#Blaze Has Spoken

[joehillssimp]

You know it's both amazing and terrible to have yourself destroyed and rebuilt repeatedly by various cartoons for over a decade.

[tyrannosaurus-trainwreck]

Sorry, still not over Darcy critical-failing that proposal! Not that sorry, though. I have no idea why Pride and Prejudice hits so hard when most of Austen's other novels are like "They're fine! I like them! Anyway..." for me.

But, here's the thing. Darcy is being an asshole. Darcy isn't an asshole, generally, but he's really being one about his whole Regency Era situationship with Lizzie. Like, he rolls in on day one with this giant fucking chip on his shoulder, acts like he's too good for everyone, and why? Well, he's rich, and he's got lofty connections.

Except who's he rolling with right then? His spineless dustmop of a bestie and his bestie's godawful sisters. Bingley's the sort of guy who can be peer-pressured out of being in love!

Like, you know that thing where you have a friend, and they introduce you to another friend, and that friend is such a wet sock that you find yourself reevaluating your friend because they're hanging around with this guy? Like, okay, Darcy, do you have friends, or do you have toadies? Is this your bestie, or did you find a gentleman's companion that you didn't have to pay?

Later on we meet his aunt, who's the goddamned worst.

Like, we all hate Mr. Collins, right? This woman has Mr. Collins over twice a week for a quiet evening of performative dickriding. That's the kind of taste Darcy's family has. Voluntarily spending hours with Mr. Collins on a regular basis.

There's no talking about Mrs. Bennet's lack of decorum or matrimonial grasping or entitlement without talking about Lady Catherine flying in on her broom to scream at her nephew's fiancee, right? Especially considering that her basis for doing so is a cradle engagement that she seems to have never spoken to her nephew about as an adult and a fucking rumor that she assumes pertains to Lizzie.

She doesn't even talk to her fucking nephew before spending half a day in a carriage to make a blazing spectacle of herself in front of the entire Bennet household! He finds out she did that afterwards when she tries to make him break off the nonexistent engagement that she's announced to half the fucking kingdom by that point.

I mean, unexpected point to Mrs. B, who notably did not even walk down the road to Netherfield to act disappointed at anyone.

Also hard to get on too high a horse after Georgiana's near-elopement with the country's biggest asshole! Like, oh, the Bennet sisters are embarrassing? The Bennets lack propriety?

Buddy, you hired a sex trafficker to look after your sister and then your sister almost fucked the one-man-crime-wave son of your late property-manager. And you didn't even manage to hush it all up properly! Sure, he's keeping your sister's name out of his mouth, but he's running you down like a dog in every other respect to the whole county!

Like, "Oh, look at me, I'm Fitzwilliam Darcy! I'm not going to lower myself to correcting any of The Plebes who now think I deliberately misadministered a will to fuck over The Help out of cheapness and spite, especially when all it would take is one conversation with That Fucker's commanding officer, but god forbid I ever have to go out in public with a Bennet! I might die of shame and secondhand cringe!"

So he's got all of that going on, and then he busts in on Lizzie with a proposal that's got huge "I don't consent to being attracted to you" energy and runs her entire family into the ground. This is after Lizzie's spent approximately three centuries being negged by his mannerless nightmare of an aunt, so that's at least one extra level of "Really, bruh?" in there.

And then he fucking claps back at her rejection! Instead of going "Oh. Huh. Whoops. Guess I'll just have to go marry one of the other ten thousand women lined up waiting to marry me!" he's like "What the fuuuuck did I ever do to you, you fucking menace?". At which point she checks him so hard he spends the next three months bluescreening and looking up how to be polite to people you haven't already known for five years.

So like I said, he is being an asshole here. He knows how to act right, he just hasn't bothered to do so once since posting up in Netherfield because idk, he's on vacation or some shit.

Critically! However upsetting Lizzie finds The Proposal Incident (half-hour crying jag, spends the rest of the day hiding in her room), she is at no point worried about Darcy's subsequent behavior.

This is while she still thinks he genuinely did Wickham dirty and before she's had a chance to get character references from the 500 people working at Pemberley. This is the guy about whom her dad later says "Kidding-not kidding I can hardly say no to this rich fuck, can I?" when asked for his blessing. This is after Mr. Collins literally said "I've heard no means yes these days" to her fucking face and then her mother tried to make her marry him anyway.

She preached a full on sermon about the man's shortcomings to his face immediately after saying she wouldn't bounce on his dick if it was the last one on earth and after the adrenaline crash wasn't like, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck my entire life, he's going to burn down the vicarage and frame my father for tax fraud."

Everything that she's seen with her own eyes about this snobby bastard tells her he's not going to go crying to his aunt and get her cousin's patronage revoked. He's not going to go out of his way to fuck her or her family over. He's pissed, and he was definitely playing the ass with that proposal, but he's not going to lash out over it.

So this is Lizzie seeing Darcy at Peak Asshole, with extra assholery that he didn't even do but he couldn't be bothered to tell anyone he didn't do, and Lizzie's still like "omg you're such a fucking prick, how do you even get out of bed in the morning" instead of "Well, RIP to my prospects, there's no way that man doesn't have the lot of us consigned to a convent by parliamentary decree now."

[padawan-snack-packer]

Do you ever just go about your day, sip your little drink, open your little email, and then remember that Hardcase—our chaos ADHD king, our walking serotonin shot, our human thermal detonator—sacrificed himself with a grin and a quip so his brothers could escape? That he went out in a blaze of glory, piloting a stolen ship with literally no plan except “blow stuff up real good,” and the last thing he said was "live to fight another day boys, live to fight another day"???

Hardcase, who never stopped calling his brothers “sir” even when they told him to quit it. Hardcase, who probably never got promoted because he was “reckless.” Hardcase, who loved flying and loud noises and sunshine and probably didn’t understand why no one ever let him just have fun—and then he died for everyone else. Just. Like. That.

Do you ever remember Echo? Sweet, by-the-books, “regulations exist for a reason��� Echo who lost everything and kept surviving anyway? Echo who got blown up during a rescue mission, turned into a cybernetic lab rat, hooked up to machines like a tool, stripped of his name, his agency, his brotherhood—and he still came back.

He came back and found out Fives was gone. He came back and the war was ending only to find out there was no end to begin with. He came back and nothing was the same, and he still kept going. That man has literally had half his body replaced with cyber-grade hardware and he's still more human than some Jedi.

Do you ever think about Fives? Fives who figured it out. Fives who knew about the chips. Fives who died saying the truth. He didn’t go down in glory. He wasn’t martyred. He bled out in a hangar, shaking and crying and trying to tell the people he trusted that everything was a lie. And NOBODY BELIEVED HIM. They said he lost his mind. THEY. SAID. HE LOST. HIS MIND.

Fives who just wanted to be loyal. Who just wanted to protect his brothers. Who died trying to save them all and didn’t live to see a single one freed.

Do you remember Jesse? That sweet, noble ARC trooper who wore the Republic symbol on his face like a badge of honor and who looked absolutely shattered when he turned on Ahsoka. He didn’t want to. You could see it. You could feel the war inside him. But the chip won. Because "good soldiers follow orders".

Do you remember Tup? That sweet, soft-spoken clone who glitched first. Who killed two jedi, because “Good soldiers follow orders,” like he was possessed. Because he was. Because the war broke him open before anyone was ready.

Do you ever remember Waxer and Boil? Waxer who kept an eye on a scared little Twi'lek girl Numa through a war zone. Waxer who died seeing his brothers were turning against each other because of Krell and his lies, and who apologized with his dying breath?

Do you remember that clones had names? Do you remember that they named themselves? That they forged their identities with paint and banter and nicknames and loyalty and found joy in being individuals even when everything about their existence was designed to erase that?

Do you remember that they aged twice as fast and weren’t supposed to live long enough to get tired?

That the GAR never intended to care for them after the war? That there was no post-war plan? That the Empire swept them aside for cheaper labor?

That Rex had to watch his brothers turn, die, disappear, and he STILL fought in the rebellion with a heart twice the size of Coruscant???

Do you ever think about how the clones were raised in pods, trained like blaster fodder, taught to say “Yes sir” and never think twice, and still found ways to be brave and kind and funny and GOOD???

DO YOU???

Anyway. I’m normal. Totally fine. Just sitting here naming my coffee cups after 501st troopers and crying into my caf. Would die for every single one of them. Even Dogma. ESPECIALLY Dogma. And Rex. And Fives. And Hardcase. And Echo. And Waxer. And-

[shadow4-1]

I'm just imagining having spent the night with a lover who isn't in the 141, only to wake up the next morning and there's in intervention waiting for you in the rec room.

Like, at first you're just confused. But when Price opens his mouth to ask you about how you slept...you have a bit of a meltdown. Why does it matter? Why is everyone staring at you? What's going on?

Soap grabs the collar of your t-shirt and pulls it down so everyone can get a look at the dark hickies dotting your neck. You slap his hand away, tears in your eyes.

"So all of you can do whatever you want? Sneak bitches on base and fuck around at all the bars we pass through! But I'm not allowed to do anything with someone I actually like?!"

It hurts. It feels like you're being stripped bare in front of them.

Price sighs, his gaze softens. It's obvious he doesn't want to have this conversation but something you've done has given him no choice. Soap just stands a few feet away, chest puffed out, eyeing you with a strange annoyance. You know if you try to leave he'll stop you.

"You are...not in the same position as us." Price tries and winces. He's obviously not putting his thoughts into soft enough words, but he continues. "You are...it is our responsibility to keep you safe."

"Safe? You're trying to keep me safe?" Your voice is raised higher than you've ever raised it at Price. "Safe by what? Fighting off all the guys at the bars? Safe by spreading lies about me to all of the PMCs and the other Task Forces?"

Price just closed his eyes and set his jaw. He had to know about the subterfuge you'd been experiencing for well over a couple years now. Everyone in the room was guilty as charged.

"You're and asset. And you're also a liability." Ghost speaks up, eyes narrowed, stance way too relaxed against the metal folding chair he sits in. "Do you remember what happened to the 7th Division?"

Saliva pools in your mouth, a sudden queasiness filling your stomach. Yeah, of course you remembered. Their beloved medic had been kidnapped by a group of angry drug lords using a mercenary group as their muscle. The 7th Division had gone in guns blazing to get their member back and well...they'd been wiped out. And their star medic they'd sacrificed everything for? She'd been brainwashed and inducted into the very agency that stole her away.

KORTAC

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" You mutter. "Please tell me you're not."

"We can't have you fraternizing with anyone." Price states smoothly. "As our medic, you have a responsibility to us, your team. We can't have you getting caught up in something bigger."

"I understand what you're saying, but can't you see how ridiculous this is?" You try to reason. "I'm human, I have- god this is embarrassing. I h-have wants and...needs, just like you guys."

The silence is loud. You can't meet anyone's gaze. Price steps closer to you, swallowing hard. His next few words are spoken softly, conspiratorially.

"All of your needs will be taken care of. We will never let you suffer by yourself."

Price cocks his head to the men before you both. All of them straighten beneath his gaze. Price places a hand on the small of your back.

"Whatever it takes." He commands them. "I better not hear or see anything. Do I make myself clear?"

A trio of "yessirs" bounce off the white walls. Price just smiles and nods. He pats your back.

"There we go. You'll be fine." He sighs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to your guest."

Your eyes widen, your throat drops into your stomach.

"Wait!"

"We've got ye, Bonnie. You n' all yer needs."

Six hands are on you from several different angles. Their massive frames block out the fluorescent lights.

"Ah, where are you goin'?" Gaz chuckles, his arm wraps around your belly.

You try to run after Price but the rec room door is slammed shut and locked. You try to push the closest man away, but he just grins down at you.

[twstgameplay]

[JP] 5th Anniversary / Blazing Jewel ～Listen to Our Songs!～

March 10th 17:00 - March 28th 14:59 (JST)

Twisted Wonderland’s 5th Anniversary Campaign has begun! Alongside the new features, there is a simultaneous event story Blazing Jewel with which there is an SSR Grim summoning banner, as well as rerun banners for the CH 7 SSR cards!

