers. “You’ll – what? You’ll go out with your friends, and you’ll be able to go to the gym whenever you want. No arguing, no crying, no toddler to entertain, no nappies to change. You never wanted children. I forced it upon you. I regret it, and I’m sorry. We’ll go.”

“Don’t go.”

I don’t want you to go.

“I have to.”

You turn your back to her as you fly through the corridor, prepared to console Elena in a taxi. Alexia slips her ring off her finger, and clutches it in her palm instead. Desperately, she searches for a solution. There is nothing within her reach, not even you.

…

She is an island amongst a sea of happy people. She is going to be the greatest footballer in the world. It kills her to realise that she can now focus on football.

Nico starts nursery, attending the same school you once did. He adjusts to life in London seamlessly, and Elena does not seem to care either way. He learns more English every day, and his other mother calls him nightly to read to him.

With childcare more than sorted, you are free to be interviewed, pictured, and invited to events. You rake in the publicity, especially after laying so slow over the course of the lockdown in Spain.

“Alexia.” Jenni’s hands knead her tight shoulders, partly teasing her. Alexia wears a frown, eyebrows knitting together with an emotion she’s not sure she can name. “Ale, it’s the same game as always. Nothing has changed.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I don’t understand why I feel like this.” She has continued to speak to Sofía, though your joint sessions have now come to a halt while you spend your time doubling as a singer and model. The therapist, try as she might, cannot evaluate the situation effectively enough. Eli and Alba have both tried to help, hoping that weekly dinners and the constant reminder about the invention of aeroplanes would ease the turmoil of Alexia’s mind. It does not. “I am so alone, Jenni.”

Nala is too small to fill the emptiness of the flat. Screens don’t allow for her to kiss you, or play with Nico. She is scared she will miss Elena’s first words.

“You don’t have to be.”

It only takes a month for Alexia to break, and it sort of works.

In Jenni’s bed, it works. Hips keening, soft pants falling from her mouth.

Quiet moans that stay locked in Jenni’s apartment.

Each time Alexia leaves, though Jenni repeatedly requests that she stays, she walks out as half a woman. She blinks back her tears and she checks her phone. When she calls you – not a video call – you are never any the wiser to the scratches down her back.

Alexia remains an island, but the sand beaches are tainted with the arrival of someone else.

In this way, she is functional.

She can do sex. She can deal with borderline romance. She can fill the space that you are tearing open with every passing minute spent in that god-awful country you insist on calling home. She can fix it a little bit with Jenni.

She tells herself that it does not mean anything more than a bandage means to a wound. Who wears the bandage once the gash has healed?

Where does she put the used bandage?

Why is she focused on bandages?! She’s having an affair. It’s not an affair! (It is.) Alexia doesn’t… quite… wanttoadmititjustyet.

…

The buzz of your phone is the final push that gets you to conclude the current interview you are trapped in. Before checking what the notification is, you glance at the time. You have half an hour before you need to pick up Nico, and your parents said they would drop Elena home once they returned from London Zoo.

Alexia: Jenni has had a really good idea

It’s an intriguing text amongst the more practical ones that oil the mechanics of managing the distance. Tonight, Barcelona play their last match of the season. After this, she’ll be flying out to London. You have missed her. The last time you saw her in person was after Barcelona embarrassed Chelsea in Gothenburg. Elated and filled with pride, it was incredibly nice to have the biggest room in the hotel to yourselves. Her medal was almost as beautiful as her.

You: Go on…

Alexia: Just draw a heart on Nico’s hand from me porfa. You’ll see.

You slide into the driver’s seat of your newest self-indulgent car; a Porsche. Momentarily distracted by a camera flash, your turn onto the main road is a little risky, but you manage to make it to the school in time to collect your son.

“Was he good?” you ask his teacher as she hands you Nico’s book bag. You take in the sight of him: hair messy, school uniform stained though they require the little ones to wear aprons for most of the day. “It’s a little different here. I’m hoping that he’s enjoying himself.”

“Our new assistant is from Spain,” says the teacher with a small, tired smile, batting her long eyelashes at you. “We had to pry him off her.”

You let out a laugh. “He misses his mum.”

“He’s extremely intelligent. He knew to speak Spanish to her and English to us.” Though your grasp of Spanish is near-fluent after such reluctance from your wife to try English, you know that the two-year-old has a talent for juggling the three languages he is growing up around. You’re proud of him. “You shouldn’t worry about him. And, speaking of, we have a parents’ coffee morning just around the corner. It’s always great for the parents to get along – it helps the school feel even more like a family. Will it just be you attending?” Nico’s teacher is around your age, and you can smell her rose perfume that mingles with the soft hint of ready-mixed paint. She has deep, brown eyes, and she is definitely flirting with you.

“Next week, right? I’ll have to check with my wife.”

It’s then that a toddler-sized hand grips your fingers and tugs. “Mama, me voy,” he groans; something akin to Alexia’s impatience. It reminds you of when you used to go shopping and she’d herd you out with the threat of getting in the car and driving away. “Venga.”

“One sec, sweetheart.” There are countless ways in which you miss Alexia. “My wife and I would love to come.”

Her smile does not falter on her lips, but there is a greyish disappointment that dulls the warmth of her irises. You smile as you turn your back and lead Nico to the car. You are so excited for Alexia to complete the broken puzzle.

You melt when she kisses the heart drawn onto her hand when celebrating her goal. Nico copies her, lips pursing and sloppily mimicking the action on a similar heart. “For you, sweetheart,” you tell him as he settles back into your side, careful not to jostle Elena who has fallen asleep on your chest (the therapist did wonders for you).

