stjude (loverlie)
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It’s strange: Aegon never fathomed brown to be icy, but his mother makes it so.
She’s always been proficient at flipping the script. The script of motherhood, the script of love, the script of devotion.
Will she ignore him, now, that he’s shown her what he feels for her? Will she pretend nothing ever happened between the two of them? She wouldn’t. She knows him well enough to predict how he’ll respond to that and she will want to mitigate, to feign normalcy, to keep him from acting out.
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Or, Aegon, the heir to Targaryen Pictures & Productions, tries to woo his mother the only way he knows how: by making as much mess as he can for her to clean up.
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He finds Carl and Beth in the makeshift mess hall. They’re sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, Beth holding Judy to her girl-chest, cooing down at her, tenderly cleaning her chin with a piece of cloth. Carl’s watching, awe loosening the lines of his sweet face, his cheeks rosy and his swimming pool blue eyes glowing even in the dimness of the prison’s high walls and slit-narrow windows.
They look untarnished, as pretty as lambs in picture books with the taffy-pink silken ribbons and the big eyes framed in black lashes.
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teeth-shaped wounds by stjude (loverlie)
Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga), 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Anime)
28 Jul 2024
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“My friends out there think they’ve got me beat at blackjack. Need to prove them wrong. Need my little blessing to bless me with some luck, huh? Come on, baby. Help your old man score.”
Megumi’s throat closes up. There’s a strange buzzing in his ears, a hiccup in the steady thump of his heart.
“Um. Okay,” he says before he can think better of it, something in him desperate to please Toji, a hidden secret pocketful that he never wants to see the light of day, like the stash of adult magazines his classmates keep tucked away in shoe boxes in the furthest corners of their closets with an artful pile of clothing stacked on top.
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Or, superstition says that a beautiful woman can bring a gambler luck. Toji has got a beautiful son and he's not above superstition.
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For a long time now, Dad has kept the violence under a lid, under a lock and key, in the dank basement of corpses and desires and skeletons, nestled in the fertile soil of disorder and chaos. Carl sees it, reads the trembling clenched fists, the teeth clamping down on the bloodlust, abrasions of repressions like syringe tracks on the arms of an addict.
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Or, Carl needs to know that he belongs to Rick after the claimers' attempt on their lives.
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Summary
When he lays down between the sheets, he tries to think of Michonne’s warmth, of the pliant body, the beloved waist, but his son comes to him instead—he can’t stop himself. He so desperately wants to touch him again, even if in sleep.