Information found below:

NEW FEATURES

Blazing Jewel ～Listen to Our Songs!～

Mission Info

Stamp Card Info

Shop Info

NEW FEATURES

We’ll be getting the following new functions:

Part 1 (beginning 10 Mar):

Self-study: Earn mats, honey, and other lesson rewards without spending AP in a new idle lesson. Additional cumulative missions have been added to the missions tab for the self-study lessons. A student taking self-study can take other lessons, but not another self-study course. Crowley, Crewel, Trein, Rollo, and Fellow are not available for this session

Material Conversion: Spend Madol/Thaumarks to convert mats, but only within the same color. Find the menu for this on the Settings page on the Home Screen, then select Conversion. Materials can be converted in either direction of rarity.

Event Recall: Previous events that have already gone to the Event Recall that had voiceovers on the title, or character voice lines for the event have been added to the Event Recall for the following events: Scary Monsters I and II, Glorious Masquerade, Playful Land, Sam's New Year Sale (2022-2024). The following events will be added to Event Recall: Sam's New Year Sale 2024, 4th Anniversary, Port Fest, Playful Land, Tamashina Minha.

Other Changes

Characters can be viewed in their entirety via the Home Screen.

All chats will now be voiced.

Rhythmic DEMO can now be played without the scores/buttons in the way.

Crowley/Crewel/Trein now have Alchemy classes

Lesson Speed can now be set to x2

The Memory Shop now has available the backgrounds available during the events that are available in Event Recall.

Staff Profiles have been updated.

Certain event items can now be sold.

AP limit has been increased to 60.

Friend limit increased.

EXP increased from Special Lessons.

A chapter list and synopsis has been added to the Main Stories.

On the Max Card Info page, the buddy bonuses have been added for easy viewing.

Part 2 (Beginning 14 Mar):

Trouble Voice Lines: The lines that are spoken during the fights in the Guest Room will change depending on who they are fighting. The Trouble lines that had been used before will be available to view in the character album. This will not affect Crowley, Crewel, Trein, Rollo, or Fellow.

Other Changes:

There will be new Gift Items available in the Guest Room.

Outfit furniture has been added for School Uniform, PE Uniform, Ceremonial Robes, Labwear, and Dorm Uniform. These unlock as specific room ranks.

New BGM have been added for the Guest Room.

Part 3 (Beginning 18 Mar):

New Cumulative Missions: Missions regarding cards/lessons/exams will be added to the Missions tab.

Blazing Jewel ～Listen to Our Songs!～

Play through the event and collect Honey Lemon, Music Medals, and Blazing Medals. Clear Rhythmics and Challenges on the map to gain materials to trade in the shop.

The Story will drop one episode at a time, for each dorm in an unknown order.

Episode 1: March 10th, 17:00 (Scarabia)

Episode 2: March 12th, 0:00 (Ignihyde)

Episode 3: March 14th, 0:00 (Octavinelle)

Episode 4: March 16th, 0:00 (Savanaclaw)

Episode 5: March 18th, 0:00 (Diasomnia)

Episode 6: March 20th, 0:00 (Pomefiore)

Episode 7: March 22nd, 0:00 (Heartslabyul)

Mission Info

Stamp Info

Click on the Stamp Icon on the bottom left of the Event Page, there will be a total of 2 Stamp Cards.

The first stamp card only goes until March 17th, 23:59 (JST), so pay attention to the time limit.

The second stamp card only goes from March 18th 00:00 (JST) to March 28th, 14:59 (JST), so pay attention to the time limit.

Event Item Gacha Info

Use Blazing Medals to roll in the Event Item Gacha, which can be found on the Event Homescreen. Blazing Medals can be gotten by doing the special event lessons. 100 Blazing Medals = 1 roll on the Item Gacha. At 10 and 20 rolls, you'll get a tenfold summon for SSR Crowley RERUN banner! The following items may show up in the Item Gacha:

Memory Medals

Starshards (S/L)

Sunshards L

Honey (M/L)

Grimoires

Textbooks

Notepads

Herb Tea (M/L)

Madol

Shop Info

In Sam's Shop, you'll find the following shops:

Honey Lemon Shop

Honey Lemon are obtained while running through the event story challenges.

Music Medal Shop

Music Medals are obtained via Collect Battles.

Anniversary Medal Shop

Anniversary Medals are obtained by pulling/rolling on the Anniversary Showcase.

You get 1 medal per roll (10-roll = 10 medals), so you’ll need to roll 100 times to grab that beautiful Anniversary Magical Key and 150 rolls to get the Limited Rerun SSR Magical Key and choose any of the already released Birthday Boy SSRs, Union Birthday SSRs, and Event Rerun SSRs.

Magical Key (Anniversary) Shop

The Magical Key (Anniversary) Shop has a list of all Dorm Uniform, Birthday Boy, Birthday Jacket, Bloom Birthday, and Platinum Jacket SSR Cards. Keep in mind that you can only pick one from the Magical Key (Anniversary) Shop

Magical Key (Limited Run SSR) Shop

The Magical key (Limited Run SSR) Shop has Event Rerun SSR cards that have been added to the Event Recall. Rollo is also available. Keep in mind that you can only pick one from the Magical Key (Limited Run SSR) Shop

Magical Key (Limited Run SR) Shop

The Magical key (Limited Run SR) Shop has Event Rerun SR cards that have been added to the Event Recall. Keep in mind that you can only pick two from the Magical Key (Limited Run SR) Shop

Anniversary Pack (Paid Gems) Shop

For 200 Paid Gems, you can get a pack with the following:

1 Magical Key (10-Set)

10 Starshards L

10 of each elemental Grimoire

20 of each elemental Textbook

100,000 Madol

Anniversary Pack (Gems) Shop

Other Anniversary Packs are available in the usual Gem Shop. The Complete Mats pack is available for 200 gems, and the Honey XL is available for 100 gems. Every other pack is available for 50 gems.

[short-honey-badger]

Plss make Shanks falling inlove with someone he just met but they were Shamrock runaway fiance

This one was funnnn anon. Thank you for the amazing request!

Redheads, am I right?

Pairings! Shanks x Female Reader , Mentioned! Figarland Shamrock x Female Reader

Masterlist for Shamrock and Shanks-> HERE

Shanks doesn’t know who you are or where you came from, but he does know that he wants your attention yesterday. You sit on the beach, legs splayed out in front of you, and curvy body on display as you lean back on your hands, face tilted up towards the blazing sun. You look like a dream brought to life, and the redhead wants more than anything to bow before you and worship the ground you walk on for the rest of his life, and he hasn’t even spoken to you yet.

Before he can follow his heart’s desires and act on them, he is elbowed in the ribs by his first mate. He winces and turns to glare at Benn, lips pulling into a pout.

“Stop thinking with your dick and help us unload the cargo, captain. I’m sure she’ll be right there when we get done,” Benn grumbles good naturedly, and Shanks pouts even more but does indeed tear his eyes away from where you are lounging on the beach.

You pretend that you don’t feel those vermillion eyes on your body, carefully keeping your face turned away from the redhead you can see out of the corner of your eye. You can’t believe that you’ve run into your fiance’s -ex-fiance you remind yourself- twin all the way out here in the middle of nowhere on the Grand Line. You had hoped to be done with redheads, but fate had a way of really messing with you.

It’s been three months since you escaped from Mariejois, and the sham of a marriage you would have had with one Figarland Shamrock, and those three months had been the best you’d ever had. More freedom and choice than you've ever had before. You weren’t ignorant enough to think that the Holy Knight wasn’t looking for you, but so far, he hadn’t had any luck finding you. Not yet anyway.

You sigh and reach for the book that sits on the towel beside you. You didn’t want to think about the harsh redhead right now, but it was hard not to when his literal twin wouldn’t stop making eyes at you every chance he got while he helped his crew unload cargo to be sold off in the market later on. You ignore it for as long as you can, not wanting to go back to your hotel room quite yet, and that ends up being your undoing.

Shanks turns back to the beach as soon as he is done doing his part, loping down the docks with a wave of his hand at his crew. Benn rolls his eyes but knows that there wasn't any stopping his captain when the redhead got like this, so he just left him be. Shanks hops from the wood and into the warm sands, carefully loping forward until he stands behind you, a teasing smirk pulling on his lips.

“Watcha reading?”

He laughs when you jump all over yourself, book flailing into the air, and you brace for the sharp edges to hit you only for nothing to happen. You peek your eyes open and find that your book has been caught by the same man who scared you in the first place. You snatch it back and glare at the redhead who hovers behind you, a mischievous looking look on his face as he meets your eyes.

“Something that I'm sure would go right over your head,” you snap and shift to hold the book closer to your chest, hiding away how the top you wear hardly covers your modesty. You suddenly regret allowing the sales woman to talk you into such a skimpy swimsuit when the redhead flicks his eyes down your body and you watch those vermillion eyes, so similar but so different from the burgundy ones you know, take you in with an almost revenant look on his face.

To your surprise, Shanks throws back his head and laughs, something loud and delightful that makes something in your chest light up and flutter with sudden interest. You soften your posture, relaxing in the presence of his humor.

“Yeah, you're probably right. You seem like a real smart girl,” He says and drops his head to smile at you, those eyes going soft as he points at the sand in front of you, “May I?”

You blink, taking a half second to debate if this was okay or not, before shrugging and tossing your hand at the same place, “Sure.”

Shanks smiles against and plops down, heedless of the sand that flies up to stick to his pants and his exposed shins. He can't describe the feeling that sticks in his breast now that he is by your side. The redhead has been around countless beautiful women, but there was just something about you that drew him in, something familiar and safe that he wanted to bask in for the rest of his life. He nods at the book in your hands, his smile open and friendly, “Tell me about it?”

You are once again thrown for his behavior. You are used to surly sneering and hot demands of your attention, not this innocent curiosity that Shanks seems to wield like a second skin. You lick your lips and glance down at the cover of your book, then turn it around to show the redhead.

“It’s uh called The Time Traveler’s Wife,” You begin a bit awkwardly. You’d chosen the book because it reminded you of your own dealings with the man who you had run from, what you knew would have been nothing but a problematic marriage. You explain how the main character, Henry, has a rare genetic disorder that causes him to travel through time and how his wife has to deal with his absence. It’s not a very happy book, but it had spoken to you all the same, but you weren’t about to wait around for a man who didn’t love you to begin with.

“Sounds sad, sweetheart,” Shanks murmurs when you are finished and you shrug in answer, a weary smile on your lips.

“Maybe, but it’s pretty romantic when you think about how Clare stays loyal to Henry even though he’s made her life so difficult. She’s a stronger woman than I am,” you say, and Shanks notices a distant look in your eye when you stop speaking. He can tell that there is a story there, but he doesn’t want to be rude and ask, not when he’d just met you.

“Love is a powerful thing,” he says instead and watches with a soft sort of glee as your cheeks pinken and you duck your head to look away from him. You turn your face to the waves crashing along the beach, brow furrowing for a second before it smooths away with a soft sigh.

“It can be, if given to the right person,” you say softly, and Shanks gets the impression that you are talking about yourself again, and this time, he can’t help but ask.

“Sounds like you’ve got some experience there, sweetheart. Do you wanna talk about it?”

You huff in weary amusement. You can’t help but like this redhead far more than the other one you know, that Shanks most likely knows. You find in yourself that you don’t want to keep that secret from him, and so turn, setting your book in your lap to give him your undivided attention.

“I do, and weirdly enough, you probably know him,” you say, and Shanks cocks his head, brow furrowing in confusion and waits for you to continue, “My fiance, ex-fiance really, is your twin brother, Shamrock.”

Shanks goes through a lot emotions all at once, jealousy, in knowing that his older brother had met you first, anger that his twin had obviously done something to you that caused you to run away, and relief that he had met you before Shamrock found you and dragged you back to Mariejois. He takes a moment to digest what you’ve dumped on him before ultimately shrugging and sending you a cocky smirk that makes you flush.

“Well it’s a good thing you ran into me then, isn’t sweetheart?” he drawls and boldly reaches out to curl his fingers over your cheek in a soft caress that you can’t help but lean into, “I’m much better than my brother, anyway.”

@mit-suri @sanjisleggy @nocturnalrorobin @mfreedomstuff @sordidmusings

[moonlight-joy]

The Call of the Black Dread

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: Haunted by the pull of a dragon long thought lost to history, you defy fear and tradition to claim Balerion the Black Dread, forging a bond that shakes the realm and asserts your place as a true heir to the Targaryen legacy.