“It was for you,” Jenni tells Alexia after the match. Her goal is now serving as the move Alexia feared she’d make. They have changed and been massaged and done the media the are required to do (women’s football is growing): they are free to roam Barcelona if they so wish.

Her flight is tomorrow evening – “I have a flight tomorrow evening.”

“Come over tonight.” It isn’t a question, yet it is not quite a command. Mapi passes the two of them, eyes narrowing at the way Jenni has wrapped her hand around Alexia’s wrist. The defender is aware that something is going on, though it breaks her heart to imagine Alexia ever doing that to you. Not knowing they are being watched, Alexia steps in; cups Jenni’s face, brushes her cheekbone with a stroke of her thumb Mapi knows is meant for her wife. Mapi’s stomach lurches. She feels sick.

“I need to…” It’s not a ‘no’. “Jenni.” She hates that it is not a ‘no’.

“Ale.” There’s a beat. Mapi blinks twice, shakes her head, and backs away. “I’ll miss you, you know?”

…

Jenni doesn’t seem to mind when, the next day, blurry pictures of you on a family outing make rounds through the tabloids she usually doesn’t read. The fact that, up until now, no one has known that your wife is Alexia Putellas has no effect on her. She was stupid for thinking the last six months meant something. Winning together, losing together. Sleeping together.

In this deal, Alexia has fucked over both women who love her. Except, you don’t know. She hasn’t told you, though Jenni had hoped for it secretly – hoped Alexia chose her – and it is obvious. Obvious to Jenni, who is well acquainted with the blonde hair in the wings of your concert at the O2. Obvious to Jenni, who refuses to think of herself as the other woman.

She consults Mapi.

Mapi, who she has come to shamefully realise already knows.

“I can’t believe the two of you.” The defender is clear in her distaste and disappointment and, honestly, her disgust. “But I am not going to be the one to break that poor girl’s heart.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

What is she asking? What does she want from this utterly useless conversation?

“Mapi.” Jenni closes her eyes, but she sees two faces instead of darkness. Nico. Elena. She’s Elena’s godmother. You decided that – convinced Alexia to choose her best friend over her younger sister, told your wife that there’d be another for Alba to corrupt. “Mapi, I love her. I don’t know what to do.”

“She loves her wife.” The next sentence proceeds to brutally remind Jenni who that isn’t. “Tell her you’re done. Find someone else. Anyone but her.”

That is Jenni’s resolve, because she knows that Mapi is right.

…

June, July, and August pass with bliss.

Everyone says that you are a beautiful couple with beautiful children. Alexia beams with pride as she flaunts her practised English, and gladly claims ownership of Nico when he wins a prize on speech day. Every child in Reception is awarded something but that doesn’t stop her from boasting.

She explores the country with the children while you shack up in the recording studio, and brings hugs and kisses (and Red Bull) every evening after dinner. The visits are what reminds you of the sun Alexia brings, especially as the warmth follows her from Barcelona and London is blessed with golden days. Dog days.

“This isn’t permanent.” Alexia looks up from her phone, comfortable in your bed. The house in Highgate has flecks of Spain woven into the decor now, and you like it that way.

You climb into the bed beside her, and her arm lifts so that you can snuggle into her chiselled stomach (wow, she has been working hard this season). “What’s Jenni saying?” you ask, following your statement and hoping you’ll get her attention. She presses her phone screen into the duvet before you can translate the message – it is too long of a paragraph for you to handle. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that this isn’t permanent.”

Alexia, over the past few months, has been the most affectionate, loving, amazing person with the same smile and giggle you married. You thought she had disappeared and was replaced with stern, career-focused Alexia Putellas, jugadora del fútbol. You were wrong.

“I’m thinking January is when we’ll come back. Nico’s English will survive.” Your parents are going travelling. They’ve never been on the Orient Express before. “I want to be with you.”

It is a good thing Jenni has just broken up with her.

“I love you,” you continue. “So much.”

Alexia hums. Her heart breaks, and she does not know for whom. “¿En serio?” She is happy, she thinks. Certainly, she is glad that the four of you will be reunited.

You are.

January 2022 ruins things for Jenni Hermoso. She calls Pachuca back.

#barca femeni #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso #fc barcelona #woso imagines #mapi leon #jenni hermoso #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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chiquititaosita · 4 months

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girl dad! geto x mom! reader

-literally cannot I MEAN CANNOT!!! Mimiko and Nanako LOVE THE BABY! Like not even joking they think of her as a baby doll.

- geto puts his little princess in braids and cute hairstyles because of post partum depression. He takes charge sometimes

-“what do I do? Why is it crying?” He asked a little worried. While baby girl yuikiko is throwing herself back and closing her fists as a newborn. She’s so hungry. The nurse explains everything to him. He takes it with a grain of salt.

-takes care of you during pregnancy and your postpartum journey

-the first diaper change is hilarious. “Oh my god!-“ hello covers his mouth gagging looking away as the baby laughs. Because she has a full poopy diaper.

-the twins just laugh, when geto struggles changing yukikos diaper. “Ah little flower is going to give me a hard time.” He mumbles.

-he doesn’t understand what breast milk is until you were legit breastfeeding. “Wait can I try some?” Mother fucker inhaled that shit because it was pleasing to the tongue. puts it in his protein shake 😭

-if you feel insecure about your new mom body he’s not going to be the type of husband that says “fuck get over it.”

-he keeps on admiring your body, like when y’all had y’all’s first time together. “I have so much more respect for you now [y/n]..” he’ll whisper

-one time you came home from work watching the twins, the baby and Suguru all fall asleep, luckily the baby was alive and breathing well. Even sleeping in the portable bassinet around the house.

