#also with how much ink costs these days…

[daegg123]

I'm still waiting to see the day where someone in this fandom shows a picture of their wall and it looks like this

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Ink & Oath (tattoo artist!Mafiaso!Dean W.)

Summary: Reader comes to a quaint tattoo shop to get some much needed work done to her back piece... little does she know that her entire life will change in just a few short moments.

WC: 13.5K

Warnings: mafia au,tattoo artist dean nongraphic smut, angst with a happy ending, pregnancy

Read on ao3!

A/N: i wasn't going to put this piece on tumblr, because of it being so long. Plus i'm honestly so tired of the blank blogs giving empty notes and not really giving much else. So i'm *probably* not going to keep this posted if it receives nothing but likes w/ little to no reblogs. I worked extremely hard on this piece a few days ago and it's honestly so discouraging to not get /something/ in return. Anyway, whatever.

--

You’re standing at the counter of Winchester Ink, half-annoyed and half-desperate. The sleek, industrial-style tattoo parlor is packed, and the receptionist informs you that due to their packed schedule, only 40 minutes of work can be squeezed in today. You’d planned to finally finish the intricate back piece you’d started with another artist—one who bailed on you last minute.

Agreeing to the partial session, you put down the deposit and prepare for a follow-up. The artist does incredible work, but it’s not enough to bring your tattoo to completion. When you return for your second appointment, you’re shocked to find the shop’s owner himself—Dean Winchester—waiting for you. His broad shoulders and sharp green eyes hold a glare that’s almost as intimidating as his reputation.

He explains that your rushed appointment cost him money and time—and now you owe him. But when he notices your determination and sees your unfinished ink, a mischievous smirk creeps across his face.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean says, leaning on his desk, “I’ve got an offer. You want your back piece done? You’re gonna work it off. Be my shop assistant for a few weeks, cover some shifts. And maybe… I’ll finish the job myself.”

The lines between professionalism and something much darker start to blur as Dean’s attention becomes far more personal than just your tattoo.

You blink at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious or just messing with you. The way his smirk deepens when you hesitate tells you he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” you ask, crossing your arms.

Dean shrugs, completely unbothered. “My shop, my rules.”

You glance around the parlor, the buzzing of tattoo machines filling the space, the scent of antiseptic and ink in the air. The place is busy, artists hunched over their clients, lost in concentration. Winchester Ink has a reputation for being one of the best, and Dean Winchester himself is practically a legend. It’s an opportunity, but it also feels like a trap.

Still, you want this tattoo finished. It’s been sitting on your back like an incomplete story, haunting you every time you catch your reflection. You can’t let it stay unfinished.

With a deep breath, you square your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Dean grins like you just handed him the keys to your soul. “Atta girl.”

The next day, you show up, not sure what to expect. Turns out, working at a tattoo shop is nothing like you’d imagined. It’s long hours of cleaning stations, refilling ink wells, running the front desk, and dealing with clients who can’t decide on a design to save their lives.

Dean watches you like a hawk, making sure you don’t slack off, but there’s something else in his gaze too—something that makes your stomach flip. And when he finally gets you in his chair, stretching your skin taut beneath his gloved hands, the air between you shifts. His touch is precise, his focus unwavering, but every now and then, his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You sure you can handle working here, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he leans in, the tattoo machine whirring softly.

You lift your chin, refusing to let him see how much he affects you. “I can handle a lot more than you think, Winchester.”

His smirk returns, this time laced with something darker, something that makes your pulse stutter.

“Good,” he says, dragging the needle across your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke. “Let’s see just how much."

--

The next morning, you step into Winchester Ink, now seeing it from the other side of the counter. The usual buzz of tattoo guns fills the air, along with the scent of antiseptic and ink. Dean, already working on a client, jerks his head toward the reception desk.

“You’re on desk duty today,” he calls over his shoulder. “Phones, appointments, clean-up. Try not to scare off the customers.”

You roll your eyes but take your place, answering the phone as a biker-looking guy strolls in, flipping through the portfolio. It’s an adjustment, sure, but you settle in fast. You’re almost enjoying it—until Dean appears behind you, close enough that his breath warms your skin.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing. “But don’t think I won’t put you to work scrubbing floors if you slack off.”

You turn to retort, only to find yourself inches from his sharp green gaze. The tension crackles between you like a live wire, and from the slow smirk spreading across his lips, he knows it too.

Maybe this deal isn’t as simple as it seemed.

The shop closes late, and you’re still sweeping up stray paper towels and discarded ink caps when Dean finally locks the front door. Most of the other artists have already left, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space. The buzzing neon "Winchester Ink" sign outside casts a soft blue glow through the glass, flickering faintly like it’s seen too many late nights.

“You survived day one,” Dean says, leaning against the front desk with an amused smirk. “I was half-expecting you to run out crying after dealing with that Karen who wanted a ‘spiritual wolf’ tattoo on her lower back.”

You snort. “Please, I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Yeah?” He watches you for a beat, arms crossed over his chest, his black t-shirt stretching just enough to be distracting. “Guess we’ll see if you can handle tomorrow.”

Something about the way he says it—low, laced with something unreadable—sends a slow shiver down your spine.

“You really that desperate for free labor?” you tease, tilting your head.

Dean’s smirk deepens. He steps closer, just enough that you catch the faint scent of leather and aftershave beneath the lingering ink and antiseptic.

“Nah,” he says, voice dropping a little. “I just like watching you squirm.”

Your pulse kicks up, and you hate that he can probably tell. But before you can come up with a sharp response, Dean straightens, stretching his arms behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Go home, sweetheart. Get some rest.” He nods toward the back. “Your tattoo’s not getting finished if you pass out on me halfway through.”

You don’t move right away. The reminder of why you’re here��why you agreed to this in the first place—grounds you, just enough to shake off the heat in your chest.

“Goodnight, boss,” you say, deliberately casual as you set the broom aside and grab your bag.

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

And damn him, you swear you can still feel his gaze on your back long after you’ve stepped outside.

--

Working at Winchester Ink is no joke. The shop is always packed, and between scheduling appointments, sterilizing equipment, and dealing with customers who either can’t commit or want the worst design ideas imaginable, you barely have time to breathe.

Dean? He’s a menace.

He pushes you, makes you run errands, hands you the mop at the end of every shift like it’s some kind of personal game. But the worst part? The way he watches you.

It’s not outright—nothing you could call him out on—but it’s there. A glance that lingers too long. A smirk when he brushes past you, his hand skimming your lower back like it’s an accident. And the way he says things.

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

"Bet you’d look even better covered in more ink."

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep biting that lip, and I might start thinking you’re doing it for me."

It’s infuriating. Mostly because part of you likes it.

--

By the time your shift ends, your feet ache, and you’re pretty sure you have ink on your cheek. Everyone else has already left, and it’s just you and Dean—again.

“C’mere,” he says from his station. His voice is softer than usual, but there’s still that teasing edge to it.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He taps the leather tattoo chair. “You wanna get that back piece finished or what?”

Your stomach flips. “I thought we were waiting—”

Dean raises a brow. “You put in the work, didn’t you? I think you’ve earned a little progress.”

You swallow hard. This was the deal. Your tattoo. That’s why you’re here. That’s all this is.

Right?

You climb into the chair, heart hammering as Dean snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. His fingers ghost over your skin as he carefully peels back your shirt, exposing your unfinished tattoo. The cool air sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean’s touch lingers, his fingertips dragging just a second longer than necessary.

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “I’ll take good care of you.”

The tattoo gun hums to life, but the only thing you can focus on is him—his breath against your neck, the steady grip of his hand on your waist.

And when he starts tattooing?

You swear it has nothing to do with the ink and everything to do with the way his touch sinks under your skin.

The sharp sting of the needle drags across your skin, but it’s not the pain that makes your breath hitch—it’s him. Dean’s touch is firm, his other hand resting against your waist, grounding you. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin as he leans in closer, the scent of leather, whiskey, and something unmistakably him flooding your senses.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Gotta loosen up for me, sweetheart.”

The words send a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your stomach. You grip the edges of the chair, trying to focus on the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun, but it’s impossible when Dean is right there, his presence overwhelming.

He works slow, deliberate, the pressure of his hand steadying you with every pass of the needle. His fingers, clad in latex, slide against your skin, adjusting your position with a touch that’s almost too gentle. And maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s the adrenaline, but there’s something in the way his thumb sweeps over your side—something that feels less like a professional touch and more like a test.

A challenge.

“You okay?” he asks, but there’s something smug in his tone, like he already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is breathier than you’d like.

Dean chuckles, and you feel it vibrate through you. “Yeah? You sure?” His voice dips lower, teasing, and then—fuck. His hand moves, sliding just a fraction higher, his thumb tracing the dip of your spine in a way that has nothing to do with the tattoo.

Your pulse hammers. You should say something, should shift away, should stop this before it goes somewhere dangerous.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let out a slow exhale, pressing just slightly into his touch. It’s barely anything, just a shift of your body, but Dean notices.

Of course, he does.

His grip tightens—not rough, but possessive. The needle lifts from your skin, and suddenly, he’s not working anymore.

You hear the quiet click of the tattoo gun shutting off, the eerie silence of the shop settling between you. Your heart pounds as Dean pulls his gloves off with a slow, deliberate snap.

Then, he leans in, lips just brushing the shell of your ear.

“I think we both know this ain’t just about the tattoo anymore.”

You swallow hard, your breath uneven. “Dean—”

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice nothing but a growl now. “Tell me to back off, and I will.”

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

Instead, you turn your head just enough that your lips are a whisper away from his. The air between you crackles, electric, and then—

He kisses you.

It’s not slow. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all that tension, all those unspoken words, poured into one desperate, claiming kiss. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back, his other arm sliding around your waist and pulling you against him, hard.

You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, demanding and sinful. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he sucks it between his own, and you swear you feel the heat of it all the way down to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, your lips swollen, breath ragged.

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, his voice pure sin. “We’re just getting started.”

--

The air in the shop is thick with heat, the scent of ink and sweat lingering between you. Your back is still tingling—not just from the fresh tattoo, but from the way Dean had held you, touched you, ruined you right there in his chair.

You’re still catching your breath, your body limp against the leather, when you feel him shift behind you. His fingers trace over your spine, a ghost of a touch that sends another shiver down your already overstimulated body.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse, rough with something smug and satisfied.

You manage a breathy laugh. “You really have to ask?��

Dean chuckles, and you feel the warmth of it against your bare shoulder before he presses a slow, lingering kiss there. “Just making sure you didn’t pass out on me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re too spent to come up with a sharp retort. Instead, you sigh, shifting slightly as you feel the ache settling into your muscles.

Dean moves away, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he tugs his jeans back on. You should probably do the same, but right now, your body feels like it’s made of liquid, melted into the chair that still smells like him.

A moment later, something soft lands on your back—a towel, warm and slightly damp.

“Clean yourself up,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, rough around the edges in a way that sends another ripple of warmth through you. “I’ll grab you some water.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching as he moves across the shop. His shoulders are broad, his movements lazy, like he’s entirely at ease, but there’s something else there too—something in the way he glances at you over his shoulder like he’s still thinking about what just happened.

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

By the time he returns, you’ve pulled your clothes back on, though your skin still hums from his touch. He hands you a bottle of water, watching as you take a few slow sips.

“So,” you say finally, breaking the silence. “This part of the standard Winchester Ink experience?”

Dean smirks, leaning against the counter, his green eyes flicking over you like he’s already plotting his next move. “Nah,” he says, voice low. “Just the VIP package.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The weight of what just happened still lingers between you, heavy and unspoken. And maybe this should be awkward—maybe you should be freaking out, wondering what the hell this means for the deal you made, for the tattoo, for anything.

But you’re not.

Instead, you watch Dean, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way he looks at you like he’s still hungry, and you realize something.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

And judging by the way Dean grins at you, slow and wicked, he knows it too.

You knew something was off about Dean Winchester. No man carries himself with that much confidence—that much authority—without having something to back it up.

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

You’re sitting in his apartment, a loft-style space above Winchester Ink, still tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts. The tattoo on your back is finally finished, but that’s the least of your thoughts right now. Because Dean just told you something that should have made you run.

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

Dean Winchester owns this city. Or at least, the parts that matter.

He’s the leader of something much bigger, much darker. The kind of operation that people whisper about in hushed tones, the kind that law enforcement pretends doesn’t exist because even they’re too scared to take him on.

And yet… you’re still here.

“You’re not saying anything,” Dean murmurs, watching you from across the room. His back is to the window, the neon glow of the city framing him in pale blues and reds. His green eyes are unreadable, but there’s tension in the way he holds himself—like he’s waiting for you to get up and walk away.

You take a deep breath, considering your words. “You just told me you run a criminal empire, Dean.”

He huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

You tilt your head. “What do you want me to say?”

Dean studies you for a moment, then looks away, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. Figured you’d freak out. Maybe tell me I’m a monster.” His voice is low and rough, like he’s bracing himself for something inevitable. “Most people would.”

You take a moment, looking at him. Really looking.

And what you see isn’t just power, or danger, or the weight of everything he’s done. You see a man who has lost too much, who carries the weight of his past like a chain around his throat.

“You’re not a monster,” you say softly.

Dean’s eyes snap to yours like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You don’t know the shit I’ve done.”

You exhale, pulling your knees to your chest. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates, his fingers twitching at his side. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“My dad built this empire,” he says, staring out at the city. “He wasn’t a good man. He did a lot of bad things hurt a lot of people. But he kept us safe—me and my little brother, Sam. When he died, I took over. Thought I could do better, clean things up.”

You already know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

Dean swallows, his jaw tightening. “I tried. But this life? It doesn’t let go. Sam didn’t want any part of it. Got himself a real job, a real life.” He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Thought I could keep him safe if he stayed away. But they still found him.”

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I buried him six years ago.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time, you see it—the real Dean Winchester. The man who lost everything, who built his own empire on the bones of his past.

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

You slide out of bed, crossing the room before he can stop you. When you reach him, you press your palm against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

Dean’s breath catches. His hands, rough and calloused, come up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His thumbs brush along your cheekbones, and when he speaks, his voice is almost pleading.

“You should be scared of me.”

You smile, just a little. “Maybe.” You lean up, brushing your lips against his. “But I’m not.”

Dean groans softly, his grip tightening, and when he kisses you, it’s different this time. Not just hunger, not just claiming.

It’s desperation.

Like he’s been drowning for years, and you’re the first breath of air he’s had in a long, long time.

Dean kisses you like he’s unravelling—like everything he’s kept buried for years is clawing its way to the surface. His fingers grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, like if he holds you tight enough, he can stop the ghosts from creeping back in.

You let him.

You let him take what he needs, because you’re still here. You don’t flinch when his hands slide lower, gripping you with a kind of desperation that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that he’s terrified. Terrified that now that you know the truth, you’ll vanish like everyone else he’s ever cared about.

But you don’t.

Instead, you press closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring you, like he’s memorising the way you feel against him.

His hands roam, calloused palms skating over your skin, slipping beneath the flannel you’re still wearing. When his fingers find bare skin, he exhales against your lips, his breath uneven.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, almost like a warning.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m still here, Dean.”

Something in his expression cracks, just for a second, before he fists the back of your shirt and tugs you toward him. His lips brush against your temple, your cheek, and your jaw. His breath is warm and ragged.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth ghosting along your collarbone.

“I don’t care.”

Dean stills. His grip on you tightens for half a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“You should care,” he says, voice rough. “People in my world don’t get happy endings.”

You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch. “I don’t need a happy ending.” You tilt your head, letting your thumb brush the corner of his mouth. “I just need you.”

A low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a groan and a curse, before his mouth crashes back onto yours.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No restraint.

Dean takes—his lips moving against yours with purpose, his hands gripping your hips, lifting you with ease as he carries you back to the bed. The mattress dips beneath you as he lowers you onto it, his weight pressing you into the sheets, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the night.

“You sure about this?” he mutters against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “Shut up and kiss me, Winchester.”

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

And when he claims you this time, it’s not just need—it’s something deeper, something neither of you are ready to name yet.

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

Dean doesn’t just kiss you—he devours you like he’s been starving for something real and only just realised you’re the thing he’s been craving. His hands are everywhere, sliding under the flannel you stole, gripping your thighs, tracing over the fresh ink on your back like he’s memorising the way his work looks on your skin.

The sheets are tangled around you both, the air thick with heat and the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something dark and utterly intoxicating. His mouth drags from your lips to your jaw, then down, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

“I should ruin you,” he mutters, voice dark and full of something dangerous. “Make sure no one else even thinks about touching you.”

Your stomach tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “You already have.”

Dean groans against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a bruise there—one that’ll be impossible to hide. “Damn right, I have.”

His hands are rough, calloused from years of working with them, but the way he touches you? Reverent. Like you’re something precious, something breakable—but only if you want to be.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower, his breath hot against your skin.

You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you, those sharp green eyes blown wide with hunger. “I want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

And when he finally gives you what you want, it’s not just sex.

It’s a claim. A promise that he is yours and yours alone.

The city hums beyond the window, but inside Dean’s apartment, everything is quiet except for the sound of your slowed breathing and the faint rustle of sheets as he pulls you against his chest.

You’re spent, muscles aching in the best way, his warmth sinking into your skin. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your stomach like he’s not ready to let you go.

“Still not scared of me?” he asks, voice rough with exhaustion.

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

Dean huffs a laugh, but when you glance up, his expression is unreadable—something guarded, something uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he says after a moment. “This life isn’t clean. It’s not safe. Being with me? It means something. You don’t just walk away from it.”

You tilt your head, searching his face. “Are you asking me to?”

Dean’s fingers tighten against your waist. “No.” He exhales, something shifting in his gaze—something like vulnerability. “I’m asking if you can handle it.”

You reach up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the scar on his shoulder, one of many marks that tell a story you’re only just starting to understand.

“I think,” you murmur against his skin, “I can handle you just fine.”

Dean makes a sound—something between a groan and a chuckle—before flipping you onto your back, caging you beneath him once more.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his smirk slow and wicked, “you have no idea what you’ve just signed up for.”

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

The familiar buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but this time, the sound isn’t the only thing making your pulse race.

You’re back at Winchester Ink, straddling the tattoo chair, your shirt discarded, leaving only your black lace bra as Dean hovers behind you. His fingers graze your skin—not with the same desperate need as last night, but with something just as intense.

Possession.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, teasing, but you can feel the weight behind it. This isn’t just any tattoo—this is his mark, something new, something permanent.

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes—dark, intense, hungry—and smirk. “You gonna keep asking me that, or are you actually gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, but there’s something sharper behind his amusement. He leans in, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire.”

Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly, but you don’t break eye contact. “Maybe I like the burn.”

Dean mutters a curse under his breath before snapping on his gloves. The scent of antiseptic and ink fills your lungs as he dips the needle, and then—

The first sting.

Your body tenses for half a second, but Dean’s free hand finds your waist, grounding you. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, his tone softer now, intimate. “You know the drill.”

You exhale slowly, sinking into the sensation. The pain is sharp, but it fades into something almost hypnotic, especially with the way Dean’s fingers press into your hip, steadying you.

The shop is closed—Dean made sure of that—but the thought of anyone walking in, seeing you half-dressed, stretched out beneath his hands, sends a thrill through you.

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask after a while, voice laced with curiosity. You hadn’t asked for a design, just told Dean you wanted something from him.

Dean hums, his tone smug. “Something to remind everyone who you belong to.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

Minutes pass, the pain blending into pleasure, and when Dean finally leans back, wiping the fresh ink clean, you swear you feel his lips brush your shoulder.

“Done,” he murmurs.

You twist to look at his work, and your stomach flips when you see it.

A small, intricate sigil—subtle, but unmistakably his. Right along your ribs, where only he would ever truly see it.

You glance up at him, your heart pounding. “That what you wanted?”

Dean peels off his gloves, tossing them aside before gripping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your lips, his gaze dark.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His smirk is slow, dangerous. “We both know this is just the beginning.”

The tattoo still burns, a dull ache that lingers under your skin—but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean is looking at you right now.

You’re still straddling the chair, breath unsteady, your skin warm under the shop’s low lighting. The ink along your ribs feels like a brand, like a claim, and Dean? He’s drinking you in like he’s memorizing every single second of this moment.

His fingers brush over the fresh ink—featherlight, barely a touch—but it still makes you shiver.

“You like it?” His voice is rough, low, laced with something possessive.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, there’s nothing between you but the hum of the tattoo gun, the scent of ink and antiseptic, the tension coiled thick in the air.

“I love it,” you admit, and it’s not just about the tattoo.

Dean's smirk flickers, something darker lurking beneath it. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because it means you’re mine now.”

A shiver runs through you, but it’s not fear. It’s need.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you tilt your head, baring your throat just slightly—an unspoken challenge. “Oh yeah?” you tease, your voice softer now, breathless. “That what this means?”