Pairing: None

For as long as you could remember, you had felt it—a hum in your blood, a faint whisper in your dreams. It was not just the fire of the Targaryen bloodline coursing through your veins, but something deeper, older. It was a presence, a shadow that loomed large in your mind even as a child. You had never spoken of it, not even to Jacaerys, your twin, who shared almost everything with you.

It was the shadow of Balerion, the Black Dread.

Even as a child, you had wandered to the edges of the dragon pit on Driftmark, drawn by something you couldn’t name. You would stand there, staring into the cavernous darkness where no light dared linger, your small hands clutching the cold stone walls. Sometimes, you thought you heard a deep rumble, like the growl of the earth itself, though no one else seemed to notice. When you asked your father, he would only shake his head, saying, “Balerion is no longer for this world, my child. Let the Black Dread rest.”

But you knew better. Balerion might no longer answer to kings, but he was not gone. His fire still burned, deep within those shadows, waiting for someone bold—or foolish—enough to claim it.

The pull grew stronger as you aged, until it was no longer just a whisper but a call. You dreamed of obsidian wings cutting through the sky, of golden eyes boring into your soul. You would wake with your heart racing, your hands trembling as if they had been scorched by dragonfire.

But the chance to act on that pull never came—until the night of Laena Velaryon’s funeral.

The sea air was cold as you stood with Jacaerys near the cliffs, watching the waves crash against the rocks below. The night was heavy with grief, but something else stirred within you—a sense of unease, of something shifting in the air.

“Aemond has gone to claim Vhagar,” Jacaerys said suddenly, his voice tight with anger. His words jolted you, though they didn’t surprise you. Aemond had always been brash, desperate to prove himself worthy of the Targaryen name.

“Vhagar,” you murmured, your mind racing. You could already see it: Aemond, smug and triumphant, returning to Driftmark astride the largest dragon in the world. The thought made your blood boil.

And then, like a flame catching, the pull hit you again—stronger than ever. It was no longer a call but a command. You turned to Jacaerys, your eyes blazing. “Let him have Vhagar.”

Jace frowned, startled. “What are you saying?”

“There’s another dragon,” you said, your voice steady and sure. “A greater dragon. The one who has always called to me.”

His eyes widened in realization. “You don’t mean…”

“Balerion,” you said, your heart thundering in your chest. “He’s waiting for me, Jace. He always has been.”

The trek to the pit was one you knew by heart, though you had never dared enter. Tonight, you would.

Jacaerys followed you, though his face was pale with worry. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice low. “If this goes wrong—”

“It won’t,” you interrupted, your voice filled with a conviction that surprised even you. “Balerion has been waiting for me, Jace. I can feel it.”

As you descended into the darkness of the pit, the air grew thick and hot, the scent of sulfur filling your lungs. The walls seemed to close in around you, but you pressed forward, driven by the pull that had haunted you your entire life.

And then you saw him.

Balerion the Black Dread.

He was enormous, his massive form half-shrouded in shadow. His dark scales gleamed faintly in the dim light, and his eyes glowed like molten gold. He was not sleeping—he was watching. Waiting.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped closer, your every instinct screaming at you to run. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The pull was too strong.

“Balerion,” you whispered, your voice trembling but clear. “I am here.”

The great dragon let out a low rumble, the sound vibrating through the ground and up into your chest. Smoke curled from his nostrils, and his tail swished behind him, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

You took another step forward, your hand outstretched. “You have called to me my whole life,” you said, speaking in High Valyrian now. “I am Targaryen. Blood of the dragon. I am your rider.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Balerion lowered his massive head, his golden eyes locking onto yours. You could feel the power in his gaze, the weight of centuries of fire and blood. Slowly, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his warm scales.

A bond snapped into place, as if it had always been there, waiting for you to claim it.

When you climbed onto Balerion’s back, it was like stepping into a dream. His wings unfurled, their shadow swallowing the pit, and with a mighty roar, he launched into the sky. The wind whipped against your face as you soared higher and higher, the world below shrinking into insignificance.

The stars seemed closer now, the air electric with the power of the Black Dread beneath you. You had always felt the pull, and now you knew why. You were not just a Targaryen. You were his rider.

As you circled back toward the cliffs, you saw Vhagar take to the skies with Aemond astride her. His laughter echoed across the night, but it faltered when he saw you. Balerion’s roar drowned out all other sounds, a deafening proclamation of his return.

Aemond’s face twisted with shock and fear as he realized what had happened. He might have claimed Vhagar, but you had claimed something far greater.

When you landed back on Driftmark, Jacaerys ran to meet you, his face alight with awe. “You did it,” he breathed. “Balerion…”

“Balerion and I,” you corrected, your voice steady but filled with quiet triumph. “We are one now.”

The news of that night spread quickly, shaking the foundations of the realm. Aemond had claimed Vhagar, but you had brought the Black Dread back into the skies.

And nothing would ever be the same again.

Please support my work with like and comment

[cece693]

What Can I Say? I'm a Man

pairing: will graham x male reader tags: just me being silly, but also serious cause will has a dumptruck, have you guys seen it, just me living vicariously through my fics cause damn, I would risk it all like hannibal did for will, will is a tease, beverly is the best wingwoman

When you joined the FBI’s Behavioral Science division, you expected a mountain of paperwork, a boss who spoke in monotone, and coworkers who lived on stale coffee. What you didn’t expect was Will Graham. Specifically, you didn’t expect his eyes to sparkle with shy intelligence—or for his perfectly round, absolutely mesmerizing butt to distract you at every turn.

The day you first met, Will wore an innocent-looking pair of jeans that somehow hugged every inch of his backside. It wasn’t your fault your eyes lingered on him longer than they should. You tried (and failed) to act like you were just adjusting your tie or checking the time on your phone. But anyone glancing your way could see the obvious: you were hooked.

Will, meanwhile, had always carried himself with a certain reticence. Soft-spoken, thoughtful, and occasionally lost in his own world. But when you walked in—tall, confident, exuding a suave air that made hearts skip—Will took note. Over the next few weeks, he realized he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. After all, you weren’t the only one thirsting over a coworker. Will found himself daydreaming about you in ways he knew weren’t entirely professional.

He told himself to snap out of it. He was a dedicated profiler, for heaven’s sake. But the moment he noticed you trying to discreetly peek at his backside? Let’s just say a certain mischievous streak awoke in him, one he rarely let others see.

Beverly Katz was the first to call you out. One morning, after Will sauntered by your desk in a pair of freshly pressed slacks that clung to him like sin, you nearly choked on your coffee. Beverly appeared at your elbow, smirking. “Is it me,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially, “or are his pants one size too small?”

You sputtered and tried to look offended. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” She gave you a playful shove. “Just make sure you’re hydrating, because you look ready to pass out whenever he bends over a file box.”

You shot her a glare, cheeks blazing, but you couldn’t deny the truth. Will’s backside was a lethal weapon, and your thirst was borderline criminal. Beverly, for her part, found your plight endlessly entertaining. She took special delight in watching your eyes follow Will across the bullpen—like a starved man chasing a steak.

Will was fully aware of your wandering eyes. At first, it made him blush furiously—he wasn’t used to such direct admiration. But gradually, a little voice in the back of his head teased, Show him what he wants.

It started small: the subtle arch of his back when he stretched, ensuring that his hips angled perfectly in your line of sight. Then he progressed to wearing jeans a tad too snug on casual Fridays, or slightly fitted dress pants on normal workdays, all to test your reaction. And oh, he relished those reactions. He’d catch your jaw going slack, or see you turn a particularly vibrant shade of red. He’d pretend not to notice, hiding a smirk behind his paperwork.

But somewhere along the line, Will’s game stopped being purely playful. Because the more he turned up the heat—giving you unobstructed views of his glorious butt—the more he wanted your attention in other ways, too. He found himself fantasizing about you pushing him up against a desk, or catching him in the break room alone, pressing him against the wall.

It all came to a head one fateful Friday. Will strutted into work wearing dark-wash jeans that fit so snugly you could see every contour of his backside. The entire bullpen seemed to collectively do a double-take, but you nearly swallowed your tongue. Even Beverly let out a low whistle—something about “we need an HR meeting just for those jeans.”

You spent the day doing a terrible job of working, fidgeting at your desk, mind consumed with images of what it would feel like to squeeze, grab, knead that…ahem. By lunchtime, you were seriously considering faking a migraine and going home to avoid spontaneously combusting.

Beverly, noticing your tension, decided to nudge things along. She strode to your desk, arms crossed, a sly grin on her face. “He’s in the break room. Now’s your chance.”

“My chance for what?” You tried to play dumb.

She rolled her eyes. “To finally do something about the pining! My God, it’s unbearable. If you don’t make a move, I’m going to do it for you.” You set down your pen with a sigh, mustering your courage. Heart pounding, you headed toward the break room. Sure enough, Will was there, pouring coffee into a mug with his back turned. As you walked in, he half-glanced over his shoulder, smiling when he realized it was you. Then, deliberately, he arched his back just a bit more while he set the coffee pot down.

The flex was so obvious that you nearly tripped over your own feet. Your face went hot. You cleared your throat, trying to appear composed. “H-Hey, Will.”

He turned around slowly, eyes dancing with amusement. “Hey.”

He leaned a hip against the counter, crossing one foot over the other. The way his jeans stretched over his thighs and butt was… distracting, to say the least. “You, uh—” You gulped. “You look nice today.” It was an understatement of the century, but you had to start somewhere.

Will’s lips quirked. “Thanks. I may have chosen these jeans on purpose.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, heart stuttering. “O-on purpose for…?”

He took a step closer, leaving the coffee mug behind. “For you,” he admitted quietly, cheeks coloring. “I’ve noticed how you look at me. I…I kind of like it.”

For a moment, you forgot how to form words. Your mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts: He noticed? He did this for me? You inhaled sharply, setting your mug down before you spilled scalding coffee everywhere. “Will, I—I’m not exactly subtle, I know. I hope I never made you uncomfortable.”

A gentle laugh escaped him. “No, never uncomfortable. Believe me, I’m flattered—more than flattered.”

He edged close enough that you could smell his cologne, a warm, woodsy scent. “You’re…you’re the hot coworker in the department, you know,” Will whispered, eyes flicking over your face.

That statement alone made your brain short-circuit. He thinks I’m hot? Will swallowed, his voice going soft but urgent. “If you want to, maybe—kiss me, or—”

It was your turn to step in, bridging the last few inches between you. Without overthinking, you cupped his cheek and pressed your lips to his. It was tentative at first, a gentle, testing kiss that felt more like a question than a statement. But Will answered eagerly, sliding his hands around your waist. When your tongue brushed against his lips, he parted them with a quiet sigh, deepening the kiss. It sent a thrill down your spine—God, you’d been waiting for this forever.

As the kiss intensified, your hand drifted down, fingertips resting on the slope of his lower back. With a trembling breath, you moved lower, finally cupping that glorious backside you’d been admiring for so long. Will’s jeans were firm and warm beneath your touch, and the muscle underneath made your mind spin.

He responded with a soft gasp, his eyes fluttering shut. “Took you long enough,” he teased, voice muffled against your mouth.

You couldn’t hold back a husky chuckle. “I’ve been dying to do that since the day I met you.”

He pressed closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. “Let’s make up for lost time, then.” Your other hand joined in, giving a playful squeeze. The heat of the moment was intense, but it still felt safe—like you both understood exactly how far to push. Will’s breath hitched, and for a second, you worried you might’ve overstepped.

But he grinned, eyes dark with want. “I told Beverly I wanted to climb you like a dog in heat,” he confessed, half-laughing at his own words.

You let out a shocked, delighted bark of laughter. “I’m sorry—what?”

He buried his face in your shoulder, clearly mortified. “It just…slipped out during a moment of weakness.”

Your heart flipped. You slid a hand up to his nape, fingers threading through his curls. “Well, if it helps, I take it as the highest compliment.”

As if on cue, the door swung open behind you, and in walked Beverly—again. She stopped dead, mouth forming a little o of surprise as she caught you and Will pressed together. You tried to jump away, but Will’s grip on you was firm, almost possessive.

“Oh wow,” Beverly said, bright grin spreading across her face, “so that’s what a coffee break looks like these days.”

You cleared your throat. “I—um—we—this isn’t—” Will simply shook his head, looking half-flustered, half-amused. “Beverly.”

She lifted her phone as though to snap a picture, but your death-glare dissuaded her. Still, she was positively glowing with smugness. “Alright, alright, I’ll let you have your privacy—just wanted to see if the machine had been refilled.”