-is so proud that yukikos first word is mama but when he hears dada he goes feral crying. It’s giving “I’m not crying you are!”

- he is willing to teach his girls his techniques in order to defend themselves when geto is not present.

- now he calls y’all’s daughter a monkey “y/n! this damn monkey baby is putting things it’s in mouth!”

-(when the baby learns to pull hair he regrets it) “okay okay I’m sorry it’s a her my bad!!” 💀

- like fr though he loves your daughter even when she eats her food in nothing but a diaper and strapped in a high chair because she’s exploring taste and texture

-“I’m gonna protect you from everything that’ll potentially and will put you in danger on your mama.”

- one time he let gojo babysit it did not end well (he lost her by almost sealing her with another curse because he wasn’t watching her while she was crawling around) 😭😭

- the baby is very much a daddy’s girl so whatever baby girl wants baby girl gets

-also he holds your hand while holding the baby when she gets her ears pierced. (He shedded more tears than the baby) then the baby was fine after she was given a bottle of milk.

-“she’s fine?”

-the baby tries to hit Suguru for no damn reason ON PURPOSE (when she’s a bit older and can move her arms during that development)

-“OW SHE BIT ME!” the twins will laugh

-the twins will try to feed the baby baby food but wanna watch the baby feed herself.

-“ why is yukiko eating her foot?”

-“ask y/n”

-“why is yukiko eating her foot?”

-“I think she discovered it”

-he’s there for every milestone and trying to record it.

-lots of pictures and videos of the baby with the girls and you.

-when the baby is tired and screaming crying, and you’re not there singing to her. Suguru discovered his singing soothes the baby (regardless if it sounds bad on purpose or not) or if he sings bad lmao

-and geto would never want anything to change because he loves his little family

#⋆˚✿˖° osita’s chisme time #dad!geto suguru x reader fluff #ˏˋ ╎ ⁀➷ osita chisme time ´ˎ˗#jjk headcanons #jjk imagines #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader fluff #suguru geto #jjk x reader #⍣ ೋ osita’s loves #jjk x y/n #jjk x poc!reader #jjk x latina! reader #jjk x black reader #bears chisme♡︎#jjk masterlist #˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ositas jjk masterlist

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heavyhitterheaux · 5 months

Text

Baby Blues

First Lady of Private Garden Fic

AN: mature topic ahead, mentions of postpartum depression

Synopsis: The two of you are at odds once again, and deep down, Jack knows that there is something wrong with his wife but can't figure out what it is. He makes it his mission to get down to the bottom of it in order to help you.

Pairing: Husband!Jack Harlow x Wife!Reader

The full fic to this concept

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

You massaged your temples as you sat down on your bed finally able to take a breather. All three babies had been officially home for two months and instead of it getting easier, you felt as if it was getting harder. Jack had been sent to the store by you to get more formula since your milk supply hadn't been that great lately. Probably due to the fact that you were barely eating, but that was another conversation.

The hope was that they would at least sleep for two hours so that you could lay down yourself, but you knew that it probably wouldn’t work out in your favor. You and Jack were still at odds and it would be sometimes awkward with both of you at home with the triplets which was 98% of the time. After almost losing you, that definitely took a toll on him, but the two of you would still argue about unnecessary things that wouldn't matter twenty four hours later.

In your mind you were trying your absolute hardest while trying to recover from having them since it hadn't been anything but easy. At this point, you didn't want to divorce him. Possibly legal separation, but the thought of divorcing him completely had never crossed your mind. Despite what had gone on in your marriage, at the end of the day you still loved him and couldn't see yourself living without him.

The front door opened indicating that Jack was back and you soon heard his footsteps as he made his way upstairs. He peeked in your bedroom and saw you sitting on the bed and staring off into space.

He leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead and you gave him a weak smile.

“You feel okay, today?” He asked as he sat down next to you, but you just shrugged.

“I don't know. I just…” You got quiet and didn’t finish your sentence.

“Baby, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.” Jack replied as he grabbed your hand to place in his.

“I don't need any help. I'm fine.”

“Y/N, why are we doing this again? You're shutting me out and I'm trying to understand what is happening with my wife.”

“Hmm, so now you want to try and understand? You weren't concerned with how I felt basically the entire year in 2022 so why now?”

“I already apologized for that and I thought we moved past that.”

“Who moved past it? Because I didn't.”

“Why do we ALWAYS do this?” Jack exclaimed while throwing his hands up towards you, but all you did was attempt to put your excuse of hair into a ponytail because you didn’t know the last time you actually brushed it.

“We always don’t do anything, you brought it up so I answered your question.” You fired back while looking at the two mismatched socks on your feet.

“I’m trying here so the least you can do is cut me some slack!”

“Jackman, if this is what you call trying to at least attempt to act like you care about this marriage, this is one hell of a poor job.”

“Here we fucking go. Don’t you think that if I wanted a divorce or to separate from you that I would have done it already?” Jack asked and you could tell he was immediately filled with regret as his eyes went wide and all you did was stare at him.

“There’s still time to go to the courthouse today if that’s your heart’s desire since it’s only eleven in the morning. But let’s be serious I saved your fucking image because come the fuck on, I could have thrown your ass under the bus. No matter how you mistreated me and put your wife, someone that you gave your last name to on the back burner, I still did right by you. As much shit as you did and it wasn’t a secret, it got played out for the entire world to see but yet, I never spoke bad about you ONE TIME. Because as much as you constantly give me headaches, I love you and I do want to save this marriage. But if I’m the only one trying then fuck it. The one thing that really sticks out in my mind is when I actually did fight Anitta and you didn’t even ask me if I was okay, not once. Despite how she had acted towards me ever since she met me. I told you how I felt about her and all you did was ignore me in order to try and boost your career. The career that I helped you create, but whatever.” You simply shrugged your shoulders and tried to walk past Jack, but he caught your wrist and lightly tugged on it.