Dean huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fingers trail lower, over the ink, then down to your waist, pulling you forward until your chest brushes against his.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “you’ve been mine since the second you walked into this shop.”

You should push him away. Tell him he’s being ridiculous, that a tattoo doesn’t mean ownership. That he doesn’t own you.

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

So instead, you smirk, dragging your nails down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. “Then maybe,” you murmur, “you should remind me.”

Dean’s grin turns wicked, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth already crashing onto yours.

And as he presses you back into the chair, the unfinished tattoos and the world outside forgotten, you realize something:

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

--

The night is quiet—too quiet.

Winchester Ink should’ve been locked up an hour ago, but Dean insisted on keeping the doors closed while he finished some business in the back. You were wiping down the front desk, waiting for him, when the first gunshot shattered the silence.

Pop-pop-pop!

The windows explode inward, glass raining down as you instinctively duck behind the counter. Your heart slams against your ribs as tires screech outside, bullets peppering the front of the shop like a damn war zone.

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

He bursts in from the back, gun already drawn, his sharp green eyes scanning the chaos before landing on you. In a second, he’s in front of you, crouching low, shielding your body with his own. His breath is rough, his muscles tense, but his voice? Steady as hell.

“You okay?” he demands, his fingers curling around your wrist, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you manage, swallowing back the adrenaline climbing up your throat. “Dean, what the hell—”

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He peeks over the counter, eyes narrowing as he counts heads outside. You follow his gaze—black SUVs, men with weapons, their faces hidden under masks.

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “They are.”

He turns back to you, and for the first time, you see something raw in his expression—not just anger, not just control, but fear. Not for himself. For you.

“We gotta move, sweetheart,” he says, shifting so his body shields you completely. “Stay behind me. No arguments.”

You nod, your fingers curling around his jacket as he pulls you toward the back exit. His gun stays up, movements sharp, calculated. The Dean Winchester you know—the inked-up, cocky-as-hell tattoo artist—is gone. This Dean? This is the real one.

The leader. The fighter. The man who kills for the people he loves.

A shadow moves near the doorway, and Dean reacts instantly. Bang! One shot—dead center. The masked man drops without a sound.

Your breath catches. You’ve never seen him like this. Never seen death come so easily to him.

Dean turns back, his hand finding yours. “You still with me?”

You meet his eyes. Despite the gunfire, the danger, the fact that he just killed someone—you're not scared. Not of him.

“I’m with you.”

Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe—but there’s no time to dwell on it.

More men are coming.

Dean tightens his grip, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead before he exhales sharply. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

And as the two of you disappear into the night, chased by bullets and fire, you realize something.

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

The shop smells like antiseptic and fresh ink, but beneath it lingers something metallic. Gunpowder. Blood.

Dean’s grip on your wrist is tight, dragging you through the back hallway of Winchester Ink, his jaw clenched so hard you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. The shootout from earlier still echoes in your ears, your pulse hammering in your throat.

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

You should be questioning everything—how many people Dean just killed, how easily he moved, how ruthlessly he handled the ambush.

But all you can think about is the way he shielded you, how his first instinct was to grab you, tuck you against his chest, his own body between yours and the bullets.

Now, inside the safe room of the shop, he’s pacing like a caged animal, gun still clutched in his fist, blood splattered across his knuckles.

“Dean.” Your voice is steadier than you expect.

He stops, his sharp green eyes snapping to yours, wild and dark.

“I told you this would happen,” he growls, voice low, ragged. “Told you my life isn’t safe.”

You take a step toward him. “And I told you I could handle it.”

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I kill people. Not just assholes who deserve it—anyone who’s a threat. Anyone who crosses me.”

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

You take another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the blood drying on his skin. He’s still Dean—the man who tattooed you with steady hands, the man who kisses like he’s trying to brand you, the man who just tore through enemies to keep you alive.

Your fingers graze his wrist, just above the gun. “You could’ve let me go,” you whisper. “Could’ve left me behind.”

Dean lets out a breath, harsh and uneven. “Not an option.”

You press your palm against his chest, right over his heart. “Then stop trying to scare me away.”

His control snaps.

One second, he’s standing there, tense, on edge—then his hands are on you, everywhere. Gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him, his mouth crushing against yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

Like he needs to feel you alive, solid, beneath his hands.

“Mine,” he mutters against your lips, his voice raw. “You’re mine.”

You nod, gasping against his mouth. “Yours.”

Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Then from now on, sweetheart? You stay glued to my side.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “You just want an excuse to keep your hands on me.”

Dean huffs a laugh, his grip tightening. “Damn right I do.”

And just like that, Winchester Ink isn’t just a tattoo shop anymore.

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

The aftermath of the shootout settles into a strange, electric silence. The back room of Winchester Ink feels too small, too charged. Outside, Dean’s men are cleaning up the mess—disposing of bodies, wiping down shell casings—but inside, it’s just you and him.

Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment the bullets started flying. You should be shaken, but instead, you’re standing in front of Dean, watching the way his chest still rises and falls too fast, his gun hanging loosely in his grip.

His knuckles are raw. Blood smears across his inked skin, a dark contrast against the swirling black designs crawling up his forearm.

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

But the only thing you feel when you step closer is heat.

Dean watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His fingers twitch, like he’s deciding between pulling you closer or pushing you away.

“You’re not scared,” he finally mutters, almost accusingly.

You raise a brow. “No.”

Dean lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You should be.”

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

His jaw clenches. “Because I keep waiting for you to wake up and realize I’m not a good man, sweetheart. I’m the kind of guy people run from.”

You tilt your head, letting your gaze drag over him—the blood, the bruises forming along his jaw, the way he’s still standing between you and the door, as if another threat could come at any moment.

“You think I don’t see who you are?” you ask softly. “You think I don’t get it?”

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

“I know what you do. I know what this shop really is,” you continue, stepping closer until your fingers ghost over his forearm, tracing the ink there. “And I know you didn’t hesitate to put yourself between me and those bullets.”

Dean swallows hard. “That’s the problem.”

You shake your head. “No, Dean. That’s the part that tells me everything I need to know.”

His eyes search yours, something flickering behind them—uncertainty. Vulnerability. Maybe even something darker, something deeper.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he finally says, quieter now.

“No.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe you. Then, before you can say anything else, his hands are on you again—tugging, gripping, claiming. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation, like he’s trying to consume you.

You don’t resist.

You meet him with the same fire, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. You can taste blood on his lips, feel the way his breath stutters when you press your body against his.

Dean breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his hands flexing against your waist.

“I kill for you,” he murmurs, voice raw. “I’ll burn the whole fucking city down if it means keeping you safe.”

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

It’s been months since that night—since the shootout, since Dean pulled you close, breath ragged and raw, demanding you stay with him. Since you allowed yourself to slip deeper into his world, where danger was an ever-present shadow and the line between love and possession was blurred beyond recognition.

Now, you're sitting in the back of Winchester Ink, the familiar scent of fresh ink and leather comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Your shirt is tight, stretched over the curve of your stomach. Your fingers rest lightly on it, tracing the tiny life growing inside of you.

Dean’s son.

The weight of that realization still sometimes hits you like a freight train—his blood runs through you, through the baby you’re carrying.

You’re not just his lover anymore. You’re the mother of his son.

And, God, does he make sure everyone knows it.

Everywhere you go now, there’s the unmistakable, possessive edge in the way Dean looks at you. His hands never leave you, whether he’s holding your waist or brushing his thumb over your wrist. The people in the shop, his men, they all treat you with reverence—like you’re untouchable.

Because you are. To him, anyway.

You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the weight of your growing belly makes everything feel… off. You smile softly, your hand resting again on your stomach.

“Is it kicking again?” Dean’s voice breaks through your thoughts, soft but commanding, as always.

You glance up to see him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes already on you, softened by something that could almost be called gentleness—a rare sight from the mafia king. His hands are in his pockets, but he’s still intimidating as hell, the muscles of his arms straining under the black shirt he’s wearing.

“Yeah,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips as you rub your stomach. “It’s starting to feel real now, you know?”

Dean crosses the room in a few long strides, his gaze never leaving you. He kneels beside you, hands instantly reaching for your stomach like they always do when he’s near. His fingers are warm, rough against your skin.

“Damn right it’s real,” he mutters, a soft grin curling his lips. “You’re carrying my heir.”

His words, so heavy with ownership, almost make you laugh, but then you feel a flutter under your palm. The baby kicks again, strong enough to make you gasp.

Dean’s face softens, his hand pressing gently against your stomach, as if he’s trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside of you.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, almost reverent.

“I do.” You smile up at him.

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, and for a brief second, you see something in him that no one else gets to see: vulnerability.

“You’re not just mine now, you know.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

He meets your eyes, his expression fierce and possessive. “You’re carrying my son. That’s not something I take lightly.”

You know he means it. You know Dean doesn’t do lightly. He owns everything he touches, and now, he’s made you his queen.

You reach out, cupping his jaw with your hand, pulling him closer. “I know, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a breath of relief, but there’s something darker, something more primal in the way he kisses you—his lips urgent against yours, demanding.

His hand moves lower, caressing the side of your belly, the other pressing against the back of your neck to pull you even closer. You melt into him, feeling his warmth, his power, and the weight of his love—of his claim—surrounding you.

You are his, and you always will be.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I’ll protect you. And the baby. No one will ever hurt either of you.”

You nod, smiling softly at him. “I know.”

His hand slides up to your neck, cupping your jaw, his gaze darkening. “Good.” Then, with a soft but insistent pull, he presses his lips to yours again. His kiss is rougher this time, more demanding, as though trying to make you feel the depth of his promise.

As you melt into him, you know one thing for sure:

You are his. Completely.

And no one, not even the world outside these walls, can take that from you.

--

The sterile scent of the hospital is sharp in the air, mingling with the soft beeps of machines around you. You’re propped up in a bed, your body sore from the grueling hours of labor. Your arms are still aching from where the IVs had been placed, but there’s a weight on your chest now—the kind of weight that makes everything worth it.

The small bundle in your arms—your baby, Dean’s baby—softly coos, the tiny body swaddled in a pale blue blanket. You stare down at the little face, marveling at the miracle you just created, your heart swelling with something fierce and protective.

Dean’s sitting beside you, his rough fingers lightly brushing the side of your hand, his gaze never leaving you or the baby. He hasn’t moved since the moment the baby was placed in your arms, his body radiating tension as if the world outside could suddenly break in and take everything from him. From you.

His eyes are dark, intense—like a man who’s seen too much blood to believe in peace. But the way he looks at the baby in your arms? There’s something almost gentle there, something protective and soft, like this tiny being is the only thing that could make him show any weakness at all.

It’s a weakness you know he’ll do anything to protect.

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

Your heart skips, your hand instinctively tightening around the baby. Dean is on his feet in a second, moving so fast you barely register the movement. His body is between you and the door before the intruder has even fully entered the room.

A man—dark hair, tense shoulders—stands in the doorway, his eyes flickering quickly over Dean, then to you. He’s got a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, the cold metallic glint catching your eye.

Dean’s expression is pure stone, his hands already reaching for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

“I told you,” the man says, his voice low but sharp, “the baby's the next target.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together. “Get out.” His voice is thick with menace, each word weighted with the danger of a man who has nothing left to lose.

“I don’t think you understand,” the man says, taking one step forward, the gun clearly visible now. His hand rests on it, like he's daring Dean to move. “We’ve got orders. The baby’s a liability.”

You flinch at the words, the weight of the situation settling in. You’re not just the mother of Dean’s offspring anymore. You’re a target.

Dean’s movements are so fast, you don’t even have time to react. He pulls the gun from his waistband, smooth as a snake, and in one fluid motion, he’s pointing it at the intruder’s head.

“Leave. Now.” His voice is ice-cold, every syllable laced with authority and the threat of violence. The room feels smaller, suffocating. The air is thick with the promise of danger.

The man’s hand hovers over his gun, but Dean’s eyes never waver, never falter.

“You don’t want to do this,” the man warns, a tremor of hesitation creeping into his voice.

“Last warning,” Dean growls, his finger pressing lightly on the trigger. “Get. Out.”

The man stares at Dean for a moment longer, before his gaze flickers to you—the mother of his enemy’s spawn—and then he seems to make a decision. Slowly, he backs out of the room, never breaking eye contact with Dean.

When the door clicks shut, the tension in the room snaps. Dean holsters his gun, but his body remains rigid, every muscle in his frame still coiled tight, as if he’s waiting for the next attack.

You can’t breathe.

It’s almost too much—the rush of emotions, the exhaustion from labor, the fear that still clings to you. You want to scream, but you only manage to whisper. “What was that, Dean? What the hell was that?”

Dean turns toward you, his eyes filled with something primal, his hand going straight to your side, pulling you against him. His arms envelop you like a fortress, protective and warm.

“They’ll never stop coming,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with the weight of the life he’s pulled you into. “But I’ll never let them touch you. Never let them take what’s mine.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hand resting on his chest. “Dean…”

“Don’t say anything, sweetheart. Not right now.” His hands cradle your face, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek. “You’re not just carrying our baby anymore. You’re my queen. And anyone who thinks they can take either of you, they’ll be facing a war they don’t want.”

A chill runs through you, but it’s not just from fear. There’s something else in his voice—something deep, something dangerous.

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

The room falls into silence again, save for the soft breathing of the baby in your arms, a new life and a new threat, forever intertwined with Dean’s world of shadows and blood.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The buzz of the tattoo machines fills the air in Winchester Ink, the low hum a familiar soundtrack to your day. Your hands are busy, one on the counter, the other moving skillfully to help a new client pick out their design. The shop is quieter than usual, but it’s still early, the door just having closed behind the last customer who left for the day. The steady rhythm of your work is a welcome distraction—until you hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching.

You glance over your shoulder, only to stop dead in your tracks.

There, standing in the middle of the shop, is Dean. But he’s not alone.

In his arms, swaddled snugly in a soft gray blanket, is your baby. The little one is asleep, content and peaceful—completely unaware of the chaos that swirled around its birth. Dean’s eyes meet yours, the same possessive look in them, but now, there’s something softer, something tender beneath the hard edge.

He takes a few steps toward the wall, his gaze never leaving you.

“I’m teaching them the family business,” Dean says, a smirk playing on his lips.

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

Dean doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he pulls a small padded wall-mounted bassinet from beside one of the stations, carefully setting it down against the tattoo wall. He adjusts a few straps, making sure the baby is securely tucked inside.

You watch, your heart skipping a beat. There’s something about the way Dean handles the baby—so careful, so deliberate—that takes you by surprise. He’s never showed much patience with anything in his life… except for this.

“Dean…” You take a step forward, a small frown creasing your brow. “What are you doing?”

He shoots you that smug grin of his, the one that drives you crazy in all the best ways. “I’m teaching them how to survive in this world. It’s not enough you’re carrying our blood. I need them to know how to handle this.”

You blink again, unsure if you’re about to laugh or scold him. "You’re setting the baby down against the tattoo wall?"

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze flickering to the little bundle. “It’s not just any wall. It's our wall.” His voice drops lower, his eyes flashing with that dangerous glint you know too well. “You’re not the only one around here that needs to be toughened up, sweetheart.”

Before you can reply, a soft cry rings through the air, and you turn to see the baby stirring, fingers curled, lips pursed as it starts to wake.

You rush over without thinking, your heart pounding, instinct driving you as you scoop the baby into your arms.

Dean watches you for a moment, his posture still tall, like he owns the room. When your eyes meet his, there’s something in the way he looks at you—a hint of pride, mixed with something dark, something almost possessive.

The baby settles into your arms, its tiny face scrunched in that adorable way babies do when they’re just waking up. You smile softly, the weight of your love for this little one threatening to break you. But Dean’s presence beside you is like a shield, strong and unwavering, giving you strength you didn’t know you had.

“There you go,” Dean mutters, his voice softer now, his arms crossing over his chest. “Just need to toughen up a bit more, kid.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gently rock the baby. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe. But in this world, we need to be.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can respond, a customer enters the shop—an old friend of Dean’s, someone who’s clearly seen their fair share of tattoos, judging by the sleeve of ink already visible on their arms. They’re a regular, and you’re used to handling them on your own, but today, Dean stands beside you, just a step behind, his protective aura nearly suffocating.

The client sits down in one of the chairs, and you turn your attention back to them, pulling out a design sketch from the folder. “So, you wanted something custom, right?”

Dean moves to stand just behind you, his gaze flickering from you to the client, eyes hard. His presence is imposing, like a lion lurking nearby. His fingers brush against the top of your shoulder, a subtle reminder that he’s still there.

“You’re getting the best I’ve got,” Dean mutters, his voice low enough only the client can hear. “Don’t waste my time.”

The client hesitates, looking up at him and then at you. There’s a moment of tension in the air, as if Dean’s mere presence commands their respect. They nod quickly, understanding that there’s more than just ink on the line here.

You work on the design, laying out the details, explaining the placement as you always do. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Dean—watching, waiting, always so protective.

And when your eyes flick to the bassinet against the wall, you see Dean’s gaze fixed on the baby, the softness in his eyes evident, even if he’s trying to hide it.

The family business, he’d called it.

And as you glance at the client, then back at Dean, you realize the full extent of what that means.

You and your son are the center of Dean’s world. His empire. His everything.

And no one, not even in this room, would dare to touch you or the life you’ve built.

Dean would see to that.

---

The sun is warm on your skin, a soft breeze rustling the trees around you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not in Winchester Ink, you’re not in the chaos of Dean’s world. You’re outside, in the real world, with your baby tucked safely in your arms. It’s a rare moment of peace, and you’re soaking it in.

Dean walks beside you, his presence still larger than life, but today, it feels different. The weight of his usual dominance is softer, almost protective in a way that makes you feel safe—not just from the world outside, but from him.

You glance over at him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing the tattoos that run the length of his arms, his posture still straight, but his eyes are warm as he watches the baby in your arms. Every step he takes, every glance he throws your way, speaks volumes. He’s here—truly here. No business meetings, no threats, no blood spilled. Just him—Dean, your partner, and the father of your child.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly, his voice always so gruff but softened by the moment.

You look down at your baby, whose tiny hand has wrapped around your finger, a soft coo escaping from them. You smile, looking back at Dean. "Like everything’s perfect."

Dean’s lips curl into a rare smile, one that’s softer than you’ve seen in a long time. It’s a smile that feels more genuine than any of the cold, calculated grins he gives in the tattoo shop or when he’s dealing with business.

You walk through the park, the sound of children laughing and playing around you, birds chirping overhead. It’s almost too perfect—like you’ve stepped into a moment that isn’t meant for people like Dean. People like you.

But here you are.

Dean takes a step closer, his body brushing against yours, his hand brushing against your waist protectively. His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the baby in your arms, and you feel a shiver of warmth run through you.

"I can’t believe how small they are," Dean murmurs, his voice low, almost like he’s in awe.

You smile down at the little one. "They’re only going to get bigger, you know."

Dean’s eyes meet yours, a flash of something fierce flickering in his gaze. "I’ll protect them, sweetheart. No one’s taking what’s mine. Not now. Not ever."

You chuckle softly, but there’s an edge to your voice when you reply, "I think we’re safe here. We’re just… family today."

Dean’s smile deepens, but there’s still that ever-present glint in his eyes—the reminder that no matter where you are, he’s still the king of his world. And that’s a world that’s made of blood, ink, and power.

"Family," he echoes, the word heavy on his tongue. He looks down at the baby again, his expression softening. "Yeah. This is all I care about now."

You lean into him slightly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You’re good at this, you know. Being a dad."

Dean’s eyebrow raises, a small, teasing smirk forming on his lips. "I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at it, but I guess I’m figuring it out." His gaze softens as he looks at the baby. "I’d kill anyone who thought otherwise."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t suppress the smile that tugs at your lips. "You really do make everything sound like a threat."

Dean chuckles, the sound rich and deep, and for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine a life like this—simple, quiet, full of moments that are just about you and him and your baby. A family.

But even as that thought swirls in your mind, you know that this peace, this quiet moment, is fleeting. Dean’s world doesn’t just let you walk away from it. It pulls you back in, no matter how hard you try to resist. And you’ve come to accept that. Because as dangerous as that world is, it’s the one where your heart beats the strongest.

And as long as Dean’s by your side, you’re ready to face it. Together.

Dean’s hand slips into yours as you both stop at a bench, the baby still in your arms, nestled comfortably against your chest. He sits down first, and you follow, sitting next to him. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting on your leg, grounding you in this rare moment of normalcy.

The world around you continues—kids laughing, families strolling by—but for you, in this moment, time stands still.

This is your family. And Dean’s right. This is all that matters.

"You’re my everything, sweetheart," Dean says softly, his lips brushing your temple. "You and the baby. I’ll never let anyone come between us."

You nod against him, breathing in the scent of him—leather, ink, and something uniquely Dean. "I know."

And for once, you allow yourself to believe it completely.

