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l1tw1ck · 9 months

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Neighbors

bottom!ftm Miguel x top!male reader

🕷️Word Count: 2,321🕷️

[Part Two] | AFAB Language Used

Alternate Universe: Miguel has a daughter

im very not normal about this man

CW: Drunk Sex, Size Kink, Dom/Sub, Oral, Face Fucking, Cum Swallowing, Daddy Kink, Bathroom Sex, Squirting, Creampie

The neighbors invited you over for a housewarming party and you decided to go. They offered free wine and an assortment of baked goods and other foods, of course you went. What you weren't expecting, was to see your crush and neighbor, Miguel. You’ve known him for a pretty long time and you assumed he wouldn't be here. You wonder what, or who, convinced him.

“Hey, Miguel. I'm surprised to see you here.” You walk over to him.

“Oh, I wasn't going to come but..” He laughs. “Gabi told me she wants me to meet someone new and give her a little sibling. She's so adamant on it but she doesn't even know how it works. The first time she asked, she didn't mention a partner but I told her I don't want any more kids if I don't have one. One little rascal is enough.” He shakes his head. “Now she's obsessed with finding me a husband.”

“What does Gabriella think of me?” You ask.

Miguel’s thankful you can't tell he’s blushing. “Well, she's really fond of you…She said she'd like the two of us to…to be together.”

“Yeah? That's good. It's nice that the daughter of the father I'm pursuing is rooting for me.”

He feels his heart beating faster. “The father you're…pursuing?”

“You heard me.”

“You- you don't have to. Pursue me. I…” He looks down at his feet then back at you. “I already want you.”

“If that's the case, why don't we go to my place and make baby number two?” You chuckle.

“Take me on a date first, player.” He laughs.

“I’d love to. Are you free tomorrow night? What do you think about going out drinking? There's a nice bar around here that serves food.”

“Well, luckily for you, Gabi’s having a sleepover tomorrow. Why don't you pick me up at 8?”

“Sure thing. Wear something sexy.”

Miguel smirks. “Only if you wear a suit.”

“Deal.”

“Gabi, you're gonna be late!” Miguel stands in her doorway, hands on his hips while he watches her frantically pack her bag. She knows her friend won't mind if she comes later than expected but Miguel’s nagging is making her feel like she's gonna get crucified for being late.

“Calm down, papá!” She zips up her backpack and slips it on her shoulders.

“Come on, mija! Let’s go!” He hurries downstairs, Gabriella following closely behind.

“Why are you in such a rush?”

“I- Because your friend will be upset!” He puts on a pair of shoes that are easy to take off.

Gabriella stops and crosses her arms. “Liar.”

Miguel sighs. “I’m…I’m going on a date tonight.”

Her eyes widen. “Really?! With who?”

“...[Name].”

“Finally! I’ve been trying to get you two together for ages!”

Miguel laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, I need time to get ready.”

Gabi makes a face that resembles a certain fictional yellow sponge’s face. She looks very excited and veryy interested to find out all the details of your date. She’ll have to pester him about it tomorrow morning. Miguel will have to come up with a kid friendly retelling.

Miguel comes back home two hours before 8. The drive was only 30 minutes but he wanted to make sure he had plenty of time to get ready. He hasn't gone on a date in years, he’s so anxious.

He digs deep into his closet, pulling out a satin red dress he bought impulsively last year. He had nowhere to wear it but his friend convinced him to try it on and he loved the way he looked in it. He had to buy it, along with a matching pair of heels, just in case he got the opportunity to wear it. He internally thanks himself and his friend for their past decision as he slips it on. He admires himself in the mirror. You’re gonna love this. He searches for his unused pair of heels and puts them on. He struggles a little to walk but he’ll get used to it.

He walks over to his dresser and opens up a drawer, pulling out a makeup bag. He doesn't wear makeup much, he usually just covers up his eyebags, but he wants to look good for you today so he’ll try using the thankfully not expired makeup he has. He hopes you like it.

You wait outside Miguel’s door with a bouquet of red roses. Ah, first date jitters. You haven't felt like this in a while. Miguel opens the door. Fuck. He looks gorgeous.

“You look amazing, Miguel..” You look at him in awe.

“Thank you..” He smiles. “You clean up nice.”

“Why thank you.” You smile back and hand him the roses.

“These are beautiful.” He takes in the floral scent. “Let me put them in water.” He hurries inside and finds an empty vase. You wait patiently for him until he comes back.

“Your carriage awaits, my prince.” You wink, reaching your hand out. Miguel takes your hand and follows you to the car. “I figured getting a driver would be better, since we’ll both be drinking.” You open the car door. Miguel gets in and then you get in after him.

“I really feel like royalty now.” Miguel laughs.

“You should, because you are. Whenever I’m with you, I want you to feel like a prince. You deserve to be treated like royalty.”

Miguel looks at you, lovestruck.

“It might be too early to say this but…I love you, Miguel, and I’m always going to make sure you know that.”

“I love you too.” He’s smiling so much it hurts.

After about an hour and a half of drinking, the both of you are veryy drunk.

“Did you bring condoms?” Miguel asks, interrupting a previously wholesome conversation.

“...I didn't think you wanted to have sex already.”

He frowns. “Go buy some.”

“I- I can't.” You look at him sheepishly. “I actually tried to buy some at the stores near here and uh…they don't have my size.”

Miguel stares at you. You can almost see a loading symbol over his head. “You’re too small?”

“Oh, no, I’m too big.” You shake your head. “I’m not huge so I expected them to have my size in stock but I guess not. I had to order some online.”

He bites his lip. “Let me see.”

You smirk. “Are you just gonna look or do you want to give it a thorough examination?”

“I'm gonna suck your cock.” He says plainly and somehow also seductively.

“I’ll call an uber.”

Miguel pushes you against your front door and immediately starts kissing you. He was too impatient to wait any longer. He reaches for your crotch and starts groping you.

He pulls away from the kiss, a bit of his lipstick transferred to your lips. “I don't want you to treat me like a prince in bed. I want you to have control over me.”

“So you want to submit to me?”

He nods.

“Get on your knees.” You say as you unbuckle your belt and unzip your slacks. He immediately falls to his knees. You pull your boxers down, revealing your hard cock.

Miguel stares in awe. He opens up his mouth and tries to take all of you in his mouth.

“You’re so greedy, Miguel.” You chuckle, gripping his hair and pulling him away. He whines in dismay. “You want to suck my cock? Beg for it.”

“Ple- please! Please let me suck your cock, sir!”

“Good boy.” You let go of his hair. Miguel quickly swallows your length again, eagerly deep throating your fat cock and covering it in red lipstick stains. He definitely looks like he's enjoying himself, so much so that his underwear must be soaked in his slick. “I know you want to touch yourself, go ahead.”

Miguel quickly brings his hand underneath his dress and rubs his aching bottom growth through the lace fabric of his panties, moaning along your shaft.

“You look so beautiful like this.”

He whimpers. He loves to be praised. He looks into your eyes before speeding up, sucking you off even faster than before. He closes his eyes, getting into it. The feeling of your hot, thick shaft filling up his throat makes him so aroused. He could probably come just from sucking you off.

“Such a good slut for me…you really love my cock, don't you?”

If Miguel could purr, he would. You wrap your fingers in his hair and gently pull him away. He almost lets out a whine. “Can I fuck your face?”

“Oh God, please.” He nods.

You pull him forward, filling his mouth up with your cock, and start fucking his throat. He rolls his eyes back, lazily rutting his dick against his own hand. His eyes start to well up with tears of pleasure. “You’re such a good boy, Miguel, doing so well.” You lick your lips. Miguel moans, tears rolling down his cheeks. They mix with his eyeliner, causing black streaks to stain his face. He has no idea how sexy he looks right now.

“‘M gonna come–” You groan. “And you're gonna swallow it all, aren't you, baby?”

Miguel would nod if he could.

“Good.” You bring him all the way to the base of your cock and pump his mouth full of your load. He’s quick to swallow, happy to consume it all. You pull away and admire his wrecked face. “You’re so pretty..” You sigh lovingly. “Do you want to stay over?” You ask, pulling up your pants.

“Yeah…Just have to wake up early to pick up Gabi at 8.”

“No problem. You want a ride?” You ask. He nods softly. You help him onto his feet and take him to your bathroom.

“Let’s get cleaned up, hm?” You hold onto the straps of his dress, waiting for his permission to strip him.

“You’re not gonna fuck me?” He asks, frowning.

You chuckle at his drunken self. “Remember what I said? I'm sorry, baby, we can't.”

He pouts. “You said you wanted to give me a baby didn't you? Just breed me, already..”

“Oh sweetheart…” You take a piece of paper and get it wet then wipe off his makeup. “Let’s get married first, okay?”

He growls. He looks adorable. You pick him up and sit him down on the sink. You push his dress up. His lingerie is soaked. “At the very least, I’ll make you come, baby.” You pull his panties off.

“Nn- no…” He pulls on your tie. “Fuck me. And then- and then we'll elope-”

You laugh. “Didn't you say that I’m the one who's in charge? You're not being a very good boy..” You tsk.

“Please, Daddy.”

You sigh, swayed by his cuteness. “You win.” You slip two fingers inside him one by one. “You didn't make it a fair fight.” You slowly fuck him with your digits.

“Mm..” He bites his lip, enjoying the way your thick fingers feel inside of him. But he’d enjoy your cock way more. “Put it in, please~”

“Say it properly.”

“Please put your cock inside my pussy, Daddy.” He smiles cutely.

“Good boy.” You pull your fingers out and free your already hard cock. You slowly ease your length inside him, eyes trained on his face as you stretch out his cunt.

Miguel hisses in pain. You're big and it doesn't help that he hasn't had sex in over a decade. “Don't stop-” He moans. “‘S good- good pain-”

You lean into his neck and press soft kisses against it. You have to mentally restrain yourself from biting and marking him. “You’re doing good, baby, taking me so well.” You pull down the strap of his dress, freeing his breast and allowing you to grope it. He whimpers, rolling his head back as you reach deep inside of him. His eyes widen, a gasp leaving his lips as your cock brushes against his g-spot and sends a wave of pleasure up his body. He bites his lip as your cock moves in further and continues pleasing that area. “I’m all the way in, honey.” You go in to kiss him. He wraps his arms around your neck and joins in your passion, tongue dancing with yours.

He pulls away and looks at you with half lidded seductive eyes. “Fuck me.” He pauses. “Please.” He remembers his manners.

“That’s right, baby. You ask, not demand.” You smirk. You hold his waist and fuck him at a gentle pace. “God, you feel so good, baby…Fuck..”

For the first time tonight, despite the fact that it should've occurred earlier, Miguel feels embarrassed. But in a good way. He loves how pleased you look with his pussy.

“Does it hurt?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “‘S good, so good, Daddy.” He moans. You're so big that even with the slow pace you're fucking him at it feels amazing.

“Can I go faster?”

“Yes- please~”

You pick up the pace. “You’re gorgeous, Miguel.” You kiss his cheek. “So fucking gorgeous.”

He moans even louder. “Thank you- thank you, Daddy-” He gasps. “Gonna- gonna come– can I come?”

You groan in pleasure. “You’re such a good boy, Miguel, of course you can.” You stroke his t-dick, instantly dragging out his orgasm. He squirts on your cock, shaking heavily. You slow down before stopping. You’d definitely come if you kept going. Miguel moves his hips and before you can process what he's doing, you come. “Miguel..” You look at him.

He turns away from you. “‘M sorry..”

“We’re both drunk so I’ll forgive you just this once. Plus I’m more worried about you…I should buy you the morning after pill.” You pull out and pause, enamored by the way his pulsing cunt looks with your cum dripping out of it. You help him off the sink and onto his feet.

“Alright, let's clean up, hm?”

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months

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1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii x you

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idkfitememate · 1 month

Text

So anyway this is the newfound brain rot because I got to many ideas, not enough for a fic, but it’s gonna distract me from others so here we go lol-

(Also yeah Grandpa I’m in a manly mood)

Note from weeks later: Nah this bitch a fix tf-

“Tell me about my Дедушка*.”

Capitano looked down at the ginger with contempt. It was often now, since Dottore had let it slip - curse that bastard - that Tartaglia’s Grandfather was a Harbinger. Apparently the boy had been raised to think that great man was simply a lowly solider, not one of the most powerful men in Snezhnaya.