Deep down, he knew that he had been difficult towards you and it had been hard to process his emotions and Jack did feel some type of way about how he had treated you. He broke the one promise to you when you told him not to ever forget where he came from or the people that helped him get to where he was, but now he had done the exact opposite and the fame had got to his head.

It took him hearing it from his mother to finally realize it

“Y/N…. wait a second.”

All you did was turn to look up at him and let out a deep sigh.

“I promise to do better and do right by you….. And them. I’m sorry I just…. I know for a fact that I have to be better about expressing how I feel towards you and a few months ago, I thought that I was going to lose you forever. Please don’t ever think that I don’t love you because I do. I love you more than life itself and just for the past year I haven’t been the best husband that I could be and want to get back in your good graces and fix this. I’m tired of us fighting and we have three little ones that don’t need to grow up in a dysfunctional household. You know for a fact that divorce would never be an option for me on my end. I was serious when I asked you to marry me at nineteen and I’m still serious now.”

“It’s not just us anymore and they should always be your first thought.” You quietly said as you could hear through the baby monitor that they were awake.

“I’ll…. Go make an appointment with Fatima after I check on them.”

The two of you had been seeing a marriage counselor named Fatima and you could tell that she was genuine and also wanted the best for the two of you.

“That sounds like a good idea.” You quietly answered as you simply hugged yourself in your pink oversized sweater that Jack bought you years ago, not bothering to make eye contact with him.

“We’re going to get through this, baby. One step at a time.” Jack quietly said as he leaned down to kiss your forehead.

All you did was nod in response as you sat down on the bed and simply stared off into space.

Jack simply sighed as tears pricked the corners of his eyes as he walked out of your shared bedroom and was on his way to the triplets room when he pulled out his phone to do a quick google search.

He knew that something was wrong.

What are the signs of postpartum depression?

Insomnia.

Fatigue.

Poor appetite.

Mood swings.

Irritability.

As Jack kept reading the symptoms on the list, just about every one of them he had seen in you over the past month and he was kicking himself for not noticing sooner.

You were hurting and he was simply adding to it which was the last thing that he would have ever wanted to do. After checking on the triplets, he would text Fatima and look more into getting you help for this because this had to be the only explanation for what was going on with you. After coming home, you had been so happy and now it seems like a switch went off and you were the complete opposite. Jack quickly wiped away his tears before making his way into the triplets room to see Axel wide awake and staring at him. He quickly picked him up and cuddled him closer to his chest.

“Axel, I have to figure out what's going on with your mother and get her the help that she needs. I want for her to be able to see the three of you grow up, but if she keeps going how she is right now, that might not happen. I'm trying to be a better husband and a good father to you three, but I don't think I'm doing such a good job.” He quietly confessed as he brought him downstairs in order to make a bottle for him.

As he waited for it to heat up, he saw you come into the kitchen and attempted to take Axel from him. But you quickly heard his protests.

“Baby, go lay down. I got them. You're tired.”

“I'm fine. I can feed him.”

“Y/N, please just listen to me. Did you even sleep at all last night? You aren't fine.” Jack asked as you looked away from him and he knew that he had his answer.

“I need for you to rest. Don’t worry about them.”

“But…”

“Please don't argue with me. I know when my wife is tired.”

“Okay.” You quietly said as you made your way back upstairs.

When Jack had woken you up by kissing yojr forehead, it was starting to get dark outside and as you sat up in bed you simply sighed.

“Baby, come on. I ran bath water for you.” Jack didn't wait for a response as he grabbed your hand and led you into the bathroom and began to help you take off your clothes.

You glanced down at your scar across your abdomen and quickly looked away. It was still hard for you to look at seeing that you almost lost your life.

Jack helped you sit down in the bathtub and kissed your cheek and made sure you were settled.

“I'll get some clothes for you to wear and put them out on the bed and I'll order you some food. Wing Stop okay?”

You nodded your head as Jack left the bathroom, but he made sure to keep the door cracked in order to be able to hear you if you needed him. Ten minutes had probably passed before the tears started streaming down your face and they wouldn't stop no matter how hard you tried.

You were trying to stay quiet so that Jack wouldn't hear you, but he did once he had heard a loud sob. He immediately stopped what he was doing to go in the bathroom to check on you and the sight in front of him broke his heart.

“Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Did something happen?”

At this point your knees were to your chest as your head was resting on top of them and your arms were hugging your legs as you continued to sob.

“Jack…” You started to say before letting out another sob.

“Yes? Baby, you're scaring me. Tell me what's wrong.” He asked again as he was now sitting on the side of the tub next to you.

“That's the problem! I don't know! I'm so sad all the time. Why do I feel like this?”

“We're going to get you help. Whatever I have to do I'm going to make sure that my wife is okay.”

“Do you promise?” You asked in a whisper as you turned to look at him.

“I promise. You aren't going to feel like this forever if I have anything to do with it. I want you to get back to being your happy bubbly self. I haven't left your side since you got pregnant and I'm not leaving now. We're going to get through this.” Jack told you as he brushed some of your hair out of your face that had fallen out of the ponytail.