--

The sun is low in the sky now, casting a warm, golden glow over the park. You and Dean are sitting on the same bench, your toddler nestled comfortably on your lap, their small hands wrapped around a stuffed toy. The baby—who’s growing bigger by the day—rests in the stroller beside you, peacefully asleep.

It’s a rare moment of tranquility, and for once, you feel the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. The tension from the past months, from the dangers that come with being with Dean and the world he inhabits, seems to dissipate when you’re here, in this bubble of calm.

Dean’s hand rests on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly stroking over your skin. His eyes are on you, but it’s not the usual hard stare. There’s something softer there—a vulnerability that you don’t see often. He’s been different ever since the baby arrived, a side of him you’ve been learning to understand.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you thinking about?”

Dean’s lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something nervous about it. “Just… you, sweetheart. You and the kids. And what I want to do next.”

Before you can ask what he means, you feel a small hand tug at your sleeve. Your toddler, wide-eyed and eager, pulls on your arm to get your attention.

“Mommy!” they say, their voice high-pitched with excitement. “Look!”

You look down, your heart melting at the sight of your toddler, holding out a small box, the velvet lining peeking through.

“Mommy,” they repeat, clearly serious. “This is for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You glance up at Dean, whose gaze has softened into something that makes your heart race. He’s watching you with that same intensity, but now it’s mixed with something else—something raw and honest.

You take the box from your kid, your fingers trembling slightly as you open it. Inside, nestled carefully, is a simple yet stunning ring. A diamond, elegant but not flashy, set in white gold with delicate engraving along the band. The ring that could change everything.

“Dean…” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from the glint of the ring. You glance back at him, your heart pounding. “What is this?”

Dean stands up, slowly, carefully, his hand reaching out for yours. He drops to one knee in front of you, his movements deliberate, measured.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I’ve never been good with words. Never been good at this… stuff.” His gaze flicks to the toddler, who’s watching intently, their small face beaming with pride. “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You feel your heart skip a beat, your hand instinctively going to your chest. You know exactly where this is going.

“I don’t need the world, not anymore.” Dean’s voice drops even lower, his eyes never leaving yours. “All I need is you. And I want to make sure you and the kids are mine. For good. So, what do you say?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you look at him—really look at him. The man who’s seen things that would make most men break. The man who’s shown you what it means to truly care. The man who’s protected you, fought for you, and built a family with you.

“I—” You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “Yes. Yes, Dean, I’ll marry you.”

Dean smiles—a rare, genuine smile—and slides the ring onto your finger. The weight of it, the finality, makes your heart swell. You’ve never been more sure of anything yourself. This moment, this family, this life—it’s all yours. Together.

He stands up, pulling you into his arms, the ring sparkling between you. Your toddler jumps into your arms, eager to be a part of the hug, and Dean chuckles, holding you both close.

“We’re a family,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “And we’re never going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, the world around you disappearing for a moment as you let the warmth of the moment settle in. The past, the dangers, the blood—it doesn’t matter anymore.

This is your family. And Dean’s made it clear that he will fight for it. Fight for you.

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

--

It’s been years since that day in the park. Since the proposal, the wedding, the birth of your son. Time has passed, and with it, your family has only grown stronger. Your little one, once a tiny bundle, is now a teenager—tall and lean, with that same fire in their eyes that Dean has. They’ve spent their years in the tattoo shop, learning the business, the art of ink, and more importantly, the way of the Winchester world.

The shop is bustling as usual, a steady stream of clients coming in and out, getting their tattoos, chatting, and sharing their stories. But today, something feels different. You can feel the shift, the weight of the next generation taking shape. Your child—your teenager—stands at the counter, just like you once did. Their gaze flicks to Dean, who’s overseeing everything as usual, arms crossed, his intense green eyes never missing a beat.

Dean’s been watching them grow, guiding them, teaching them. Not just the art of tattoos, but the code that runs deeper than ink—that’s part of the Winchester legacy.

You’re sitting at the back, flipping through some paperwork, but your eyes can’t help but watch the scene unfold in front of you. Your son is sitting with one of the artists, learning the flow of a new design, a quiet determination in their posture. They’re like a mirror of Dean in so many ways—calm, collected, and with a sharpness that hints at something darker, something deeper.

Dean’s voice breaks through the hum of the shop, a low rumble that commands attention. “Kid,” he calls, his gaze sharp but approving. “You’re not just here to learn how to make art. You’re here to learn how to run this place. And when the time comes, it’ll be your job to make sure it stays running.”

Your son looks up at him, nodding with that same serious expression that’s so much like Dean’s. “I know, Dad.” They’re not scared. They’re not hesitant. It’s like they were born for this.

Dean nods approvingly and walks over to where your son is working. He places a hand on their shoulder—a gesture of both authority and affection. The weight of that touch is something you know all too well. It’s the same touch he’s given you, the same reassurance that says you’re mine, and I’ll make sure you know it.

You stand up from the back and move toward them, quietly observing. Your heart swells with pride, mixed with the heavy weight of the life they’re stepping into.

“Everything okay?” you ask, your voice soft but steady.

Dean glances up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “They’re learning. Got a good head on their shoulders.”

You look at your teenager, who’s now carefully sketching out a new design, their movements swift and precise. Their concentration is unnerving, even more so than Dean’s at their age.

“You’re teaching them the ropes?” you ask, your gaze flicking to Dean.

“I’m teaching them everything,” Dean replies, his voice low and controlled. “Business, loyalty, the family code.” His eyes flicker back to your son, watching them work. “They’ve got the skill. But they need to understand what it takes to lead.”

You swallow, your heart tight in your chest. It’s not just tattoos Dean is passing on—it’s everything that comes with being in this world, with him. The mafia lifestyle, the control, the power that pulses through his veins.

You’ve seen the darkness that follows Dean everywhere, the long hours, the moments when his past comes rushing back. You’ve seen the way his eyes harden, the way he can turn from loving to lethal in an instant. And now your son is learning that same side of him—the side that can protect and destroy with equal intensity.

“Do they know what this life means?” you ask, your voice suddenly quiet, worried.

Dean’s gaze softens just for a moment. “They will. They’re not a kid anymore. They understand what we do.” His eyes shift to the teenager again. “And they’ve got what it takes to keep this legacy going. I see it in them. They’re not afraid.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and for a brief moment, you feel a flash of the weight of it all. This life is dangerous, it’s unpredictable, and the world you’ve built together—your family, your empire—is always under threat.

But then your son looks up, meets your eyes, and gives you that small, knowing smile. It’s as if they’ve already made peace with this life, just like you and Dean have. They are part of this, and there’s no turning back.

“We’ve got your back, Mom,” they say, their voice steady. “Always.”

The words are simple, but they carry more weight than you could ever imagine. You feel a lump form in your throat, but you swallow it down.

“Just don’t forget that you’ve got to stay smart. There’s always a price,” you reply, trying to keep your voice level. “The tattoos, the ink—it’s not just art. It’s a symbol of what we stand for. You remember that, okay?”

Your son nods, their eyes filled with the same quiet confidence you’ve seen in Dean for years. “I will.”

Dean steps forward then, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. You lean into his warmth, your hand resting on his chest.

“This is their world now, too,” he murmurs against your ear. “We’ll make sure they’re ready for it.”

The weight of it presses down on you, but you know Dean’s right. This world is theirs now. The legacy is theirs to carry, to shape, and to protect.

And as you look at your son, standing so tall and unflinching in the face of everything this life demands, you know that Dean’s right about one thing: they’ve got what it takes.

The Winchester name will live on.

The night had started like any other, calm and quiet. The tattoo shop had closed for the evening, and the low hum of the neon lights outside cast a soft glow on the shop floor as you and Dean sat in the back, the baby long since tucked into bed and your teenager nowhere to be seen. The air smelled like ink and leather, a familiar comfort in the chaos of your life.

But that peace shattered in an instant.

Dean’s phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then a third time. He didn’t pick up, not yet. The silence lingered for a moment too long before you saw his posture shift—his muscles tensing, his eyes narrowing. You could feel it in the air; something was wrong.

"Dean?" you asked, but it was too late. He was already moving, pulling his phone from his pocket with a cold, calculated expression.

He answered the call.

“Where the hell are they?” Dean’s voice, usually low and measured, was tight with barely contained fury. “What do you want?”

You felt it then—the gut-wrenching, icy realization.

Your heart skipped. You were already on your feet, rushing towards him.

“Dean, what’s going on?” you asked, your voice shaky.

Dean didn’t answer you right away. His eyes were locked on the phone, his lips tight, his jaw clenched. He took a slow breath before his words hit you like a freight train.

“They’ve got our kid.”

A rush of cold terror slammed into you. Your breath hitched. “What? Who? What the hell do you mean?”

“Somebody took them. For ransom,” Dean growled, his hand tightening around the phone. "They want money, but it’s not about money. It’s never just about money."

You could see it now—the flicker of rage in Dean’s eyes. A darkness, deep and unsettling. His body was wound so tight you could practically feel the tension radiating off him. He hung up abruptly, his face pale but his eyes burning with something darker.

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing. “What do we do? Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions, none of them good. “We get them back. Now.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the back of the shop, where the emergency stash of weapons was kept. You followed, heart in your throat. You knew Dean better than anyone. He was a force—calculating, ruthless, deadly—but seeing him like this, seeing that raw desperation and fury... it made your blood run cold.

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, the venom in his voice making you flinch. “No more talking. This isn’t some negotiation. This is personal. Whoever thought they could touch my kid is about to learn what happens when you mess with the Winchesters.”

You were barely able to keep up with him as he grabbed his gun, the sound of it clicking into place ringing in the otherwise silent room. He was already sliding on his jacket, the hard edge of his jawline like stone.

“You’re not going alone,” you said, your voice firm, no longer the shaky one you had been a moment ago.

Dean stopped, the briefest hesitation crossing his face. His eyes flicked to you, narrowing, but you saw that brief flicker of worry. It didn’t last. He took a deep breath and turned to face you.

“You’re staying here with the baby,” he ordered, his voice low and controlled. But the undercurrent of his tone betrayed him. He was barely holding it together. “You’re safer here.”

“Don’t tell me what’s safer, Dean,” you snapped, taking a step forward. “They’re our kid. I’m going with you.”

He gave you one long, unreadable look before his lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but more of a grimace.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered under his breath. “They’ve crossed a line. And I’m about to show them just how bad an idea that was.”

Before you could argue, Dean was out the door, moving fast. You had no choice but to follow.

The city streets blurred around you as you and Dean sped through the darkened roads. Dean’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might break. His gaze was laser-focused on the road, but his mind was already somewhere else—somewhere far darker.

The message had been clear. The voice on the other end had been muffled, but the demand had been simple. Money, or we end them. But the truth was far more terrifying than that. Dean knew this wasn’t just a random kidnapping. This was a message.

And Dean never let messages slide.

You didn’t dare ask questions as the car whipped through the streets. Every second felt like an eternity, but Dean’s pace never faltered. You could feel the anger rolling off of him, thick and palpable. He was slipping back into that dangerous, unpredictable rhythm you knew too well.

“I’m gonna tear their fucking world apart,” Dean muttered, his voice tight with venom. “You don’t touch what’s mine and expect to walk away. No one does.”

He slammed the car to a stop in front of an old, rundown building—no lights, no signs, just a hollow shell of a place. His eyes flicked to you, once again soft for a fraction of a second. “Stay close, sweetheart. Don’t let them get to you.”

Before you could respond, Dean was out of the car, moving like a shadow—fast, calculated, lethal. You grabbed your own weapon and followed close behind. You knew, even without him saying a word, this wasn’t just about money. This was about respect. About vengeance. About showing whoever had taken your child just how badly they’d fucked up.

Inside the building, it was eerily quiet—until the sound of a door creaking open echoed through the dark. Your heart stuttered, but Dean was already at the door, his presence commanding. You could hear voices inside. One was familiar—your child’s, a little shaky but still strong.

The seconds felt like hours.

Dean motioned for you to stay low. You crouched behind him, your heart thudding in your chest as you followed his lead.

Then Dean burst through the door. The sound of gunfire rang out, deafening and sharp. It was chaos—screams, shots, but Dean was a whirlwind. He moved faster than anyone could react, gunfire flashing, bodies hitting the floor.

And then you saw them. Your child, bound to a chair in the corner of the room, looking at Dean with a mix of fear and relief.

“Dean!” you shouted, rushing to their side.

Dean had already disarmed the remaining goons, his eyes cold and dead set on the leader of the operation—a man who had made the mistake of thinking he could get away with this.

Dean was on him in an instant, grabbing the man by the collar and lifting him off his feet. “You think you can fuck with my family?” His voice was a deadly growl. The man’s eyes widened in terror.

The next few moments were a blur. The others were dealt with swiftly—brutally. Dean didn’t speak again, not until the building was clear and your child was free.

Dean walked toward you and your som, his demeanor still cold, but his hands trembling just slightly as he reached out to untie them.

“You good?” he asked, his voice gruff, but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the undercurrent of worry he was trying to hide.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Your son’s voice was steady, but you could see the relief in their eyes.

Dean looked at them, then back to you, his voice softer this time. “No one ever takes what’s ours again. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, you believed him.

It had been weeks since the nightmare ended. Since Dean stormed through that warehouse like the wrath of God himself and took back what was his. Since he’d carried your son out of that hellhole and brought them home, holding them so tightly you thought he’d never let go.

Things had settled, in the way only the Winchesters knew how—cautiously, quietly, always keeping one eye open. But the weight had lifted. Your family was whole. And today, for the first time in a long time, life felt normal.

The shop was closed for the day. No buzzing tattoo machines, no clients, no business meetings in the back with men who spoke in hushed voices. Just you, Dean, and your now fully-recovered teenager spending the day somewhere safe—somewhere untouched by the chaos of the world outside.

The park was bright and warm, sunlight filtering through the trees, kids laughing in the distance. You sat on a picnic blanket, watching as your son—your fighter—taught their younger sibling how to climb onto the jungle gym. Dean stood off to the side, arms crossed, that usual scowl on his face, but you knew him well enough to see through it. The tightness in his jaw wasn’t anger—it was pride.

“You gonna hover all day, Winchester?” you teased, nudging his arm.

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “Not hovering,” he muttered. “Just… watching.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Watching for what? Squirrels?”

Dean shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You know what I mean,” he said, his voice quieter now. “After everything…” His gaze flicked back to your teenager, who was laughing as their little sibling clung onto their back, begging for a piggyback ride. “I just need to know they’re okay.”

You softened, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “They are okay, Dean. Because of you. Because of us.”

Dean let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

You squeezed his hand. “Hey. Look at them.” You tilted your head toward your kids. “They’re happy. They’re safe. They’ve got us. And nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a long moment, like he was memorizing the way you looked in the sun, how your eyes held no fear, no worry—only love.

Then, finally, the scowl eased off his face, replaced by something much softer.

“Damn right,” he said, pulling you into his side, his lips brushing against your temple. “No one’s ever taking what’s mine again.”

The wind rustled through the trees, the laughter of your children filling the air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right. Whole.

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

//this is your kind reminder to REBLOG!!//

[osleeplessflowero]

it's currently my birthday so here's some headcanons as to how i think skeletons would act/what they would do on YOUR birthday! (featuring a TON of au characters! :D)

Sans

Might be the one to push your face into your cake. It's a gamble with him. If it's not that, he'll definitely prank you somehow during the day (something lighthearted and fun, of course.) He wants to make sure you have a blast. I could see him getting you something funny, like a shirt with a funny phrase on it you could wear over and over.

Papyrus

He'd be the type to set up the party games, especially something like a Pinata to hit! He might hit it a liiiiittle too hard..but it's okay. Just means you get candy faster! He'd want to make your day something super fun to remember. He's dead set on changing things up each year to make each day memorable.

Red

WILL push your face into your cake, no questions asked. Provided you blew out your candles first (if you have any). He'd definitely want to take you somewhere fun for your birthday, messing with you from time to time to get a laugh. Definitely would want to get you something you could use a lot, or something you've mentioned wanting before. He keeps tabs on these things!

Edge

If he likes you a lot, he'll get you something really nice and insist you keep it taken care of, letting you know he cares in his own ways. Although he might not be as energetic as his brother might be on your special day, he still stays close by and ensures you're having plenty of fun. He's also one of the more rational members of the skeleton group, keeping the others in line so nothing goes wrong.

Blue

INSISTS on being the person to wake you up. He wants to be the first person to tell you but deep down he knows someone else beat him to it during the night, but that won't stop him from enthusiastically singing the Happy Birthday song anyway! He's probably the one to prepare you for an exciting day of fun, planned out with your best interests in mind. (His brother helped out of course by slapping some fun stickers on the schedule.) He might be one of the first people to give you his presents, letting you open it earlier in the day with him present.

Stretch & Rus

These two pretty much share a braincell, so naturally they'd race to be the first to send birthday wishes right at midnight. Funnily enough there's never an exact victor, they always send their messages at the exact same time. During the daylight hours, they stick together to cause plenty of chaos to get smiles and laughter out of you. They might pull a few pranks to tease you, but nothing too far of course. Rus would make some really cool art as a gift for you, anything you could possibly want him to draw or paint. As for Stretch, he'd work with Blue to get something you'd be able to have plenty of fun with (and of course, to use together).

Black

Oh does this man SPOIL you. He'll take you anywhere you want to go, no matter the cost, ensuring you he'll handle everything for your special day. You name anything, he'll get it for you right away. Also one of the men in charge of keeping the others in line so nothing goes too crazy. At least, until alcohol's brought out..then he leaves it up to Edge. ;)

Mars & Jupiter

The Horror bros are a bit less energetic when it comes to your birthday, opting to do something more personal for you. They'd give you their gifts alone so only they get to see your reactions. Jupiter would probably be the one to bake your cake in the first place, shooing everyone else out of the kitchen so he can perfect it. (Soo much spoon smacking..) They'd definitely steal you away a few times during the day to have some relaxing time together. Mars doesn't really like crowds..but he'd be willing to stay in a room with everyone for you.

[Berry is on his best behavior..just for today.]

Stepping out of the Neighborhood AU and into the Multiverse...

Dream, Ink, and Blue(again)!

Dream is SUPER excited for your birthday! He made sure to figure out all your favorite things so there's plenty of joy and positivity. Ink made sure to set up a really nice area for the three of you to celebrate, and maaaaybe set up some sort of water/paint balloon fights for some fun. Blue is in charge of activities and making sure Ink's chaos doesn't get too out of hand!

The Bad Sanses

Killer makes sure to be the first one to wake you up, singing the happy birthday song enthusiastically to embarrass you. Dust and Horror will be a bit more calm than he is, messing up your hair and giving you little affectionate/friendly gestures. Nightmare sets up a grand party for you, decorating the castle to the very best of his ability. He'll do his best to make things absolutely perfect for one of his favorite group members (don't tell the others, especially not Killer!). They all made sure to pitch in and get you some things that you'd thoroughly enjoy (just don't ask WHERE they got them from, okay?)

Error

He might have kidnapped you. But you're usually cool with it so it's okay. He's not particularly crazy about the idea of a big extravagant birthday party, so he sets up a day where you can spend time together watching your favorite shows in the Anti Void. As for his gift? Well, I could see him making some little puppets for you to have, maybe one of himself so when you hug it you'll think about him. (And since he's still adapting to physical touch himself.)

Cross

Cross wants to spend as much time with you as he can on your birthday. He's not one for big, extravagant things, but he would do something personal and sweet for you to make you happy, just content to spend time making you feel special. He might take you stargazing or something similar, a fun thing for both of you to do.

Bonus!

Fresh! (i will write about him at least once i swear. platonic fresh enjoyers this is for you)

You already KNOW Fresh is on top of things when it comes to his best bud's birthday! He'd definitely bring you somewhere where you both would have plenty of room to mess around and cause some chaos. No where is safe! I could see him dragging you to something like a skate park or to go spray paint some stuff. Or maybe to go see a movie together you can both laugh at. If he can't hang out with you alone, he'll show up at the Star Sanses' party to surprise you there.