Will turned to pick up his abandoned mug. “I think so,” he said as casually as possible. You, meanwhile, tried not to look like a teenager caught making out at prom. Beverly gave you a thumbs-up on her way out the door. “Carry on, lovebirds.”

Once the coast was clear, Will looked at you with amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I’d say we owe Beverly some kind of gift basket for pushing us together.”

You shook your head in exasperation, though you couldn’t hide your grin. “Yes, but also, she’s never going to let us live this down.” Will shrugged, leaning closer. “I think it’s worth the trade.” And then he placed a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips, making your heart flutter.

“Do you—would you like to go out tonight?” you asked, tucking a curl behind his ear. “Maybe somewhere that doesn’t involve stale coffee and the prying eyes of our coworkers?”

He smiled softly. “I’d love that. Actually, I know this cozy little restaurant near Wolf Trap. Good food, decent beer, and I’ve been dying to take you there.” Your smile widened. “Sounds like a plan.”

That night, you and Will exchanged suit jackets for something more casual, meeting up outside the FBI offices. The tension between you was still there, but it had softened into a warm, mutual understanding. You wanted each other—and not just physically, though that part was undeniably electric.

Over dinner, you laughed, you talked, you learned little details about each other that you’d never have gleaned from mere hallway small talk. And the glances—those heated, affectionate glances—spoke volumes about the things you’d do when you finally got some real privacy.

Before parting ways, you found yourselves tangled in a kiss beside Will’s car, the cool night air contrasting sharply with the fire coursing through your veins. Will’s arms draped around your shoulders, your hands found their customary place on his waist, traveling south to rest on those perfect curves once again. He hummed in approval, nipping at your lower lip.

You parted, breathless and smiling. “I can’t believe it took us so long,” you murmured, pressing your forehead against his.

Will’s eyes shone with affection. “Sometimes the best things are worth waiting for.” He paused, then added with a playful smirk, “But don’t think I’m done torturing you with these jeans at work.”

A laugh burst out of you, full of relief and excitement. “Torture away, Graham. Just don’t be surprised if I return the favor.”

[reidmarieprentiss]

Heyyy so this is very specific 😅

Remember the fisher king part 2 episode when Spencer escapes the bomb? So imagine the bomb part happened in a different case (because I need Emily and Dave in) and he had to go to the hospital because of some wounds (he’s really fine but the team insisted) So they go to the hospital.

They could see Spencer was nervous looking around like he was scared, Morgan, JJ and Emily just thought it was the germaphobic thing. While Hotch and Dave (the only ones who knew) already had a bet on: how long will it take to Spencer’s partner, a doctor at the hospital they’re in, showed up screaming at Spencer for risking his life (again).

And guess what happens? They show up with steam coming out of her ears. Ready to scold Spencer. They ask him what happened and he keep it simple “I just got fell” and she turns to hotch and Dave “is that true” you choose who ditches on Spencer. While all of that happens JJ Emily and Morgan are like “wtf is going on???? “Reid has a partner???!”

I told you it was specific 😭

Love Doctor

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: mentions of a bomb

Word count: 712

a/n: this was so cute i love this ask!!!

main masterlist

As the team walks into the hospital, Spencer tries to hide the unease coursing through him. The incident with the bomb was behind them, but his nerves were anything but settled. He knew what was coming, and it wasn’t just the doctors poking and prodding at him. Morgan, JJ, and Emily exchange glances, assuming Spencer’s discomfort is due to his well-known aversion to hospitals and germs.

“You’re gonna be fine, pretty boy,” Morgan says, patting Spencer on the shoulder. “Just a few scratches, and you’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Yeah, Spence, it’s not like they’re gonna make you stay the night or anything,” JJ adds with a reassuring smile.

Emily nods, her tone light as she says, “You’ll be out of here before you know it, probably before they can even make you wear one of those hospital gowns.”

Spencer forces a tight smile, his eyes darting nervously around the busy hospital hallway. His heart races, not because of the minor injuries he sustained but because he knows who works here. Hotch and Rossi, walking a few paces ahead, exchange a knowing look. They’ve both seen this play out before, and although they’d never admit it, they’re both wondering how long it will take for the inevitable confrontation to occur.

Just as Spencer is about to sit down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, he hears a familiar voice, sharp and filled with exasperation.

“Spencer Reid!”

The sound of his full name, spoken with that particular tone, makes Spencer cringe. He turns slowly, already bracing himself for the storm about to hit. You, his partner, a doctor at the hospital, storms toward him, your face a mixture of relief and fury. The rest of the team watches in shock as you approach, eyes blazing with anger.

“What were you thinking?” you demand, not bothering to lower your voice. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You could’ve—” You stop yourself, taking a deep breath, clearly trying to calm down but failing spectacularly.

Spencer rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I, uh… I just fell.”

You narrow your eyes, turning their attention to Hotch and Rossi, who are both standing with their arms crossed, attempting (and failing) to hide their amusement. “Is that true? Did he just fall?”

Rossi, not missing a beat, smirks and says, “I’d say he more or less threw himself into harm’s way, but ‘falling’ works too.”

Hotch, with a slight nod, adds, “There might have been a bomb involved.”

Your eyes flash with irritation as you look back at Spencer. “A bomb? You said you fell!”

Spencer shrinks a little under your gaze. “Well, I did fall… after the bomb went off.”

You look like you’re about to explode, but instead, you take another deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Spencer…”

Meanwhile, Morgan, JJ, and Emily are standing off to the side, their jaws practically on the floor. JJ is the first to speak, her voice low with shock. “Wait… Reid has a partner? A partner who’s a doctor?”

Emily, eyes wide, whispers back, “And they’re yelling at him… like he’s a kid caught sneaking out of the house.”

Morgan, unable to contain his amusement, chuckles. “This just got interesting.”

You turn back to Spencer, your voice softer now but still firm. “You’re coming home with me after this, and we’re going to have a serious talk about you risking your life like this. Again.”

Spencer nods quickly, knowing better than to argue. “Yes, my love.”

As you usher Spencer towards the examination room, Morgan, JJ, and Emily exchange looks of bewilderment and amusement. Hotch and Rossi follow at a distance, satisfied with how things have unfolded.

Emily, still stunned, leans over to Morgan. “I think we just met the one person who can actually scare Reid.”

Morgan grins. “I think you’re right.”

JJ, shaking her head in disbelief, murmurs, “I didn’t even know he was dating someone…”

As they all watch Spencer disappear into the examination room with his partner, a new wave of curiosity and respect for their genius colleague washes over them. They’ve just witnessed a side of Spencer Reid they never knew existed, and none of them are sure how to process it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303

[joehillssimp]

My Friend X Heavy Tf2 no one asked for this, i just dree it because I got high in the morning and I was let loose to draw whatever I wanted.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, discussion of past trauma, psychological torture, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Part Twenty-Seven of Ink & Needle

Walsh invites Simon to dinner. Task Force 141 lays in wait. A rivalry finally comes to a close.

Chapter Twenty-Six // Chapter Twenty-Eight

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

A flood. A river.

Water rushing—swallowing Simon whole. Drowning.

He is cold. So...cold.

Dunked. Forced. Reaching and clawing for fresh air as his lungs fill to bursting.

Bravo whines, tapping Simon's leg with his paw, trying to capture his attention. Simon absently scratches under the dog's chin, his gaze distant and unfocused.

Around him in a circle are sketches. Charcoal on white paper.

They were meant for you—for you to browse and enjoy. Only a few months ago, Simon believed that you would eventually pick one, and from that selection, he'd design the perfect tattoo, and you'd do him the honor of inking your skin with his art.

Fuck, how things have changed. Shifted.

The stars are no longer aligned. Everything is off—and all the planets, moons, and comets are close to colliding.

Shattering. Simon is shattering.

Bravo whines again, this time with a hint of a growl in it, as if his patience is thin. That one change clicks something into place, pushing Simon toward the present moment.

"Need out of my head," mutters Simon. Leaning to the side, Simon playfully scratches at Bravo's belly until the German Shepherd collapses onto his back, tongue lolling out in contented bliss. "Up for a jog?"

Bravo is up in an instant, his claws tap tap tapping against the wood floor as he fetches his leash. Simon's gaze lingers on the sketches. A buzzing numbness begins to creep in, chilling his blood.

Two weeks since Kit Walsh walked through the door of 141 Ink. Two weeks and no letter in the post. No word. Not from him. Not from Price or Gaz or Johnny. A brief spark of shame ignites in Simon's chest. He hasn't spoken to Amelia or Evie either. They've reached out. They try all the time. Amelia even convinced Ben from Dancing Faun and a few older patrons to come check in on him.

But not bringing you back is a failure.

Simon can't face them. Can’t face fucking anyone. Can't begin to explain how all of this is entirely his fault. Kit doesn't care about you. He cares about Simon—about making him suffer.

And it's working. It's bloody fucking working.

Bravo dumps the leash in Simon's lap. A bit of drool bleeds into Simon's joggers, and he can't help but chuckle.

"Let's go," groans Simon, his bad leg acting up as he stands.

Warming up and heading out for a mile helps with the soreness in Simon's limbs but not his heart. Before heading home, Simon stops for a coffee and croissant at the bakery, giving Bravo the drier portions.

As Simon slips the key into the lock of the exterior door, he almost doesn't notice the small white envelope on the floor. Bravo steps right over it, charging upstairs to the flat as Simon releases his hold on the leash.

The buttery, flakey piece of croissant becomes ash in Simon’s mouth.

He knows that handwriting. That familiar scrawl.

And it’s Sunday. The post is never delivered on Sunday. But of course, it wouldn’t arrive in the actual fucking mail.

Walsh likes to hand deliver.

Makes it more personal. Especially when Walsh believes that someone has personally wronged him.

Simon has seen it before, back when Walsh believed Simon was on his side. Sometimes it was Simon who pulled the trigger on Walsh’s order. Not that any of those wankers were good people, but Walsh takes great joy in the one-on-one.

Simon bends at the knees, lifting the small white envelope off the ground. His greasy fingers leave behind a blemish. Bravo whines and Simon ascends the stairs, clutching the envelope tightly as if it will melt away like snow under a blazing sun.

Even as Simon enters his flat, he does not open it. He places his coffee and half-eaten croissant on the kitchen table, unlatching Bravo's leash and returning it to the holder by the front door. It isn't until Simon has the phone in his hand—the one he’s only ever used twice—while dialing the one person he knows will answer, that he flips the envelop over with shaking fingers, breaking the seal.

"Lt."

"Johnny."

Simon almost doesn't recognize himself. He sounds...broken. Rotten like forgotten food in a hoarder’s fridge. Johnny immediately notices the distress in Simon’s voice.

“What’s wrong? Did that fucker come into your shop again?"

"No," says Simon quickly, because it’s true. Walsh didn’t enter his shop. Didn’t even enter his home this time. "Not exactly."

“Simon. What’s happened?”

Slowly, Simon slides the flimsy bit of paper out of the envelope. It’s not folded. Just a once crisp piece of plain paper that Simon scrunched in his fist.

“It’s happening, Johnny. The end. I think this is it.”

“The end?” asks Soap.

Flipping it over, letters and numbers are revealed. And then words.

An address.

"Johnny,” he exhales, almost gasping as the air is ripped right out of his lungs. Simon’s thundering heart becomes silent.

"What do you need from me, Lt?"

There are words below the address. A quote, perhaps. A message.

Do this in remembrance of me.

Tears form in Simon’s eyes. "I'm not doing this alone."

"You won't be."

"You shouldn't go in alone."

Captain Price's voice crackles through the earpiece. It's a small thing, no larger than a pea pod. It sits snugly in Simon's right ear.

"I have to,” replies Simon, determined to fucking end this.

This isn't for them to decide, and it certainly isn't their responsibility. Walsh's death belongs to Simon.

He craves it. Needs it.

Lifeblood for lifeblood.

A soft static comes over the earpiece followed by Price’s voice. “We’re in position. Give the word. And we’ll enter.”

"Thank you, Captain."

Simon is dressed for dinner. It’s no suit and tie, but Walsh doesn’t really deserve the curtesy. Simon carries a pistol and a blade, but it’ll likely be confiscated. Walsh might enjoy a good game but he doesn't play fair.