You nodded as Jack grabbed the Mielle shampoo that you used for your hair and began to massage it through your scalp. He didn't even know the last time you had washed it and figured that he would do it for you so that it was one less thing that you had to worry about.

As Jack washed your hair for you and conditioned it, your thoughts were running rampant. The last thing you wanted was to feel like this and you wanted to be the best possible mother to the triplets. You deserved it and they deserved it with as hard as it was bringing them into this world and all that you went through.

After he had rinsed out your hair, he grabbed an old t-shirt to wrap around it in order for it to be able to dry as he helped you out of the bathtub. Once he did and you were facing him, he leaned down to place several kisses on your lips which you gladly accepted.

“I love you and you’re going to be okay. We're going to be okay.” He whispered and you immediately nodded.

“I love you too.”

“Let me help you get dressed so I can finish your hair for you. You want me to blow dry it or let it air dry?”

“Blow dry it, please.”

“The Harlow salon is officially in business.” Jack said and you couldn’t help but to let out a small laugh.

Once Jack had finished your hair for you and putting it up, he made sure that you ate and the two of you were now sitting against the headboard in your bedroom as he was flipping through channels on the TV. You simply went and laid your head on his chest as his arms wrapped around you and leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

“Thank you for being here for me today.” You quietly said and you hugged him tighter.

“You don't have to thank me. You're my baby and your well being is important to me. I'm always going to make sure that you're okay and I’m sorry that it took me so long to notice.”

“Notice what?”

“That my wife was hurting. You have postpartum depression, baby. I looked it up and you have almost every single symptom.”

“Oh.”

“At least we know now what's wrong and we can do what we need to do in order to get you help. You mean everything to me even though I haven't been the best at showing it. But I'm going to do better for you and them.”

You hadn't even looked up the symptoms of it, but was going to take Jack’s word for it.

“I just want to feel better and be a good mom.”

“You will feel better and you're already a good mom. You just need a little help right now and that's okay. This is more common than you think, but it's not going to be like this forever.”

“What if we have more kids and this happens again?”

“We don't need to worry about that right now. Let's just focus on getting through this first.”

You nodded your head in agreement as you turned your focus to the television and you started hearing small whimpers on the baby monitor. You made a motion to get up and Jack immediately tried to stop you.

“Babe, I can…”

“I got it. You let me rest a little bit and I feel better.”

“Are you sure?”

“Promise. I'm fine. Like you said it won't be like this forever.”

A few months later, you were sitting backstage with the triplets and Jack was due to perform along with a few other artists and he made it up in his mind that he wanted all of you to come with him. Ivy and Autumn were crawling around on their playmat with their toys while Axel was in your arms sleeping as you heard the door open and he walked in.

He leaned down to kiss you while also kissing Axel's forehead as he sat on the floor and both of the girls crawled over to him.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” He asked as he was making faces at Ivy who was laughing.

“We're fine babe for the millionth time.” You responded while laughing and checking the time on your phone.

“Just making sure!” He said as he held up his hands in defense.

Jack made sure to block off a room backstage specifically for you and the triplets. Urban would pop in from time to time to check on you too so that way they wouldn't be overwhelmed with all of the noise. There was a screen in the room so that you along with the babies would be able to watch Jack’s performance.

“Aren't you supposed to be getting dressed?”

“I had to check on my wife and babies first. Yall are my priority. They can wait.”

Just then Urban stuck his head in the door and was looking at the both of you.

“Neelam is going to murder you in the next two minutes if you don't hurry up.”

“Tell her I'm coming!”

“That's what she said.” You muttered before busting out laughing and Jack and Urban just shook their heads at you.

“And you call me the unserious one.”

“But you are!”

“You know this is the first time in a while that I've gotten a genuine smile out of you.” Jack said while getting up and coming to sit next to you.

“And I have you to thank for that.” You said as you adjusted Axel in your arms.

“Just doing my husband duties. We're in this for the long run, baby.”

“And I wouldn't have it any other way.” You replied as Jack leaned down to kiss you, but was interrupted by Axel waking up and giving him a look.

“I… Axel fix your face. Your mom was mine first.” Jack exclaimed as you laughed at the face he was making at Jack.

Axel continued to stare him down before closing his eyes again and laying his head back down.

“You know you can't get mad. He is literally you in a baby's body. But back to what I was saying. You saved me in more ways than one so thank you smush.” You said as you leaned over to kiss him again.

“You're welcome, baby girl. If it's for you I'm going to do it without a second thought.”

Liked by jackharlow, urbanwyatt, danivalentine, generationnow, sza, theshaderoom, and 1,592,006 others

y/ninsta: jackharlow said today is the first time in a while that he got a genuine smile out of me, so I had to take a selfie. Postpartum depression is real, and I thank my husband from the bottom of my heart for recognizing what I was going through and that I needed help. I love this life that I get to live with him and my babies 💕

jackharlow: always in your corner, baby. forever and always.

urbanwyatt: SERVING LOOKS 😍😍

danivalentine: jackharlow thank you for taking care of my baby girl. she is so loved by you and everyone else around her. 🥹

saweetie: love you mamas and we always got your back

Comments on this post have been limited

#jack harlow #jack harlow fic #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow x black reader #jack harlow fanfic #jack harlow angst #jack harlow fluff #jack harlow fanfiction #jack harlow imagine

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valtsv · 5 months

Note

top 5 favourite characters in the silt verses and why you like them?