When he heard that, Capitano had never wanted to kill a family more.

They hid your legacy from their kids, how dare they keep living as thought they had any right!?-

He sighed.

The boy continued to bother the much larger man at any chance he got, borderline begging - or now was he? Maybe he crossed that line ages ago - the man to tell him anything about his grandfather.

War stories, tall tales, hell even DRINKING stories, the 11th would take any.

It wasn’t like his Grandfather wasn’t alive, Childe could leave the palace right now and go ask you, seeing as you lived with his family.

But what Childe wanted was to come home one day in a boisterous manner and shout at his parents:

“You LIED you FEINDS!!! How DARE YOU LIE to not only ME but the REST OF YOUR CHILDREN about their ГРАНДФАТЕР?!? And to YOU, ГРАНДФАТЕР, ALLOWED THEM TO LIE!!! How COULD YOU?!?”

But he held to much respect for both them and you, even if his father sent him off as thought sending his blood thirsty son to join the Fatui would do anything. It was like sending a polar bear to a penguins nest, he had no clue what his father was thinking.

No matter, because you were there, showing him moves and teaching him tricks and giving him tips. Though, he still felt a bit betrayed at the fact that you even hid the fact that you were one of the strongest men in Snezhnaya.

“You truly wish to know boy?” The sharp voice of his superior snapped Childe out of his head. A quick nod was enough to bring Capitano to a nearby chair and sit, Childe quickly following.

“He was brave, I can say that much… He was around before me and had made a name for himself long before I even dared touch the Fatui, let alone graced its ranks.”

Childe took in the information like a sponge, absorbing everything the man said.

“They called him Большой хищник Севера*, a powerful title I’m sure you can see. It is said that before his accident, he had not lost a single man in war or battle, but after, he only lost seven men, one of each nation.”

Childe looked on in wonder. Only seven men… in the entirety of his Harbinger career? He knew the Doctor could never account for that.

“Wait… his accident? Do you mean..?” “Yes, when he first received that scar across his face, marring it, that was the first time he lost a man, someone near and dear to him as I’ve heard. I was only then truly climbing the ranks when this happened… a pity. But he wore that scar, and his friend’s Vision, with pride.” Childe gaped.

“Wait, you mean to tell me that-“ “Yes, Tartaglia, that Vision he carries in his eye, as well as arm and ear, back and finger, even his heart, they all work. They are the last pieces of his closest comrades. He’d rather die than give them up, I’ve heard. Unfortunately the strain of using them forced him into retirement, but he comes when we call.”

Childe’s eyes widened as he screamed.

“WAIT THEY WORK?!?-“

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“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-“

Ajax looked on in awe at his Дедушка. The nearly ten foot tall giant of a man, with a full beard and furry body hair to boot had just pulled a huge fish out from beneath the ice sheet they currently stood on while ice-fishing, bare handed.

Your roaring laughter echoed through the tundra as you held the fish up proudly. You grabbed the then four year old and hoisted him onto your shoulder, that which he could fully sit on and still have some room. His hands latched onto the side of your face but that didn’t seem to phase you, as you continued your loud laughter. The cause of your laughter, being that the fish was the same size as Ajax.

“LOOK AT HOW LARGE IT IS, МАЛЕНЬКИЙ ОДИН*!! SHE IS THE SAME SIZE AS YOU BWAHAHAHAHA!!”

Ajax’s entire body shook as you continued to laugh, giggles beginning to bubble up from his own mouth.

He watched as your Hydro themed earring bounced around as your body gyrated up and down from the mere force of your laughter. His laughter grew until the two of you were basically screaming out through the tundra.

You sighed and - while still chuckling - wrapped an arm around the boys waist and began walking back home. Of course, not before grabbing the bucket filled with other fish from your fishing trip.

Ajax didn’t want to say anything, on account of the fact that it would’ve been disrespectful of course, but your arm that was wrapped around him was bumpy and hard and cold, not unlike a certain place on your chest, though it was just super cold.

The arm was usually covered in more layers or a bunch or bandages wrapped around it to soften its shape and surface, but Ajax could still feel the sharp points and edges, though he never minded.

Eventually you both made it back to the house you shared with his family, and ducking under the doorframe quickly alerted the family of your presents.

“ГРАНДФАТЕР!!!!” Ajax’s two younger siblings - a third was on his way, Teucer would be his name - ran up to you jumping at your feet. You chuckled more and let their heads, greeting each.

“Tonia, Anthon, calm yourselves!! We were only gone a few hours hah hah!!” The two only cried out in joy louder, wrapping themselves around your legs. You stumbled for a moment before walking forward as if they weren’t there.

A man and a woman watched as you walked into the kitchen and subsequently the freezer - ironic considering where you lived - to drop off the fish before waltzing into the living room. You plopped down in the couch, first removing Ajax’s coat and then your own.

The two on your legs let go and smiled up at you, the man and woman - Ajax’s mom and dad - walked over a gave you smile, a hand landing on your shoulder.

Your smile widened.

Archons you fucking loved your family.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Archons you fucking hated these enemies.

These fuckers from Natlan were resistant little fuckers. You chop off a hand and they’d still keep fighting.

You were growing annoyed after hours of fighting, blood drenching your uniform and absolutely caking your hair, something you knew would be a bitch to get out from experience.

Your right hand of the time, a Natlander by the name of Eztil, was beside you through the whole fight. He wielded large war hammer made of various precious metals and stones, as well as prettified wood; it swung through the skies, heating up the air as his Pyro vision burned bright. Much like you, his battle-hungry smile was long gone, replaced by annoyance as he squished another enemy beneath his hammer, blood spraying across his already bloody face.

“UGH! I’m getting bored nouehuepo*!! When are we going to be finished?? I am growing hungry and wish to challenge you to another eating contest after this!!” He shouted, completely ignoring the man running at him with a knife, whom was taken down by another Fatui member.

“I do not know приятель*. But let us continue until no other man stands but us!” And with that, you both continued swinging. You with your fists, sickles and hammers, him with his war hammer and bursts of flame.

Your movements were in sync, almost like a dance as you ravaged the battle field. You had each others back, making you both the most dangerous force on the battlefield.

If only it could’ve stayed that way.

It was a second. A second to look back at your friend to make a mental check.

Then you felt a searing sensation on the side of your face not looking at him. Eyes quickly looking back, a knife was embedded in your skin and a man had his foot on your chest. He smirked, then dragged the burning hot knife up, towards your eye, but before you could fully react.

Everything went white in that eye, then black.

Then, the most searing, burning, awful sensation you had ever felt.

Your scream silenced the battlefield as you bat the man away with the knife still embedded in your flesh, his body skipping across the land like a stone on a lake. Eztil’s eyes landed on you, which was just enough time for another attack.

“EZTIL!!!” You screamed.

…

A sword embedded itself through his chest. Both your eyes widened as your hand left the knife in your eye, reaching out to your now falling comrade.

You refused to cry, because he’d live.

That’s what you said to yourself as you rushed over to him, not minding your injury.

“Eztil, don’t you DARE fucking close your eyes, do you understand me?!?” Blood bubbles from his lips as his breathing slowed. A tear slipped from his eye as one of his hands pressed against your cheek.

“Nouehuepo… take it.” He whispered. Your gaze became confused as you stared at the dying man.

“What..?-“ “My vision. Take it. She shall be of service to… y-you.” He let out a harsh cough, his blood not staining your skin, making you flinch.

“No. It is yours приятель, I could never-“ “It is my last wish. Y-you wouldn’t deny a d-dying man his last wi-sh, would you?” You sighed, smiling at him.

“I don’t want you to die of enemy hands, so would you allow me to do the honors?” His grin widened, a glint in his eyes as he laughed, which quickly turned to hacking up his lungs.

“O-of co-urse!!” He smiled, and you smiled as well. Your hand flew up to the knife in your eye, and tore it out, not caring for the fountain of blood that squelched out. You also didn’t mind the large flap of skin that fell from your cheek, revealing the musculature of your face and your gums and teeth.

“Goodbye, my friend. May you find many fights in the afterlife to satisfy your bloodlust.” He grabbed your hand with the widest smile you’d ever seen in him.

“And ma-y I see you I-in that place!” Your hand came down onto his head, knife imbedding itself into his skull. Then, you raised your arm and planted the knife tainted with you and his blood now into his chest, striking his heart head on.

The light died from his eyes and his vision, but you quickly picked up the small red jewel which had been attached to his hair. Wiping it off, you leaned back and held your hand forward, before slamming the damned thing into your eye.

The battlefield suddenly felt as though it was atop a volcano itself, the air heating up and ash seemingly falling from the sky. You gripped your friend’s weapon, testing it in your hand and grip, swinging it slightly. Your hands pressed to your waist and your hand tilted to the sky, and finally, you laughed.

Your laughter shook the world, men falling in their asses as you showcased your joy. the air grew even hotter as the vision grew even brighter. Your entire body shook as the ear hammer in your hand heated up to a point where the metals were turning white in heat, though they didn’t melt.

You turned to your men, a wide smile on your face and tears, one trail of water and one of blood, streamed from your eyes.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR MEN?!? LET US FIGHT UNTIL ONLY WE REMAIN!! CHARRGGEEE!!!!”

You continued to laugh as you knocked down tens of hundreds of soldiers in one swipe, the sky nearly turning red at the mere sight of your bloodlust and rage.

That night would go down in history. The night the sky cried blood, the fall of a nation of soldiers, the day Natlan would forever regret.

‘The Night Man became a God”

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You stared at the bloodied Tartaglia- no. You stared at your grandson, Ajax’s bloodied form.

He only looked back at you.

“Well, Дедушка? Have I become a God?”

Holy shit this sucked the shit outta me-

This ain’t the best but I hope you enjoyed might go back and make another of these lmao-

Дедушка - Grandfather

ГРАНДФАТЕР - GRANDFATHER

Большой хищник Севера - The Great Predator of the North

МАЛЕНЬКИЙ ОДИН - LITTLE ONE

nouehuepo - my friend

приятель - buddy

#male reader #x male reader #Genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x y/n #male y/n #platonic #family #Childe!Grandpa!Reader #genshin impact x male reader

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wambsgansshoelaces · 7 months

Text

Something Sweet; Chapter 1

read the prologue here, and chapter 2 here! please leave your thoughts- I’d love to improve! Enjoy!

word count: 1,700+

Black Friday is no different than Thanksgiving for your bakery. Nobody really comes in- it’s just a day of experimentation for you. You have a cake to decorate for tomorrow, anyway, so you’re happily occupied for the day.

You think about the guy from yesterday a lot. You hope that he’s okay, and that he got himself to wherever he was going safely. You catch yourself thinking about him a little too often- you have to admit, you did find him cute.

The cake you’ve been commissioned to make is for some little kid’s birthday party, and your instructions were to make it explicitly Spider-Man themed. You’ve been caught up on the MCU for quite some time- it’s not that good anymore, to be honest- but the Spider-Verse movies were some of the best you’d seen in recent years. You spend the morning dying buttercream red while the sponge cake itself chills in the freezer.

You must be a little too absorbed in it, however, because somebody calls “Hello?” into the back.

When you see him, your heart gives a happy little flutter. “You.”

He looks much better than yesterday. The bags under his eyes are lighter, he isn’t as fidgety, and there’s an air of sobriety about him. “Yeah. Me. I realize we never introduced ourselves..” You can hear paper crinkle in his hands, but you can’t see what he’s holding from over the pastry display. Maybe you were wrong about the fidgeting bit.

“I’m Kendall. Kendall Roy.” He sticks his hand over the counter, and you shake it.

“So that’s how I know you.” His grip is firm, despite his otherwise raggedy appearance. It’s what you’d expect of a Roy. “I’m Y/N. I own the place.”

“Um, can we…?” he gestures back to a booth. You round the counter and you both settle across from each other like yesterday. You can see what Kendall was fidgeting with now- a tiny bouquet of lillies held together by a sloppily tied pink ribbon. “For you. Because I was freeloading yesterday.”

You take the flowers and set them in your lap, smiling softly. “You really didn’t need to. You needed some help yesterday, so I gave it to you.”

He looks down into his hands. He’s not dressed as nicely as he was yesterday- no watch, no dress pants, just sweats and a hoodie. “I have those episodes sometimes, and the wrong people always get caught in them. I really do want to make it up to you.”