What Simon did not expect, was for Walsh to bring him home. To bring him here. Of all places.

He knows this street, though it’s changed a bit over the years. He would walk home from school and stop two doors down to pet the neighbor’s dog before heading home. His mum would spend her weekends lingering out front tending her flowers. This home flourished when he was small and his little brother was nothing more but cells in his mother's womb.

It's different now. Dark.

Simon hasn't touched his childhood home in years. Not since their deaths. He couldn't bring himself to sell it, and he sure as shit couldn't bring himself to get rid of anything. He's owned it since then, and it simply exists. Empty.

But there's a light on. A small one.

The table lamp beside the window is illuminated, the one his mum liked to turn on after she put Simon and his brother to bed. The one she’d read her book by before heading to bed herself.

But that was before everything happened. Back when they were a happy family and his father was sober.

"I can come with you, Lt."

Johnny this time.

"No,” replies Simon. “It needs to be me."

It takes all of ten steps to approach the front door. Simon tries the doorknob, and finds it unlocked.

Slowly, Simon eases the door open, revealing a home that hasn’t changed. Everything is in its place, and as he steps inside, he notices the dust. Glancing down at the floor, he is greeted with the bloodstains that never came out of the carpet no matter how hard he scrubbed.

While the hall is dark, the door to his left stands open, revealing the living room. Simon can see the lit lamp and his mother’s favorite chair from where he stands in the hall. As he shifts in that direction, moving toward the light, the rest of the room comes into view.

Just inside, all the furniture has been pushed against the walls, opening up the middle of the room. There is a table, or what appears to be a table. It’s low to the ground with a bulky base that’s longer that it is wide. There are no chairs but it wouldn’t work with the table. Simon and Walsh will have to sit on the floor.

On the tabletop is a feast. An entire Sunday roast dinner. It sends Simon right back to those early days of his youth when he’d look forward to this meal. Nothing is unaccounted for. There’s the carved roast meat, roasted potatoes, an array of vegetables, Yorkshire pudding, stuffing, gravy, and all sorts of sauces. It is far fancier than anything Simon’s mum ever prepared.

It’s fresh, too. Small wafts of steam drift upward. Not only that, but the table is set for two.

“You came.”

Simon’s head snaps around, only to find Kit Walsh standing in front of the kitchen door. Simon didn’t even hear him.

“Didn’t have much of an option.”

Walsh shrugs. “True.”

“Where is she, Kit?” asks Simon.

This is Walsh’s only chance. He’ll ask nicely—politely, even. But that’s fucking it. Fuck this dinner. Fuck talking.

Walsh extends a hand, gesturing at the makeshift table. “Have a seat.”

“Kit,” growls Simon, taking a step toward the man. “Where is she?”

The corner of Walsh’s mouth twitches but his demeanor reveals nothing. He’s completely calm, and that scares Simon. Walsh is at his worse when he appears perfectly apathetic.

“Food is going cold,” replies Walsh, and the chilly blandness in his voice sends Simon over the edge. “Never known you to pass up a Sunday roast.”

The pistol is in Simon’s hand, the firing end of the barrel pressed to Walsh’s forward in a matter of seconds.

“I won’t ask again, Kit. Where is she?”

Walsh’s sigh is like that of an annoyed parent. “Sit down, Simon. Eat.”

Simon adds pressure behind his grip, pushing the barrel harder against Walsh’s skin, forcing his head backward. The man doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away either. Walsh stares Simon in face, unblinking.

“You fucking done?” he asks.

“No,” snaps Simon. His fingers curls around the trigger. “You tell me where she is, Kit. I’m not fucking around.”

“Then be done with it, mate. Put some lead in me. Make me bleed.” His smile is slightly off, like he’s begging for Simon to do it.

And Simon wants to. Badly.

“I won’t hesitate.”

“I know you won’t, Riley. You’ve always been a great shot.”

Slowly, Simon eases the gun away from Walsh’s head. It leaves behind a round mark in the middle of Walsh’s forehead.

“Have a seat,” coaxes Walsh. “Let’s talk.”

Simon is sick of talking. It’s all they ever do. Back and forth and back again until everything is twisted and torn and wrong.

“You’ll talk out of your ass the whole time,” says Simon, backing away from Walsh. The gun is still clutched in his hand, but it’s lowered.

��You can keep the gun,” sighs Walsh, heading for the nearest table setting. He takes a seat at the makeshift table, crossing his legs.

It reminds Simon of primary school. And that only makes it hurt all the more.

He wants to resist, but instead, Simon goes to the opposite end of the table, taking a seat. Playing Walsh’s game is his only chance, even if Simon doesn’t want to participate. He prefers things clean. Recon. A quick shot to the head.

But all that old violence didn’t involve someone Simon cares about. Killing Walsh now may end any chance of you returning to him.

Simon places the gun on the table next to his plate. He stares out at the feast, not wanting to take anything.

“It’s not poisoned,” says Walsh, already reaching for the food. He grabs a large slice of roast before dishing himself up one of everything else. When Simon doesn’t move to put food on his plate, Walsh chuckles. “Do I need to eat some first? Would that convince you?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Walsh shrugs. “Shame.” He cuts off a piece of the roast and dunks it in the gravy before popping it into his mouth. He points at the roast with his fork. “Missing out.”

With each bite Walsh takes, Simon continually grows uneasy. There’s no quickness in the way Walsh eats. He savors everything, complimenting the flavor, attempting to make small talk with Simon whose plate remains empty.

“I just want to know where she is, Kit. I don’t fucking care about anything else.”

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s a bloody lie. You fucking hate me.”

“Didn’t say that I didn’t.”

“You should really try this, Simon.” Walsh slowly chews a potato. “Banging meal. Missing out.”

“Fucking shut up.”

Walsh glances up, the middle of his brow curved in. “Fucking eat it, Simon. I’m not asking.” When Simon doesn’t move, Walsh sets down his silverware. “You want your woman back? Then fucking eat.”

Simon’s fists are clenched in his lap. It takes everything in him to unfold those fingers—to relax the muscles enough to move. Like a robot with a singular purpose, Simon starts filling his plate. He can smell it all. The food is fragrant and luscious. His stomach growls yet there is no meal that could fill that hole that sits in Simon’s stomach.

As Simon returns his plate to the table, Walsh returns to his own meal.

“This is our last supper,” sighs Walsh. “Sad to end it here.”

Simon stares down at his plate. Part of him wants to eat it, to remember the nostalgia of sitting at the dining table on Sunday afternoons. “One of us isn’t leaving here.”

Walsh frowns. “Suppose that’s true.”

Simon answers immediately. “It’ll be you.”

“Will it?” Walsh glances around. “This is your childhood home. Your mum died just out there.” Walsh gestures toward the entrance. “Didn’t your father bash her head in?”

He asks the question like the death of his family is polite dinner conversation.

“Don’t talk about my mum, Kit.”

Walsh tuts. “And then to off your baby brother like he did?” He pauses to chew a piece of roast. “All while you were on your first deployment? Fucking mental that one. Bet you’re glad he’s dead.”

“They’re all dead. You know that.”

Simon remembers that night like it was yesterday. He came home from his first deployment expecting to be greeted by his mum and baby brother. They weren’t there in London. Simon didn’t understand why until he made his way back to Manchester and walked through the front door.

“How’d it feel killing your father? You enjoy it?”

“Fuck off.” Simon’s voice is cold. Distant.

Taking his plate, Walsh piles on another helping of potatoes and meat. “And for Captain Price to get those charges wiped? Bloody lucky you are, Simon.” He snags another Yorkshire pudding. Adds more gravy to his plate. “I mean—he made you his fucking patsy on that,” Walsh gestures vaguely in the air, “fucking task force. Had you murdering everyone the government deemed a ‘threat.’”

“Should look at yourself, Kit.”

“Why? Because I played the same game?” Walsh shakes his head. “I took their money. I spent it. I made them happy, and then I tossed them in the fucking rubbish when I was done with them.”

“And yet, they all still have their heads. For someone who hates the government, you’ve hardly fucking touched them.”

Walsh shrugs. “Most. But not all.”

Simon’s jaw clenches. “Just tell me where she is, Kit. Tell me and let’s be fucking done with this.”

“I don’t think I’m done. And you haven’t touched your food.”

Simon scoffs. This wanker is unbelievable. “You fucking think—”

There’s a thump. It immediately silences Simon and gives Walsh pause. That can’t be the boys. Simon didn’t give them the go ahead.

A lull of silence follows.

“Kit—”

“Don’t fucking start.”

Another thump. This one rattles the table. Coming from—

Simon flattens his hands on the tabletop, starting to rise.

“Don’t fucking move, Simon.” Walsh’s voice is deathly cold. He’s bent forward, hand poised like he’s ready to draw a weapon.

“Where the fuck is she?” growls Simon.

Another thump. This one is louder. Stronger. Shaking the entire table.

Simon is up and raising his gun just as Walsh draws his. The pistol fires, the sound loud. Walsh jerks, his shoulder hitching to the side. Simon keeps his finger on the trigger, each round leaving the chamber a melody to his ears.

Charging forward, Simon lungers for the man.

In is ear, Price’s voice is a pulsing thing, calling his name. Simon is hardly paying attention. Walsh is right there. Within reach.

There is already blood. Bright. Bold. Spreading over the floor.

Simon falls to his knees, uncaring of the pain. “Where is she, Kit?” He fists the front of Kit’s shirt, lifting the man from off the ground.

"Did you not enjoy the meal?" asks Kit, his eyes glassy and distant. "Spent months on it."

A sour dread floods Simon’s stomach. He never took a bite of the food. But the roast…

“Where is she!” screams Simon, shaking him.

Walsh’s head flops about even as he laughs.

"A feast," chuckles Walsh. "Over flesh."

With a raging cry, Simon slams Walsh's head against the wood floor. There's a loud crack, and Walsh's laughter cuts off.

But Simon doesn't notice. He is elsewhere—drifting in blood hunger, wanting only vengeance.

Only wanting marrow. Only wanting dirt.

Simon grasps Walsh by the neck, smashing the back of his head against the floor again.

"You."

Smash.

"Fucking."

Walsh's skull cracks.

Opens up.

"Wanker!"

Busted brain matter mixes with the red, spreading outward.

"Simon!" It's Johnny's voice but it's not in his ear this time. It's just over his shoulder. It is present. It is loud. "Simon!"

Hands are on him. Strong ones. They tug at his shoulders, drawing him away from the gore. From the mess. Simon does not relent. Like a boulder, he collapses, pressing his forehead against the wood floor, sinking further into darkness.

You have to be here. You have to be.

A feast over flesh.

Simon turns his head to the right, staring at the large, makeshift table. It's boxy. Big. More like a storage bin rather than a table.

More like—

Simon flattens his hands, pushing up enough to half-crawl, half-drag himself toward the table. There's something odd about it, the shape. And the thudding. The fucking thudding.

"Simon. Don't—”

Simon knocks Johnny's hands away. With one wide swing of his arm, Simon knocks away the food and tableware. It crashes to the ground.

At first, Simon tries to lift the flattened top, but it doesn't budge. It's been nailed on. This isn't a commercial build. This is custom made. Not a table at all.

"Johnny,” breathes Simon. “Get a crowbar. And a hammer. In the garage."

Johnny doesn’t question. He just goes, disappearing into the house. Distantly, Simon hears the banging of doors and heavy footfalls.

Simon bends forward, examining the underside.

The tabletop is just a piece of large, finished wood nailed onto an open box. When he was standing, he couldn’t tell, but now he sees that it’s not just a box.

It’s a bloody coffin. A nice one. One you’d bury a family member in.

"Johnny!" yells Simon, his voice breaking at the end.

He appears with the crowbar, presenting it to Simon, clutching the hammer in his other hand. The two of them work together, removing nails and breaking away pieces of the wood.

Captain Price enters seconds later with Kyle on his heel. They kick away plates, discarded food, and broken pieces of wood. The rest of the team moves through the rest of the house. Simon can’t see them but he can hear them overhead, shouting from other rooms.

Simon hooks the crowbar under a corner, pulling hard. The wood groans, creaking loudly as it starts to pull away.

"Get those bloody nails up!”

Walsh’s lifeless body is ignored. Left where Simon released him.

Johnny pops out the final nail, the wood bending under Simon’s weighted leverage, lifting away from the base. All four them grab on, guiding it off and away.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Price, staring down at what’s inside.