[playerninth]

P.S I LIKE YOU (TOO) ⪧ DAY 13 OF PIWONTOBER

non idol!jiung x fem!reader (smut mdni)

彡 – everything transpired after a single drunken mistake—you and your best friend getting inspired after watching: ‘to all the boys i’ve loved before’ one friday night after midterm week had dragged on. except, you weren’t lara jean covey. and no one’s exactly a peter kavinsky in your life. all you’ve got is a last chance to retake your econ class for the second time, and an undeniably attractive guy as a project partner. a thought you wouldn’t express out loud. but what if he accidentally receives your drunk written love letter detailing just how much you thought of it so?

author's note: the way this thing had a billion revisions before reaching this stage... anyway, although i'm incredibly late TT i'm still very excited to share with you guys yet another jiung fic!! also, i can't forget to mention how amazing @kisseobie and @sxfterhearts are for hosting piwontober & bringing the p1ece community together♡ it's my first time joining these sort of events, and i had a lot of fun writing! + apologies for any typos! :(

word count: 7.9k

warnings: smut, blackmail, make up sex, face-sitting, seven minutes in heaven

comments are welcome♡ i'd love to hear your thoughts!

despite being drunk out of your mind to the point you've written that piece of tangible regret, you remember the same night all too well—the clock ticks past after hours as the mingling whiff of alcohol and a box of left over pizza hangs in the air. you were surprised you've managed to drag yourself all the way to the weekend, remnants of grueling exams left unspoken between you and your best friend whom you share a dorm room with. midterms weren't really worth mentioning when you could drown in gossip and delude about your hypothetical boyfriends.

from random guys in class, to boybands, and above all: celebrities in cheesy romcoms you've rewatched an abnormal amount. that certain night's choice was a classic between you and your best friend: 'to all the boys i've loved before.'

except, you weren't lara jean covey. and no one's exactly a peter kavinsky in your life. yet, hell breaks loose when you receive a text from choi jiung one fated morning that had you unleash a piercing shriek, and thankfully, had locked yourself in a stall at an empty bathroom in the middle of your university campus.

not like that makes things any better than they already are.

enclosed within the four cramped walls of the bathroom stall was a feeling you'd never forget—the continuous drip of the leaking faucet and silence amplified the thudding beat of your heart. the screen of your phone glowing faintly as you stare at the message you've left on read for the past five minutes: a photo jiung had sent of the letter you've written that certain night after getting wrongfully inspired from lara jean's dilemma. unfortunately detailing an exaggerated confession on your unfiltered thoughts of jiung being totally attractive. hot, even. a running commentary on everything you wouldn’t express out loud.

this fiasco would probably cost you a couple of months avoiding a bottle of soju, because how are you going to dodge yourself out of this one? especially when his follow up message adds further salt to the wound—the envelope clearly stating your full name and address in bold, inked letters.

the seconds stretch out as the cramped stall started feeling a bit stuffier, your shaky fingers hovering over the keyboard in contemplation. you’d normally block him and just fail the damn class if it were like any other instance, except… it was your last chance to retake this subject. you couldn’t afford another fuck up.

[9:07] jiung: this letter���s handwriting strangely matches the one on your notes

[9:09] jiung: before you try to deny anything

all you ever wanted at that moment was to strangle yourself... because a love letter so vulnerable like that has no place being in a pile of notes, and to be given to your partner for a class project. when you thought handing him the material would be the end of it (after being utterly sick of his self-centered work ethic), but the universe had plans otherwise.

[9:13] y/n: it wasn’t something you’re supposed to see

[9:14] jiung: but i did

[9:16] y/n: i was drunk, okay? can we please forget about it?

[9:18] jiung: and people say drunk words are sober thoughts

[9:20] y/n: do i look like i care about stupid bullshit like that rn

[9:22] jiung: oh

[9:22] jiung: so you don’t care if people other than me see this letter?

[9:23] y/n: what

[9:24] y/n: you can’t just use that against me??

[9:26] jiung: let’s see how well this thing means so much to you then

[9:27] y/n: ???

and when you thought you’d never see the pulsating, message bubble as he types as such a dreadful thing, your nerves suspended in the most excruciating minutes. 9:28, 9:29… 9:30...

[9:31] jiung: main library, 2pm, this friday. oct 13

that was, a distant week ago. you figured you should probably show up this time, all in the name of having the existence of the letter stay between the two of you. even if it meant having to deal with the growing habit of waking up in the middle of the night from the anxiety crawling upon your thoughts. until once and for all, the day came.

your feet felt rather heavier that day, dragging your mopey figure through the winding halls of the university. the halloween spirit on campus feeling far too suffocating, the orange and black streamers hanging from the ceilings a mere blur. other people were buzzing about the upcoming university halloween party at the end of the month, yet all you ever wished was that you were some random skull decor perched at a corner, undisturbed. and that you weren't nearing the doors to the main library, a sight that you loathed with your whole being.

and there he was, choi jiung. the guy wreaking havoc in your life. okay, well—maybe not that actively, but he's been a constant force you're trying to push toward the back of your mind ever since you made such a stupid mistake, to the point you don’t even know how you could redeem yourself.

“hey,”

“hey.” you're surprised you even managed to croak out a reply, finding yourself unable to maintain eye contact with him for more than two seconds–pathetically.

you were about to claim the seat in front of him before he raises a familiar envelope nestled within his fingers, and you wasted absolutely no time at the chance. snatching the thing with vigor just to rip it to smithereens, earning a few glares from other people in the library. you couldn't care less.

jiung lets out a laugh underneath his breath, adorably irritating so, as he watches fragments of the letter fall before him like confetti. you finally settled on a seat across him, and the further time dragged on, the more it seemed to prove your written letter right.

he was undeniably magnetic, from the way his clothes drape over his shoulders, his bangs framing his face with its stark black—the waft of his perfume despite the distance. your gaze can't help itself from shifting over to his fingers with every turn of a page, almost as if he was the perfect distraction.

and that tie sitting on his collar, really? what was his major again? you couldn't be bothered to muse over whether or not academia fashion was a staple for whatever program he was taking, especially when you couldn't blame him. 'cause he truly held a sort of charm that makes you wanna ravish him right then and there. that you had to remind yourself: time and place, his glasses beginning to lean crooked subtly to the side before his finger pushed it further up his nose bridge. ultimately turning back to you—who already had eyes on him, locked.

jiung speaks, faintly registered in your currently preoccupied head. honestly, the only qualm you carry against him is that he wants to get things done, his way. which is partly the reason why this partner project has gotten awry, his ego clashing a horrible amount with your stubbornness. guess not everyone can have it after all.

of course you had to have it figured out eventually. even if it had to cost you biting down your tongue from spewing possible scathing remarks with his every word. due to the fact that any moment you tried to challenge his ideas, he'd quote all the lines he could possibly remember from your embarrassing letter. and it was only the librarian's stare pinning you down from grabbing jiung by the hair out of annoyance, because the both of you were causing quite a bit of disturbance.

“you know, i can't deny that little love letter of yours was kinda cute.” he leans forward, loving the way your face morphs into irritation.

“cute? you think it's cute that i accidentally confessed about—” you caught yourself, clearing your throat before rolling your eyes at him. “i mean, whatever. just concentrate.”

“hey, hey. finish it. about what? your quote on quote, suppressed feelings for me?” god, you so badly wanted to slap that smirk out of his face.

you could only manage to groan, running a hand through your hair. “no! i mean my deep annoyance at your inability to take me seriously, to take this project seriously!”

“excuse me, could you keep it down? this is a library.” you immediately turn towards the librarian, clutching a hand over your mouth at the realization that you might've… raised your voice a little too loud.

“sorry,” you muttered, eyes fixated on your notes sprawled over the table. “we were just—”

“working very loudly?” the librarian cut you off, and the worst part is–jiung still had the audacity to look at you with much mischief in his eyes. and that stupid smirk. “if you can’t keep quiet, i'm kindly asking you to leave.”

and that was… the last of what you've heard once you began gathering your things out of embarrassment, jiung trailing behind you like a lost puppy as you pretend you don't even know who he is, walking towards the nearest exit.

maybe choi jiung really is a constant force in your life. despite the day at the library being the last time you’d spend with him until presentations came tomorrow, it felt as if he never really left your mind. constantly drifting like a cloud over your head, lingering. and you so desperately wanted to bury him as a distant memory. busying yourself with other major projects, going out with friends, and the main event that the everyone’s been buzzing about for weeks: the awaited university halloween party.

it worked to distract you for the most part, lost within the crowd sprawled over the expanse of the green field, now only a crackle of grass beneath your heels. lights flickered along with the thump of the music’s bass. you watched the collective silhouette of people dressed in costumes, either tipsy out of their mind or buzz undying. you’d probably be seen with a red cup full of alcohol in hand, if you hadn’t sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t be touching a bottle of soju until a few months time. remnants of your little disaster from not too long ago trying to haunt you.

and so you turned to the cold air nipping at your bare skin, which you have to thank your skimpy little black dress for. the racy outfit you’d put together in an excuse to dress up as a witch, seductively at that. you partly regret bringing your witch hat with you despite contemplating about it a while ago, having to deal with the thing repeatedly slipping over your eyes. making a simple task of opening your phone to a flood of text messages, a challenge. after a couple of foiled attempts, you managed to get the gist—and that your friends are waiting for you at some frat house to join an after party.

the main event endlessly unfolds despite midnight fastly approaching. dragging your feet towards the front part of the crowd where it pulsed with much more energy, hopefully making your way towards the right direction of the area near the frat house. the music echoed like it wanted you to stay for a while, lose yourself to the beat as you tried to keep your witch hat tilted upright. not until another drag of the hat back up had your eyes flickering towards the dj manning the booth. keeping the night alive as lights hung overhead, casting a glow behind his figure and perfectly accentuating his side profile. yet the more your gaze traced the curve of his nose, the tousle of his hair as he let himself move to the rhythm.

for a split second the lights confirmed your suspicion, except you didn’t want to say anything. say his name, his everything, crawling back to your mind. you’d even forgotten why you were trying to erase him from your thoughts. maybe, just maybe… it wouldn’t be too bad to keep your eyes rested on him this time around. and it wasn’t as if you could turn away if you tried regardless.

there was something about catching sight of this side of him you never knew he had. at that moment, it felt like it was only the both of you existing in a bubble of your own. there was quite a distance between his position at the makeshift stage and yours below; nevertheless, the sparkle within his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. and in that moment nothing else mattered, the difficulty of trying to tear your stare away from him weighing over you.

no, no, no. not again. not this time.

the after party at the frat house, right.

reality comes crashing in once more, blinking rapidly as you tried to bump your way through the crowd. glancing everywhere you could to seek refuge, any way out, somewhere. mind racing with a mantra, “forget him forget him forget about him,” suppressing everything you’ve ever thought of the moment you laid eyes on him. chalking it up to the fact that it was probably your unrequited feelings for him hitting you like a brick. but… it wasn’t like you were ever serious about him, weren’t you?

your feet felt heavy trying to keep him out of reach, away from the taunt of his presence. the further you tried to push through what seems to be the edge of the field had you jostled within the crowd, and it didn’t help the flashing lights began disorienting your vision. you hastily fish your phone out, scrolling for past messages to double check the location of the frat house. except you realized, you weren’t really sure where to go from here.

your chest tightens. trying to take in sharper breaths as the mass of people were closing in around you, trying to push more, yet was met with more resistance. the smell of alcohol and loud noise started swallowing you, panic rushing through your veins. this is bad. this is really really bad.

and all of a sudden you heard a faint call, your ears picking it up with its subtlety. it was a brief echo through the music, until you heard it once more.

“y/n! over here!”

you swiftly whip your head around to scan the blur of faces, pulse quickening—at last, your gaze landing on someone familiar.

“i’ve been looking for you for ages.” he pants, trying to catch his breath from approaching you through the tight crowd. yoon keeho, although clad in a rather comical vampire costume, brought you a sense of relief.

“you okay? you look…”

“yeah, i’m just…. i got a bit lost.” you admit, lacing your fingers through your hair after finally taking off your witch hat.

keeho lets out a laugh beneath his breath, earning a piercing glare from you before extending a hand out to point. “you’re better off at the after party with me, everyone else is here so… it isn’t too crowded there yet.”

you hum, clutching your purse before following as keeho steps towards the way out. “come on,”

and at that, the both of you slip away from the field with its chaos, music fading far beyond the distance.

within the frat house lingered the scent of alcohol from a previous round of beer pong. it was dimly lit, but you’ll know empty red cups are strewn around from its hollow crunch beneath accidental steps. the door trickled bit by bit with newcomers, the party outside eventually simmering down to a hum, occasionally cut with bursts of laughter and constant conversation. thank god keeho had found you.

yet that was a while ago. you couldn’t decipher the exact time but it seemed way past midnight. it was a stark contrast to the huddle of people buzzing in excitement, your figure amongst them in a circle on the floor. it was probably, what… like the third or fourth round of seven minutes in heaven? the poor closet door slams open to another couple exiting, far too all over each other than you’d like to witness.

it was like that for the past thirty minutes, having to sit through rounds of people shutting themselves within the closet as you were forced to hear thumps against the wall hear and there—and you’d rather not find out what had gone on. the soju bottle in the middle of your formed circle felt like a threat as it waits to be spun, yet you couldn’t manage to grasp out of the situation from keeho’s grip on your wrist.

“you’re not leaving until the bottle points to you.” his fingers tighten his hold, his other hand bringing a drink up to his lips.

"keeho, i don’t know these people!” you whisper-shouted, narrowing your brows at him.

and it wasn’t helping that it was proving especially difficult to take him seriously with the vampire get up he had on. "that’s the thrill about it? and when i thought you’ll live up to your words when you told me you’ll get out of your comfort zone right after high school.”

it was probably your over-ambitioned self talking back then. “we’re only juniors. we have plenty of time.”

"plenty of time? you only have a year, y/n”

you didn’t bother responding, yet he’s still trying his best to provoke a reaction out of you. “no one really stands out to me right now among these strangers if i’m going to be honest. but… maybe you’ll find someone that’s your type—”

"keeho, how many times do i have to tell you that i really don’t give a fuck about anyone else here right now.”

"yeah, that! fuck.” he drags the end of his sentence in such an overly teasing tone, flashing him a look like he just said something so outrageous, because indeed it was...

"mess around a little bit, you know. get frisky in that closet or something.”

"seven minutes isn’t enough for that.”

“yeah, you would know.”

you were on the verge of landing a smack over his shoulder when a chorus of gasps erupted, drawing your attention.

and just your luck, the bottle points to you.

all you could muster was a defeated sigh, waiting for the soju bottle to spin once more to select the stranger you’d be stuck with in that closet for an excruciating seven minutes. except it never came, and only a hand reaches out to snap you out of your thoughts.

“shall we?” oh. it was that same voice you wished you weren’t at all familiar with, looking above the shadow looming over you. akin to a moth towards a flame. and it’s just a matter of figuring out who’s who between the two of you.

choi jiung, wearing a smirk that tugged on his lips that you almost wanted to slap off him, like always. you did—well, slap his hand away from your face, rolling your eyes before rising and rushing towards the closet door as he follows.

you almost missed keeho’s words, “is that…” a comment faint in volume when he recalls the day you told him all about your ‘jiung fiasco’ during a phone call.

you drowned in silence inside the closet, not even bothering to turn the light on. figures slumped against the wooden walls across each other. you hugged your knees to your chest, hyper aware of how cramped the space was and your paralyzing fear of having your legs accidentally brush against his.

all you could hear was the frantic hammer of your heartbeat within your chest, sighing in relief that he couldn’t see the flush creeping over your expression. him, well… the most you could make out from the dimness was the stupid mask you hadn’t realized he put back on.

“take that damn ghostface mask off before i punch it out of your face.”

oh, and you regret saying that, 'cause he truly took the mask off, “as you wish.”

he looked so unbelievably hot. annoyingly disproportionate to his simple costume of black fabric draped over his figure, accentuating the broadness of his shoulders just right. along with his hair falling over his eyes and—no. not another monologue of being down bad. enough.

silence hung in the air once more, not like it ever left, but the noise from outside seemed to have drained away and all it was in the moment were you and jiung, paused.

"so, what’s up with… the situation lately?” he speaks up, breaking the silence.

"you know…” you find yourself trailing off, voice small.

"know what?"

“the letter,” you finished his sentence, fragility within your words. “i never meant for you to see it.”

"you’re mad because i found out about it? y/n it’s just a letter—”

"to you, jiung. for me it was my vulnerable thoughts out in the open. t-too personal.”

your voice began to break, the air feeling heavier by the minute. the absence of sound failed to muffle the thud within your pulse. further amplified when he rests his hand over yours perched atop your knee, his touch noticeably warm. you didn’t pull away.

"right, i’m sorry. i understand, i shouldn’t have said that.”

“it’s okay. it was a mistake of mine and—i kinda… made it feel weird between us because of that.” jiung’s lips part in search of words, though you couldn’t see. his fingers tried fiddling with yours, an attempt to ease your tentative tone.

"weird how?”

"you know, ‘cause…”

"hm?”

"shut up,” fuck. you weren’t supposed to let that slip out of your lips, far too affected from how effortlessly attractive he sounded from a single, minor hum. and he didn’t even mean for it to come across like that. “sorry i, just. i can’t face you right now.”

"take your time, y/n”

yet how can you think straight when he says your name like that? the softness his voice held, the gentle tone making your heart skip a beat without fail.

"i was just caught off guard when you… did the whole blackmail thing. i’d—i thought you would just laugh it off or whatever.” you scoff lightly.

"i wouldn’t ever mock you like that. i mean, i kinda did… joke around with you at the library but! i meant it, lightheartedly.”

"mhm.” his fingers remain fidgeting with yours, your eyes drifting downwards. “i just, wanted some space. it was humiliating for me, okay?”

and then it hit jiung with a click. he might’ve went too far with the whole blackmail thing. “i get that. i never meant for you to feel that way, i just… wanted a chance to talk to you further. and spend maybe... a bit more time together.” he clarified, eventually lacing his fingers with yours, closely.

"but deep down i kinda knew you wouldn’t like, rat me out to whoever. it’s part of why i came to like you—sorry i… i know you don’t like me back and i keep talking about my feelings for you and—”

"i never said i didn’t like you back.”

"huh?”

"tell me, when did i ever tell you i don’t like you?”

the question looped within your mind. except all that there ever was is a cloud of uncertainty, his intentions slipping through your grasp like sand. what does he even mean?

"jiung, you’re confusing me.”

then all of a sudden you watch as he bursts into laughter, and you hastily grab his ghostface mask from a corner to playfully smack it against his head.

"you’re so unbelievably dense.”

you click your tongue, shoulders slumping in defeat. "it’s always been a problem of mine, i just don’t know how to handle my feelings.”

the next few words came out almost in a whisper, despite feeling your most vulnerable. “it’s probably why i… don’t have much experience with… this kinda stuff, unlike my friends.”

his fingers ceased playing with yours, now taking both of your hands in his, enveloped around yours like it were meant to be like that. warm.

“you don’t have to deal with this alone, y/n”

the moment wound down once more at the silence that fell.

"okay, look. i’ll just say it once and for all.” his tone is firm, almost commanding you to lift your gaze up at him. “i really, really like you. and i want to be with you. can we start over? please?”

you didn’t know what to respond at that instance. held frozen in place, but the rush of emotion through your nerves acted otherwise. all at once, it came washing over you like a wave.

"jiung?” you call out to him, as there goes another one of his hums. “you mean it?”

"of course i do.” he’s kneeling before you now, so damn close, it felt like your heart’s going to jump out of your chest. your pulse picks up, racing, as his other hand remains interlocked with yours and the other sneaks to caress your cheek.

jiung’s inching closer with every passing second, the air thick with anticipation as if it wasn’t already so stuffy from the cramped space. your eyes flutter shut while the only thing you could sense is the warmth of his breath against your lips. tilting your head subtly to the side, was that how they did it in the romcoms? failing to realize that you’re beginning to clutch his hand in yours harder that—“seven minutes is up!”

the closet door swings open without warning, your hands flying to push jiung away as his back meets the wall with a slight thud, watching the light stream into the cramped space. all over too soon.

yet it was just the catalyst to your eager desire; unable to take your hands off each other the moment you stepped foot outside of the closet. more like it was jiung getting rather handsy, his palm warm over the small of your back. even unabashedly pulling you closer to his side once you sink back down with the rest of the huddled group playing seven minutes. you’ve no reason to stay here anymore.

it came fleeting rather quickly, one moment he had you by the hand out of the door to that damned frat house, traversing through the empty, wasted field and towards the direction of the university dormitories. from the slightest ounce of privacy that touched your fingertips, you started yearning for more. as you reached the floor to your room, jiung wastes no time trapping you against the corridor wall, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

“can i?” he mumbles against your skin, rather sensitive. and you would think he’s incapable of holding back a little kiss during the heat of the moment. except he still asks, lips beginning to ghost over you, bare.

"you don’t look like you could wait for—hngh, anything else.” you struggle underneath his grip, his hands fastening your wrists against the wall as he pushes against you impossibly closer. “i wanna hear you say yes.”

he follows, trailing further up that his nose subtly bumps on your cheek. you feel like you’re turning insane, the more time dragged on and he keeps holding back.

“please jiung, want you all over me…” you whine, a bit more when he finally presses a soft kiss over your flushed cheeks. he looked irresistible, pulling away to stare down at you with his eyes; glossed with hunger.

“even better.” and this time he inches closer once more, his lips hovering over yours tentatively, waiting for you to bridge the gap. and so you did, kissing him back with as much fervor. completely forgetting about the fact that this was the first time you’ve properly made out with someone, and you weren’t even quite sure if you’re doing it right.

it were as if jiung had a sort of sixth-sense, holding you gently by your jaw as your lips weave into a searing kiss, wet by the second as his tongue peeks out. sliding over your bottom lip. “i got you, relax.” he utters, the rumble of his voice traveling straight to your core.

jiung pulls away for a brief moment of oxygen, crashing his lips back to yours. sliding his tongue into your mouth this time ‘round, and you melt against him—weak in the knees as he rolls his wet muscle sinfully against yours.