“Again, you really did nothing wrong. I mean, sure, whatever you were on yesterday probably wasn’t a good idea, but we live and we learn, right?” You stand, holding the flowers to your torso. “Want coffee?”

“I’ll pay for one, yes.”

You round the counter again, setting the bouquet somewhere safe and you start the coffee machine with some coffee bits you ground that morning. “No, you won’t.”

“I’m being serious.” Kendall hadn’t followed you into the back, peeping over the counter like a puppy separated from its mother. “I have the money to spare.”

“We’re friends. I really don’t mind, Kendall.”

His name, you realize, sounds perfect off your tongue.

“But I do, Y/N.” He peers up at the menus hanging from your ceiling. “You only charge $2 for a coffee? You’re a saint.” He takes out his wallet and tosses a wad of twenties across the counter.

“I’m not taking that,” you say over your shoulder, pouring coffee into two separate cups. “Do you want cream or sugar? Or maybe you’re a honey and milk guy?”

“Just some honey, please. And I don’t care. You’re keeping the change.”

You don’t say anything, sliding him a cup.

જ⁀➴

You’d argued over who’d take the money for another ten minutes before you kicked him out of the bakery for impudence. Kendall, accepting defeat, had scribbled his number on a napkin and pressed it into your hand, and now here you sat trying to figure out what to text him.

Eventually, you settle on keeping it simple; hey kendall, it’s y/n !

He responds almost immediately.

It’s good to hear from you.

A pause.

I thought you wouldn’t text me.

He texts the way he talks, you think.

what makes you think that? i think you’re fun

Well, my first impression on you wasn’t really good, was it?

clearly it was, otherwise i’d have burned the napkin

Ha.

Another pause.

You’re a good sport for taking the money.

what? but i didn’t

Check your purse.

The minute you get the message, you grab your purse from the ground where you’d unceremoniously dumped it on the ground when you got home. All you had to do was unzip it to find the same wad of twenties from before. That bastard.

you’re not serious

It’s there, isn’t it?

how much is this? coffee is $2, you really shouldn’t have

I felt like it. Count it out.

You take a moment to do just that- and end at $5,000.

kendall, this is crazy

Is it? I owe you.

i keep telling you, you don’t owe me anything. at this point, i owe you

Don’t worry about it.

You sit there, blankly staring at your phone. Sure, you knew the Roys were mega millionaires and owned helicopters and yachts and probably seventy different properties, but you would have never expected one of them to drop $5,000 on you so easily. Why you? You’re a baker just barely surviving- what even brought him to your place, anyway?

Actually- are you free this Christmas?

always am

Would you cater dessert for my family’s dinner? You’d get paid well. Then you could actually afford to keep your coffee $2. Ha.

You didn’t know whether to be offended or not.

seriously?

My dad fired the last one after an incident with a pineapple. Besides, your baking is heavenly.

you only had a cupcake, kenny

I had my assistant come by this morning. I’m thorough.

You think back on the morning. Someone had come by and ordered an obscene amount… you’d just taken it as some Thanksgiving work party.

You’d probably have to come in and do a test run. He’s picky.

if you’re serious…

Perfect. Am I allowed another favor?

i think i owe you a hit after all this

Let me take you out to dinner after. And kill any of my siblings. Then we’re even.

જ⁀➴

You wake up the next morning feeling like you stuck a fork into an electrical socket. You’re nervous, excited, nauseous. You root around in your closet for your lucky apron and shove it into your tote for the day. You slide around the hardwood flooring in your socks, organizing things for your day. You and Kendall agreed that he’d come get you at ten and take you to the supermarket for whatever it is his father would request.

Were you worried? Not about Logan, no. You were more nervous about the date you had with Kendall than you were about baking. All he had said was to bring something nice to wear after.

The flowers he brought you yesterday sit comfortably on your kitchen counter. They were handed to you perfectly prepared for a vase.

While some part of you wants this to be a romantic date, the other, more rational part thinks this is just him and his ‘I owe you’ mindset.

You live in a townhouse pasted to the back of your bakery. It was great, in your opinion. You don’t need to pay rent- only make payment on the bakery -and you can never really be late for work. It makes your life much easier, and you’re grateful you were able to nab it when you did.

There’s a sharp, sort of erratic knock at your door. You gather all of your stuff, put on your shoes, and greet a Kendall who’s obviously high. He smells faintly of weed, which years in pastry school helped you pick up.

“What the fuck?” is the first thing out of your mouth. “You drove here?”

He blinked. “What? No. Chauffer.”

While you didn’t claim to know anything about Kendall, you could use your critical thinking skills and assume that this was a normal occurrence. What was he trying to take the edge off of? He didn’t seem like the type to do drugs for the fun of it. He was running one of the biggest conglomerates in the nation, even the world. What made him turn to drugs? You feel like you should say something, but you decide on figuring that out later.

Kendall flat-out gives you his phone, saying something about how his father wanted a key-lime pie and he found a recipe if you needed. High Kendall, you note, is much more droll and glum than sober Kendall. Sober Kendall was sweet, witty, and funny, in his own way. It’s like his mind is on autopilot. He stares out of the window blankly.

The car pulls up to the local grocery store and you glance at Kendall sitting next to you. “Are you coming?”

He blinks again, processing. “Yeah. Sure.” You scurry through the store, making Kendall carry the ingredients you picked out for the pie crust and key-lime filling. He follows mindlessly, only offering the occasional ‘yeah’ or ‘maybe this one, it’s bigger’ when picking out fruit.

When you’re back in the car, surrounded by plastic bags, you turn to Kendall. The driver abruptly slams the breaks, and Kendall’s arm shoots out in front of you and keeps you reasonably still, keeping himself from blasting through the windshield by bracing his other arm on the seat in front of him.

“Fuck, calm down!” He peers out of the window. “Cyclists are an epidemic,” he mutters.

“People still do that in the street?” you ask, following his gaze.

“Only dicks. They’re like chihuahuas. They think they’re cars.”

You can’t contain your awe when you pull up to the Roy townhouse. “It’s gorgeous,” you murmur.

“Gets uglier when you meet who’s in it.”

“Okay, Kendall, you’re very encouraging.”

He stops you as you try gather the plastic bags of groceries to take upstairs with you. “Don’t bother. You’ll be great. Go up, Marcia will meet you. I’ll see you later?”

You step out of the car and stare up at the townhouse. You look back over your shoulder and give Kendall a wave, who returns it awkwardly before you make the quick journey up the complex in the elevator.

Marcia greats you with a smile on her face. “Y/N, correct? How lovely to meet you.” She beckons you into the home, heading straight to the kitchen. Other servants have brought up the groceries, and you fish out your apron from your own tote.

You have no idea how you got here, but you’re excited to see where you go.

#succession x reader #kendall roy x you #kendall roy x reader #kendall roy #succession #succession hbo #succession fic #succession fic writer

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togrowoldinv · 2 years

Text

Thanksgiving

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Natasha brings you home for Thanksgiving

Note: Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I’m thankful for y’all! This features a lot of Avengers peeps. Based on this request. I hope you enjoy it!

Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 1, Natasha Romanoff Masterlist 2, Main Masterlist

“We’re here!” Natasha says as she opens the front door of the Barton’s farmhouse. You notice how the door was unlocked and waiting for her to open it.

“Auntie Nat!” all three of Clint’s kids come running to her at the same time and she hugs each of them, telling them how she missed them. They soak up her affection like sponges.

“Welcome back, Nat!” Laura appears from the kitchen and hugs her. “And you must be y/n.” She hugs you as well and you feel your heart warm.

“Nice to meet you,” you say back. Nat wraps an arm around your waist.

“Come on in and make yourself at home,” Laura says as she gestures to the living room. You look around and see a lot of the Avengers are here too.

Wanda sits on the couch talking to Sam, Steve and Bucky sit by the fireplace, and Tony along with Pepper and Morgan are bundled up in the recliner. Peter Parker is playing video games with Cooper and the newest Avengers Kate and Kamala.

Natasha moves you both towards the living room to greet everyone.

“Come sit by me!” Wanda says, her arms reaching out for you. Besides Natasha, Wanda is your absolute favorite person in the world.

“Go on, detka. I’m going to go see if I can help Laura in the kitchen,” Nat says. She drops a quick kiss to your cheek.

You sit by Wanda on the couch, and she hugs you. It’s easy to fall into conversation with the rest of the group. When you look around, you admire how much the team feels like a family. And that feeling intensifies as Natasha comes back into the room and announces that the food is ready.

Everyone piles into the dining room, that Clint never got around to remodeling, and settles in for the meal. You sit next to Nat, and she keeps her right hand on your leg while you begin to eat.

“Alright, let’s all go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” Laura suggests.

“I’ll go first,” Tony volunteers. “I’m thankful for my genius brain.” He laughs and Pepper shoots him a look of endearment and annoyance. “But really, I’m thankful for Pepper and Morgan, my two favorite people. And the spider kid, too.”

Each person around the tables says what they’re thankful for. It’s a myriad of thanks for family, friends, life, and safety. When it comes to your turn, you feel shy but Nat squeezes your thigh to ease some of your worry.

“I’m thankful for Natasha,” you start. Everyone awes. “And I’m really thankful for all of you who feel like my family. Thank you for having us all here, Clint and Laura. This is like everything I’ve always wanted Thanksgiving to be.” You notice a few people tearing up and the importance of this moment isn’t lost on you.

“How am I going to follow that?” Natasha jokes as she kisses your cheek briefly. She effectively lightens the mood. “I’m thankful for y/n. You made me feel alive again and continue to make me the happiest woman in the world every day.” You start crying from happiness and Nat smiles at you sweetly. “And I’m also thankful for everyone here.”

“To friends that have become family,” Laura holds up her glass for a toast.

“To friends that have become family!” everyone says as they clink their glasses together.

The rest of the day is filled with food, conversations about the other holidays coming up, and relaxing together.

Natasha holds you on the couch and you snuggle into her. You get a quiet moment and brush your nose against her neck to get her attention.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you say.

“Of course, baby. Thank you for coming with me,” Nat replies. She kisses your forehead.

With all the thanks going around, you are most thankful that the woman holding you feels like home. And home is where the heart is.

Tag List: @gracebutnotgraceful @i-wished-for-you-too @wandasbb @be-missed @likefirenrain @hehehehannahthings @mythosphere-x @readings-stuff @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @madamevirgo @milfloverslut @mrswidowjohansson @alotofpockets @wandassitcom @ggrangerdanger @marvelwomen-simp @maia-lightwoood @xxromanoffxx @peanutbutterprincess @karmasgxrl @picnicmic @wandaslittlewhore @exhaustedfangirl @when-wolves-howl @natashalovers @marie45019 @inluvwithfictionalwomen @sammi1642 @jujuu23 @the-night-owl-blr @strangegardentaco @avatarsnips @romanoffswoman @natashasilverfox @imthenatynat @sayah13 @harleysincairo @rach2602 @cordyandbilliehavemyheart @lovelyy-moonlight @huitzilinthebudgie3 @juicyy444 @natblackwidow2 @youralphawolf72 @btay3115 @red1culous @lenam07 @randomwriter1021

#natasha romanoff x reader #soft natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff comfort #natasha romanoff #laura barton #clint barton #tony stark #peter parker #wanda maximoff

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hello-galad · 11 days

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No one asked for this but here i am shoving my Cid age-related headcanons down y’all’s throat.

This all started because I saw @renegadeem ‘s comment on a post about Valenwind and Cid’s age and the Curious Case of Square Enix Not Giving Us Characters That Are Canonically Over 40 (then you take a look at some of them and you know in your heart they are 62, twice divorced and currently screaming at some kids to get off their lawn).

Alright, buckle up. I’m about to monologue, ladies, gents, non-binary peeps and everybody else in between:

Note: Have in mind I headcanon Shera to be two years younger than Cid and to have also been part of the Shinra Youth Science Program but at different years. Note note: this might change in the future because I’m like a sponge and i absorb hcs.

At 16 years-old Cid Highwind Gets into the Shinra Youth Science Program at Midgar.

I’m sure Shinra has programs like these to catch brilliant minds that help them build their empires (labor force that already know how to do the job you want them to) like most transnational companies do in our world.

There, all students must take military training, they even share some classes with the Cadets for SOLDIER.