Simon drops to his knees, hands dipping into the coffin. It's soft, black velvet on the inside. Your head is turned, resting on a small pillow. There is a sickly quality to your skin, but you otherwise appear completely unharmed.

Your eyes are closed. You appear peaceful. You appear...dead.

How long have you been in here? How long have you been trapped?

Simon's hands cradle your face. Though your skin is a bit cold, there is still plenty of warmth. There is no stiffness, just an easy loll that speaks to unconsciousness. Did you hear Simon’s voice? Did you manage enough strength to alert him of your presence?

“He has her fucking drugged.”

Price gently lifts a bag out of the coffin.

“It’s just saline,” says Gaz. “Look at the label.”

It’s marked as such—something standard in every hospital for hydration. But that doesn’t mean Walsh didn’t tamper with it.

“Saline doesn’t do this,” says Price, gesturing at your limp body.

Simon whispers your name, thumb stroking over your cheek.

Price turns into his walkie. “I need medical in here. Now.”

Simon whispers your name again. There's a twitch in your jaw. A quiver in your brow. You're not aware. Not yet. But you're alive, and as far as Simon can tell, you're whole.

But even then, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't matter if Walsh had taken fingers and toes. If he'd taken an arm. If he'd scarred your body or blinded you. All Simon wants, all he's ever wanted these last three months, is to hold you in arms again.

Your eyelids twitch. Flutter.

As Price holds the bag, Simon slides his arms under your body, lifting you from the coffin and onto the floor beside it. Gaz kneels beside Price, examining the arm where the IV is inserted.

Simon leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, both hands on either side of your face.

"Come back to me," he murmurs, as the others rush and move around him. "Come back to me."

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[theladyofbloodshed]

In an alternate universe where Nesta Archeron is Rhysand's mate.

@rhystaappreciationweekend

The scent of her damp hair was intoxicating. Rhysand’s magic swelled within him at the noxious power sweeping beneath the crack of the door. He imagined her combing it through, her fingers running through the damp, golden strands like a river of gold. Was it soft? Did she like it when men touched her hair? No, she wouldn’t let any man touch it, Rhysand knew. Even the thought of one of those despicable human men touching her – her hair, her face, her body – made rage snarl within him like a rabid beast.  

Rhysand couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. He was barely breathing with her under the same roof. He was a starving male. Nothing could alleviate the ache within him that demanded her.

His forehead pressed to the wooden door as he inhaled deeply. It was folly to try and force away thoughts of her bare skin, of water running over the generous swell of her breasts as she washed.

Would she wear the dress that he’d chosen for her?

It had been all too easy to direct Feyre when the notion of visiting the Hewn City had arisen. Too easy to encourage her to speak to her sisters and demand that they attend. A united front. Exposure to the worst part of the court they now called home. And to the worst parts of him.

And when Feyre had worried that neither sister had appropriate attire, Rhysand had taken great joy in delving into the ancient trove of gowns crafted by his mother’s hands. The dress selected for Nesta was sable. So dark that it devoured all of the light around it. She would look as though she was crafted from the stars, like a piece of the night’s sky had been cut away especially for her, the queen she was. It would fit like a second skin, modest in length but conforming to the peaks and valleys of her body. He’d nearly had to cut off his own hand before he handed jewellery to Feyre for her sister. He’d give the whole damn cache to her and ruin himself. But Nesta Archeron needed no adornments. No shiny treasure to make her glitter like a prize. No, all she needed in the Hewn City was the tongue she bore which cut sharper than any knife.

A shadow skimmed across his cheek, sent by one who knew when to announce his presence.

Rhys jerked away from the door, adjusting his trousers with a subtlety that would go unnoticed by any other – but not a shadow singer.

‘The Archerons are preparing themselves for the delights that the Hewn City offers.’

Azriel gave a shallow nod. His eyes missed nothing. ‘Has Feyre spoken to her?’

‘About what?’ He spoke too sharply, the accusation in his voice pealing like a warning bell.

The hazel eyes of the shadow singer flickered briefly to Rhys’ hand as though he could see that damn bond there. It didn’t tug at his finger or even his rib as others had spoken of. No, the mating bond that he shared with Nesta Archeron was a noose. It tightened and chafed during every prickly interaction. It was silver fire wrapped in shadow, biting and burning in every moment. If it ever snapped for her, it would be the short drop from the gallows for him because she wouldn’t let him live. He had sensed her power that day the Cauldron spat her out. Mates were equal in power, but she would be his ruin.

That female with her quick-turning mind and cunning eyes surely had to wonder why Rhysand despised her proximity yet craved her in her absence.

‘About training her power. With you.’

‘She is loath to do it.’

He was glad for it. Her power met his own with vitriol. They could not be in the same room without the tendrils of his mind reaching for her of their own accord, only to be met with a fierce blaze of fire from her mental shields. Her mind was a fortress. He had yet to decide if he would be the knight to save her or the dragon to keep her.

‘Brother to brother,’ said Azriel in a voice so quiet that Rhysand had to step forwards to hear it, ‘most females aren’t accustomed to males lurking at their doors and sniffing. Nor, I believe, do they welcome it.’

***

The high lord with his meddling had dragged Nesta into hell. What good was immortality when Nesta spent every moment in a strange sort of agony. There was a constant restlessness to her since she had crawled from the Cauldron that her sisters did not share. Nesta could eat little and sleep was a foreigner. Her skin irritated her like she had an unseen rash. It only ever abated in the presence of the high lord. When she’d caught him scowling at her once, she had been about ready to demand what faerie magic he was putting on her to make her so on edge and fidgety then he’d gritted his teeth and stormed away from her while holding his breath.

He despised her, she knew well. A lack of hunting as a child had forever tainted her in his eyes – not that Nesta gave a damn. Feyre could bleat all she liked about how kind and generous her new employer was, that he’d been a great friend to her during the collapse of her engagement. Nesta did not care. He was spoilt, arrogant, and rude. Rhysand found reasons to leave the room when she entered. Sometimes he did not even give a reason and walked out without a word. Perhaps he was generous with his wealth – sending seamstresses and bakers to the House of Wind to fatten them up and dress them up – but was it truly generosity when his wealth was endless?

The dress that Rhysand had provided was utterly beautiful. Nesta was enraptured by the gown and would have spent the whole evening staring at it unless Elain didn’t hurry her to action.

‘You look like a queen,’ remarked Feyre. She canvassed the gown and gave a nod of approval. ‘Rhysand is a really good male, Nesta.’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’

She struggled to keep the snap out of her voice. Perhaps it was magic that writhed inside of her, unsettled and searching for an outlet. It was making her more irritable.

Feyre frowned then said, ‘Maybe you could thank Rhys for it.’

Nesta resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but she decided she would thank the high lord. It was difficult to find gowns that fit her body well due to her height, slender figure, and generous breasts. They were a curse. This dress, however, fit absolutely perfectly. It had to be magic.

The three of them took the stairs together to the roof. There was no breeze to ruin her hair or make her eyes water. Just a perfect, unending sunset that set the sky alight with oranges and pinks and stretched all the way to the horizon. The group was already gathered there: Amren with her silvery silken clothes, Mor in a dress the colour of blood, the two Illyrians in their leathers. The high lord stood a few paces away near the edge of the roof. Nesta contemplated pushing him off. As though he heard her thoughts, his head snapped in their direction. He may as well have been touching her, his gaze was so heavy. He touched his neck then swallowed.

Nesta stepped towards him. ‘Thank you for-’

‘We need to go,’ he said, speaking over her to the others. He practically shivered when he had to move past her, as if her mere presence was so despicable to him.

‘Feyre’s winnowing me,’ the big, lumbering Illyrian called.

Cassian swaggered towards her sister and held out a big hand for her to take. Nesta had seen enough open flirtation between them that she didn’t need to guess what occurred behind closed doors. She didn’t want to guess besides. There were certain things that siblings never needed to know.

Mor took Amren and disappeared from sight while Azriel extended a scarred hand to Elain, before lifting her into his arms, flying from the roof, then also disappearing into shadow.

Rhysand’s upper lip curled as he faced her on the roof. She felt his power come for her like a battering ram. Her own magic lashed back at it as a worthy adversary.  

Nesta lifted her chin so she could look down her nose at him. ‘I do not need to go to that place.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he insisted.

‘No, I do not.’

‘Yes,’ Rhysand gritted out. He unfurled his clenched fist though it seemed to take everything in him not to retreat his fingers back to his palm. ‘Take my hand.’

Nesta’s magic swelled inside of her like a maelstrom. She breathed deeply to try and calm it, to lower the pressure inside of her body.

Her fingers slid against the High Lord of the Night Court’s.

The world went quiet. Nesta could hear herself breathe. Could hear her heart slow down in peace.

Rhysand’s fingers curled against her own. His voice was subdued when he said, ‘Nesta Archeron, you will ruin me.’

[4linos]

through every pitch

mlb!seungmin x gn!reader

synopsis: even though it's your husband's most important game of the season, you can see that he's attempting to disguise an injury.

wc: 1964 (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

The stadium is blazing with the cheering crowd at the bottom of the eighth inning, and Seungmin is feeling the pressure of the moment. The spectators' eyes and his teammates' pressure are all on him in this game, which might determine the division title and where he needs to prove himself. The little stiffness in his delivery, the tension in his shoulder, the way his expression hardens as he adjusts his grip on the ball—you can see it. You watch from your seat, heart in your throat, as he stands on the mound, composed, concentrated.

The pitch is off. His usual precision is missing. There has been a slight but noticeable change in technique, and his slider and fastball both have a hitch now. You see it. He sees it. However, he continues. His eyes widen against the pain, his jaw gritted, and he throws again. He wants no one to know and doesn't want to reveal it. No, not yet. Not with that much at stake. He's a vital part of the team. The coach is watching him closely, fans are yelling his name, and his teammates are waiting for the sign that the win is impending. As he grits his teeth and fights through the pain, Seungmin is aware that they depend on him to achieve this, and the pressure is unbearable.

The noise of the crowd, the pressure of everyone's eyes on him, and the expectation all keep him going even though his body is screaming at him. While the crowd screams when he strikes out the hitter to close the eighth, Seungmin isn't feeling the exhilaration of the victory. His arm burns with every movement, and his muscles tremble from the pain as his body gives way under the pressure. As you wait for him in the locker room, your anxiousness gets worse by the moment. You've seen the symptoms: his tight jaw, his tendency to favor one arm during the game, and the way he massaged at his shoulder in between throws. He has hardly spoken to you since the game, and his eyes have a cold, distant expression as he enters the room, sweat still dripping from his brow. Again, he is concealing it. disguising the weight of it all, the suffering, and the exhaustion. You get up from where you were seated and say, "Seungmin," trying not to seem overly anxious, but there is no denying the worry in your voice. “Are you okay?” He's already taking off his jersey, and although his face is unreadable, his hand is clearly shaking. You can tell he's attempting to hide it by the way he holds his arm rigidly and the way he grimaces when he takes has to do any movement. His voice is flat when he says, "I'm fine," but the words sound hollow. He avoids looking at you. "No, you're not," you respond as you approach him, trying to maintain your composure while your voice cracks a little. "Please, Seungmin. Out there, you were hurting. I saw it. Talk to me, please. He remains motionless and looks at the floor for a minute without answering. You can see it then—the way his hand is shaking, the way his entire body is rigid from the strain of maintaining the façade—that his breathing is shallow and strained. For a short period of time the barriers he has been carefully building during the day crumble, and you witness Seungmin's vulnerability and rawness. The individual who is human, just like the rest of us.

And then, the dam breaks.

Before you can reach out to him, he collapses, falling to his knees in front of you as his shoulders tremble with a soft sob. His face is buried in his hands, and he is sobbing in ways you have never heard him do before. A man who is completely exhausted and defeated by the weight of it all has taken the place of the strong, unflappable man who had just pitched through one of the most significant games of his career. "I could not...” His words muffled in his hands, he chokes out, "I couldn't let them down," in between sobbing. "I had to get it done. Everyone was depending on me—the coach, the team, and all of the fans.”