“can’t get enough of you already,” it was a mystery how he manages to slip a few words here and there, from your pathetic state struggling to keep up with his desperate pace. proving truth to his words when the swirl of his tongue was followed by suckling on your own, that all you could do was mewl, you poor little thing.

it was dangerously risqué, anyone could simply walk into the sight of your sorry state, falling apart fully if it weren’t for jiung holding you up. keeping you upright despite the evident wobble in your knees as he continued to ravage you wantonly, done with his assault on your tongue that he’s moved to subtly bite on your bottom lip, bruised.

"mhmm.” you shudder, swallowing in a moan when he turns to the shell of your ear instead, tracing it sensitive, his spit cold once the air hit. and so he sucks, like he obsessively does, feeling every gentle flick of his tongue rush straight to your core.

you’re already so embarrassingly wet despite still being fully clothed, and his hands had done nothing but to remain over your cheek all this time. his nails raked against the thin fabric of your skimpy dress, mind turned to mush as the only thought you could render was that he needed to touch you right now. futher, more… more than you could ever fathom to beg for him out in the open.

“jiung…” you whimper, right against his ear. feeling his pants get uncomfortably tight that he just has to redirect his energy into smothering you, littering wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses on the expanse of your sensitive neck.

“yes baby?” it took him quite a while to respond, the petname sending a flutter in your chest. he tries to hold himself back before he began to litter nibbles over your skin.

his fingertips are a prickle over your body, finding yourself struggling to respond. mind blank, and you couldn’t even remember why you called out to him in the first place.

“mhmm,”

"you’re already so, horny. aren’t you?”

he’s met yet another smack to the shoulder, probably the nth time from yours this evening.

"don’t say it like that!” you tried leaning impossibly closer, your tone much less than a whisper.

nonetheless, jiung’s brain was equally as foggy, the impact of your hit disregarded. from his point of view, it was unbeknownst that your mind was swirling with how to break the looming silence. the only thing that had his attention in a headlock was the intoxicating sight of you, looking up at him, eyes glossed over in feral desire

your lips adorably bruised, proud of his insatiable work from earlier. your cheeks flushed and brows frustratingly knitted together. it was as if you’re wordlessly begging for him to kneel before you. in fact he would, right at the first syllable of anything you’d utter. and right past that was a sight behold, the swell of your breast, cleavage peeking underneath your outfit.

fuck, he needs you, mind driven towards delirium from his longing to touch. within the warmth from the palm of his hand, undoubtedly even better if he had his mouth on them, loving it wet. he needed you. so. so. badly.

"did you drink?” your voice was delicate, snapping him out of his trance.

“no.” and he was saying the truth. no sip of alcohol carried the same effect of his drunken want over your everything.

this time you took initiative, interlocking fingers with his as you dragged him towards your dorm room. every step you took in the hall felt electric, finding yourself fumbling with the key through the door as jiung’s hand teasingly dips past your waist.

at last pulling him inside, closing the door with a slam as you resume ravishing each other’s lips. you’re too dizzy at this point, his forehead pressing against yours as tries to keep you close. and with every step backwards goes a wet peck, bodies trailing toward your bed until your legs hit the edge.

and so he pushes you, gently, attempting to hold yourself up with your elbows toward the headboard. not until jiung grabs you by your thighs, nails digging over the plush—from that he abruptly yanks you back toward him and earns a surprised mewl.

“don’t go anywhere.”

“jiung, ‘m not.” yet he doesn’t answer anymore, resting his arms on either side of your head. you’ll never catch him without his lips on you, searching, sucking less than harshly that he might as well leave a mark. every nibble and flick of his tongue had you writhing beneath, and you couldn’t help but spread your legs open. hoping he’d take the hint.

he’s turning you breathless, with every press of his lips over your skin igniting such flame in your tummy.

“touch me jiung, please,” you finally cry out, driven crazy when your cunt’s clenching around nothing, wet yet untouched.

“where baby?” jiung rises from busying himself with your neck, only realizing just how much effect he had on you now that he’s gotten a proper view.

you lay there, helpless beneath his figure with your hair disheveled. lips parted from panting, chest heaving up and down.

“here,” you replied, out of breath. turning your head to the side abashed, that you couldn’t even grasp the fact that you’d reach this point. jiung meets your hands, letting you guide his hold toward your clothed breasts.

he couldn’t help a subtle smile tug on his lips, “you’re so damn cute,” jiung teases, swiftly pressing a kiss on your exposed cheek. “i’ll make you feel good, alright?”

please, you’d probably whine out, if you weren’t wallowing so much in the shame of drawing his touch right over your breasts. even so, he’s eager to pry you apart, relishing in the fact that despite your inexperience, you still push through, for him—communicating what you truly wanted.

and it left him with the inclination to fulfill it.

jiung groped your sensitive mounds through the fabric, turning your breathing ragged by the minute. god, you’re already so sensitive, and with every fleeting touch of his hands against your breasts, went to travel straight down to your cunt. sopping wet as you pushed your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the sticky feeling of your panties. proving useless. he then slips his fingers beneath the edge of your dress, thankfully strapless. right atop your chest, pulling it down until he’s met with the sight of your lacey little bra. “pretty,”

and yet he doesn’t show a single trace of rush carried in his actions, feeling you up to build the thrill, groping. “jiung...” you beg, reaching out to his wrist.

“patience,” he sounded curt, but the way he gently fondles your clothed breasts said otherwise.

right when he’s dragged as much of your dress down as he can, jiung catches you off guard—promptly sliding his hands beneath your bra that had your breath hitching. the warmth of his palms flush against your nipples, already perky, yearning for his touch.

jiung just has you pliant beneath him as the vulgar scene unfolds, tenderly groping, fondling your tits along with occasional pinches to your sensitive buds and making you mewl without fail. turns him on so so much, seeing you exposed so adorably that you had let go of all sense left within your body.

it didn’t take too long for him to come to a point, he couldn’t help himself anymore. the erotic sight of your desperate state rutting your clothed cunny up against his torso, helplessly. jiung finally hikes your bra up, your breasts spilling out of a fabric in such a way he can’t resist salivating over your vulnerable image.

and so he wastes no time. if you weren’t so lost within such a sensual trance that had your eyes fixated on the ceiling, you might’ve gotten the chance to catch jiung’s expression, his eyes completely glazed over. hungrily, he encloses his lips around your nipple, the warm wetness of his tongue swirling and flicking against the bud with abandon.

you swore your cunt begins to clench around nothing as he continued his work on you, skin erupting in goosebumps as he relentlessly sucks on the bud; lewd sounds filling the expanse of your dorm room. he doesn’t let your other breast get neglected, fondling its plush with the sporadic flick of his thumb over the bud over and over. ultimately urging you to hump against him suffocated in lust that’s taken over your whole being.

“ahh… jiung—” all you could manage to sputter out were pathetic whimpers, head thrown back as you sink into the mattress. his actions were a medley of flicking his hot tongue on to the other bud, switching, towards rapid kitten licks with his lips fully enclosed around it. eventually withdrawing with a short pop from the messy slick of his drool. once more diving back in to continue his feral abuse on your sensitive nipple. “feeling good?”

and you couldn’t even manage to choke out a reply even if you wanted to, drowning in suffocating desire. jiung pulls away, the hunger in him still begging to get satiated, his cock hard in his pants. a string of spit between your bud and his lip, glistening as it snapped.

anticipation overtakes you once more as he gently pushes your breasts together, flushed before craning back in to tongue over your swollen nipples, moving his head side to side in a frenzy. and you’re just so far gone, the warmth of his tongue licking over your buds with each turn. your already helpless state reduced to a mess, only able to splutter out hoarse moans. and he hasn’t even touched your needy cunt yet.

you had to pry him away from you, it was enough—more than enough before jiung manages to drive you towards an orgasm from merely stimulating your tits, having enough of embarrassing yourself in front of him. you’re not about to cum this early on, clothes barely taken off. you entwine your fingers through his hair, and just when he lets you breathe does he really see what he’s made of you.

sure, he looked disheveled as well, spit by the side of his lip. except you’re far worse, legs trembling from the growing wetness from your center, eyes lidded in a struggle to keep them open. blissed out of your mind and still, all you’ve ever wanted to see was jiung ravaging you like an animal.

“wanna take this all off, jiung…” he’s watchful, hooked on your voice that’s starting to turn a pitch higher than before.

“want more,”

lust bubbles within his chest, listening as you wish despite your struggle finishing sentences out of daze. “want to feel good with you,” your fingers try to reach beyond jiung’s chest, not making it far down but hoping he’d take the hint. swearing that the further you went without relief from your uncomfortable, sticky panties, the more you’ll spiral insane.

you began pulling the rest of your dress down in a hurry when jiung stops you. meeting your eyes glossed over as if you’re on the verge of tearing up from the pleasure, quite so. flashing him a puzzled look.

“i don’t have a condom with me.” he finally brings it up, fingers slowly tracing the curve of your wrist.

“me too…” you replied, sullen. jiung feeling guilty from discreetly thinking you looked adorable from the pout on your face.

at that moment you saw the instantaneous spark of idea carried in his eyes. any other day, you’d probably shoot him a glare, but now you couldn’t bring yourself to do so. especially when he’s had you wrapped around his finger, vulnerable and exposed, feeling your nerves ignite from the tension.

“you can sit on my face baby.”

“what?”

“sit on my face.”

he repeats it so matter-of-factly that it left you completely speechless, in a struggle to find the right words in response.

“jiung, i– it’s my first time and—”

“i know” his tone is reassuring, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “and i want you to know that i got you.” you could only conjure a feeble whine. ‘cause what does he mean with the fact that the two of you were just bickering a few weeks ago, and now he wants you to smother his face with your cunt.

“think of it as payback.” he spoke, his voice holding a honeyed warmth.

“use me however you want, after all, i’ve caused you enough problems with that letter.”

well, it was the last you’ve coherently heard of him that night. especially when everything he tried to say came out muffled while he’s got quite literally a mouthful of your dripping pussy. the lewd scene unfolds within the privacy of your dorm room, relieved that your roommate hadn’t decided to return yet. and if you could still recall whether or not these walls were soundproof.

everything that unraveled was such a filthy sight. your black dress, bra, and panties with it’s notable patch of your arousal on the fabric—discarded in a pile somewhere on the floor. it was the least of your worries when you’re currently sitting snug over jiung’s face, cunny rubbing against his wet, warm tongue that had your knuckles clenched and holding onto the headboard for dear life.

making sense of how the hell you’d gotten yourself in this position, taking into account that it’s your first time delving into anything frisky. however, you were running on nothing else but raging horniness, maintaining your desperate rhythm as you ride his face. grinding your hips in haste, folds slick as you use his tongue to get off. just so damn erotic.

it was truly pushing you towards the edge faster than you’d like to admit. his tongue sliding in and out of your pulsing hole, lightning fast. slick kitten licking against your clit over and over, when it isn’t the tip of his nose bumping on your pleasured, swollen bud.

fuck, it was a far more tantalizing sight as you turned to look behind you. through your lashes, watching jiung’s obscene state—his pants dragged down, jerking himself off, fast. his hand gripping his cock just right, up and down, wishing it was your pulsing cunt squeezing his shaft right now.

he made it a point, the next time he gets to ravage you senseless, you’d be crying out having enough of his cock plowing into your hole.

now it was just you you you, using him like he insisted you did.

jiung begins to amp it up, eager to send you towards your high. his tongue simultaneously slipping in and out of your hole before dragging back up, flattened to flick at your clit—god, it felt insatiably good, the pace in which you roll your hips on his face grew faltered. thighs turning wobbly as you neared your climax.

“hahh—fuckkk… jiung, you… you make me feel so good,” you pant, breathlessly fucking yourself on his tongue.

the best he could do was to hum in reply, against your clit, the vibration feeling insanely good as it travels straight to your core. his other hand grips harshly on the plush of your thigh, nails raking over the skin. almost forming crescents, vulgar and indecent, yet it all felt too pleasurable.

“i’m close, ‘m so, so close~” you whine out, your tangled fingers in his hair tightening. earning another moan that vibrated over your swollen, needy clit. your other hand struggling to keep leverage on to the headboard.

at this point you’re far too deep in pleasure, desperate to cum as you chase your high. turning crazy from how it felt so so good to ride his face, tongue working you toward it, the squelch of your sticky arousal dripping down his chin. more, more, moreee—rolling your hips over his face like you’re in such a rut, and it seems to be the case.

suddenly—you trembled, writhing in convulse as it came crashing over you like a wave. a particular bump of the tip of his nose against your clit before his relentless suckling pushed you teetering toward the edge. and he so desperately wanted to cum with you at the same time, stroking his cock faster. collecting part of your slick dripping down his chin to wet his shaft. jiung feels your cunt begin to gush, his nails digging deeper crescents into the plush of your thigh because you visibly couldn't handle the shake of your knees from the pleasure. his tongue, never ceasing to flick and flatten as he drags it on to your clit. over and over, lapping up your sticky cum.

“ahh–mhmh, jiung~!” you tug on his hair, fingers laced as you tried to squirm away from his grip. “no more!” yet he's making it difficult for you to do so, both of his arms locking your thighs in place as he began his endless ordeal of licking up your release. s'too much, too much–yet felt too fucking good, rendering you overstimulated out of your mind, merciless.

and when you've finally freed yourself from his grip, you stumbled back on to your mattress, disoriented. it was a blur, feeling yourself momentarily lose balance, suddenly collapsing onto the sheets. jiung immediately rose to his elbows, reaching toward you despite his voice beginning to sound like a distant muffle. concern was greatly etched across his face, “y/n are you okay?” you hear him, and yet it resounded like a distant echo, seeing his concerned expression the last few seconds before your vision slips into darkness.

his composure falters at that instant. had he pushed you too hard? he gazed down on your figure, laying there seemingly peaceful despite your exhaustion. once again you're vulnerable beneath his eyes. to him, jiung takes it as another chance to take care of you, his eyes tracing every outline of your features. and the gentle heaving of your chest that reminded him that he has to prove you that you can trust him.

“tired... ung, i'm okay,” you manage to mumble, and he releases a sigh of relief. almost moving to touch you before he realizes that he's… made quite a mess of his own as well. making a quick trip to the bathroom to clean himself up, stumbling upon bits of your clothes strewn over the floor.

he found you alrewdy fast asleep when he came back. making it a point in his head to go easy on you next time–he wouldn't admit, but the way panic surged through his nerves once you collapsed got him shaken. but in a few minutes he's gotten you into your matching pajamas, tucked underneath a blanket as he slides beside you. he holds your body close to his chest, “night baby,” you couldn't hear him; nonetheless, he still wanted to whisper to you sweet, pressing chaste kisses atop your head.

jiung turns to your bedside table, almost reaching out to turn off your lampshade when he stops to see an abnormally neon yellow sticky note stuck on the wall above that read in bold ink: ‘presentation monday morning’

the presentation.

oh god, you both have to do the presentation tomorrow at 8am.

fuck.

[1:47] kyo: y/n where’d you go???

[1:49] kyo: jiung’s not here too?

[2:05] kyo: alright damn

[2:06] kyo: i get it

[novaursa]

hiiii how are you?

I can’t stop thinking about Aemond twin sister who was also sent to Oldtown and fell in love with Gwayne.

She came back with him to King’s Landing and her mother is like pist at her. When Gwayne and Criston go to battle she follow them on Cannibal to make sure that nothing happens to him. She got injure in the fight again Meleys and Gwayne can leave her side 🥹

The Crimson Sky

- Summary: When Gwayne was ordered to go to Rook’s Rest, you followed him.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Gwanye Hightower

- Note: To read more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

- A/N: Request that I've received for Aemond should be out soon too, as it pretty much similar to this one. So, I've just made them simuntaniusly.

The echoes of footsteps reverberated through the stone corridors of the Red Keep, a haunting sound that mirrored the unease in Alicent Hightower's heart. She stood at the edge of the window in her private chambers, overlooking the sprawling city of King's Landing. The city was restless, much like her own soul, as if it sensed the storm that was brewing both within and beyond the castle walls. 

The letter from Oldtown lay open on the table beside her, the ink still fresh with words that brought both relief and dread. Her brother, Gwayne Hightower, was riding toward King's Landing with a force of Hightower knights, bolstering the Green cause in their struggle against the Blacks. And with him, her daughter, her sweet girl—though hardly a girl anymore—who had been sent to Oldtown all those years ago.

"She returns with Gwayne," Alicent murmured to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper. The notion should have filled her with joy. But the rumors... those insidious whispers that had even managed to penetrate the walls of the Red Keep, refused to be silenced.

The door creaked open behind her, and Alicent did not need to turn to know who it was. The scent of parchment and ink preceded him, along with the stern, unyielding presence that had always defined him. Otto Hightower, her father, the Hand of the King, stepped into the room, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

"I take it you have heard the news," Otto said, his voice measured, betraying nothing of the emotion that Alicent knew he was capable of.

"Yes," she replied, finally turning to face him. "Gwayne is coming with her."

Otto inclined his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as they met hers. "It is as we had hoped. Reinforcements from Oldtown will be invaluable in the coming days."

Alicent's gaze drifted back to the letter, her hand trembling slightly as she touched the edge of the parchment. "But at what cost?" she asked, her voice low, almost trembling. "The rumors, Father... they say things—unspeakable things about Gwayne and her. About my daughter."

Otto's expression darkened, and he stepped closer, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "Idle gossip," he said dismissively. "People will say anything to sow discord, especially in times of war. We must not let baseless rumors cloud our judgment."

Alicent looked up at him, her green eyes wide with worry. "But the nature of these rumors... it's not just idle talk. They say she and Gwayne... that they are more than uncle and niece, that they are lovers." The word fell from her lips like a curse, and she shuddered at the thought.

"Do you believe it?" Otto's voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"I don't want to," Alicent replied, her voice breaking. "But she has been away from me for so long. And Gwayne... he has always been protective of her, ever since she arrived in Oldtown. I... I fear what may have happened in my absence."

Otto's hand tightened on her shoulder, almost to the point of pain. "Alicent," he said firmly, "You cannot allow yourself to be swayed by rumors. We must focus on the war, on securing the throne for Aegon. Your daughter's honor is not to be questioned based on the gossip of those who would see us fail."

Alicent nodded slowly, but her heart was heavy with doubt. She could not dismiss the images that filled her mind, of her daughter and her brother, together in ways that were forbidden, sinful. The thought of it made her stomach churn, and she had to close her eyes to keep from weeping. But there was something else, something that frightened her even more. Her daughter was bonded with Cannibal, the most fearsome and wild of the dragons, a creature that had never been tamed. What if the dragon’s nature had seeped into her very soul, making her reckless, uncontrollable?

"What if there is truth to it?" she whispered, the question hanging in the air like a specter.

Otto's expression softened, just a fraction, as he looked at his daughter. "If there is truth to it, then we will deal with it. But we must not act rashly. There are greater matters at stake here, Alicent. The realm needs stability, not scandal. We cannot afford to let this undermine everything we have worked for."

Alicent swallowed hard, trying to push down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. "I cannot bear the thought of her being shamed," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "She is my child, my daughter. I sent her away to protect her, and now... now it feels as if I have lost her."

"You have not lost her," Otto said firmly. "She is returning to you, to her family. We will welcome her back with the honor she deserves. And as for Gwayne... I will speak to him. If there is any truth to these rumors, he will answer to me."

Alicent nodded, though she found little comfort in his words. Her thoughts were a tangled web of fear, love, and suspicion. She had always known that the bonds of family were complex, but never had she imagined they could become so twisted, so dangerous.

"Father," she said softly, "What if Aemond finds out? He is... possessive of her, protective. If he were to believe these rumors..."

Otto's eyes flashed with concern, and he released her shoulder, stepping back as he considered her words. "We must ensure that Aemond does not hear of this. His temper is too volatile, and his love for her... it borders on obsession. We cannot allow him to be provoked."

Alicent nodded again, but the fear lingered. The thought of her son, her fierce, vengeful Aemond, reacting to such news filled her with dread. She could only pray that Gwayne and her daughter would arrive without incident, that the rumors would prove false, and that the family could focus on the war at hand. 

But as she stared out over the city once more, the uneasy feeling in her chest remained. The winds of war were blowing, carrying with them whispers of scandal and betrayal. And Alicent could only hope that her family would not be torn apart before the storm had passed.

The courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with activity, the clang of armor and the clatter of hooves echoing off the ancient stone walls as the gates swung open to welcome the Hightower forces. Banners bearing the sigil of House Hightower— the tower crowned with flames— fluttered in the wind, a proud sight that filled Alicent with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. These were her people, the kin she had left behind in Oldtown so many years ago. Yet the emotions churning within her were anything but simple.