On a side note, given his stats in the game and his weapon of choice I say he comes from a family of dragoons and Heidegger takes an interest in him but Cid is focused on becoming an engineer and that is more useful to Shinra.

There is a fic i really love that sorta touches the topic of Cid’s family as dragoons by one of my favorite authors Vinvalen right here (Valenwind: Crusader rain) .

At 20 years-old Cid graduates top of his class as Mechanical engineer. He starts working on building aircraft and flight hardware for Shinra as he starts his career to become an Aerospace Engineer.

At 24 years-old he graduates top of his class as Aerospace Engineer at Shinra.

At 26 years-old Cid gets his pilot’s license with more than 500 hours of flight. Starts the prototype for what he started calling THE SHINRA I. He would later develop the blueprints further to build what will be THE HIGHWIND.

At 28 years of age Cid and Shera present the initiative for the Space Program to Shinra with the initial project and blueprints for a rocket and satellite. The Satellite should have been deployed first and left to circle around The Planet in the upper orbit a year before the rocket launch.

Shinra approves of the project eight months later and Cid Highwind becomes Chief Engineer of it with Shera as his second in command. The base is settled in a small town outside Midgard that will later be known as Rocket Town.

At 32 years old, Shera (30) and Cid get married. They never really dated, but they spent so much time together that they both decided “why not?”.

Evidently, everything goes downhill from there because tHAT IS NOT HOW HEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS ARE BUILT.

When Cid is 33 years old the first satellite gets deployed earlier, the mission is a complete success and Shinra has plans to put a couple more in orbit except instead of using them for research, Scarlet and Heidegger wish to weaponize them with Mako Canons. Cid is against this at first but understands that he can’t really say no to Shinra when they are the ones funding the Space Program.

Him and Shera don’t really talk to each other outside of work. They are more roommates than a couple to this point.

When Cid is 36 years old Shera almost dies and Cid stops the launch to save her.

Cid is downgraded from Chief engineer and one year later, Shinra cancels the Space Program taking away every single blueprint and infrastructure project Cid ever created when working for Shinra and they basically try to alienate him when Cid tries to fight back. Shera keeps working for them in charge of space communications. Cid is devastated.

As a side project, Cid starts the blueprint and building of the BRONCO I (Later known as the Tiny Bronco. Later known as a) the plane Cloud almost broke and b) The “ARE WE SERIOUSLY USING MY FUCKIN PLANE AS A BOAT DAMMIT FINE WHATEVER IT TAKES TO FUCK SHINRA OVER”).

When Cid is 37 years old, him and Shera get divorced, the divorce documentation was initiated by Shera. Despite the fact that they haven’t even slept together in the same room in literal years, Cid was willing to live unhappily for her sake. She decides to stop that, but her mental health is still not the best and she has developed an attachment to him so she stays in Rocket Town “Taking care of him” as Cid goes in what Shera is afraid is a sort of self-destruction path.

Cid works on personal projects and fixing and building things for other people. Shinra sends a Turk sometimes to spy on what he’s doing to make sure that whatever he’s building isn’t something that goes against Shinra. After all, they know he’s capable of building a ship with the right tools and Cid is quite crafty.

At 38 years old Cid is angry at Shinra, Shera, the planet, everyone really, and specially himself. He loathes Rocket Town but can’t bring himself to actually leave. He thinks he has to deal with what he thinks was the failure of his lifetime (“To atone for his sins” in a way *cough cough*). He starts flying people around and killing the Mako infected beasts that attack Rocket Town occasionally. He’s kept himself in shape all this time because habits are hard to break and he’s mildly paranoid of Turks (with good reason) and other shit he knows Shinra has been developing.

In the spring of the year he will reach 40 years of age he meets a group of eco-terrorist weirdos that seem to travel with the daughter of Ilfana, a scientist he once had the hots for back at Shinra.

Said group is made of a rogue traumatized SOLDIER, a girl who could kick his ass with her fists, Ilfana’s daughter who is actually a part of a now extinct ancient human race, what appears to be a talking lion, a robot cat that rides a mog, a teenage ninja girl that gets a kick out of calling him old, a mother hen in the shape of a very ripped man with a gun for an arm and a gunslinger vampire.

Then Cid Highwind goes to space, Vincent is next to him on the Rocket, Shera is Chief Mission Control working along with his old team who also decided to say “fuck you” to Shinra and have taken over a building. This is the start of a new chapter for him, finally.

By this point Cid had been telling himself he is not in love with Vincent for almost a year, you know, like a liar. He has never loved anyone like he loves Vincent. He used to love Shera, of course, but not like this. He still cares for her, but when he married Shera they were both 30 and it seemed like the right next thing they had to do. He never bothered to learn about Shera’s favorite books outside the ones related to their work or which desserts would make her close her eyes in delight. They would fuck when they were horny and sleep on the same bed but never did Cid whispered bad poetry against her collarbone and slept better when he could feel her hair against his shoulder.

When Sephiroth is defeated, Meteor is stopped by Holy and everyone goes home for a while to rest, him and Vincent talk and Vincent knows that he wants to stay with Cid but he is still so scared. Years of torture and trauma are slow to heal, sometimes they don’t heal ever, and Cid is okay with that. Whatever Vincent needs, Cid will give him. Vincent loves Cid so much he is willing to try.

Shera and Cid talk and she stays at the house for one more year before she finally decides to go over everything that happened and starts living her own life for herself.

When Cid is 41 years of age, him and Shera create HIGHWIND Corp as co-owners with Shera as CEO and Cid as Chief engineer. They work alongside the WRO to rebuilt the planet using sustainable energy and building sustainable hardware and software. Cid knows Shinra is involved, with Rufus re-building Shinra with an eco-perspective now. This time though, HIGHWIND Corp is negotiating through the WRO and Cid and Shera are not afraid to say “fuck you, no”.

Vincent comes and goes from Rocket Town. Cid buys some land almost in the middle of nowhere and stablishes his house, hangar and workshop there, Vincent follows. He has his own room at the house even if Cid and him sleep in the same bed most of the time and Vincent spends a lot of time perched somewhere on a crate looming over Cid at the workshop, usually reading and listening to Cid work.

Yuffie is also a common guest and she has her own room there as well.

Vincent receives a call from Reeve, there’s been a couple of disappearances and an organization that calls itself “the underground” seem to be responsible. Cid flies Vincent around on his mission to destroy the underground and happily blows some shit up.

After literal decades, Vincent finally faces the fact that he was a victim, that Lucretia was just as guilty as Hojo. He discovers what happened to Grimoire, visits his mother’s grave and is finally on the path to believing that he was not responsible for the awful things done to him.

Turns out that Vincent’s past demons are worst than his actual very real demons. He gets into common ground with them and they recognize him not only as their host but as their link to the Planet and are willing to fight for him.

Chaos decides to go against their nature as a demigod of death and destruction and they defeat Omega.

Chaos doesn’t go back to the planet, he stays with Vincent, although their relationship changes from “I was trapped inside in this vessel against my will and I’m angry” to “you are my host and we take care of the host, thank you for being our link to The Planet”.

The others agree. Vincent receives them not because he has to, but because he wants to.

[Vincent goes to Lucretia’s cave after that and he tells her about what he found in her and Hojo’s archives, tells her that he’s sorry he couldn’t protect her and that he knows and remembers what she did to him. For the first time he is not seeing her as perfect, just as she was: a scientist who wanted results, a human who was moved by the power of knowledge, imperfect, responsible for some of the scars on his body and his mind. She was not responsible for the perfect imagine of her he made up in his head. For his own unresolved trauma that lead him to believe he had to love her and she could have loved him.

Vincent tells her that Grimoire’s death was not her fault. He tells her what he knows now of Chaos, how they are more than just a creature, more than just rare materia.

Then, Vincent tells Lucretia about Cid. About how he loves him and the way he loudly snores. About how Cid loves going star-watching. About how he’s been painting, The Planet and Vincent being his favorite subjects.

Vincent tells her about how he was so scared of falling in love again but then in those moments after defeating Omega and realizing he might die for real this time, he was more scared of Cid not knowing he loved him.

He tells her about how, when he fell to the ground, Chaos in distress inside of him, Vincent too tired, too many bones broken and internal bleeding to move, the realization that he was not healing settling in; he thought about his life, about his parents and Veld, about his new friends and Aerith, who he knew was watching over them from the livestream, about the letter Tifa would carry with her everywhere, the beautiful strokes of Aerith’s handwriting unmistakeable, even when a couple of years ago, tears had soaked the paper. About Cloud crying every night after he managed to remember who he was before he was experimented on by Hojo, about him carefully cradling the dog tags Tseng gave him after Meteor was gone, the same name on them that Cloud used to whisper on those long nights when he thought everyone in the party was already asleep: “Zack”.

He thought about Sephiroth believing Jenova was his mother instead of knowing of Lucretia, of having his own father treat him like an experiment. He thought of that young SOLDIER, Genesis, half broken and willing to sleep forever, just like Vincent once did, until he was reminded there’s more to live for.

He thought of Marlene and a distressed Barret wondering if his daughter was still alive, of Nanaki, still young and a guardian now. He thought of Shera and her husband and how their daughter liked frogs and helping Uncle Cid build rockets made of cardboard.

Thought of her, Lucretia, and how Vincent’s love for her sprouted out of a promise to Grimoire to keep her safe before he disappeared mixed with the guilt that he couldn’t keep his promise. Thought of dumbapple pie from the dumbapple tree that randomly started growing in Cid’s land, about spring and Cid and Vincent building their garden.

He thought about home.

Finally in what would become the moment Vincent begins to let go he thanks her, forgives her. Then, the Planet finally lets Lucretia go, the cristal she was trapped in atoning for her own sins breaks and she finally joins the Lifestream. ]

When Cid turns 43 years old, AVALANCHE celebrates at the Seventh Heaven, there are old and new faces alike, almost all of them familiar. Shera and her husband and kid are there along with an older man with a scar on his face that Vincent calls “partner”. The Turks had the nerve to turn up but Cid stops giving them the evil eye when Tseng walks straight to Vincent’s “Partner”, eyes red and upper lip trembling and hugs him. All this in seconds before the Turk is back to his serene almost stoic face.

Rufus Shinra sends a present with them, of fucking course. Reeve takes it from Cid’s hands before he rips it apart. Funnily enough, its a bottle of his favorite whiskey and an actual damn letter reading “My gift to you is not having to see my face for the whole day, you are welcome. No, the whiskey is not poisoned. Stop being so paranoid Captain Highwind” in it. “Yah, I’ll stop being paranoid of damn Shinra when that fuckin’ brat stops wearin’ suits with more belts than the ones that’re supposed to keep yer pants up and yer gun in place, dammit!”

When Cid is 50 years of age, him and Vincent attend Yuffie’s wedding (they are like her parents. She didnt imprint on them, they imprinted on her. Vincent still calls her to reminds her to eat enough vegetables every week even when she’s over 30, Cid still calls her ‘mah kid’).

Vincent wears a suit, Cerberus rests in its holster on his right thigh and if he appears behind Cid with an actual shovel, eyes glowing Mako red and Chaos golden as Cid’s having a “friendly talk” with the groom…thats between him, Cid and the poor bastard. Cid wears his Captain uniform. Both look hot as hell. Both rail each other after the reception. Life is good.

(Check out @mamoru-chiba-ua ‘s art for the reference of Cid and Vincent at Yuffie’s wedding)

#ages might change since now I’m thinking about making Cid older out of both spite and because i can #I’m sorry if I’m making any mistakes with the official timeline for ffvii but rebirth shook everything up and i dig it.#headcanons #excuse me if i missed something or something was already stablished as canon.#truth is i haven’t played all versions and I’m new in the ffvii fandom :)#if only i could write the fics i have in my wips as fast as this #just rambling and putting my ideas in order ahaaaa #valenwind #cid highwind #vincent valentine #with a sprinkle of #zakkura #and #aerti #aerith x tifa #ffvii #ff7 #my hcs

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kybercrystals94 · 8 months

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Redolence

By KyberCrystals94

Find here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2023 | Day 1 | Alternative Prompt: Lab Rats

Bad Things Happen Bingo | Prompt: Homesickness

Rating:G

Words: 1,070

Summary: Omega and Echo have a conversation about their pasts.