Your heart shatters when you kneel in front of him and take his shaking hands, gently removing them from his face while looking into his tear-filled eyes. “You didn't let anyone down, Seungmin. You didn't have to carry it alone, but you pushed through for all of us.” He holds his breath and shakes his head, seemingly unable to fully comprehend what you're saying. "I'm... "I'm so exhausted," he mumbles, his voice hardly audible. “My arm… it’s killing me. But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t show them. I had to be strong for everyone else.” As you reach out to embrace him, tears stream from your own eyes. Holding him close, you feel his breath catch in the stillness of the room as you press his head against your chest. As you brush your fingers through his hair, you murmur quietly, "You don't have to be strong all the time." "You don't need to bear all of this alone. You are allowed to fall apart, take a break, and seek help. You just hold him for a long time as the cries gradually stop. Although you both know that it will take time for the physical aching in his shoulder to go away, the emotional stress and pressure he has been carrying for so long starts to lessen under your touch.

A little embarrassed but not enough to conceal his vulnerability from you, he pushes back and wipes his eyes. His voice is scratchy as he whispers, "I'm sorry." "I just didn't want you to see me in this way." You gently push his wet hair away from his forehead and smile. "You don't need to say sorry. Seungmin, I'm here. I'm always here for you. The weight of the world he had been carrying finally starts to decrease as he puts his head on your shoulder because, for the first time in a long time, he is letting himself rely on someone else. And it's okay. You’re both okay.

—

Something changed between you and Seungmin after that night. In a way that was both real and beautiful, the dam that had held so much of his vulnerability, so much of his anxiety and dread, started to break. Gradually, he began to depend more on you. Not only after the most significant events in his career, but also during the quiet, everyday times when he felt he could no longer bear the burden alone, he would open up to you.

It started with small things.

You could see how his eyes would stay on you a bit longer than normal after a difficult game, while he was still recovering from the disappointment of a poor performance. It was a subtle request for something you didn't have to ask for. Watching him jog off the field with a gentle smile on your face, you would be in the stands waiting for him. He would say, "Hey," in a weak, sluggish voice. His face was filled with fatigue as he stood there for a while, taking long breaths as if he was still struggling to regain his breath after the game.

With a soft yet strong tone, you would comment, "I know it wasn't perfect." But, Seungmin, you gave it your all. You always do. And it would occur at that point. He would whisper, "I don't know if I did enough," and then briefly look down before looking back at you. "I thought I had disappointed everyone. I should have maintained my composure more or thrown that one pitch better. I always want to get better, but sometimes it feels like I'm failing."

You’d reach for him, a hand on his shoulder, or on his cheek, grounding him. "You’re not failing. No one’s perfect, Seungmin. I’m proud of you, every time you step out there. And you don’t have to be perfect for me. Just you… just you is enough." He would stare at you, letting your words settle over him like a warm blanket, and in the silence that followed, you knew what was happening. He was opening up, bit by bit, allowing the worries he’d carried for so long to spill out, trusting you to hold them, even if just for a moment. It became more common after tough games—when he felt like he was walking off the field a little heavier, or when he’d missed a crucial strike. He’d sit with you, just the two of you, long after the stadium had emptied, talking quietly about his fears, his regrets. He never tried to hide it anymore.

One evening, after a particularly rough game, Seungmin collapsed onto the couch, his shoulders slumped in defeat. You could feel the tension in him, the unease, even before he spoke. The game had been a tough loss, and you knew it wasn’t just the defeat on his mind but everything that came with it—the expectations, the pressure, the fear of not living up to it all.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this sometimes,” he admitted quietly, voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t asking for sympathy, just someone to listen. “Every time I step on that mound, I feel like I’m carrying the weight of everyone’s hopes. The coach, the team, the fans… they all expect me to be this perfect pitcher. And sometimes, I wonder if I’m enough for them.” As you sat next to him, you stared into his eyes and softly squeezed his hand. With a stern yet gentle tone, you said, "Seungmin, you're more than enough." "You don't have to live up to everyone else's standards. You don't need to be perfect for your coach, your teammates, or even the fans. Because you *are* you, you are enough. And no matter what, I'm here with you. A slow breath escaped him, and you could see it, the relief that he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore, the exhaustion lifting just a little. With his fingers tightening around yours, he said, "I'm really lucky to have you." "To be honest, I don't think I could survive these games without you."

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “You don’t have to make it through alone, Seungmin. We’re in this together. Whatever comes, we face it as a team.”

Over time, these moments became more frequent—him pulling you aside after a tough game, confiding in you, showing a side of him that was rarely seen by anyone else. The strength he had on the field was matched only by the strength you both built together off of it. And as his teammate’s expectations, the coach’s strategies, and the media’s scrutiny continued to press in on him, Seungmin began to realize something he hadn’t before: It’s okay to need support. And that it didn’t make him any less of a man, any less of a pitcher, to admit that he needed someone to lean on.

And it was always obvious when he came to you: regardless of how many games were won or lost, you were his base, the spot he could always go to feel safe. You made sure he never felt like he had to confront those struggles alone since he had grown to trust you with the weight of his anxieties and to let you in during his periods of uncertainty. He realized that he only needed to be himself to be liked, not be flawless, through every pitch and every difficult game. And he might be just that in your arms.

—

nini’s notes 111224

hey ⚾️. i hope you enjoy my 2nd full fic 🫣 i love seoul series first pitch seungmin BTW

(feedback is always appreciated.. 😘)

asks are open if you have a question, concern, or request!

-🎀

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Melt with You

Pairing: Billy Taylor (The Halcyon) x f!reader Warnings: Smut, oral sex (m receiving) Word count: ~3k

Summary: Snowed in at the Halcyon, Billy and his girlfriend have to find ways to keep themselves occupied. Can be read as a second part to Sweeter Than This, but also works as a standalone.

Author's note: Day three of Smuffmas - blizzard and blow job. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She has had a spring in her step all day long. From the moment she stepped out of her front door that morning, and felt the first chilly flakes of snowfall upon her cheeks, to the beds she has stripped throughout the day, she hasn’t been able to shift the smile from her face, or the excited flutters from her belly – she has the house to herself this evening, and Billy is coming over.

From the moment her and Billy’s relationship had progressed from friends to something more, they had struggled to find alone time together. With Billy kept busy on the anti aircraft guns down at the army barracks, and her working long shifts at the Halcyon, finding a free moment was almost impossible. Their living situations didn’t help matters either; both lived with their mums. On the occasions when Peggy would work a night shift on the hotel switchboard, she would go over to Billy’s, but their evenings together usually consisted of looking after his little sister.

When things grew heated between them, it was always a stolen moment on a break in one of the rooms she had yet to turn down. They had never spent a full night together, and still hadn’t had sex, though after six months of courting, she wasn’t sure she was quite ready for that. Her mind often wandered to the first time he had brought her to peak on his tongue, the memory making her core throb with want and her skin grow heated. Billy had done it twice more since then, and she was eager to make him feel just as good without going all the way. She just didn’t know how.

It had been Kate who had suggested she return the favour. “You know you can use your mouth on him too?” she’d suggested as they had been folding clean sheets and towels.

She’d felt her cheeks blaze with embarrassment as her eyes had widened. “You mean…put his…his thing in my mouth?!”

Kate had laughed, playfully flicking a pillowcase at her. “You needn’t act so bloody daft, you seem quite happy to be on the receiving end.”

She sighed, her hands pausing mid fold and looked shyly up at her fellow maid. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t know how. What if I get it wrong and he laughs at me?”

“Billy? Laugh at you?” she had scoffed, “he would never. He’ll think all of his Christmases have come at once. It’s called a ‘blow job’.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“I was seeing a fella who’s a pilot. He taught me how. I can tell you how to do it, if you want?”

She had chewed her lip anxiously, the very idea of discussing something so intimate made her incredibly embarrassed, but at the same time she was curious, and if she was going to do this for Billy, she wanted to make sure she did it right. Finally, she had nodded her assent and for the next twenty minutes the pair of them had giggled and spoken in hushed whispers as Kate had explained precisely what she did when orally pleasing a man.

Tonight, she was planning to put what she had learned into practice. Her mum was working a night shift at the factory, Billy had the night off from the barracks, and Peggy wasn’t working the Halcyon’s switchboard, meaning he wouldn’t be needed to babysit. She was due to finish her shift at 6pm, then Billy would meet her in the hotel lobby and they would walk back to hers. An entire evening together, she couldn’t wait.

She was jittery with excitement by the time she finished for the day, her hands shook as she changed out of her black and white maid’s uniform and into a green, collared dress with an A-line skirt. Kate had let her borrow her expensive Elizabeth Arden lipstick in the shade ‘Montezuma red’, stating “you want his attention to be drawn to your lips, trust me”. She applied a liberal coat to her lips, taken aback by how the bright crimson did indeed draw all attention to her mouth as she stared in the mirror.

She hurried from the staff room in the back, her coat and bag slung over her arm, before she could give herself the chance to change her mind and wipe it all off.

Billy was sitting in one of the foyer's plush leather armchairs as she walked out, and her face lit up the moment she saw him, a wide smile spreading across her face. He was out of his uniform too, having swapped his olive green jacket and trousers for a white collared shirt beneath a grey woolen jumper and brown slacks. His hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, though a few strands had fallen loose around his temples. He looked so handsome, and it was nice that for once they could just be themselves together; her and Billy, not the maid and the soldier.

His jaw fell agape as he finally turned to look at her, his eyes travelling from her head to her toes and back again, before he stood to greet her. “Wow…you look…wow.”

She giggled, glad she stuck with the lipstick as she watched him flush a deep shade of pink. “Ready to get out of here?” she asked, “I know I am.”

He nodded, grabbing his coat from the arm of the chair as she started to put her own on. “Yeah, might have to mind how we go though,” he gestured towards the bottoms of his trousers, which she could now see were damp, “snow was coming down pretty heavy when I walked here an hour ago.”

“You got here an hour ago?” She asked with a playful smile.

Billy busied himself with putting his coat on, an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Was excited to see ya.”

She’s about to respond, to tell him how sweet he is, when the hotel’s chief concierge, Feldman, walks in from outside, his footsteps clicking against the polished floors. He dusts white flakes from the lapels of his jacket as he walks, stopping when he sees them both. 

“You’re not both going out in that, are you?” He asks, a look of genuine concern causing his brows to pinch together.

She nods. “Billy’s gonna walk me home.”

“In this weather?” Feldman says, “I hardly think so.”

“Just a bit of snow, Mr. Feldman,” Billy retorts, “we’ll be alright.”

“Look outside,” the chief concierge tells them, gesturing towards the doors, “there’s a blizzard. We’ve had three no shows already because of it.”

She hurries towards the main doors of the hotel, struggling to push them open against the force of the wind. Peering out, she can see a thick blanket of white covering the entire street, too thick to drive safely in, let alone walk. The wind howls, ushering with it a continuous steady flurry of fresh snowfall.

This is a stark contrast to the light dusting that she walked through on her way to work this morning. She’d been stuck in the windowless laundry room for most of the day, so hadn’t realised how bad the weather had gotten.

Feeling Billy’s presence behind her, his chest against her back as he looks too, she turns to him, her voice dejected as she asks “what are we going to do?”

“You’ll both just have to stay here until it’s safe for you to go home,” Feldman answers for him, “with the no shows due to the weather, I’m sure there’d be no objections to you both taking one of the empty rooms if it ends up being overnight.”

“Thanks, Mr. Feldman”, Billy responds as they head back towards the staff room.

She flops down onto the threadbare sofa of the back room of the hotel, sighing heavily as she shrugs out of her coat. Tonight was supposed to be special and now it was all ruined, thanks to the snow.

“What’s with the face?” Billy asks gently, coming to sit beside her.

“I was really looking forward to tonight,” she whines.

Billy nods in understanding, giving her knee a reassuring squeeze. “I know, so was I. But we’ll still have a nice time, won’t we? Doesn’t matter where we are, as long as we’re together.”

“I’d baked you a Lord Woolton’s pie,” she protests, “and…and I…well, it doesn’t matter now,” she trails off, not having the courage to explain what else she’d had in mind for their night alone.

“It’ll keep,” he says with a shrug, smiling earnestly, “you can bring me a slice down to the barracks.”

She can’t help but smile back, and feel slightly guilty. Here she is, sulking about how things have gone wrong, when Billy is trying to make the best of it, just like he always does. “I’ll bring you the whole thing.”

“Tell you what, I bet the kitchen has some stuff knocking about, I could grab us a few things, and we could have that for our tea.”

She huffs a laugh, swatting playfully at his arm. “You can’t go skulking about the kitchen, Billy, you don’t work here anymore.”