VAL - i have a whole tag for her so i'm not even going to bother trying to condense my feelings for her further

Carpenter - ironically, i first started to fall in love with her after listening to her monologue about how people will refuse to allow you agency in your aromanticism because of their own insecurities and resentment that you rejected them (that they werren't special). every episode since i've fallen in love with her a little more. she's a loser. she's a serial killer. she doesn't give a shit what you think. she cares, not even that deep down, so goddamn much that it's killing her. she can't just let things happen because "that's just the way things are". i understand why she has actual gods fighting over her, let alone people. if i was friends with mallory carpenter i would be so obnoxious about it. which is why - apart from the fact that she's not real - i'm not.

Paige - you can't really get more "put your money where your mouth is" than birthing a whole entire god in a misguided but well-intentioned attempt to fight injustice and provide victims with a materially achievable means of fighting back against their oppressors. i love transfems experiencing postpartum depression and infanticidal urges towards their own horrifying god-child they regret bringing into the world.

Katabasian Greve - i love schemers i love people who take advantage of every hand they're dealt i love manipulators who let other people do their dirty work for them before stepping in to reap the rewards i love leaders who lie and backstab and ruthlessly cut a path through anyone who stands in their way, foe and follower alike. i know she and mason had THE craziest gossip seshes.

Gage - i didn't really think that much of them until they started questioning their life's purpose outside of being bonded to their sister by a combination of trauma and complicity, culminating in a necessarily violent separation, but goddamn. cain and abel who?

#the silt verses

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archangeldyke-all · 4 months

Text

masterlist 4

holy shit?!

ceo sev having a wet dream about you 💼

adhd reader

sevika helping black reader do her hair

bottom masc reader (sev breaks the headboard hehe)

more anal hcs hehe

sev helping reader with chest dysphoria

roach verse-- jinx brings home a stray

reader with vitiligo

fake dating eeek!!

pregnant reader and sev say goodbye to the old house 👶

sleep talker reader

sev forgets her tits

argument sex with cowboy sev 🤠

treating butch sev like a girl

insecure virgin reader first time with sev

princess sevika knight reader 👑

princess sevika trying to strip knight reader 👑

sevika getting chubbier

fixing her hair

the notes in sevika's lunches

sweetheart reader

club mom reader and sevika post-fight club hookup

ceo sev sees you in her shirt 💼

calling sev pretty boy

first time with trans sev

cuddle headcanonsss

sevika using your butt as a pillow hehe

adhd reader using sev as a bodydouble

getting spitroasted by ran and sevika ⚔

masturbating in plug sev's passenger seat 🍃

matching bracelets

introducing her to skincare

coming home with a puppy

little fucker's wedding 👶

u and ran fucking while sevika's on the phone ⚔

random hcs

bookworm reader

princess sev gets jealous over knight reader 👑

more random hcs

reader with postpartum depression 👶

arranged marriage between princess sev and princess reader 👑

reader who's scared of getting sick

sev gets turned on by infodumping reader

butch reader!!

some slayer hcs 🐕

the night after your royal arranged marriage 👑

trans sevika getting her first bj

reader who crochets

sev's fave petnames

sevika and little fucker go to the daddy daughter dance 👶

sevika tries online dating

sevika keeping people from touching ur pregnant belly 👶

comforting crying sevika

sevika has a dream where you cheat

little fucker being a little fucker 👶

sev helps drunk reader take off her makeup

sensitive butch reader

riding princess sevika on her throne 👑

reader with mobility aids

butch reader carrying sevika to bed

sev giving reader birthday head

touch starved reader

reader with a goofy laugh

bringing butch blue collar sevika her forgotten lunchbox

coming out as non-binary to sevika

ceo sev accidentally eats pot brownies 💼

little fucker on the little farm 💐

reader with acne

transfem flirty anxious reader

u and sev being whiskey aunts

how sev lights your cig

your parents regretting arranging you and sev's royal marriage 👑

fake hating each other

flirty anxious transfem reader and sev's first time

sev caring for u when you r sick

calling sev pretty girl

aftercare with ran and sev⚔

golden retriever masc x sev

reader cussing out silco for overworking sev

sev taking the strap hehe

silco meets little fucker 👶

great outdoors reader

sev making chubby reader understand how much she loves u

fall lover reader

sevika helping you gain weight

ride or die reader

pregnant sev!! 👶

how u and sev react to little fucker making out with her gf 👶

helping little fucker with her math homework👶

sev showing off shuffling tricks

divorced sev and reader dating again 👶

how the twins like to cuddle 👶

sevika loves to fish

pt reader and boxer sev pt. 3

divorced sev and reader moving in together :) 👶

bouncer sevika carrying reader home

fucking sevika in both holes

lactation kink with sevika breastfeeding

werecat sevika

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #sevika smut

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flowerandblood · 7 months

Text

Object of Desire (Epilogue)

[ dark • Aemond x Arryn • widow female ]

[ warnings: sex content, breastfeeding kink, smut, angst, domination, swearing, mention of postpartum depression ]

[ description: After a difficult childbirth and finding out what kind of man her late husband was, Aemond finally finds the strength to truly understand his wife. Their life becomes peaceful and successful until Aegon is seriously injured in battle and he is proclaimed Prince Regent. The female character has a specific eye and hair color. ]

Part 1 − Object of Desire Part 2 − Object of Despair Part 3 − Object of Delight

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

For as long as he could remember, the image of himself with Aegon the Conqueror's crown placed on his head had flashed through his mind. He had never thought of depriving his elder brother of the throne, but they both knew that he was better suited to the role.

However, now, as his King lay in his chamber, with burns that caused him so much pain that they made it impossible for him to move, let alone rule the kingdom, when he was proclaimed Prince Regent, the weight of the steel pressing down on his forehead and temples seemed to overwhelm him.