Omega presses her face between Lula’s long ears and breathes deeply the scent of her brothers: stale sweat, blaster residue, motor oil, aftershave, regulation soap, and a few other things she can’t quite place. Lula is like a sponge, soaking up the redolence of the soldiers she lives with. While the stuffed tooka doesn’t smell pleasant , Lula smells of love and safety and comfort. Therefore, she smells wonderful, and Omega gives the creature an extra tight squeeze as she tries to hold in the tears that threaten to spill. She should be happy. She is happy. She is. She is.

“Omega, are you alright?”

Omega is surprised by the generic reg voice. She would have expected Hunter or Wrecker to check on her...maybe even Tech. Not Echo. He isn’t unkind, but he is distant, almost unsure of her. Like he doesn’t want to get attached. Omega understands, even though it makes her heart hurt a little.

“I’m fine,” Omega lies easily, lifting her face so that her voice isn’t muffled against Lula’s soft stuffing.

There is a pause, but Omega knows the cyborg clone hasn’t walked away. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, Echo clears his throat. “Are you sure? Hunter – uh – sent me to check on you.”

Omega forces a smile and carefully blinks back the tears that have been forming before she pulls back the curtain, letting Lula topple from her arms. “I’m okay, Echo,” she assures him.

The shadows on Echo’s face in the warm glow of her strung lights accentuate his gaunt features, and Omega suppresses the shudder that reflexively comes. Nala Se had Omega study Echo’s medical files as part of her training. The horrors he suffered at the hands of the Techno Union still haunt Omega’s imagination, and the cool, professional terminology she poured over in the files did not do his tragedy justice. It must’ve been hard for him to join the Batch too, starting over after all he’d been through. She admires him endlessly for it, but she isn’t sure how she could ever tell him without also admitting to having read his files. Not that she’d had a choice, or was snooping, but...

Echo matches her striving grin with one of his own. “Alright. If you say so,” he says, shrugging one shoulder, telling her without telling her that he knows she’s lying.

He starts to turn away when Omega bites out, “Wait, Echo...”

“Yeah?” he asks, the familiar gruff of his voice catching on the edge of the word.

Omega swallows, hoping he isn’t annoyed with her indecisiveness. “I just...can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, kid,” he says, and leans his weight against the wall casually.

“When you first joined Clone Force 99, did you – or do you – ever feel...” Omega searches for the right word, pressing her lips together before saying in a whisper, “homesick? For what you had before?”

Echo looks startled by the question, his eyes widening a little. However, the expression is brief, and his face returns to his normal air in a blink. To Omega’s dismay, he answers her question with one of his own, “Do you feel homesick for Kamino?”

“Sometimes,” Omega admits, pinching one of Lula’s ears between her fingers, “but I don’t want to go back. I’m happy here, with all of you. But if I’m happy here, why do I miss what I don’t want?”

Echo’s face softens. “Because you miss what is familiar, even if it wasn’t better.”

“Is that bad?” Omega asks.

“Of course not,” Echo says, “I missed living with my reg brothers. It’s all I knew most of my life. Doesn’t mean I care about my enhanced brothers any less.” He rolls his eyes good naturedly at the terminology adopted from the Batch, and it makes Omega giggle.

“I guess you and me are kind of the same,” Omega says softly, wistfully. “Taken in by the Bad Batch when..." Echo visibly stiffens, and Omega clamps her mouth shut, now gripping Lula’s ear in a fist. She shouldn’t have said that. She knew the moment the words left her mouth. She and Echo are nothing alike. Not really. Not at all.

But they are. In some ways.

Right?

To her surprise, Echo leans forward, folding his arms and resting them on the floor of her gunner’s mount room. “Nala Se,” he says, his voice softer and gentler than she’s ever heard it, “she experimented on you, didn’t she.” Not a question.

Omega bites down on the inside of her cheek. She has never wanted to tell any of them about that. But Echo knows, because she told him in a roundabout way. In the medical wing, after his accident in the mess hall. He woke up in a panic, and she’d comforted him. I don’t like being hooked up to their machines either.

She didn’t think he’d remember that, but why wouldn’t he?

So, she nods a small, jerky affirmative.

“I don’t remember much about the Techno Union,” Echo says, his voice still low, almost a whisper. Like his words are just for her ears. “I mean...I know what they did. And I live with what they did everyday...but it’s what the Kaminoans did that I remember well. They had to see that I was fit for duty, and their tests...” Echo falters, his words dropping off in an expanse of hidden emotions. He blinks, looking a little lost.

She isn’t sure why she does it, but she reaches out and rests a hand on Echo’s face, her thumb brushing over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “I know,” she whispers, because she does. She was Nala Se’s “assistant” from her earliest memories. She saw the tests firsthand. Experienced some of them herself.

“You shouldn’t though,” Echo says, “No kid should know that.”

“Maybe,” Omega shrugs, “But we’re safe from them now...the Kaminoans, I mean.”

Echo’s eyes find hers and he smiles sadly. “Yeah, we are.”

Omega’s touch lingers a moment longer before she pulls away and hugs Lula close to her chest. “I’m not homesick for the Kaminoans. I’m homesick for Kamino...for AZI and helping with the babies. I hope they’re alright.”

“I hope so too,” Echo says, and he gives her knee a squeeze with his flesh hand. “You’re a good kid, Omega. I’m glad the Batch found...both of us.”

Omega smiles at her brother who understands. “Me too.”

END

#Whumptober 2023 #Day 1 #alternative prompt #Lab Rats #bad things happen bingo #homesickness #star wars #fanfiction #the bad batch #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #the clone wars #tbb omega #tbb echo #clone trooper echo #echo #arc trooper echo #fics by kyber

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iboatedhere · 9 months

Text

(more thanks to @pragmatic-optimist @welcometololaland & @rmd-writes)

---

Henry fiddles with the tap, turning the water temperature down from scalding hot to just piping hot while the biodegradable sponge Alex insists they buy crumbles into nothing in his hand.

He sighs and rinses the mug before setting it on the rack to dry, turning off the water, and leaning against the sink, looking out into the expanse of their backyard.

“Penny for your thoughts, sweetheart?” Alex asks from the table and Henry turns.

“Do you think we should be growing our own food?”

Wide eyed, Alex looks from the strip of bacon in hand to Henry and back again.

“I was talking about vegetables, darling.”

“Oh! Ha! Thank fuck,” he says as he shoves the last bite into his mouth. “Because you know I would get attached to that thing as soon as its little swine-eyes found mine and I could never…” He trails off and drags his finger across his throat. “You know.”

“I do,” Henry tells him. “Would it be enough to turn you into a vegetarian?”

“Hell no, but I would probably switch to turkey bacon. I’ve had enough of those feathery fucks to last the rest of my life.” He stands with his plate and coffee mug then nudges Henry out of the way so he can clean up after himself. “You want to start a garden?”

“We have all this land we're not using and who knows how long it’ll take the renovation permits on the shelter to come through. I have a bit of spare time.”

Alex eyes him warily and Henry pretends he doesn’t notice.

“I was thinking I’d start with the basics…tomatoes, cucumber, courgettes…”

“That’s zucchini, right?”

Henry rolls his eyes fondly. “If you want to be American about it.”

“Well, since we’re in America. I think a garden would be nice. You gotta be careful though, my abuela had one and she was overrun with vegetables. She canned and pickled everything and still couldn’t keep up. She’d pay me and June ten dollars to go around to her neighbors trying to offload peppers because it was impossible to say no to two cute kids.”

“I’m sure I could find a food bank that would take them.”

“I’m sure you could,” Alex agrees before swaying into him. “Are you okay?”

Henry gives him a smile that must look as weak as it feels and Alex presses his lips together and tips his head to the side, giving Henry his best puppy-dog eyes.

“It’s just…you know,” Henry says because Alex does know and Henry doesn’t want to be the one to say it.

The anniversary of his father’s death looms, the same way it does every year, but every year there seems to be more for Henry to mourn.

His father never got to meet Alex. He never got to see how full of love Henry’s life is now. How happy he is. He’ll never set foot in this home or see the garden Henry wants to plant or hold the future children they might have.

Henry’s love for Alex grows with every passing day but there’s still a corner of his heart that is gray with grief that no amount of early morning kisses or late night conversations out on the porch will color.

“Baby,” Alex says, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Henry’s shoulder. He can’t mourn the way Henry does, but Henry knows he tries to shoulder the weight of it even if he can’t quite fit his arms around it. “You know it’s okay to slow down and relax.”

“Plenty of people find gardening relaxing.”

Alex sighs, the same way he always does when he knows he’s been beaten at his own game and pulls back.

“Okay,” he says, “I can duck out of work early and we can hit up the nursery–.”

“Oh no,” Henry interrupts. “I’m not letting you anywhere near my garden.”

Alex blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

“You, my love, have what I believe they call a black thumb.”

“That’s a fucking lie, I do not.”

“You somehow managed to kill a cactus.”

“That thorny piece of shit had it out for me.”

“Of course, love,” Henry says, gathering Alex’s face between his hands, “whatever you say.”

#firstprince #firstprince fic #rwrb #rwrb fic #wip wednesday

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 1 year

Note

Hello! I wanted to know if you could write about the child reader, who comes home crying because at school all the kids in her class ignore her for being "weird" and "unbearable". I recently discovered that for these reasons when I was little nobody spoke to me and I remember the number of times I cried for it. Thank you very much in advance <3

My sweet love, you are perfect the way you are, so many people have toxic viewpoints of others, they judge before they truly know others. I’m sorry you had to deal with something so awful because people can’t teach their kids to never judge others. I’m here for you if you ever want to talk my darling. Besides, being weird and unusual is way more fun than being normal and boring!

-The door barely made a sound as you opened it, closing it behind you, your gaze downcast as you slipped your backpack off followed by your shoes, leaving them by the front door in the shoe rack.

-Loki saw you as he was heading from the living room to the kitchen, “Hey Y/N! welcome- Y/N?” his voice was bright and cheerful to start off with, then full of concern when you didn’t look at him, not even acknowledging him.

-He came over and squatted before you, holding his knees together as he brushed your hair out of your face, a frown on his lips as he saw the tears swimming in your eyes,

-You bit your bottom lip which trembled lightly, as you were trying hard not to cry.

-Nikola overheard Loki and exited the living room, seeing you as your hands started to grip at your shirt, seeing you upset as tears started to bubble out.

-The two men were quickly trying to console you as the first sob ripped from your throat, trying to figure out if you had fallen and were hurt somewhere, trying to get an answer out of you.

-Kojiro heard you sobbing, as did Zeus, the two older men coming to your side, trying to comfort you and calm you down.

-You clung to Kojiro, stepping into his arms after he kneeled, and he rubbed your back gently while the four men shared a small look, worried.

-Once you were calmed down enough to talk, Zeus wiped your tears from your cheeks, “My-my friends… they don’t-they don’t want to play with me anymore!”

-Loki instantly glared, quickly becoming furious, “What- why?! You’re so much fun to play with!”

-You sniffled softly, rubbing your cheeks with the back of your hand, “They said I’m weird- that I talk too much about history and about gods. They said I’m annoying!”

-You were only five, but you knew so much about history and different gods because they were literally your family, they told you stories about their lives, and your mind was like a sponge with them, you were considered a genius because you knew so much about history!

-But to hear that your friends thought it was annoying that you knew so much that you were so smart, it broke their hearts but also made them so angry to hear that other children were being so cruel to you.

-Tesla, having faced something similar, as he hadn’t been like the other kids he grew up with, was the one to hug you close before grinning down at you, “There’s not a thing wrong with you, Y/N! You’re absolutely perfect! They just don’t understand that you’re much smarter than they are!”

-Loki then grinned brightly, “Yeah- our Y/N is the best!!” your eyes widened a bit at their words as Zeus ruffled your hair, “Most bullies will try to intimidate others that they are afraid of, that’s probably why they don’t want to play with you, they’re scared of you!”

-You didn’t want your friends to be scared of you, but Kojiro was quick to add on his own view, “What Zeus meant is by they might feel like they’re not good enough to play with you, since you’re so smart. And that fear might be making them want to push you away.”

-You sniffled softly, asking what you could do to change so your friends would play with you again, so they would want to be friends with you.

-Instantly all four of them shouted, “No!” which shocked you as they all told you to never change yourself for others. You should be happy as you are without having to change anything about yourself!

-Their words of encouragement made you smile, but the ice cream Loki got you afterwards, the five of you sneaking out for a treat, was even better!