“Who’s gonna stop me?” He asks, getting up and chucking his coat over the back of the sofa, before walking out.

After a few moments he returns with a platter and two bottles of beer. He sets everything down upon the rickety table in front of where they’re sitting; a spread of Spam sandwiches and sponge cake.

“Didn’t wanna take anything fancy,” he explains apologetically, “George was watching me.”

“This is perfect,” she says softly as he sits next to her again.

“Remember these?” Billy asks, picking up a Spam sandwich, “we used to eat them every lunch break.”

She giggles and nods. “I remember you always used to eat my fish paste ones, because I didn’t like them.”

Billy wrinkles his nose in disgust, making her laugh harder, and the two fall into a comfortable silence, eating cake and sandwiches as they sip their beers and watch through the window as the blizzard continues to blanket London in a heavy white shroud.

She stares thoughtfully at him, watching the way the low lamplight of the staff room illuminates the sharp features of his face. Despite tonight being the furthest thing from what she had planned, she still wants to make him feel good; he had been so positive, when she had been all too eager to complain.

“Billy..?”

“Mmm..?” He replies, looking away from the window to where she sits beside him.

“Want to find one of those free rooms?”

“Not time for bed yet, is it?” He asks with a grin.

“I don’t want to sleep,” she says, pushing off of the sofa, casting a knowing glance over her shoulder at him, as she walks away.

“Oh…oh,” his eyes widen in realisation as he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to follow her.

She lets herself into one of the empty rooms - one she had turned down herself earlier that day - and quickly reapplies her lipstick in front of the large mirror that sits atop the vanity, the beer and sandwiches having faded its bright red hue slightly.

The hotel room did make for a more plush surrounding for what she has planned - the cramped confines of her single bed are leagues apart from the opulence of the crisp white linens and velvet lined furniture of The Halcyon.

The moment the door clicks closed behind Billy, he wraps his arms around her. It’s like second nature to him now to do so, though she can still feel the heavy pounding of his heart; he is no less nervous, he’s just gotten better at hiding it.

“I really wanna kiss you,” he whispers, his voice trembling slightly, “but I don’t wanna ruin your pretty lipstick.”

“Didn’t bring you in here to kiss you,” she whispers back.

Billy swallows thickly, a light dusting of pink tinting his skin all the way to the tips of his ears as he grins impishly at her. “Oh right, you want me to…er–”

“No, not tonight,” she explains, fighting the urge to chuckle at the sudden look of confusion that passes across his face. “Tonight, I’m going to do something for you.”

Reflexively, his fingers tighten slightly on her waist. “Do what?”

Mustering more bravery than she feels, she battles to keep her cool as she responds, not wanting to show any hesitation or embarrassment. “Do you know what a blowjob is, Billy?”

His eyes widen as his jaw falls agape, staring at her in utter disbelief. “You…you can’t…I mean, yeah, but you…you don’t have to…”

The stammered display of consideration for her feelings reassures her, quieting any apprehension she had previously felt. She is surer now than ever that she wants to do this for him.

“I want to,” she insists, “will you lay on the bed for me?”

She can see the way his chest heaves with how heavy his breathing has gotten, but he nods, removing his shoes and laying down. She is swift in joining him, her hands moving to his belt.

“Can I?” She asks.

His eyes are wide, lips slightly parted as he stares at her, before nodding enthusiastically. She can feel her own pulse racing, nervous excitement fluttering in her belly. She unbuckles his belt, before working open the button of his slacks and unzipping them. As the material parts, she can see the outline of him through the white cotton of his briefs. She gazes at it, her mouth going dry at the sight. She’d never seen this part of him before, let alone touched it.

She looks up at him, seeing he’s watching her intently, his cheeks flushed. She knows the question she needs to ask, and hates that she has to, knowing it will betray her inexperience. “Are you…are you hard?” she utters meekly, “you have to be for me to do this.”

“Er…only half,” he murmurs, “need you to touch me.”

His complete lack of judgement emboldens her, and she nods, grasping the waistband of his briefs. “I can do that,” she says, tugging them down.

She studies his cock with fascination as she takes it into her hand, stroking gently from base to tip and back again, just as Kate had said she would need to. She marvels at the softness of the skin, the way it glides with each stroke of her palm. Billy lets out a soft groan as his head falls back against the pillow and she feels him grow larger, more rigid in her hand. The tip is bulbous, ruddy in colour and she can’t help but wonder how he will taste against her tongue.

“I–I’m ready when you are,” he pants softly.

She nods, drawing in a breath, before delicately wrapping her lips around the head of him, careful not to let her teeth touch him. The taste is musky, slightly salty, yet not unpleasant.

“Bloody hell,” she hears Billy say under his breath as his hips buck instinctively, pushing more of himself into her mouth. She sputters as he hits the back of her throat and he pulls away, uttering repeated apologies. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, no one’s ever done this to me before. Are you alright?”

Though her eyes have begun to water, her heart swells at his admission, and she’s comforted knowing he is every bit as much a novice as she is. She nods, composing herself, before grasping the base of him. “I want to keep going.”

This time, as her mouth envelopes him, Billy keeps still, fisting the sheets either side of him, as she bobs her head, working her mouth up and down his length, watching the obscene red smear that her lips leave behind. Kate’s instructions play on a loop in her mind, and she strokes what won’t fit in her mouth in time with her movements, hollowing her cheeks.

Billy’s pants grow more desperate as he whispers curses, his brow furrowed as he teeters on the edge of climax. She can feel him beginning to twitch, the way his thighs tense.

“Stop, stop, stop, I’m gonna— FUCK!” he cries out.

She pulls off him, continuing to stroke him as she watches spurts of his thick, white release coat her knuckles and his lower abdomen. She lets go, wiping her hand on the bedsheet, when he finally stills, having spent himself.

“How was that?” She asks with a coy smile as she watches him lay there and gasp for breath.

“I think you killed me,” he says, voice hoarse. When he finally lifts his head from the pillow, a dopey grin spreads across his face. “Can I kiss you now? Your lipstick’s all ruined anyway.”

She giggles, imagining what a mess she must look like right now, but knowing there’s nothing she wants more.

Part one | Series masterlist

[shouyuus]

@dira333's request: “You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.”― Shauna Barbosa, Cape Verdean Blues x any bnha character

only the sun

amajiki tamaki; fluff & hurt/comfort; dira my love im so sorry it took so long for me to write this but THANK U for literally the only bnha req of this entire event HAHAHAH i hope u enjoy!!!

30 under 30 bday event! (now closed!)

─── 環 THE FIRST KISS WITH HIM had felt like swallowing the sun — you’d never known something so simple as a kiss could fill so many empty parts of you, fill it in such a way that after (because there’s now a before and an after, the kiss being the precarious line in the sand now standing between worlds), you’d wonder how you’d gone so long without it.

There are parts of both of you that neither wanted spoken out loud, and yet you’d fallen into each other as easily as sunlight falling into the smallest of cracks in the pavement, as warmth seeping through even the solidness of stone.

Sometimes, he holds your hand in the dark; sometimes, he lets himself be held. It is the greatest gift you’ve given or been given in return. He says thank you in the way he laces his fingers with yours, like braiding the threads to a butterfly net with which you might catch the summer itself, not just the butterflies living in those flashbang memories.

“I don’t know why you’re with me,” Tamaki says (and not for the first time). He refuses to meet your eyes even as you reach out to take both his hands in yours. “But… I’m thankful that you’re here. It makes me —” he swallows, eyes downcast, “Think that maybe I’m doing something right.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, but you smile at him nonetheless.

“I’m with you ‘cause I want to be,” you say (for probably the hundredth time; you’ll gladly say it a hundred more), “And you are,” you insist, giving his hands a squeeze, feeling him gently thread his fingers between each one of yours.

He smiles like sunset, all blazing cheeks and midnight eyes.

You do your best to reflect his smile back at him as you say, “You’re you. And that’s always, always been enough for me.”

final wc: 328 || be part of my taglist!

taglist: @simplyshelbyrae @raven-nevra @dira333 @stunies @fennecnco @encrytpta @simpingdailyforthem

[leiatalon]

Ink and Intrigue: Romantasy IF

It's here! It's here! 🎉

Ink and Intrigue is published and you can play it now! ❤️‍🔥

Play the demo for free!

Heed magic's call! Find love on a lush tropical island among immortal warrior-mages as you explore ancient mysteries, craft dragon-rune tattoos, and discover your true loyalties. When mystery tempts, how do you answer?

Ink an Intrigue is a standalone Heart’s Choice IF romantasy adventure set in the same world as Their Majesties' Pleasure.

Plunge into a world where magic calls the passion in your soul.

Choose your kindred: a powerful dragon, a shapeshifting griffin, or a blue-lightning phoenix.

As you train to become a warrior-mage, do you romance or befriend a sexy tattoo artist, a feisty initiate, a playful sage, or a maverick with an unfulfilled quest?

Ink and Intrigue is an interactive high-heat fantasy novel by Leia Talon, where your choices control the story. It's entirely text-based—300,000 words and hundreds of choices, without graphics or sound effects—and fueled by the vast, unstoppable power of your imagination.

As a seasoned spy from the kingdom of Minare, you have been sent as an emissary to the Kitherin warrior-mages of Ra'zai, whose tattoos give them supernatural abilities and whose magical rites bond them to powerful creatures from another world.

But, as soon as you enter Ra'zai, you hear the call of the Kitherin. The magic has chosen you, and now, your fingertips tingle and your heart pounds. An unnamed need grows within, like a thirst that can't be quenched. Magic infuses your very breath.

As your magic expands, so does your heart. Which of your new Kitherin companions calls to you?

TEO: Are you attracted to Teo, the soft-spoken tattoo artist whose muscular body is covered in tattoos and whose eyes blaze with amber fire? When he paints dragon runes onto your skin, do you feel the power of his heart as well as his magic?

KAI: Or to Kai, whose dark hair contrasts with brilliant blue eyes: his mastery as a warrior is unmatched, but his quest to overturn a corrupt regime has earned him the opposition of the Kitherin Council.

RAE: Perhaps you prefer Rae, a feisty fellow initiate, with her dark skin and wicked smile. Rae's determination is legendary—she has failed the trials before, but never stops trying—and her boisterous spirit is unbreakable.

THEA: Or maybe Thea is the one for you, with her sea-green eyes and copper hair. Elegant and serene, dedicated guardian of the temple—but if you earn her trust, she will show you her playful side, and sing the songs of her Fae ancestors.

What does the call of the Kitherin mean for your duty to the crown? Will you confess the clandestine role you've played for your king, or keep your secrets and leave your past behind? What information will you send back? Will you use your position to build alliances with the Kitherin Council and other nations, or will you use your spy skills of blackmail and poison to get what you want?

Play as male, female, or nonbinary; gay, straight, bi, and/or asexual.

Romance a passionate artist, a serene sage, a feisty initiate, or a determined warrior.

Choose high-heat or sweet options, or avoid sex scenes entirely.

Form a psychic bond with a magical creature: choose a dragon, a griffin, or a phoenix.

Learn how to craft dragon-rune tattoos, and infuse your art with powerful magic.

Explore a lush island paradise crowned with ancient temples, peaceful healing gardens, a hidden library, and sun-swept beaches with the perfect waves for surfing.

Indulge in magic elixirs and delectable food as you revel under the full moon.

Dive through portals to strengthen your ties with your bonded creature, and explore other worlds!

When magic calls, where will your heart find its home?

Play the demo of Ink and Intrigue and try the first three chapters free to see if the adventure sucks you in!

Big shout out to everyone who has given feedback on the WIP demo and during beta testing. Thank you so much for your suggestions and for sharing in the excitement for this game!

I can't believe Ink and Intrigue is 300k words! It's actually upwards of 375k words including repeated text (much of which still has to be edited for different situations). I meant to write it much shorter, but I accidentally wrote a whole extra chapter during beta testing and added to all the paths.

There are so many gems to uncover in this game!

If you have any asks, hit me up! I'll do my best to answer. Just please be patient as sometimes I forget to check socials for days at a time. 🤣 After working for a year straight on this game I'm taking a breather. I'll rest, you play. Let me know what you think!

Play the first three chapters for free!

Ink and Intrigue is published by Heart's Choice, the romance division of Choice of Games. Game art by Adrien Valdes.