Aemond stood beside her, his presence as imposing as ever. The hard line of his jaw and the cold fire in his eye spoke volumes of the impatience he could barely contain. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, as if daring anyone to provoke him. Alicent knew his thoughts well enough—he was eager to see his sister, his twin, and if the rumors that plagued Alicent’s mind held any truth, Aemond’s reaction might be the spark that ignited the wildfire. 

Otto Hightower stood on her other side, his expression carefully neutral, but Alicent knew him too well. He was watching, calculating, preparing for whatever might unfold in the moments to come. His eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of the approaching entourage.

Gwayne Hightower rode at the front of his men, his armor gleaming in the midday sun. There was an aura of confidence about him, the kind that only came with years of experience in both battle and court. His gaze met Alicent’s as he dismounted, and for a moment, there was nothing but the shared understanding between siblings—a connection forged long before they were drawn into the deadly game of thrones.

“Welcome, brother,” Alicent called, stepping forward with a smile that she hoped conveyed warmth rather than the anxiety gnawing at her insides. 

“Sister,” Gwayne replied, his voice deep and rich with a familiarity that eased some of the tension in her shoulders. He approached her, inclining his head in a respectful greeting. “It is good to see you after so long.”

“And you as well, Gwayne,” Alicent said, her voice softer now, more genuine. “We have missed you here at court.”

Gwayne’s eyes flickered to Aemond, who had not yet spoken. “Aemond,” he greeted with a nod, but there was no warmth in his tone, only the formality of recognition between two men who were not entirely certain where they stood with one another.

“Gwayne,” Aemond responded, his voice clipped, the tension in him palpable. His eye scanned the ranks of Hightower knights, as if searching for someone. “Where is she?”

Gwayne’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “She will be here soon, Aemond. The journey from Oldtown was long and wearying.”

Alicent noted the careful wording and stepped in before her son could press further. “You must be exhausted after such a journey, all of you. The King has ordered that you be well cared for—rooms have been prepared, and a feast will be held in your honor.”

Gwayne nodded, accepting her words with a grace that belied the tension she could sense in him. “We are grateful, my lady.”

There was a brief pause, the silence heavy between them. Alicent felt the weight of unspoken questions, the rumors lingering like a shadow over their reunion. She searched Gwayne’s face for any sign that might betray him, but he was as unreadable as ever.

“How has Oldtown fared in these troubled times?” Alicent asked, choosing her words with care, hoping to probe gently without drawing blood.

Gwayne’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he recognized the maneuver for what it was. “Oldtown remains strong, sister. The people are resilient, as they have always been. Daeron is well, a credit to our House. As for… other matters, all has been as it should be.”

The last words hung in the air, heavy with insinuation. Alicent caught the slight emphasis, the deliberate choice of words, and it set her on edge. Did he mean to reassure her, or to hide something more sinister? She could not tell.

Before she could press further, the sky above them darkened, and the unmistakable sound of massive wings beating the air filled the courtyard. A shadow passed over them, causing men to look up in awe and fear as a dragon circled above. But this was no ordinary dragon—this was Cannibal, the wild and ancient beast that had never been tamed, bonded only to her daughter.

The sight of the massive black dragon circling overhead sent a chill through Alicent. Cannibal was a fearsome creature, unpredictable and terrifying in its sheer size and ferocity. The fact that her daughter had bonded with such a beast had always unnerved Alicent, and now, seeing it here, so close to the Red Keep, that unease returned tenfold.

Aemond’s lips curved into a smirk as he watched the dragon’s descent. “It seems she has arrived,” he said, satisfaction coloring his tone.

Gwayne’s face was a study in conflicting emotions as he watched Cannibal. There was admiration, yes, but also a tension that Alicent did not miss. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, she thought she saw something akin to fear in his eyes—fear not of the dragon, but of what its presence might signify.

The dragon circled once more before veering off toward the Dragonpit, its massive wings slicing through the air with a sound like thunder. Alicent released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her heart racing in her chest. She turned to Gwayne, watching him closely, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Impressive, isn’t she?” she asked, her voice light, though her eyes were sharp as they fixed on his face.

Gwayne forced a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “She is a sight to behold, indeed.”

Alicent could see the effort it took for him to maintain his composure, and it only deepened her concerns. “I trust that her presence has not caused too much trouble in Oldtown?” she ventured, testing the waters.

“None at all,” Gwayne replied, but the answer came too quickly, too smoothly. “Her dragon is as much a part of her as her blood, is it not?”

“Of course,” Alicent agreed, but her mind was racing. Gwayne’s tension was palpable now, and she could not shake the feeling that there was something more beneath the surface. The way he had watched Cannibal, the slight tremor in his voice—these were not signs of a man completely at ease.

Before she could delve deeper, the sound of approaching footsteps caught their attention. Ser Criston Cole, ever the vigilant protector, strode into the courtyard, flanked by a contingent of Kingsguard. Behind him, veiled but unmistakable in her presence, walked her daughter, the niece of Gwayne Hightower, and the twin sister of Aemond.

Alicent’s heart leapt at the sight of her daughter, so regal and composed, yet she could not help but notice the tension in her as well. There was something different about her, something that had changed in the years since they had last seen one another.

Aemond stepped forward, his eye locked on his twin, but it was Gwayne who drew Alicent’s attention. His gaze was fixed on her daughter as well, and in that moment, Alicent saw the truth in his eyes—a truth she had feared but could no longer deny.

There was more between them than simple kinship. It was there in the way Gwayne’s breath hitched as he looked at her, in the way her daughter’s gaze flickered toward him before quickly looking away. It was in the tension that hung thick in the air, in the unspoken words that passed between them.

Alicent’s heart sank, her worst fears confirmed in the space of a heartbeat. She could see it now, plain as day—the connection between them, the bond that went beyond family, beyond duty. It was something deeper, something forbidden.

“Come, we must not keep the King waiting,” Otto’s voice cut through the tension, bringing them all back to the present.

Alicent forced herself to smile, to play the role she had been born into. “Indeed,” she agreed, her voice steady even as her mind churned with a thousand thoughts. “Let us return to the Red Keep.”

As they made their way back, Alicent found herself walking beside Gwayne. She glanced at him, trying to read his thoughts, but his expression was carefully controlled once more. Yet she could not forget the look in his eyes as he had watched her daughter, nor the way his hands had clenched at his sides when Cannibal had flown overhead.

“You must be proud,” she said softly, “of how far we have come, how strong our family has become.”

Gwayne glanced at her, his smile faint but polite. “I am, sister. We have much to be proud of.”

Alicent nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. She could not shake the feeling that everything was on the brink of unraveling, that the threads of their carefully woven lives were being pulled apart by forces they could not control.

And as they walked back toward the Red Keep, with Cannibal’s distant roar echoing in the sky above, Alicent could only hope that whatever came next, her family would survive it.

The flickering candlelight bathed the walls of her chambers in a soft, golden glow, casting silhouettes that danced across the tapestries and silken drapes. The air was thick with the scent of lavender, meant to soothe nerves and calm the mind, but tonight, it did little to ease the tension coiling within you.

You stood by the window, gazing out at the darkened sky, but your thoughts were elsewhere. Worry gnawed at you, like a persistent whisper at the back of your mind, and it only grew stronger as the door behind you creaked open. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was—the familiar presence, the unmistakable warmth that seemed to fill the room whenever he was near.

“Gwayne,” you whispered, turning to face him, the concern evident in your eyes.

He stepped into the room, his expression softened with affection as he looked at you. “You shouldn’t worry, my love,” he said, crossing the room with a few quick strides until he was standing before you, his hands reaching for yours.

“I can’t help it,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly as you took his hands in yours, gripping them tightly as if you feared he might slip away. “Aemond told me what they plan—how they expect one of Rhaenyra’s dragonriders at Rook’s Rest. It’s a trap, Gwayne. They mean to spring a trap, and you’ll be there with them.”

Gwayne’s expression hardened slightly at the mention of Aemond, but his voice remained gentle as he cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I have faced worse, and I have always returned to you,” he said, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a tender caress. “I will return again, I promise you.”

“But this time…” Your voice broke, the fear creeping into your words. “This time feels different. Aemond is reckless, and Aegon… I don’t trust him to care for anyone but himself. What if something goes wrong?”

Gwayne leaned down, his forehead resting against yours as he closed his eyes, as if trying to draw strength from your presence. “Nothing will go wrong,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “I will make sure of it.”

His words were meant to reassure, but you could hear the uncertainty beneath them, the fear that mirrored your own. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer as if the closeness alone could protect him.

“I can’t lose you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as your lips brushed against his. “Not now, not ever.”

His response was a soft, desperate kiss, one that quickly deepened as his hands moved from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him. There was a desperation in the way he kissed you, as if he too was trying to cling to the moment, to the safety of the here and now.

The kiss grew more urgent, more heated, and you could feel the tension in him, the way his fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself in the sensation of your body against his. Your hands roamed over his chest, fingers tugging at the fabric, needing to feel his skin beneath your touch.

“Gwayne,” you gasped as he kissed down the column of your throat, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “I don’t want to talk about war, or Aemond, or anyone else. Not right now.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark with desire and something deeper, something that went beyond words. “Then let’s not,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Let’s forget everything else, just for tonight.”

You nodded, and that was all the permission he needed. His hands moved to the laces of your gown, deftly working them free as you did the same with his tunic. The fabric fell away, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the chamber, but the chill was quickly replaced by the heat of his body as he pressed against you.

You let out a soft moan as his hands roamed over your bare skin, the touch both familiar and electrifying. There was no hesitation in the way he touched you, no uncertainty—only the confidence of a lover who knew every inch of your body, who had memorized the places that made you tremble, that made you sigh with pleasure.

He lifted you easily, setting you down on the table behind you with a force that sent a few scattered objects clattering to the floor. But neither of you paid them any mind. Your focus was entirely on each other, on the way his mouth found yours again, the way your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them as he positioned himself between them, his eyes locked on yours, watching the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched toward him in anticipation. The first slow, deliberate thrust drew a gasp from your lips, the familiar stretch filling you with a deep, aching need.

“Gwayne,” you moaned, your head falling back as you clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders. The sensation of him inside you was both comfort and torment, the slow drag of his body against yours driving you mad with desire.

He didn’t hold back, his movements quickening, each thrust more forceful than the last as he buried himself deeper inside you, his breath ragged against your neck. “They know,” he rasped, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of keeping control even as his body threatened to overwhelm him. “Alicent… Otto… they know about us.”

You bit back a cry of pleasure as you tightened around him, your hands gripping his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips brushing against his ear. “I don’t care,” you whispered fiercely, capturing his lips in a searing kiss that silenced any further words. “I don’t want to think about them either.”

The kiss was consuming, a desperate melding of lips and tongues, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was both frantic and familiar. The table beneath you creaked with the force of your movements, but you paid it no mind, lost in the sensation of him, in the heat that built between you, spiraling higher and higher until it threatened to consume you both.

His hands roamed over your body, as if memorizing every curve, every dip, the feel of you beneath his fingertips. And you responded in kind, your own hands exploring his body, the hard planes of muscle, the slickness of sweat that coated his skin as you moved together, faster, harder.

Your breath came in short, desperate gasps, your body arching off the table as the pleasure built, coiling tighter and tighter until it was unbearable. “Gwayne,” you whimpered, your voice breaking as you teetered on the edge of release, needing that final push.

“I’m here,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with need, his pace quickening even further, driving you both toward the inevitable end. “I’m here, my love.”

The words sent you over the edge, your body shattering around him as you cried out, the pleasure washing over you in waves, pulling him along with you. He followed with a groan, his movements becoming erratic as he found his own release, his body tensing above you as he emptied himself inside you.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the feel of his body still joined with yours, the lingering warmth of pleasure that coursed through your veins. You clung to him, your hands gentle now, soothing as you held him close, not wanting to let go, not wanting to lose this moment.

But eventually, he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes soft with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “I love you,” he whispered, the words a balm to the fears that still lingered in the back of your mind.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice steady, but filled with the same deep emotion that he had shown you.

He kissed you again, this time slow and sweet, a promise in the way his lips lingered against yours. But as you held each other in the quiet aftermath, the world beyond your chambers slowly crept back in—the war, the dangers that awaited him at Rook’s Rest, the knowledge that nothing was certain.

But for now, you pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the feel of his arms around you, the warmth of his body against yours. For now, you were together, and that was all that mattered.

You sit astride your dragon, the wind whipping through your hair as Cannibal’s powerful wings cut through the air. The sound of battle echoes below, the clash of steel and the screams of men rising like a dark symphony. You can see the banners of House Targaryen and House Hightower waving in the distance, signaling the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. But your heart is not with the men below; it beats faster with each passing moment, drawn inexorably to the man on the hill, mounted on his horse, watching the sky with a tension that mirrors your own.

Gwayne.

He’s there, beside Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. You know his eyes are on the horizon, where Meleys, the Red Queen, approaches with Rhaenys Targaryen astride her. His heart must be racing, as is yours, for different reasons. He knows the danger. You know the risk.

He’s always known, hasn’t he?

Even back in Oldtown, when you were sent away with Daeron, your brother, to be raised as a ward of House Hightower, it was clear that your life was bound to the iron will of your family. But it wasn’t duty that bound you to Gwayne; it was something else, something deeper, something forbidden.

It began with stolen glances, quiet moments in the gardens, and the brush of his hand against yours. Oldtown became your sanctuary, but it was Gwayne who became your world. The Hightower, with all its towering walls and ancient halls, held secrets—yours among them. The love that blossomed between you both was secret, tender, and as dangerous as the war that now rages around you.

Cannibal lets out a low, rumbling growl beneath you, sensing your anxiety. You press a hand to the black scales of his neck, grounding yourself. You were always a Targaryen, always bound to the dragons, but Cannibal… Cannibal was different. He was a creature of pure darkness, a beast of the old ways, feared and shunned by all but you. It was fitting, you suppose, that your fate would ride with such a dragon.

“Hold steady, Cannibal,” you murmur, though your eyes are fixed on Gwayne’s distant figure.

There’s no time to linger on thoughts of him. Meleys is close now, her crimson scales catching the light of the setting sun. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, a seasoned dragonrider and a warrior born, is a formidable opponent. You know this as well as anyone. Your jaw tightens as you prepare for what’s to come.

Gwayne’s voice echoes in your mind, a memory from nights past. “You shouldn’t do this. It’s too dangerous.”

“This is what I was born to do,” you’d whispered back to him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “For the throne, for our family… for you.”

He hadn’t said anything more, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. He’d known then that this day might come, and he’d feared it as much as you had.

A roar splits the air, snapping you back to the present. Rhaenys has begun her assault, Meleys unleashing a torrent of flame upon Cole’s men below. They scatter like leaves in the wind, consumed by the fire. The scorpion ballistas fire their harpoons, but Meleys is swift, her aerial maneuvers deft and practiced. The shots go wide, missing her entirely.

And then, another roar—this one deeper, more guttural—resonates through the skies. It’s a sound that stops your heart, and you know it’s the same for Gwayne, though he is miles away.

Cannibal.

The battlefield below stills for a moment, as if the very world is holding its breath. Then, the black shadow of your dragon falls across the earth, blocking out the sun as you and Cannibal descend upon the fray. Rhaenys turns her head, her eyes narrowing as she sees you. There’s no time for words, no time for the politics or the pain of family betrayal. There’s only the battle.

Cannibal’s jaws open, and a blast of dark fire shoots forth, aimed directly at Meleys. Rhaenys pulls her dragon to the side, just in time, the fire missing by a hair’s breadth. The air is thick with the stench of smoke and burning flesh, the screams of men below barely audible over the thunder of dragon wings.

Rhaenys maneuvers Meleys with precision, and you feel the thrill of the challenge rise within you. Cannibal surges forward, claws outstretched, and the two dragons clash in a tempest of scales and fury. The sky is a blur of red and black, fire and blood. Meleys snaps at Cannibal’s neck, but he twists, his tail whipping around to strike her side.

Gwayne watches from his position on the hill, his knuckles white as he grips the reins of his horse. He knows your style, knows the ferocity with which you fight. But this… this is something different. This is war.

Above, another dragon’s roar cuts through the din, and you know it’s Aegon on Sunfyre. He swoops in from the west, brilliant golden scales shining in the fading light. Aemond follows on Vhagar, the ancient dragon circling above, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It’s a dance of death, a deadly game of strategy and strength. Cannibal and Sunfyre move in tandem, each attempting to flank Meleys, forcing her into a vulnerable position. You catch a glimpse of Rhaenys, her face set in grim determination, her lips moving as she urges her dragon on.

Cannibal snarls, his teeth snapping inches from Meleys’ throat, but she’s quick, too quick. She lashes out with her claws, raking them across Cannibal’s side. He roars in fury, and you feel the impact through the bond you share with him, the pain a sharp lance in your side.

But you don’t falter. You can’t. Not now.

Sunfyre dives, his maw open wide, but Meleys is ready. She turns, a stream of fire bursting from her jaws, and it engulfs Sunfyre. The golden dragon shrieks in agony, his wings catching fire, the delicate membrane burning away. Aegon is thrown from the saddle, his body a blazing comet as he plummets to the earth below.

“No!” The scream tears from your throat before you can stop it, the sight of your brother’s fall searing itself into your mind. But there’s no time to mourn, no time to grieve.

Cannibal takes advantage of the chaos, his claws digging into Meleys’ back as he forces her downward. The red dragon roars in defiance, but Cannibal is relentless, his jaws closing around her neck, ready to end it.And then it happens.

A scorpion ballista, aimed by desperate men, fires a harpoon meant for Rhaenys. But the aim is off, the bolt instead striking Cannibal’s side, driving deep into his flesh. The black dragon lets out a roar of agony, his grip on Meleys faltering. The pain is overwhelming, the bond between you and your dragon screaming with the shared agony.

“Cannibal!” The cry is torn from your lips as you feel him falter, feel his strength ebbing away. You’re falling now, the ground rushing up to meet you as Cannibal spirals out of control. The world blurs, the sky and earth blending into one as you plummet, your heart in your throat.

Gwayne watches in horror, his voice lost to the wind as he sees you falling, sees Cannibal spiraling down in a trail of blood and fire. He digs his heels into his horse’s sides, urging the beast forward, racing toward where you’ll land, desperate to reach you.

Above, Aemond’s fury is unleashed. Vhagar, enraged by the sight of his fallen kin, descends with a vengeance. The ancient dragon’s roar shakes the very earth as he closes in on Meleys, who is weakened, bloodied. Rhaenys barely has time to react before Vhagar’s jaws close around Meleys’ neck, and with a sickening crunch, it’s over.

Meleys falls, lifeless, to the ground, her crimson scales dulling as death claims her. Rhaenys, too, falls silent, her body still and broken beside her dragon.

But Gwayne’s thoughts are not with the dead queen or the defeated dragon. His only concern is you. He rides hard, faster than he’s ever ridden, his mind racing with fear and hope. He can’t lose you, not now, not like this.

Cannibal crashes into the earth with a sound like thunder, his massive body crumpling from the impact. The force of the fall throws you from the saddle, sending you tumbling across the scorched ground. Pain explodes through your body as you hit the earth, the breath knocked from your lungs.

Darkness edges your vision, but you fight it, fight to stay conscious. You can’t succumb, not yet. Gwayne is coming. You have to hold on.

As the world begins to fade, you hear it—the sound of hooves pounding against the earth, growing closer, and closer. Gwayne. He’s coming for you. You try to move, to reach for him, but the pain is too much, your body too broken.

The last thing you see before the darkness claims you is his face, twisted in anguish, as he leaps from his horse. 

You barely feel the impact as you fall into his arms, the world around you blurring into a haze of pain and shadows. Gwayne's voice is a distant echo, calling your name, but the sound is faint, drowned by the thunderous roar of the battle still raging in the skies above.

"Stay with me," Gwayne pleads, his voice thick with desperation. His hands tremble as they touch your face, your hair, as if he's afraid you're already slipping away. Blood is everywhere—yours, Cannibal's, staining the ground beneath you. He can't seem to stop the flow, no matter how hard he tries.

"Cannibal..." you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. Your hand reaches out instinctively, searching for the bond you've always felt so strongly. But there's only silence. Cannibal, the dragon who was feared by all, lies broken, motionless, his once powerful body now just a dark mass on the blood-soaked earth. The bond between you and your dragon fades, leaving a gaping void in your heart.

Gwayne’s heart shatters at the sight of your pale face, your bloodied form cradled in his arms. He knows he should call for the maester, for anyone who can help, but the thought of leaving your side, even for a moment, is unbearable. He pulls you closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your cold skin.

"You’re going to be fine," he says, but the words sound hollow, even to his own ears. There’s too much blood, too much pain, and he can see the life slipping from your eyes. "You have to be fine. I won’t let you go. I can’t..."