-The next day you went back to school with your head held high, a bright grin on your face as you greeted your friends who were a bit surprised that you were talking to them, after they had told you to leave them alone.

-You pulled out a book on Greek ruins for show and tell, something Zeus gave you, and you showed all the pictures of the buildings, talking about them in great detail.

-Some of your friends still thought you were weird, not wanting to have anything to do with you, but some came over and asked you questions about the buildings which you told them about and you beamed when they expressed interest in seeing more of your book, after show and tell was over with.

-They wanted to know more about other ruins and cool places and you were happy to oblige!

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror loki #ror tesla #ror zeus #ror kojiro sasaki

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casp1an-sea · 2 months

Text

FANDOMS

if anyone actually reads all this, I’ll be impressed

Tv show themes through the years playlist

I colored the ones I cared most about in each section if none are colored it means I care about the things in that section equally.

Star Wars:

Original Trilogy

Prequels

The sequels are alright but I pretty much only care about HUX and Kylux

Rouge One

Star Wars Legends

Star wars Infinites

Star Wars as written by William Shakespeare

Star Wars Clone Wars

The Bad Batch

Star Wars Rebels

Andor

Mandolorian

Obi-Wan Kenobi Series

Star Wars Visions

Tales of the Jedi

Tales of the Empire

Anything Lego Star Wars

—————————————————————————

Marvel:

the movies (I’m not caught up yet)

Falcon and the winter soldier

Loki (not caught up)

Wanda Vision

Avengers Assemble (literally so weird and silly) (not finished with season 5 cause it’s ass)

spider verse

Tobey Maguire Spider-Man movies

Andrew Garfield, Spider-Man movies

—————————————————————————

Musicals:

Newsies

Bye Bye Biride

Christmas Carol

Wonka

Little mermaid

Shrek

Wizard of OZ

Anything goes

Sponge Bob

Beauty and the Beast

Guys and Dolls

Hamilton

Six

The guy who didn’t like musicals

twisted

ride the cyclone

Les Mis

The lighting thief (not finished)

into the woods

Kinda bat boy (HOLD ME BAT BOY TOUCH ME BAT BOY)

—————————————————————————

Games:

Zac McKraken and the Alien Mindbenders!!!! (Literally the best game)

Twisted Wonderland (read through book 6)

Ultimate Shark Simulator

Hogwarts Mystery (not caught up)

KOTOR (not caught up)

Star Wars Asault Team

Minecraft

—————————————————————————

Anime:

MHA (stopped watching mid season 4 only really care about Iida)

OHSHC

BSD

Angels of death

Darling in the franxx (only really care about Goro)

Saki k (haven’t seen season 2)

—————————————————————————

Minecraft SMPs:

EVO

Dream SMP (not caught up)

Empires SMP

X Life

After Life

New Life

Rats

Pirates (not caught up)

Trafic Light/Life Series (I only watch Jimmy, Joel, and Martin’s POVs)

—————————————————————————

2000s Kids shows:

MLP G3 and Friendship is Magic

Wild Kratts

Octonauts

TMNT 2012

Odd Squad

imagination movers

Dinosaur Train

Lego Friends (The og version)

Monster High

Ever After High

Avatar the Last Air Bender

Sofia the first

Elena of Avalore

dinosaur train

—————————————————————————

Weird Sci-fi and Fantasy Shows:

Doctor Who (only on the 4th Doctor)

Read All About it

H2O Just Add Water

Wolf Blood

Fragle Rock

Mako Mermaids (only watched season 1)

Alien Surfer Girls/Lightning Point

Thunder Stone

Girl From Tomorrow

Ocean Girl

Sparticle Mystery

Elephant Princess (featuring Liam Hemsworth)

Eerie Indiana

Girl’s World

House of Anubis

A girl named Jo (not sci-fi or Fantasy)

Hardy Boys Nancy Drew Mysteries (not sci-fi or Fantasy)

Blue Water High (not sci-fi or Fantasy)

The Prisoner

Spell Binder

Just Add Magic

Maddigan’s Quest

The Next Step (not sci-fi or Fantasy)

Return to Jupiter

Rocket’s Island

Parallels

Silver Sun (not caught up)

—————————————————————————

Disney Plus Telenovelas:

Violeta

Soy Luna

Bia

Intertwined

O11CE

L-Pop

—————————————————————————

Misc fandoms and shows:

Harry Potter (not caught up, I do not support J.K. Rowling or read the books)

The Tick (og cartoon version)

Monk

The Outsiders (movie, book, and 90s Tv series)

Alex Rider (the show not the books)

Wild at Heart (never finished)

White Collar

National Treasure Edge of History

The Lodge

Descendants

Z-O-M-B-I-E-S

Gilligan’s Island

NCIS New Orleans

Hell of a Boss

Hazbin Hotel

Heart Stopper

OFMD (not caught up)

Julie and the Phantoms

Disney in general

Tinker bell

—————————————————————————

Book series:

Percy Jackson (currently only read the lightning thief)

The Final Six

Horizon

Thea Sisters (when I was little)

Chronicles of Narnia

Wizard of Oz

The black stallion

Series of unfortunate events

#Just some little things for my intro post #fandoms list

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oh-stars · 2 months

Text

Two Seconds

C is for Compact

Ohstars Alphabet Prompts | G | 773 words | cw: N/A

---

Eddie does not babysit often. Not alone anyway. And when he did, Bubs was stationary and spent most of his time drooling.

Now, he’s still drooling a lot but he’s mobile. He didn’t think babies could move that fast! Especially ones who started crawling backward. (Which Steve is bizarrely proud of.) But Steve had to go in for a work emergency and Robin still had an hour before she’d be home, so Eddie, the gratuitous roommate and uncle that he is, offered to watch him.

He’s washing dishes, scrubbing the pots from where he’d prepped dinner since it was his turn, and had set up Jackson on a blanket in the middle of the kitchen with some pots and pans. Real classic Munson distraction method here. Little dude was happy as can be beating on the metal pots with a spoon and his hands, coming up with a song only he knew, while Eddie danced to his… music.

“I think,” Eddie says as he glances over his shoulder at a very focused Jackson, “that this means Uncle Eddie’s going to have to splurge on a real nice drum set for your birthday, squirt.”

He winces at a particularly loud bang. “Or maybe I’ll buy it to stay at Grandpa Jim’s, yeah?”

Jackson squeals as he throws the spoon-turned-drumstick.

“You got a deal,” Eddie says, pointing at him with a soapy finger. He turns back to the dishes, nodding along to Jackson’s playing.

He’s so close to being done with the dishes. So close to having dinner on the table and the kitchen cleaned by the time both Rob and Stevie get home, he doesn’t notice the music has… stopped.

The only sounds in the kitchen are the scrubbing of his sponge and the splashing of the dishwater. Not even the soft little baby noises Bubs makes! With a furrowed brow, Eddie glances over his shoulder to see… an empty blanket and abandoned pots and pans.

Fuck.

Eddie drops the pan into the water, grabs a rag, and flies out of the kitchen. He’s not in the living room. Eddie jumps around the stuffed animals and hard, plastic toys Jackson has strewn across the place. How the hell is he so fast? He’s not even a year old!

He’s not in his room, somehow the only clean place in the whole goddamn house, and he’s not in Steve’s room or his. Not in the hall bathroom or the little laundry room that someone must have left open. What the hell?

Eddie’s heart is racing as he barges into Robin’s room, the door noticeably cracked. If he lost their kid, they’ll never trust him again. Steve will never love him and Robin would sick Erica and Max on him or something. Fuck, she’d probably be the one to strangle him first, then unleash the girls.

Before he can panic fully, there’s a clinking coming from Robin’s bathroom. His relief is overshadowed by the horrifying thought that Jackson, sweet little baby Bubbles, has gotten into…. Anything? Everything?

He catapults over the bed and nearly dives into the bathroom.

Jackson freezes, mouth open as he looks up at him with big, curious eyes. His hands, however, are covered in makeup as he digs into one of Robin’s compacts.

“Holy shit, kid,” Eddie groans as he drops to his knees beside him. He pulls the compact out of his hands and starts brushing off some of the makeup.

This, apparently, is the wrong move. Jackson immediately starts to cry, big wails as he reaches for the compact Eddie stole from him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie sighs as he takes the makeup bag that’s spilled all around the bathroom floor and starts stuffing things back in it. “I’m the worst. I know. I’m so sorry I’m trying to make sure you stay alive until your parents get back.”

“Is there a reason my son is screaming?”

The scream Eddie lets out is unholy to say the least. He clutches at his chest and looks up into the mirror above him to find Robin standing in the doorway. She waves at him through the mirror.

“I turned around for two seconds,” Eddie huffs.

Robin laughs and steps around him to pluck Jackson into her arms. “Never turn your back on a baby.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “I think I’m picking up on that, birdie.”

The door opens and shuts, this time Eddie hears it. Which is just peachy. Now Steve, perfect parent and babysitter extraordinaire, is going to see how incompetent of a babysitter he is. “Is something burning?” he calls.

“Shit!”

He runs out of the bathroom to Robin’s laughter.

---

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!!

Ao3 Link

#ohstars fic #eddie munson #platonic parents #stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #ohstars posting challenge #alphabet prompts

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 11 months

Text

König HCs

Because why not lads. These are some of my personal ones regarding the lore I’ve put together for him. TW: untreated mental illness, childhood neglect, burn injuries, surgical trauma. Uh, some other shit, too, probably. Idfk reader beweader you’re in for a sceader.

Bro has BPD. It covers a lot of the beloved fanon interpretation of him being clingy and hot/cold and scared of being left. He’s got Fear Of Abandonment Syndrome, and he’s like 10% more likely to make a fucky wucky on himself and end up sleeping in the forever box.

Source: I have it and my baby girl only gets the best of the worst from me.

H a t e s d o c t o r s. And hospitals, and surgical procedures, and anything of the like. He’s probably already got more health issues than a blue blood racehorse just from his sheer size alone - prone to heart issues and musculoskeletal strain - but there’s no way on god’s green earth that he hasn’t been through a handful of major procedures because he’s diagnosed with human knife block and bullet sponge disorders respectively.

Sub-point A: born with a cleft palette and lip. Palette was corrected, has a turned second incisor as a result. Lip was botched. Pulled a pot of boiling sugar off a stove and burnt a big-ass portion of his face, neck, chest, and stomach. Multiple painful reconstructive and corrective surgeries to deal with keloid scarring.

Sub-point B: psychology might help OTHER people, but HE is built DIFFERENT. He’s not crazy, you see, and if you suggest otherwise you’ll suddenly develop a case of Backpfeifengesicht and he’ll provide the violence. DBT? That’s Dick and Ball Torture, babey.

Despite this, he lies through his teeth at psych evals. He knows the “right” answers, and he is not going to get his livelihood taken away from him, even if it’s not exactly what he wanted. If he’s answering for his own actions, he can swerve and intuit what thing will calm things down the most and get him the smallest punishment.

Developed most of his wheedling skills as a kid, parents were neglectful as shit. Mostly disregarded him during his upbringing. Youngest of three, an eldest sister and a brother. Not in contact with any of them.

He’s 34. I don’t know if I’ve accepted him being a Colonel into my heart as my lord and savior, I’m still figuring that one out until there’s more concrete canon material besides a loading screen.

Grew up in a hoarder house of apathy, alcoholism, and depression and it was DISGUSTING. Black mold, water damage, trash everywhere, travel lanes carved through the most useless fucking junk. His parents bred Doberman dogs to sell as guard/security dogs, and some lived in the house, adding to the filth and destruction. He can’t stand a dirty house, and as an adult has an insane cleaning routine. Often stress cleans. You could eat off his bathroom floors.

He Does Not Like Dogs. Period. He especially hates Dobermans. He doesn’t like dog breeders worth a fuck either, good or bad.

Did not have any sort of media or anything as a kid. Parents didn’t spend money on tech or pop culture stuff, they were kind of stuck 30 years behind everyone else. His parents were older when he was born, he was very unplanned and not particularly warmly welcomed. Kept himself entertained out in the boonies, did a lot of reading, learned to juggle, learned to juggle knives. Had a big brokedown half-draft horse to take the kennel dogs on longer walks in the country, horsebacked a lot.