His wife stood beside him, seated on the Iron Throne − she was showing her allegiance to him by wearing on her neck and fingers the sapphire jewels, necklaces and rings he had given her, her gown as usual in the colours of her lineage, blue.

He knew that she did not desire rich, shiny gifts, and his presents were not intended to satisfy her vanity − never able to express his feelings and thoughts aloud, he preferred to show his respect and affection towards her in this way, and she accepted it with calmness and gratitude.

She paid tribute to him as the last person to stand in front of his throne − she bowed and wanted to kneel, but he stopped her with a gesture of his hand, ordering her to stand up.

He did not stop her when she approached him, when her hand grasped his, when she lifted it to her lips and kissed it reverently, closing her eyes.

He swallowed loudly, stroking her smooth skin with his thumb, feeling like just grabbing her around the waist and placing her on his lap, the way he would if they were alone in his chamber.

She moved away from him, looking at him with peace − a certainty, a pride that made him feel a warm contentment, something in her violet eyes that always reassured him.

She was his ally.

Not his grandfather's, his mother's, or his brother's.

His.

The mother of his heir.

His wife.

After the ceremony, a council was gathered, led by him, to determine what to do about the situation in Harrenhal, besieged for some time by Daemon. He did not allow his wife to leave the chamber, pointing with his hand to the seat on his right hand that would normally be occupied by his mother. His sire accepted this with humility, allowing his wife to take the seat next to him, herself sitting down next to Ser Criston.

Silence fell.

"How long do we have to tolerate Daemon flying around the kingdom threatening to take the crown from my brother? He laughs in our faces, occupying a stronghold so close to the Eyrie." He said coolly, his voice deep and defiant, certain. He heard his wife draw in a deep breath upon hearing the name of her ancestral fortress, lowering her gaze to her fingers.

His grandfather grunted loudly, twisting in his seat with a quiet creak of wood, looking at the faces of those gathered with a raised eyebrow.

"In my opinion, Prince Daemon wants to provoke you, Your Grace. It is obvious that his target is King's Landing. In my opinion, Harrenhal is a small price to pay to keep the capital, let him hold this fortress if he so desires."

"Harrenhal is the bridge between the North and the South. Daemon will burn Lord Arryn's army if he chooses to come to our call." He replied impatiently, Criston Cole grunted loudly, eager to make his point.

"There is only one King. Prince Daemon must be reminded of that." He said coldly, looking at him intensely, ready to rally their entire army at one sign of his. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his wife, who was looking at him with a gaze he knew well.

As always, she was letting him decide if he wanted to hear what she had to say.

He nodded at her, allowing her to speak.

"You are the rider of the greatest dragon in the kingdom, my king. You must remain in King's Landing. The Red Keep, unlike the Eyrie, can be conquered. Prince Daemon is just waiting for this. I'm certain that when he hears that you are heading in his direction with his army he will join his wife and they will march here together. Blockade of my uncle's army will still be a lesser loss." She said calmly, looking at her hands, his grandfather nodded, his face expressing surprise and some kind of admiration.

"Your wife speaks with great wisdom, Your Grace, and I agree with her completely." He said, and he looked away, hitting the side of his cheek with the tip of his tongue, thinking intensely about what she had said.

What if he does indeed move on Harrenhal, and finds only an empty fortress with children, old men and women?

What if Daemon humiliates him, tricks him like a little child hoping he'll swallow his bait, and attacks the Red Keep along with his half-sister knowing he won't make it back in time?

"Forgive me, my Lady, however, idleness is the domain of women, not men." Criston Cole hissed, but fell silent, swallowing hard, his lips pressed together as he met his warning gaze.

"You mistake idleness for wisdom and caution, my Lord. Like many men before you." His wife replied, and he clenched his fingers on the base of his nose and closed his eyes, sighing impatiently.

"Enough." He ordered, a tense silence fell around him, his wife looked away − he could see the vein pulsing fast on her slender, long neck, her cheeks red, betraying her annoyance.

"Mother." He turned to her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, as he always did, reckoning with her opinion. He saw her swallow hard, picking at the cuticles around her fingernails in a nervous gesture, her big brown eyes filled with fear, uncertainty and dread.

"I think it's a trap, Aemond. Daemon is clever, he lives to mock others. He's always been this way."

He sighed quietly, feeling that despite his deep desire to lead his army to victory, there was much right in the doubts of his wife, grandfather and mother − when his anger and desire to prove himself began to give way to common sense he recognised that indeed if he left the Red Keep, his half-sister would take the opportunity.

"Let our spies continue to watch him and report his doings to us. We should think about luring him out of there somehow. Is there any news from the Iron Islands?" He asked, Lord Lannister nodded and grunted loudly.

"Yes. They agree to a set sum. They will stand against the Velaryon fleet at our call. However, they demand that their independence from the crown be upheld." He said quickly, nervously, adding the last sentence as if on the fly, clearly afraid of his reaction. He sighed heavily and merely nodded.

Their discussion continued for a few more hours, touching on the army, its supplies and the state of the soldiers' morale, their attitudes, whether an agreement could be reached with Lord Baratheon to remain neutral in exchange for the seat on the Small Council that his grandfather had offered in place of his own, knowing that it was his decision that had caused the betrothal to his daughters to be broken off.

When he had heard all he wished he closed the council by dismissing everyone but his wife.

She looked at him with her characteristic composure, watching as he removed Aegon the Conqueror's crown from his head and placed it with reverence on the top of the stone table in front of him. He gazed at its steel surface thoughtfully, tapping the tip of his finger against it, each time causing it to make a quiet clink.