You try to speak, to comfort him as you always have, but the effort is too great. The darkness is pulling you down, dragging you away from him, and there’s nothing you can do to fight it. The world is growing colder, quieter, and all you can think about is Gwayne. How much you wanted to tell him that you loved him, how much you wanted to stay with him, away from the chaos of the war that has torn your family apart.

Gwayne’s tears fall freely now, his chest tightening with grief. He’s never felt so helpless, so utterly powerless. He presses his lips to your forehead, a silent vow passing between you both.

"I will keep you safe," he whispers, his voice breaking. "No matter what, I will keep you safe. I swear it on my life, my love. I will not lose you. Not to this war, not to anyone."

The sound of approaching footsteps jolts him back to reality, and he looks up to see Ser Criston Cole riding towards them, his expression grim. Behind him, the battlefield is a smoldering ruin, the bodies of men and dragons alike littering the ground. Aegon’s fall has sent a shockwave through their ranks, and the once glorious day has turned into a nightmare.

"Get her to the maester, now!" Cole commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Aegon’s alive but barely, and we need to regroup. We can’t afford to lose her too."

Gwayne doesn’t respond, his focus solely on you. With a strength born of sheer will, he lifts you into his arms, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. In his mind, you are.

As he carries you toward the tents, each step feels like a mile, the weight of his promise bearing down on him. The battle rages on, but in that moment, Gwayne doesn’t care about the throne, the war, or even his duty. All that matters is you, and the vow he’s made to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

He won’t let you die. He can’t. Not when there’s so much left unsaid, so much left to live for. He’ll fight for you, as fiercely as you’ve fought on the back of your dragon. And if it means going against the very family he’s sworn to serve, then so be it.

As Gwayne reaches the maester’s tent, he refuses to let go of you, even as the maester tries to take you from his arms. He holds on, even as the world around him spins out of control. He won’t let go. He can’t. 

And as the darkness finally overtakes you, the last thing you hear is his voice, a whispered promise that anchors you to the world.

“I will keep you safe,” he vows again, and this time, the words are as unbreakable as the bond you once shared with your dragon.

Even if it takes his last breath, Gwayne Hightower will not fail you.

[bittersuitejacobs]

• an unhealthy obsession •

{Nate Jacobs/Original Character}

Ophelia is no stranger to wanting. For most of her life it's all she'd been allowed to do, trapped on the outside looking in, window shopping for normal experiences. Ophelia is also no stranger to obsession. Books, movies, TV shows; a terribly ill child who never even had the chance to make a real friend, she took what she could from fiction. All she'd ever wanted growing up, the thing she obsessed over, was someone who could save her, from her life, from herself. Someone who could make her feel alive.

So when her attention is caught by a beautiful, awful boy with a saviour complex, Ophelia vows not to remain a stranger to him either, no matter the cost.

Ophelia may no longer need to be saved, but Nate Jacobs makes her feel so damn alive, so she will turn herself into the kind of girl he wants, needs, and obsesses over too.

• in which Ophelia and Nate are somehow not the worst things to ever happen to each other. •

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Mutual Obsession, Stalking, Manipulative Behaviour, Possessive Behaviour, Infidelity/Cheating, Drinking, Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use & Sexual Assault, Childhood Parental Abuse (Medical/Psychological/Emotional). Chapters will contain specific warnings.

{ fic playlist }

+ IN PROGRESS +

[ Season One ]

1. spectacle

2. the slate cleaned

3. knight in shining armour

4. according to plan

5. unexpected ink

6. daddy's angel

7. a week of turtlenecks

8. like and subscribe

9. dirty little secret

10. praise kink

11. deja vu

12. little black dress

13. fight flight fawn freeze

14. the aftermath of violence

15. boot theory

16. i quite enjoy ruining your day

17. mutually assured destruction

18. detriments of the modern age

19. justly serv'd

20. sanctuary

21. paper stars

[ Season Two ]

22. resolutions

23. bpm

+ ...

[ Alternate Universe ]

cool for the summer

Nate's been best friends with Lee Chase for as long as he can remember, and Lee's little sister Ophelia has always been... there. The best thing about her is how easy she is to ignore.

But everything changes between them when Lee and his dad go to Fiji for the Summer before their Junior year, and Nate and Lee's moms decide to spend that time holidaying together up the coast, taking the rest of their children with them.

So now, much to Nate's chagrin, he's forced to share a bed with his best friend's sixteen year old sister, who he's barely even had a full conversation with before in his life. But he quickly realises that she's bolder than he gave her credit for. Maybe it's a good thing her brother's on the other side of the world.

Warnings: Explicit Smut, Possessive Behaviour, Underage Drinking, Ongoing Parental Neglect/Emotional Abuse, Compulsive Over exercising as a Form of Self Harm, Mental Healthy & Unreality Struggles. Chapters will contain specific warnings.

1. Reintroduce

2. Reinvent

3. Recontextualise

4. Reconfigure

5. Realise

6. Revitalise

7. Reiterate

8. Reconnect

9. Restring

+ ...

Posting of completed chapters for the main fic will begin in the next few days.

Posting of the AU will begin after Chapter 10 of the main fic and will alternate.

THE TAGLIST IS ALWAYS OPEN !

(just message or comment to be added; I'll add you to the taglist for both unless you let me know you only wanna be tagged for updates from one)

[dictatortirah]

Gura x Nero for the Squirm fans

I wrote da first draft and @jestbii made everything better and gayer

---

“Whelp, that’s another job well done, Nero!” Hemlock proclaimed, clapping their hands together triumphantly- a cloud of chalk puffing from their hand, mostly to hide fingerprints. It erupted a sneeze from their snout, rather embarrassingly as they immediately faced away to deal with it. 

  Nero let out a weary groan that filled the air, his body protesting as he yanked the hatchet free from the cultist’s lifeless form beneath him, which was in the worst of state, considering death via hatchet was on today's menu. The force of the tugging nearly sent him tumbling backward, but he had quickly steadied his lumber body, glancing down in disgust at the grim sight before him. This never did get any easier…and it reminded him of very bad times. Blood pooled around the body like dark ink on parchment, and he couldn’t help but hope fervently that this cultist would stay dead- they’ve come back before, after all. With a final, forceful tug, he freed the hatchet, its blade slick and glistening in the dim light.

  His jacket was ruined, splattered with crimson chunks and remnants of the awful task adorning his whole entire body. Even if he wasn’t a fashionista like Vitr, it were up to him, he would never allow himself to get this dirty again. I mean, he had promised Sniper he’d leave killing behind—especially after his past experiences in the cult’s twisted rituals. He still thought about those sometimes at night…well, at least until he showed up. Besides that, the thought made him shudder. Never again would he go back to those days.

He glanced at Hemlock, his boss, who was scanning the area for any witnesses around the area, obviously a bit frantic. They nearly got caught last time, and things like this would surely cost them their citizenship- or lives. The act of assessing their surroundings with every darting eye made a wave of dizziness wash over Nero, whoever, and he suddenly realized just how exhausted he truly was. Days of tension and sleepless nights had taken their toll on his already sick and weak body. He wobbled over to Hemlock, who noticed his unsteady gait and caught him as he nearly collapsed against him. Jesus, what had gotten into this man? 

   “Damn, Nero! I didn’t think this one would wear you out this much!” Hemlock exclaimed, alarm flashing across their wrinkled face as they steadied Nero quite carefully, brushing imaginary dirt from his shoulder. All this did was slather their hand in the all too familiar blood, however…Nero swayed slightly, struggling to regain his balance. “You don’t look so good. Worse than usual…and that’s sayin’ something, since you usually look like shit.”

   In a sudden, impulsive gesture, Hemlock yanked off Nero’s hat, causing the sickened man to flinch in confusion and near offense. It was a move that always annoyed him; yet it happened almost every single day! It felt like a violation of his personal space—unless, of course, it was someone special doing it. He wouldn’t retaliate or anything, though- he respected hemlock and he was also much too tired to deal with it. 

  “Hey! Why did you—”

   “Nero! When was the last time you slept?” Hemlock’s eyes bore deeply into him, concern etched deep into their wrinkled features. “Your eye—one of them looks like it’s about to pop out! No wonder you’ve been slacking lately. Jesus, boy, haven’t I told you to sleep?” They had asked, gripping the hat, almost in frustration yet mostly concern. 

   “I’m fine—” Nero stuttered, admittedly shocked from Hemlock's concern…he’d be heart warmed, if he hadn’t been fading in and out of consciousness as they spoke. 

  Scoffing, Hemlock held their temple. “No, you’re not. I don’t trust you to go home and rest once we wrap up here. I hate that you make me do this, but dammit, I’m sendin’ you home myself!” Hemlock declared firmly, stomping their foot to emphasize their point, firm in their decision. Nero was their best worker, after all…in fact, one of the only ones. 

  Nero wasn’t going to have this, though- 

 “What?!” Panic surged through Nero, and he quickly recoiled, snatching his hat back from the worried boss of his. That was unnecessary! What if Sniper asked Hemlock about their work? What if Hemlock released all of the details of their excursion? The blood smeared on both the detective's jackets would certainly raise questions, that was for sure, no matter how blind that bunny was! He instinctively took a step back, distancing himself from Hemlock, mostly out of discomfort. 

    Realization dawned on Hemlock as they noticed Nero’s distress. Oh…Nero probably wouldn’t like it very much having his boss roam around his place, huh? Especially with the little friend he had…Hemlock paused, before sighing, rubbing their head out of discomfort and embarrassment..

 “Agh, don’t worry about it, bud. We’ll wash up first. I’ll just have your little rabbit friend make sure you get some rest, you worrywart. Now, let’s go.” Hemlock began to head toward the nearby river, and Nero hesitated, trailing behind quite awkwardly. He felt a bit bad for being so quick to react, but there were more pressing matters in his mind… 

   “But…But I can’t go to bed.”

  Hemlock halted, turning to face him. A look of puzzlement adorned their face, yet they never shifted their body to turn to him. What was he on about ?

 “And why not? You’ve got a bed at home, don’t you!” 

   “Uh… y-yes, but.it’s because I…” Nero’s voice trailed off sheepishly, his head pounding. He felt dizzy again, nearly tripping over his own feet. He was clumsy, yes, but…his vision began to fizzle out, and things were becoming hard to discern. Had that been a bush he was approaching, or was it Hemlock? 

   Hemlock, having now fully turned towards the dizzy busybody, was currently studying him, concerned deepening in their gaze yet again. “Ah…yer an insomniac, huh? I’ve had my bouts of insomnia before. I have the proper meds for it. I’ll tell your friend to give them to you once we get home. Okay? Okay. Come on. We need to hurry..” they mumbled, turning, a bead of sweat dripping down their head from stress. 

    As Hemlock began washing off their coat with urgency, Nero followed hesitantly, the cool water splashing against his face doing very, very little to clear his muddled and messy mind. He cursed silently, repeating the motions in a futile attempt to wash away the grime—both literal and metaphorical. But, no matter how much he slapped his face with cupped hands of water, it never did anything besides cause him to shudder..

   Insomnia. Yeah, right.

    He had been depriving himself of sleep for a reason that weighed heavily on his heart- and his weakened mind. It had been three days—maybe four—since he last even closed his eyes or gotten a lick of sleep. And, guess what? Gura hadn’t visited him in dreams since then- and to put it plainly, he just couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. However, with each passing night, the pressure of the worm’s gaze loomed larger in his mind, paranoia gnawing at his every thought, his body shutting down due to the lack of sleep. Was Gura watching him, lurking in the shadows? How much longer would he hold out against the creeping dread of sleep? Would he ever be free from that piercing gaze? And those rough hands that would plunge him into the darkness?

    Nero shook his head, fighting against the wave of anxiety, not wanting to appear pitiful in front of his boss. What could he say to convince Hemlock he was fine, and that he didn’t need sleep? He feared that if he succumbed, he’d awaken in the warm embrace of Gura’s fluffy ever sprawling tendrils, and the thought alone sent a shiver down his spine. 

    …Fluff. Even if he didn’t like it, he couldn’t help but think of the comfort it brought him, being wrapped in the fluffy embrace of the multicolored fur…suddenly, the prospect of sleep felt enticing, as if Gura’s hands were beckoning him, pulling him into the deity’s soft, vibrant form…where Nero belonged. 

He hated to admit it, but..he missed Gura. He envied the thought of. 

   “Nero, seriously, Jesus Christ, are you okay?” Hemlock’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like a sharp kitchen knife slicing a soft tomato, causing Nero to jerk up. Nero looked down, realizing his hands were trembling, his vision blurring, the ultimatum of his deprivation finally flowing through his body. Exhaustion was finally catching up with him; his body was on the verge of shutting down, and god did it feel awful.

 “I-I’m..yawn…I’m..fine..”

   No… he couldn’t let himself fall asleep, not now and not ever again. Gura would be furious with him, and he’d never let him live it down. But, no matter how much Nero fought, the forceful feeling of the worm’s presence loomed closer, waiting for the moment he had surrendered to darkness, ready to be snatched up. 

   Ultimately, the man could no longer run. As his thoughts twisted in a downward spiral, his weak and shaky legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed onto the ground, right on the bank of the river. The last thing he heard before surrendering to unconsciousness was Hemlock’s frantic voice calling out to him, being shaken with the grip of a worried boss-

---

And as suddenly as it all went downhill, with just a few mere seconds, he was awake again. 

“Nero… Oh, Nero!” Called a cocky, alluring voice.

Panic flared in the man’s tightened chest. No, no..

“Do you really think you can hide from me forever, Nero? Hehehe..aren’t you a cutie pie?”

Dammit…he let it happen…again. 

Nero took a deep, shaky breath, steeling himself before opening his eyes. He knew it was coming, but he’d never truly be able to handle it…

   The worm god loomed above him, his eyes swirling with an intense fury that filled and coursed through his elongated body, hands on his hips in sassy manner. Gura had a way of making himself appear larger when he was angry, his immense form casting a shadow that felt oppressive…yet, Nero couldn’t force himself to be scared of the God before him. 

    Even if he wasn’t scared, an odd sense of exasperation coursed through Nero, but he forced himself to maintain his composure. He wouldn’t let this cocky God get the upper hand…not again, and hopefully, never again. 

  “H-Hey, Gura,” he said, trying in a nonchalant tone. “So, uh… it’s been a while.”

  “Been a while?!” Gura’s voice boomed as he circled Nero like a predator assessing its prey, sizing him up to see just how well he could devour him. “So, you tried to avoid sleeping to avoid ME for FIVE days? And when your body finally shuts down, you act this cocky with me?! I never thought you’d be such a fool…and so harsh to me, too. Oh, and I’m not going to pretend I haven’t noticed you KILLING my cultists!”

   A hand shot out, gripping Nero’s quivering jaw and forcing him to look directly into Gura’s eyes, grinding his soft fur covered fingers along the goats mouth, feeling his gums. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, toy.” 

   Nero scoffed, forcing himself to meet Gura’s spiraling gaze, eyes darting as his hands gripped at anything he could- which had happened to be Guras own arm. Despite the rage flickering in the deity’s eyes, a strange calm washed over him as their gazes locked, and Nero’s breath hitched as the pit in his stomach slowly but surely dissipated. The moment lingered before Gura snarled, growling, shoving Nero’s jaw back and sending him tumbling into something soft and plush, causing Nero to audibly yelp! 

    He gasped as he landed, recognizing the familiar sensation of Gura’s fluffy form slowly enveloping his body, wrapping around every part of him in a warm, soft hug. A part of him revealed in the comfort, fingers instinctively sinking into the warmth, squeezing and shuddering.

    Gura turned away momentarily, muttering to himself in frustration, and after a pause, he had faced Nero again..a giggle crawling out of the deity's throat, and his once harsh scowl morphed into a teasing grin. 

 “Oh, Nero! Where are my manners? Now that I have you in my grasp, we might as well make our time worthwhile. We have plenty to talk about. Plenty...”

    With a swift motion, Gura coiled around Nero, forcing him to sit down along his…stomach? This god was truly hard to understand, his stomach could be just about anywhere with just how infinite his body had seemingly been. A part of his body shifted upwards, bending into a makeshift table, balancing two cups and a teapot for them to share. Gura loved being able to mess with Nero with this..it entertained him. 

  “U-Ugh, seriously, again with this?” Nero grumbled, glancing up to find Gura’s sharp gaze locked on him. The worm’s grin was wide, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface, making Nero uneasy. He shrunk into himself, but the fur only scraped along the intimated man’s body once again, and he let out a yelp from the sheer feeling of it.

   “Hm..well, then, let’s catch up,” Gura said, taking a sip from one of the cups..although, he had recoiled, as he was never very good at brewing his own tea, quick to set the cup back down and lean forward, hands folded beneath his chin. “This past week, you’ve successfully killed three of my disciples with that boss of yours…Impressive, I must say. Trying to thwart my plans as usual, I see… You’ll never stop being such a pain, will you?” He leaned closer, his face inches from Nero’s, their breaths hitting one another’s, the tensions in the room enough to cut with a knife.

  “Killing is what my cult endorses, isn’t it? Aren’t you a little afraid of becoming like them again? Hah, you’d do good in my cult..wearing a little robe, whispering my name..” 

    Flustered, Nero interjected- “A-Absolutely not! I know what I’m doing,” Nero shot back, his voice stronger than he felt. In reality, he felt..soft..this fur was soft. But still, he fought back, much braver sounding that he really was in his heart. 

  “Ugh..If it takes a bit of blood spillage to stop you, then so be it…I’ll never let you lay a finger on the people I care about.”

   Gura sighed, feigning an overly exaggerated exasperation, hand along on his temple. “Still playing the hero, huh? You really are a pain. Why don’t you just drop it and join me…?” His hands began to grip upwards along Nero’s body, causing him to writhe in the most playful ways... Gura loved the yelps Nero made…as his hands tugged all along Nero’s body, Nero grimaced, shuddering. 

   “W-well… wouldn’t it be easier for you to just kill me? Get it over with, huh?” Nero stammered, feeling the shift in the air, causing him to uncomfortably writhe in the deities grasp. He could sense where this was headed, and he didn’t like it…it was all too familiar. 

   “…Kill?” Gura repeated, raising an eyebrow, intrigued. He never really thought of killing Nero, before…but his implications of the want excited him. “Hah, you think I’d want to kill you?” 

 “Yeah…yeah, you could’ve killed me since day one- But you chose not to, isn’t that right?” Nero pressed, a spark of defiance igniting within him. He knew gura hated when he became bratty like this..

 “While I was… staying up, I noticed things. Whenever Mallet is about to finish me off, you stop him…you may not be able to speak to me, but you keep me alive. You don’t want me to die. Are you that weak?” 

    Gura’s expression darkened, but he pulled Nero even closer, his grip tightening. His hands, coiled around Nero’s squirming body, gripped and tugged against his clothing, hands squeezing and digging at his calves and gliding along the man’s thin waist to earn a shudder or two.

  “Hah..you always bite back when you never should. You know I don’t like it when you fight back..but, oh, if you think you’re so clever, why not keep talking?”

   Nero gulped, hands twitching as he tried his best to look away, biting his lower lip.  

Jesus Christ, he hated when gura acted like this..so malicious, and he always knew exactly where to touch to irritate the man more and more. 

 “U-uh… i’m just saying how…i- i uh….” He gave up quite quickly, his bravado shattering under the stress of the direction. He may have accidentally dug his own grave…

   Gura began to giggle, knowing he won…oh, Nero was so adorable like this! 

 “Oh, baby, that’s what I thought. You’re always so much more obedient to your god than you’d like to admit.” A single hand trailed down Nero’s cheek, grazing down to his collarbone to tap it, trailing as he brought his head in to smell Nero’s fear. 

  “Haha..you’re still lovable as always, Nero… if you won’t say it, then i will.”

    An arm slowly began to coil around Nero’s neck. “I hate you, Nero. But that’s what makes you so very, very entertaining to me…and I can’t have you dying on me when things are about to get fun.. Death is an escape for you mortals. And I don’t want you to escape just yet. The satisfaction of death…only I need to give you satisfaction.” Another coiled around Nero’s body, the hand lying on his waist squeezing his body in the most rough way he could. 

  “You’ve ruined my plans so many times, my little disciple…and I think a punishment is due. And what’s a better punishment than being my little punching bag for the night? heheh..” he trailed his long, snake-like tongue along Nero’s cheek, tasting the sweat beads like a primal beast as Nero groaned and recoiled in disgust. Even he had standards! 

  Nero placed his hand on the arm coiled around his neck, tugging, but the arm remained firmly. “S-so now you want to spend more time with me?” Nero forced a chuckle. “I didn’t think you missed me that much...let me go, I’m not plaything..”

  “Mmg..shut it.” The arm suddenly tightened around his neck, causing him to choke and gag, legs flailing slightly against the Gods fields of fur. 

 “Nero…Last I heard…dolls don’t talk back.” 