Soon as he was in the army, away from his family home, and living on his own, he got his first cell phone and computer and pretty much started living on the internet. He’s self taught in a couple of programming languages, very tech literate, halfway kind of lives on Reddit (narrowly swerved getting redpilled, thank fuck) on his personal time, and built his own PC set up. Built one for Horangi, too, and gives Stiletto advice on her own build when she asks for it.

H E H A T E S K L A U S

Bc I said so, everyone I love hates Klaus. All my homies fuckin hate Klaus.

König was raised secular Jewish, really doesn’t know all that much about it and didn’t get a bris or bar mitzvah, it’s just like Yeah That’s What I Put On Papers to him. Klaus is always getting in his shit about Austria and WW2. König’s grandparents made it out of the camps and went on to become: a microbiologist, a professor at the Austrian University of Veterinary Medicine, a multi term mayor of a small village/candy maker, and a beloved homemaker. The brilliance of the family seemed to leech out with each passing generation, and König sees himself as the dead end of it all.

König has rocked Klaus’s shit about the shitty jokes before and will do it again.

Favorite rugby club is South Africa, and he has an intense crush on Faf de Klerk even though he’s been traded to Japan. He’s kind of hot for all scrum halves tho lbr here.

Lunch break is over and this is ridiculous, will probably do more later.

#könig #konig #konig call of duty #könig mw2 #call of duty #mw2 #konig cod #idk I just slap tags around and go hehe #my head canons

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starsfic · 2 months

Text

Reaching Out

Summary: A few hours before the mutation, Yoshi and Draxum try to talk things out. It doesn't go well.

Ko-Fi

-_-

Hamato Kouki opened the door to his townhouse and nearly slammed it back close.

Only a hand, gripping the door, stopped him. “What are you doing here?” he said, glaring at his brother-in-law. Sure, maybe it was a little harsh, but harshness was justified, considering he had heard crying from Yoshi’s bedroom.

“What has your brother told you?” Baron Draxum rumbled back.

Kouki released the door to cross his arms. “Not much,” he admitted. Barely three hours ago, Yoshi had come knocking with the turtle tank and visible red in his eyes. It was the second time since he had started seeing Draxum and the first since they had gotten married. “Just that you guys had a fight, and he wanted to sleep over until you both calmed down and could talk.”

Draxum stared at him, and Kuoki resisted a shudder. It wasn’t the first time he felt like Draxum stared at him like he was nothing more than a specimen to dissect. He had always been uneasy around the baron, but he seemed like a saint compared to Big Mama.

Now, he wondered if he was wrong.

“...I am here to talk,” Draxum’s rumble made him blink. He could see those eyes narrow behind his mask. “Are you going to stand in my way?”

“Is now really a good time?” It was said on instinct. “I mean, you made Yoshi cry with whatever your fight was about.” Yoshi rarely cried, not even when times were lean, and Kouki doubted that he could protect him from hunger and cold, much less the Foot. To have him crying now, on the night his nephews were supposed to be created, suggested things had gotten bad between them. “I really think you should wait until tomorrow.”

Draxum’s cold gaze had briefly softened at the mention of Yoshi crying. “I’m aware that it is most likely too soon,” the baron rumbled. “However, I want to talk. Not just for us, but for our children.”

Kouki stared at him for a second longer, internally debating what to do. On one hand, he was eager to be an uncle. On the other hand, he was a protective big brother with an in-law he had never really liked. It felt like both parts of him, both parts of his family, were yanking his heart one way or the other. Finally, one part won out. “Okay,” he sighed. “Come inside. I’ll talk to Yoshi.” He held up a hand before Draxum could step inside. “If he says no, you have to wait until tomorrow. Deal?” He held out a hand.

“Deal.” Draxum simply stepped past him to stand in the living room. He didn’t sit or anything. He just stood there with arms crossed. If Kouki didn’t know better, Draxum would’ve made a very convincing statue. Excluding those eyes. Those eyes bore into his skin.

“Okay.” Kouki closed the door with a sigh. The fact that Draxum hadn’t just shoved his way in and marched upstairs was progress. He marched past his brother-in-law, trying to ignore the intense stare, and headed up the stairs.

The hallway was decorated with pictures, both of him and Yoshi, framed movie posters, and Yoshi’s art. Kouki glanced at the pictures and came to a pause at one. Here, a week after Tang Shen had found them, kid Yoshi posed in a cute tuxedo, his grin wide and chubby-cheeked. Kouki found himself sighing at the image before continuing his march down the hall.

Hopefully, he was doing the right thing.

He came to a stop at Yoshi’s door. He didn’t hear anything. Still, he knocked. “Yoshi-kun?”

“The door’s open.”

He opened the door and stepped inside, being careful to close the door behind him. Yoshi had cleared his desk of any art supplies to set up the turtle tank. He glanced over his shoulder at him, holding tweezers full of some kind of sponge. The redness had faded from his eyes, just a tad, but some pinkness lingered. A tired smile spread across his face. “Hey.”

“Hey. Uh, Draxum’s here.”

Yoshi blinked. “Excuse me?”

“He’s here. He said he wanted to talk. I said I would ask you-” Regret hit like a truck. He should’ve sent Draxum away. Hell, he didn’t even know what their fight had been about. “I said I would ask you. He’s downstairs. If you don’t want to, I made him agree to leave-”

“I want to talk to him.”

Kouki blinked. “You do?”

Yoshi nodded. “It’s been long enough.”

“It's been three hours.”

“It's been long enough. We’ve had time to cool down.” Yoshi handed him the tweezers. “Could you stay here with the boys? Leonardo’s hungry, so I'm trying to feed him.”

“Sure.” Kouki waited until Yoshi was at the door. “Let me know if you need backup.”

“Thanks.”

The door shut behind him.

Kouki turned to the four turtle tanks. The hawksbill dubbed Leonardo stared at him, or at least the sponge. He and the box turtle had gotten a little bigger since Yoshi had saved them. The leatherback was way bigger now, to the point that Kouki was tempted to get another tank for him.

Hopefully, they wouldn't need the tank.

It would probably be fine. Yoshi had his ways to soothe and calm Draxum. Things would probably be a little messy at first, but it would be fine.

He was sure of it.

-_-

Yoshi closed the door and collapsed against it, glad Kouki was distracted with the turtles. His children. His and Draxum’s children.

Draxum.

Gods, Draxum.

His first instinct was to flee, just grab the turtles and his brother and maybe Tang Shen, and run. Except Draxum was persistent and would chase after him to the ends of the earth. Especially if it meant that his plans succeeded.

His plans to destroy humanity. His plans to use Yoshi to create super soldiers and have their sons, those little turtles floating in the tank, lead the charge. It was fucked up.

Worse of all, Yoshi couldn’t say he was surprised.

His love had a hatred for humanity, excluding a few he liked (basically just Yoshi and, by extension, Tang Shen and Kouki). He knew he had trauma from the wars that raged long before Yoshi was born, based on the nights when he would be awoken by Draxum’s nightmares or wake up to an empty bed. He often spoke of the injustice of the yokai being forced underground by ancient agreements and forced into hiding if they dared to go to the surface. Yoshi had nodded in agreement, voicing his agreement for the injustice.

But this? Taking over a world that had no knowledge of the yokai? Using children, their children to spill blood? Yoshi couldn’t handle that idea.

Yoshi’s hand reached up to fiddle with his wedding band, a lovely sapphire ring that had been in Draxum’s clan for centuries. But there was a chance. Draxum could be reasoned with, under all his passion and determination. He loved Yoshi and allowed him to speak on matters that honestly didn’t concern him. Yoshi took a deep breath and steeled himself before heading down the hallway. This time would be no different. He was sure of it.

Draxum stood downstairs, as Kouki said. He looked like a statue, carved handsomely and standing so still, excluding his eyes. Those eyes warmed when they met his. Draxum relaxed his stance, dropping his crossed arms. “Yoshi,” he said.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly feeling ridiculously small. It was like the first time he had tried to confess his feelings to the baron, half out of his mind with blood loss while the other man tried to stitch him up. He knew Draxum didn’t mean it, but it was still there. Yoshi took a deep breath and straightened up. “Draxum.”

There was a pause, and then Draxum raised an arm. Yoshi didn’t pause to come over at that sight, more than willing to accept affection when Draxum offered. He wrapped his arms around his husband’s broad body, sighing into it. “I missed you.”

“We’ve only been apart for a few hours.”

“Yeah, so?” Draxum made a soft noise above his head, a mix of a chuckle and a huff. Yoshi smiled at the noise, pulling away to allow him a look. There was no visible mark from the vase he had thrown at him during their fight. Still. "I'm sorry for throwing that vase at you."

"I forgive you. I apologize for the way I worded things," Draxum didn't look apologetic, but Yoshi was willing that was based on the mask. "I should have considered how you would have reacted."

Okay. Yoshi took in a deep breath, held it, and released it. "Were you planning on telling me?" he asked quietly, staring at Draxum's chest in order to avoid those piercing eyes. "Or were you going to keep me in the dark until you couldn't hide it anymore?"

"I was going to tell you, eventually." Draxum squeezed him tighter. "I did not want to disturb you with thoughts of the future. But, I promise, I would have told you before the first attack."

...the first attack.

"...you already have that planned?"

"I must," Draxum's voice was a low rumble, and if this was any other day, Yoshi would be soothed. "I worried about telling you this, but there's a prophecy."

Wait. Oh no. No, no, no…

"Something will come in the future and threaten all yokai," Draxum's grip was tight, too tight. "It has to be humans. It's the only thing that makes sense-"

"NO!" Yoshi yanked away hard enough that Draxum stumbled back, eyes wide. He reached forward, cupping his husband's face as he tried for a smile, even as it felt too wide. "No, no, believe me, it isn't. The threat is gone. I made sure of it."

He and Kouki had made sure of it their first few weeks in New York. They had taken the pieces that they had been able to get away with and hid them everywhere they could think of. Tang Shen had been a great source of help.

Draxum didn't seem reassured. He leaned back, looking concerned as if Yoshi had started speaking in tongues. "You... made sure of it?" He nodded, feeling more like a bobblehead. Draxum reached forward, voice concerned. "Yoshi, you're confused. I think you need to lie down."

"Oh, fuck you," Yoshi yanked away from the hand on his forehead, suddenly and fiercely angry. Questions about their relationship were starting to bubble back up. "I know you have a history, I understand that I will never ever be able to understand it fully." He was like his father, speaking of a war that had continued on for years for their clan even when the yokai retreated. "But that does not mean every human has to suffer for it!"

"Yoshi-"

"Look, I..." Yoshi sighed, reaching up and rubbing his temple. "I can't explain it. Maybe in the future." He pushed past Draxum, heading up the stairs. "We'll talk tomorrow once I'm calmed down."

He should've known Draxum wouldn't leave it like that.

A hand grabbed his wrist. Yoshi turned, ready to snarl at Draxum, only to feel something slam into his face. He stumbled back, his face aching from the blow, only to feel the hands that had been gently wrapped around him just a few minutes ago dig into his hair, hard enough that he cried out.

His head slammed into the wall, and the world went dark.

-_-

He wished that it did not have to be like this.

Yoshi's lovely face was scrunched up, his cheek throbbing with an angry red handprint. As Draxum scooped him up, cupping his head, he felt something wet and sticky meet his fingers. He rarely winced at violence, but now he winced.

It was different with someone you loved.

"How dare-" He looked up in time to dodge an enraged punch from Kouki. He must've heard the noise. "DARE YOU-!" Draxum dodged another punch, managing to get Yoshi over his shoulder. With him out of the way, it was all too easy to grab Kouki's wrist and send him flying right into the glass table in the center of the living room. Kouki's enraged yell died out as suddenly as it started.

Draxum stepped over the glass to eye his brother-in-law, various cuts and bruises staining his form. Ah. Based on the faint rise and fall of his chest, he was still alive. Draxum snapped his finger, sending some vines around the man, tying him up before picking him up. There was no need to have him running loose, trying to fulfill the Hamato legacy of yokai-killing.

With the Hamato brothers out of the way, Draxum was free to go after his true prize.

His steps were quiet as he headed upstairs and down the hall. Yoshi's door opened without a creak, allowing him entry.

And there, nestled safely in their tank, were four baby turtles.

Draxum picked up the tank as a portal opened. There was no time to waste. He needed to have things ready before Yoshi woke up.