"All my life I have thought about this moment. But it's not how I imagined it." He said finally, his voice impassive and tired. He heard her sigh quietly with understanding, looking down at his hands.

"I know."

They were silent for a moment, hearing only the sounds coming from outside the windows, the loud conversations of guards and servants shouting in the courtyard.

"They'll think I'm a craven." He hissed through clenched teeth, feeling uncertainty and frustration rising in his chest − he sensed that she looked at him, her hand tightening on his, as if she wanted to give him the courage to do the right thing.

"He knows this is what you fear most. He'll laugh and mock that you're afraid to face him, but we both know he'll do it because he hopes it will break you. Don't let him dictate to you the terms of when and where you will face each other. It's humiliating." She said with a certainty from which he felt a squeeze in his throat and closed his eyes for a moment, his thumb running over her soft skin.

"I'm expecting your child."

He shuddered, looking at her with his lips parted in disbelief, his heart began to pound hard at the thought that just a month after she'd given birth to his son, despite their shared promises, he'd come deep inside her when he'd made love to her, unable to stop himself, her hands clenched tightly on his bare buttocks, her sweet moans begging for his seed.

How could he deny her?

"Forgive me." He whispered in a trembling voice, thinking of the nightmare she'd endured, of how long she'd been unable to recover from it, how close she'd come to leaving this world. He heard her hum under her breath as she smiled softly, shaking her head.

"No. It is a good omen. A sign from the gods that they favour you." She replied, looking at him as if she was the one who wanted to comfort him, his fingers intertwined with hers. "I think this time will be different. I already know what to expect and that I can count on your support, my King."

He nodded, lifting her hand to his lips, placing a loud, lingering kiss on her smooth skin.

"They have taken pity on me, sending me you as my wife. My Queen." He muttered, drawing her close to him, gripping her waist, seating her comfortably on his lap, leaning against the back of his chair with a quiet sigh, gazing at her familiar, pleasant figure with tenderness.

She smiled warmly at his words, taking his face in her hands, stroking it with her thumbs. He closed his eyes, letting his body loosen, feeling sleepy and tired even though his manhood clearly expressed its pleasure at her closeness, swelling in his breeches.

"I will order a meal to be prepared for you and brought to your chamber. You have hardly eaten or slept for days."

"Mmm." He hummed, satisfied, as always, that she was watching him, that she knew what he needed without asking him unnecessary questions.

While this would surely have caused his frustration with another woman, her initiative didn't bother him; on the contrary, it made his daily life a lot easier, giving him the feeling that he didn't have to think of everything himself.

She was the one who decided what attire he should wear for what occasion, what they would eat for their morning meal, knowing what he liked most. To his satisfaction, she also found herself in the role of mother, establishing a close bond with their son, Jace's attachment to her and how joyfully he reacted to the sight of her made her eager to hold him in her embrace, letting him watch her feed him in the evenings.

His greatest weakness, as he found out, proved to be not the lack of his eye or control over his fiery temper, but the taste of her milk melting across his palate as his son slept peacefully at night with his belly filled with her food.

He clamped his mouth over her swollen, puffy nipples, sucking on them greedily as his fat cock thrust impatiently into her slick interior, teasing with its tip the spot inside her that made her moan shamelessly with pleasure.

"− my King −" She sobbed sweetly with her thighs spread wide, letting him pound into her with deep, fast pushes, purring with pleasure into the skin of her breasts, swallowing loudly her wonderful nectar. His sound vibrated through her entire body making her walls clench against him greedily, squeezing him, his thumb teasing and trailing around her pearl, making her fingers dig helplessly into his naked, sweaty back.

"− this is a meal worthy of the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, don't you think? − my wife's sweet, warm milk −" He murmured, running the tip of his nose over her nipple only to move his face to her other breast, repeating the same process, justifying his behaviour by the fact that he knew the excess milk was causing her pain and discomfort, and he couldn't imagine it going to waste.

"− yes − it's all yours − f-fuck −" She muttered, tilting her head back, her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders with his low groan as he felt her core begin to pulse around his manhood in orgasm, squeezing his seed out of him.

He didn't have the strength to resist and just filled her with himself, sighing in relief, licking her nipple with the tip of his tongue, as oversensitive as the rest of her body − she whimpered, trying to push him away but he wouldn't let her, busy with sucking her milk until she calmed down.

"− Aemond, please − oh gods −" She mumbled softly, completely absorbed in her fulfilment, panting heavily. He remained deep inside her, leaning on his elbow, not wanting to crush her with his body, remembering in the back of his mind about the baby in her womb.

"− what is it? − my wife is overwhelmed? − impossible −" He sneered with a grin of satisfaction − since it appeared that his attention to her breasts aroused not only him, she was soaking wet for him, her fulfilment approaching quickly and violently, making her body completely vulnerable and limp, as if she herself was shocked by how intense the sensation was.

"− I didn't even notice when you filled me again, my King − I'm inclined to think you're drawing satisfaction from my pleasure −" She cooed with a sweet smile, from which he chuckled under his breath, leaning towards her − her hand pulled him closer as their lips joined in a hot, sticky, soft kiss, her swollen breasts pressed against his chest.

He ran the tip of his nose over hers, looking into her eyes, a violet he adored − the shade of her irises slightly darker than his, warmer, shimmering wonderfully in the moonlight illuminating their bed.

He wanted to confess to her the many things that did not slip through his throat, the affection that filled his heart with heat, yet he remained silent, looking at her with a gaze she knew well. She always reacted the same way, her soft hand stroking his jaw as only two words came out of her mouth, spoken in a whisper.

"I know."

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