Once the turtles were mutated, he would need to train them. Hopefully, he would have time to make his husband understand. Once he did, things would be perfect.

The yokai would have the surface and he would have his family.

#Dawn of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #TMNT #Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #Hamato Yoshi #Hamato Splinter #Baron Draxum #Splinter x Draxum #my writing #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #Hamato Kouki #Lou Jitsu

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kitgundy · 3 months

Text

DYSPHORIA

Mom, do you know how much of a nightmare it is?

Looking down at my body and feeling like something’s wrong

Looking back and examining and reexamining my past thoughts, my past beliefs

Realizing I’m a boy and no matter how much I try to deny it I always have been

I’m a boy. I’m a boy, <DEADNAME> isn’t a boy name. I’m not a FUCKING SHE. I AM NOT A SHE AND MY NAME ISNT <DEADNAME> PLEASE GOD JUST STOP FUCKING CALLING ME THOSE THINGS YOU TELL ME TO STOP TELLING YOU TO STOP, YOU TELL ME IT HURTS YOU WHEN I TELL YOU TO STOP, YOU SAY ITS BECAUSE OF MY TONE WHEN I TELL YOU BUT IT HAS BEEN FUCKI YEARS AND YOU HAVENT EVEN TRIED DO YOU KNOW HOW MCH THAT HURTS ME?

I can’t even explain how tiring it is that you look at me and you don’t see me for who I am. You see a girl who doesn’t know herself. You see a stupid little girl who is following a trend. IF YOU REALLY KNEW ME YOU WOULD KNOW I DONT FUCKING FOLLOW TRENDS MOM!!!! It isn’t a fucking phase! I thought I was just non-binary and I told you back then. And I wish I hadn’t, because I was still confused about what I was and I went about it aggressively and that isn’t how you tell people how you really feel because then they’ll never believe you.

You will never believe me when I tell you who I am. I don’t know if I hate you for it or if I can just ignore it so I can still love you. It’s both. I have to ignore the way you see me so I can love you in a way that works. I hate when you talk about me to other people because I know the words you will speak, I know the name you will use, and I try to brace myself but it still hurts more every fucking time.

God, I wish I was just born a boy. I wish I was born and raised like a boy. I wish I had a dick. I wish I had a deep voice. I wish I had facial hair, I want to look at myself in the mirror, I want to look in the mirror and not see a stranger looking back at me.

I don’t know what to do. Whenever I try to explain what I want to be (a gender non conforming guy but also just some guy), you butt in and say “why not be a gender non conforming girl?”

BECAUSE I TRIED THAT AND IT DIDNT WORK. I LOVE MYSELF AND I LOVE MY BODY BUT I AM ALSO IN THE WRONG BODY AND THERES MEDICAL WAYS TO FIX THAT BUT IF I TRY TO DO THAT UNDER YOUR ROOF I AM TWRRIFIED OF WHAT COULD HAPPEN TO ME. And GOD I am terrified of doing the medical treatments too, because I am one bad politician away from my entire life being ruined when I do go on those. There’s already a lot of states I cannot safely go to or live in. I can’t fucking visit my grandmother in Florida because I am TERRIFIED of how I would be treated there. I am TERRIFIED of the politics there.

And yeah, sure, maybe I wouldn’t visit that grandmother anyway, sue me. I know there’s gotta be somewhere you got your beliefs from and I’m willing to bet it’s not just the church, but also her. God I hope it’s her and not just you absorbing the church’s ideals like a sponge, because I KNOW you’re smarter than that. And I KNOW childhood beliefs can be challenged and changed, but there’s a sinking feeling in my heart that it isn’t just childhood beliefs. There’s a sinking feeling that that church is part of why you’re not a safe space for me.

And I am so scared, because I know when I move out, I am going to double down. I’m a man. I’m a boy. I always have been. I always will be. I don’t know how to explain it, you try to explain why you’re a woman without saying it’s because of your body. Tell me why your spirit is a woman without saying “I don’t know”. What exactly is your connection with womanhood?

I’ll tell you my connection with manhood. When I was a little kid, I didn’t think about this stuff. But I thought it would be REALLY cool to do things in a boy way. I tried and failed multiple times to stand up to pee, just to prove I could. I didn’t even really care about the stereotypes, I just thought it’d be cool to be a boy.

I remember years later, I was sitting in front of the old TV, staring at the screen after starting a new save on Pokémon Ruby. I was wondering if I should pick the boy option. Part of me REALLY wanted to pick the boy option.

But I was scared. Why was I scared? Had my mind already been poisoned with subconscious hatred, even at such a young age? I don’t know. I just know when I heard someone nearby, I picked the girl option- out of FEAR. Part of me KNEW I shouldn’t pick the boy option. Part of me KNEW I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

I didn’t think about these things back then, didn’t realize being a boy was an option- in fact, I thought it was dangerous. I considered myself boyish, sure. I wasn’t a tomboy, but tomboy fit what I thought I was, I thought I was a girl who felt weirdly.. boy.

My breasts started to grow. I had been excited for them at first, but when they actually grew, I hated them. I didn’t know why. I just wanted to hide them. I wanted them gone. I was excited, so why was I feeling like this?

Why did I hate the way my body was changing?

Must just be normal puberty, right? Everyone hates their bodies changing like this. And besides, the breasts came with periods, and periods suck. So maybe I was just hating puberty as a whole.

The feeling didn’t go away. It just got worse and worse and worse.

I grew up. And then I found out what trans means. And then I did research. And then I picked a fight with you, telling you I’m non-binary.

Because that’s what I thought I was. I had never had time to really think about it, after all. I wasn’t a girl, but I couldn’t be a boy, right? “Boys are gross and ugly and annoying and I don’t want to be that so I can’t be a boy. Besides, trans is too strong of a word for what I feel,” that’s what I thought.

And time went on. And I matured. And I realized that, yes, I am a boy. A girlish boy, maybe, a genderfuck boy who wants to wear dresses AND suits, but he will NEVER be recognized as a boy when he does wear a dress because his body doesn’t match his soul.

The more I grow, the more I realize:

My body wasn’t meant for me and I wasn’t meant for this body.

My voice in my head is lower than how it comes out. My face itches for lack of facial hair, my whole body itches for lack of hair. Long hair feels suffocating, blinding. I can’t even bear to look at my chest anymore, can barely bear to touch it.

And it HURTS every time I look in the mirror, every time I speak.

But not NEARLY as much as it hurts to hear that name.

I chose the name Kris because it was convenient. <DEADNAME> and Kris both start with a K. They’re both four letters. And, unlike <DEADNAME>, NOBODY is going to say the name Kris wrong, and nobody is gonna SEE the name Kris and assume it’s a girl’s name.

I chose the name Kris, and my pronouns fluctuated, but my name stayed the same. For TWO YEARS it stayed the same.

And yet you still keep calling me <DEADNAME>. You keep calling me a DAUGHTER. You keep calling me a SHE.

It HURTS.

And honestly? I wish you just wouldn’t call for me at all at this point.

I love you. But I can only handle you in small amounts, and only when we’re alone, because when you talk about me, you use words that drive straight into my soul.

I am not a FUCKING girl.

Girls are awesome. They’re great. Girls are beautiful, and wonderful, and I love girls.

It’s just.. I’m not one. I never was.

And I don’t know how you can’t see that.

Don’t you remember? The times when I was a kid, when I would try to stand up to pee? Don’t you know how much I wished to be a brother too? I made being the only daughter my personality, but that’s because I didn’t know I could be anything else.

Didn’t you see how much I tried to reject femininity?

One day, I said I hate the color pink. I said I hate it with a passion, I spat vicious vitriol at such a pretty color.

I was wearing a pink jacket.

Years later, I look back and I see a confused, hurting.. I’m not sure what I was.

Honestly.. I don’t think I was a boy then. I mean, I was ALWAYS a boy deep down, but at the time, I didn’t KNOW that, and I was trying REALLY HARD to just be a girl but not like other girls(?), so I’m not really sure what I was then.

I just know I wasn’t a girl. And some part of me deep down knew that, and was VICIOUSLY attacking everything feminine I did and liked in an attempt to distance myself from it all.

I hate that you can’t recognize that.

I love you, and I love the name <DEADNAME>, it’s such a nice name, really. I love women, they’re so wonderful and deserving of all the best (deserving of much better than society gives them, really).

But I’m not <DEADNAME>. I’m not your daughter, I’m not a she.

I will probably burst into tears if you ever call me your son. And I am TERRIFIED. Because I KNOW you will take that the wrong way, use it as yet another reason I’m just confused.

I’m not. I think YOURE confused.

You tell me statistics aren’t good to use but good GOD, the statistics I use are REAL. They’re from STUDIES. If you can’t use real FUCKING numbers, what the hell else are you supposed to do?

I don’t know what to do. It hurts more to talk to you every day because it’s getting worse and worse the longer I spend in a body that doesn’t fit with a voice that doesn’t match, and YOU aren’t helping.

I’m so, so tired of being seen as something I’m not. I’m so tired of fantasizing and dreaming about being seen for who I am and then being reminded that wouldn’t be safe.

I’m tired of you. I love you, but you make me so, so tired.

So forgive me if I got too snappish when I corrected you. Holding in the corrections is only serving to hurt me, and I don’t feel safe around you anymore.

Honestly, I doubt I ever did.

I don’t remember the last time I had a genuine conversation with you that ended where you understood me. You look at me and you see this wayward child, this lost sheep. You don’t try to understand ME, you only try to make me understand YOU.

Well, guess what? I am an ADULT HUMAN MAN. Your god will NEVER be mine, he has HURT ME. I’m not a sixteen year old trapped in a nineteen year old body, I am NINETEEN and AUTISTIC. I'm not maturing the way you thought I would because school and everything in my life burnt me out and people hurt me, so I didn’t get to emotionally mature when I should have, and I’m picking up the pieces left behind by that trauma now but that doesn’t mean I’m not an adult. I still feel too overwhelmed by the world to live on my own but I am an ENTIRE ADULT and you need to REALIZE that. I know I’m still young and stupid, but that doesn’t make me not an adult. YOU NEED TO LOOK AT ME AND SEE AN ADULT.

Oh, and on your religion? I’m not a lost sheep, I am a WOLF who will EAT your Shepard.

Because I was a blue sheep.

I was a blue sheep who was painted pink, and the flock said “Our Shepard loves you no matter what color you are!”

But when I showed my colors, the flock turned away. Averted their eyes and avoided me.

And you did too.

And that shepard never said a word to me, never even noticed when I was left behind.

The meaner ones in the flock even called me a wolf. So you know what I did? I grew fangs.

You know what? Part of me wants to bite you- that is to say, to keep correcting you. You take that as a bite? Fine. I will fucking bite, until you bleed enough that you decide enough is enough.

You can choose whether you distance yourself from me or actually start referring to me by my name, by my pronouns. You can respect me or you can leave.

I don’t care.

I hate you. I love you, but I hate you so much.

I don’t even hate you, actually. I’m just hurt. I’m so hurt and angry and I feel so guilty for feeling this way.

I didn’t choose to be a blue sheep. I didn’t choose to get turned into a wolf. The flock thought of me as one and that’s what I became.

I never asked for this.

I never asked for you to adopt me. I never asked to be put with someone who can’t understand.

Why don’t you understand?

WHY DONT YOU UNDERSTAND!?

WHY DON’T I UNDERSTAND!!!???

I DO UNDERSTAND!!! You don’t know how to understand. Because you only look at one side.

The church’s side.

Your God’s side.

I want to kill your god.

So many of my problems would be solved if he never existed. So many of my problems wouldn’t exist if Joseph Smith didn’t exist.

Maybe I wouldn’t be alive today.

Or maybe fate has a way, and our family would have been together somehow anyway, and maybe you’d care for me the way you do for my brothers. Maybe you’d stop seeing me as your daughter.

If I was born a boy, maybe I’d be your weird gay GNC son.

Please call me your son.

PLEASE CALL ME YOUR SON.

I LOVE YOU PLEASE, I BEG YOU ON MY FUCKING HANDS AND KNEES PLEASE CALL ME YOUR SON IM YOUR SON I AM YOUR FUCKING SON PLEASE CALL ME YOUR

#tw dysphoria #unsupportive family #unsupportive mother #vent post #tw vent #personal vent #vent writing #trans vent #transmasc #gender dysphoria #please ignore this lmao I was feeling some sort of way

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