  As Nero struggled against him, Gura laughed, clearly enjoying himself and the power he dominated over Nero’s body. He missed seeing Nero like this. Begging for mercy, writhing, squirming… “Besides being entertaining, you’re valuable to me. You have something I want…. Your smarts- your mind. And I’m not letting you walk out there freely while holding what should be mine..”

  “O-oh really..? Hf… give me all you got. I’m not ever going to give in to you.” Nero retorted, disheveled into breathless groans, his eyes daring. 

  “My, my..You can keep trying to struggle, Nero. But I can do this forever if I wanted to.” The worm snickered, his face now an inch close to Nero’s, a smirk along his face as his heart raced. “Not even old age can save you from this one, boy..forever and ever you’ll be mine..my disciple to play with, and mine to devour the fear from as much as I please.”

   The coiling arm around his neck suddenly released its tantalizing grasp on the man’s neck, and Nero took a deep gasp and caught his breath- but, before he could think of a smart retort, hands held his cheeks, and the worm suddenly forced him into a kiss.

   An oddly sweet scent filled the man’s nose as Guras fingers dug deep and tender into his cheek, the worm squeezing and rubbing along Nero’s stomach and chest to put him in a snake-like death lock. Gura loved how Nero fought back..with groans and hisses between every slip of their lips. It drove the deity mad with empowerment.  

 Nero struggled at first, but quickly gave in. It had been a while…and he couldn’t help but love the utter excitement he derived from the attention, their lips pressing in a confusing symphony of lust and toxicity. 

   And, after a moment, Gura had pulled back, and left them both breathing heavily as if they had just ran a marathon. Gura loved seeing Nero’s grumpy face after a kiss, his pouting lip made him seem adorable.

With a whine, Nero glanced back into the worm's spiraling eyes…and, as he gripped the Gods snout, he sighed, leaning in to press their foreheads together. 

 “Fine…I may have missed you..a little.”

[most-datable-datable-bracket]

QUARTER-FINALS MATCH 2

Elliott propaganda:

“Just look at him. Pure hunk energy.”

“I will punch anyone who dislikes him. He’s like a fire emblem character in the modern day. He’s so flamboyant and handsome, he can play the piano and he’s best friends with the old fishing man!”

“dramatic writer man with sexy hair”

"Since I like elliott. I will state some reasons why I like him

Imagine if Mr. Darcy didn’t insult your family first time you met him, that’s Elliott. The man who’s basically the hallmark romance love interest. He’s a writer who moves to the small town in the country side to find inspiration for his writing. Then he finds the farmer.

He has a crab living in his pocket

He can play the piano (hopefully it isn’t the river flows in you however)

His fans sometimes hc him as a merman and that’s just a major plus IMO

He genre of the book he writes is dependent on what genre you say you like.

He also sends letters to you if you marry him

Okay and also some things I dislike

His liked gifts, the easiest one is pomegranates, which cost like 6000g to grow a tree if you don’t pick the fruit cave. I AM NOT GETTING SQUID INK IN YEAR ONE FOR YOU.

he might be British /j

The fact he has no kitchen but still likes food like lobster, like he is just a mystery. Lives in a cabin, with no kitchen, no washroom (okay no character has a washroom), but still likes the most fancy food out there and has luscious hair worthy of a L’Oréal ad.

Gifting him on rainy days when you don’t have two hearts"

Asra propaganda:

“He GIVES AWAY HALF HIS HEART TO REVIVE YOU okay but like. He's the MCs roommate and they were together for a few years before the MC caught a plague and died and he obsesses over a way to bring them back before succeeding by making a deal with a god to trade half his heart for MC and betraying the emperor. And then when MC comes back but without any of their memories, he takes care of them and teaches them how to live all over again and he never asks for anything in return. On all the routes where you don't choose him he's really supportive and helps you out despite your history and overall he's just really nice and supportive of the MC and is their rock no matter what route you go down. Also he has a pet snake named Faust and I love her she's so <33 

Idk I just appreciate him so much”

"He gave you half his HEART!! He would literally go to hell and back for you!! He wants to take you on adventures all around the world—doesn’t matter where, as long as he’s by your side!! AND he’s nonbinary!!!"

"He is so caring!! Anyone who says he is boring or his 'route' was boring is a LIAR or didn't really understand his character! He is such a sweet person

Asra propaganda on this poll doesn't even do him any justice!! He makes friends wherever he travels to , likes knitting for his familiar snake , is a sweetheart, WILL take care of you even in the lowest point of your life"

[cinellieroll]

☆ random obey me headcanons part 4!

satan and diavolo ��

part one (lucifer, mammon and simeon)

part two (asmodeus, levi and barbatos)

part three (beelzebub, belphegor and solomon)

small note: last part is here wooh! i apologize i wasn't able to add the others. i just didn't know what to put for theirs bc im big idiot. i might make some of them soon tho! i'll probably make aot headcanons next but there will be delays bc exams are next week 😔 i'll also plan on putting more characters in one post next time so stay tuned!

☆ satan:

- likes friv.com, y8 games and papa games.

- picked up the habit of meowing out of nowhere when he's bored or enters his room. only does it when he's alone ofcourse because no way he'll let others see him like this. (everyone knows he does it they just don't say anything)

- he really liked enola holmes and other movies where it has detectives. it just riles him up more and more and wishes a hard ass case will just appear in the devildom already so he'll be first in the scene.

- don't get me started on how many times this man has tripped on his pile of books. he never really learned his lesson and just kept the books on the floor because he enjoys watching cats step on each one

- watches mat pat theories with you and levi. that's when he genuinely started gaining interest in games and sometimes fear he'll end up like levi one day.

- before he was able to manage his anger, he used to pull on his hair really hard. he'd have bald spots for years. thankfully he takes care of it now and it's perfectly luscious and soft.

- gets pissed when he sees people leaving pens uncapped like this is a waste of ink

- also gets pissed when his brothers leave the bathroom door open. he'll use his sleeve to cover his hand and close the door like a clean freak (i do the same thing)

- snores really loud when he sleeps on the couch. yes, the couch not his own bed. the couch.

☆ diavolo:

- he finds pleasure in buying a lot of unnecessary stuff. never learns from his lesson and just kept buying little trinkets and giving silly excuses for it.

- "but barbatos! doesn't this pig just look so cute on my office table? look! i even bought 300 packs of those tea leaves you ordered last time! isn't that great :D?"

- "my lord those tea leaves cost 100k grimm each-"

- he loves to spoil people so much it's so insane. you mentioned you like tanghulus? he ordered barbatos to make 20 of them. oh you really liked that furry coat made by a famous designer? he just bought you 5 pairs of it in different colors. your welcome.

- he likes onesies

- takes really long showers as well. he recently caught up to this thing called an "everything shower" and got invested. now he can't go on with his day without using body washes, oils and cleansers. a demon prince always has to be fresh and well maintained.

- he's always very excited to see you so when he rushes for a hug it's required to pick you up. who cares if he gets scolded by barbatos or receives a glare from belphie? you enjoy it and so does he!

- beautiful thick thighs and ass cheeks it makes me go what the fuck papi chulo

- enjoys the idea of cosplaying. doesn't care what he wears as long as gets to go out and dress up as a character. a dinosaur? sure! princess diavolo?! say less!

another note: we just reached 30 fucking followers hello??1!1(1?@? thank you so much !!! (⁠●⁠♡⁠∀⁠♡⁠)

[huramuna]

wine red, tears gold - chapter 2.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

a 'what if aegon didn't get poisoned and the greens technically won the dance but at what cost' au. basically aegon, alicent, otto and jaehaera are the only greens alive. and larys i guess. someone get rid of this guy.

word count: 2.7k

aegon wasn't as badly injured from Rook's Rest like in canon in this AU, he has a few burn scars near his torso but wasn't crippled / bedridden.

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn, infidelity

who wants to live forever - sarah brightman • nothing's new - rio romeo

chapter specific warnings: non-descript smut, blood

Sleep was easy to find that night for Lyanna– her body and mind were exhausted from the events of the day. She felt sore everywhere, especially between her legs. It ached like she had ridden a horse hard for days and she would most certainly need to be drawn a bath in the morn.

It was easy for her to fall into a state of unconsciousness, but it wasn’t a true sleep. It felt very much like being ill with a fever, flitting in and out of being awake, dreams and nightmares dancing behind her lids. Sweat skimmed her brow as she tossed and turned.

Squeak, squeak.

 The Red Keep was the noisiest, creakiest building she’d ever slept in– not even comparable to Storm’s End, which stood tall for generations against the most ferocious of storms, waves crashing against the weathered bricks.

Squeak, squeak.

Lyanna’s eyes fluttered open, light illuminating behind the curtain. She turned to the side, seeing that Aegon was gone, feeling better for it. She couldn’t quite shake how he looked at her last night after they coupled– something akin to disgust and pity, as if she was no more than an inconvenience for him. Mayhaps she was. She rubbed her eyes, wiping away the errant hair stuck to her forehead from sweat, sitting up. A gnawing pain gathered at her lower belly, as if she’d lost something precious to her. 

Stepping onto the stone floor, she slipped on her house slippers. A flash of red caught her eye– blood was on the bed. It wasn’t much, a spattering spit inked into the cotton sheets and it was reminiscent of when her moon’s blood would catch her off guard at times. But this wasn’t her moon’s blood. Her pulse hammered in her neck, remembering Aegon’s words from the night before, her eyes leading to the now dry, stiff cloth on her nightstand, which was also stained with blood. It was a reminder of what she lost– a part of her innocence, a chapter of her life closed. She was no longer a girl, fretting with girlish thoughts and girlish problems– she was a woman, a wife– she was the Queen. 

The realization came to her like a ton of bricks falling on her and her legs wobbled under her like a newborn fawn’s– she was the Queen. People would look to her for guidance, for an example– she felt underprepared for it all and her insides continued to swirl like a storm off in the distance, ever looming, ever there.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Lyanna’s eyes narrowed, the incessant squeaking noise that had woken her up was still going– there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it, no pattern. Walking to the window, she drew back the curtain and looked outside. It was a perfectly calm, tepid, sunny day– clear skies.

Fetching her house coat, she wrapped it taut around her body, snuggling into it and covering her silken sleeping shift– she didn’t know if Aegon would be out in the solar and didn’t want to chance it. She felt ill at the thought of being… exposed to him in broad daylight. 

Squeak, squeak. Bump. Bump.

The noise was rampant now, irritating Lyanna. She wished to find the source of the disturbance, mayhaps it was something simple, like a window left open or a rat. She had hoped it wasn’t a rat.

The solar was empty upon investigation, the curtains half-open. The noise, now speeding up in its frequency, appeared to be coming from the washroom on the far side of the chamber. The door was ajar by an inch or two. Huffing, she padded over to the door and peeked in.

In hindsight, she very much wished it had been a rat. A big, fat, disgusting rat with protruding teeth and a hundred babies scattered around it. Anything would’ve been better than what she saw.

Aegon, she surmised– his backside to her, a few errant scars and burns littered around his torso. He was naked as the day he was born, his muscles taut as he drilled into a woman– she was littered in jewels and pearls in her matching outfit with Aegon, nude. She had dark brown hair and fair skin, her body undulating and shivering against each thrust Aegon made– Lyanna came to the quick conclusion that she was a whore. Lyanna’s husband was fucking a whore. Fucking a whore in their chambers, with all the vigor and fervor of a dragon, panting up a storm and whispering to her, even smacking her ass and praising her. 

She was going to be sick. She was going to vomit on the floor, cry, scream, confront him, claw the whore’s eyes out– she had to get away. A small gasp escaped her lips unwittingly as she fled back to their bedroom. Her hands were shaking as the image replayed in her mind– she never expected her and Aegon to love one another, she couldn’t ask that of him, of anyone. But he seemed pained to even touch her the night before, to lay with her– he couldn’t even look at her fucking face. Was she so hideous that her own husband couldn’t… she grabbed a pair of embroidery scissors, her body moving faster than her mind. The squeaking noises of Aegon and his whore coupling was going on for well over thirty minutes, when he could barely be inside of Lyanna for three the night before. 

The sound of his voice, the little she had heard, as he whispered to the woman, citing her as beautiful, lovely, sweet– Lyanna clutched her skirt with one hand, the scissors in the other as she began her descent. 

Her hand stabbed into the bed, cutting and slashing around the stained sheet, the edges frayed into a jagged mess. Once the twisted fragment of cloth was free, she discarded the scissors as she slammed through every door she could– out of the bedroom, out of the solar– she didn’t know what to feel, she felt too much. 

The bloody token was clenched in her fist, her knuckles white as she knocked fervently on the door of the Queen mother. 

One of her handmaidens answered, her head bowing, “Your grace–”

“Lyanna?” Alicent’s voice called. She was sitting at a table near the open window balcony of her solar, tea cup in hand. She was still in her nightgown, hair down and flowing behind her. She took one look at her good-daughter’s face and eyed her handmaiden, “Leave us, Talya.”

“This– this is proof,” Lyanna whispered, holding out the stained sheet, “This is proof that I… have done my duty– I tried, I am trying–” she sniffed, tears running down her face as her hands shook violently. 

Alicent’s brow furrowed, her face soft, “Oh, dear girl,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around Lyanna, all encapsulating and warm, “I know, I know. You’ve done so well– did… did he hurt you?” she asked, her voice so quiet it was almost unheard.

Lyanna shook her head as she dropped the sheet, slotting herself against Alicent’s chest, sobbing her heart out. 

“I know it hurts, my sweet girl,” Alicent breathed, “It won’t always hurt. Eventually… you become numb." She moved the two of them to the couch and simply held the poor girl while she shook and sobbed for the better part of an hour. Alicent petted her head softly, not saying anything more until Lyanna’s sobs quieted to simple sniffs. “Mayhaps– we should have you move into your own chambers. It isn’t uncommon for husband and wife to be in separate chambers. King Viserys and I did not… sleep in the same bed for the better part of our marriage. I’m all the grateful for it– you need your own space to curate, to make your own. You are the Queen now, mayhaps we shall set up luncheons with the ladies in your new chambers, hm? We shall break fast together every morn before we go to the Sept, and we should even charter a weekly trip to the Grand Sept– but let me not get carried away with plans so soon. Let us focus on getting you into your own solar, your own bed,” she put her hand under Lyanna’s chin and tilted her head upward, “It gets better, I promise.”

– 

Lyanna returned to their– no, it was Aegon’s alone now– chambers a few hours later, after calming down and breaking her fast with Alicent. It was completely empty now, she checked the washroom, just to make sure.

After properly dressing for the day in a simple blue gown, tying her hair up in a braided bun. A quick peek in the mirror disappointed her slightly– she didn’t look queenly yet, merely a little girl trying to play the part. But it would have to be worked on.

Slowly, she gathered her things– mostly just one or two things to carry, and the rest for the servants to take down to her new chambers. Sometime during her organization, she heard the door close. Expecting it to be a servant, as they’d been in and out for the past hour taking her things, she didn’t turn around. “Please, don’t forget the chest near the door– it has all of my cloaks in it.”

“What’s going on here?” A voice, Aegon’s she quickly surmised, spoke.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as the scene from earlier in the morn plagued her mind. His voice to her now sounded to cold, versus the warm, husky drawl to which he praised the whore with. She took a breath and stood up straight, smoothing out her skirts. “I am moving my things to my chambers.”

“Your chambers? Is this not your chambers?” he spoke with a sarcasm that made her blood boil, his brow raised.

“It is yours. Husband and wife have separate chambers all the time.”

“Did my mother tell you that? It sounds like her words,” he scoffed, walking a bit closer to her. He smelled of musk and fire, something deep and animalistic she couldn’t quite pinpoint. “I must say, it’s quite a record. A mere day it took for my mother to poison your mind against me. Tell me, did she use her infamous line about me being a sinner? Talk about my voracious, impure appetites?” 

Lyanna’s brow knit in irritation, hands clenched onto a half-finished embroidery piece. It was of Sunfyre, Aegon’s dragon, whom she’d never seen, but had heard of. She started it when the betrothal was announced and it was to be a gift for him. The wood of the hoop cracked under her fingers. “Was she good to you, dear husband?” 

He was confused now, tilting his head. “Whom? My mother?”

“Did you purchase her those pearls? Or was that a gift from one of her other suitors?”

Aegon’s face blanched slightly as he cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you expected.”

“What I expected?” Lyanna’s voice quivered.

“Yes, what you expected,” Aegon countered as he clenched and unclenched his fist, “My… proclivities aren’t exactly a secret. You knew what you were getting into–” 

“Don’t– don’t! I expected to marry a king– and yes, I’d heard… rumors. I thought mayhaps you… might’ve turned a new leaf after the war.”

“Fucking hell, you sound like my grandsire. Is that what you expected then? Batting your lashes and exchanging a few words between us and I’ll swear off of other women’s cunts for the rest of my life? Mayhaps if you weren’t so…” 

“So what? Say it, so I know where I stand.” 

“You’re plain looking. You aren’t some great beauty that they write songs about, that men go to war for, hm?”

Lyanna stopped then, her throat going dry. Her finger tips felt numb as an aching feeling spread through her body in waves, emanating from her chest. 

“When my grandsire told me I was to marry one of the Baratheon girls, I’d hoped it to be one of your sisters. Cassandra, or mayhaps Floris. Now that is a woman! Blue eyes always were a favorite of mine. Mayhaps when they come to visit again I’ll stick my cock in one of them– I doubt their husbands are satisfying them as well as they could be.”

It felt as if her blood was on fire, her hands twitching. She could feel her pulse in her neck, her head spinning. She could hardly believe the words she was hearing– it felt as if he had stabbed her and each word was another twist of his knife in her gut. 

“Cat got your tongue, wife?” 

She felt her blood pumping through her body whilst feeling like her body was devoid of blood at the same time. A blank stare came over her, her eyes glazing over. Her mouth was taut in a line. Was it possible for the numbness to hurt? It rolled through her in waves like a sickness and she felt bile rise in her throat. It was acrid, stinging her mouth and poisoning her tongue. 

Her movements were a blur, she could hardly see a few feet in front of her, her body was autonomous as she left Aegon standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face, as if putting her down was some great feat, as if he’d conquered her already fragile disposition and proven himself better.

She locked herself in her new chambers for three days after that, only taking Alicent as a visitor. She didn’t cry– she just hid. She had the mirrors removed temporarily, thinking herself so ugly she couldn’t bear to see her own face, just as Aegon couldn’t even look at her face. 

–

“Have you no shame, son? Where did I go wrong in raising you that you could be such a brute, a monstrous cad to your wife?!” Alicent continued on, going on for the second hour of yelling at him.

“My ability to feel shame was ripped away from me at a young age, mother. You and grandsire should know best about that.” he replied dryly, swirling his wine in his goblet.

“She is a sweet girl, Aegon! A bit naive, yes, but so was I when I married your father.”

“Is that what this is about, mother? You see a small version of yourself in that girl? Is that why you so valiantly protect her– would that make me my father then?” He took a sip. “That is a new insult, quite creative you are with that one.”

“You are hopeless, Aegon.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. We are all fucking hopeless.”

Alicent left, slamming the door behind her.

Aegon stared at his half-empty cup of wine, staring into the red, swirling liquid. He was a vicious, monstrous cad. Not like his brother was, at least he was useful in his monstrousness, bringing half the realm to heel on that geriatric dragon of his.

 Aegon was more akin to a dog than a dragon, feeling the yank of his chain once more. Mayhaps he was a bad dog– he bit the hand that tried to feed him, leaving him starving and alone.

He got up from the settee and moved to refill his glass when he saw a flash of gold in the corner of his eye. Bending down, he picked up an embroidery hoop. The edges were cracked, splinters of dark wood jutting out. The thread weaved in it was golden and pink, in the shape of a dragon– half of one, anyhow. He could spot the likeness of his proudest achievement half a mile away. It was a depiction of Sunfyre, half finished. It was quite good.

He put down the bottle, discarding his goblet for the time being. He wondered who did this– mayhaps Helaena or Jaehaera. 

Then it dawned upon him– he had seen Lyanna holding it when she was gathering her things days before.

Just before he said those things. Hurtful, awful things. His fingertips traced the stitches of the embroidery, amazed that she was able to portray Sunfyre so accurately without ever having seen him.

Aegon’s lip wobbled slightly as he felt tears well up in his eyes. He wasn’t a bad dog– he doesn’t know why he bites. He just does.

taglist: @mariahossain @zillahvathek

[ataraxiaspainting]

Sweet Hibiscus Tea.

Yan Shalnark x F Reader.

Synopsis: After a day of finally trying to face your social anxiety, you walk home alone. The roads are empty, quiet, and eerie. But you are almost home now, aren’t you? You are not going to cry anymore. Just when you think life is starting to turn around for you, it goes in the exact opposite direction. 

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence, kidnapping, misogyny, not SFW implications, psychological horror elements, manipulation, panic attacks, Shalnark being an asshole, unhealthy relationships, and stalking.

Word Count: 5k.

Can be considered to be within the Hier Encore universe.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham

Things She Said by Chris Garneau

Baby Bride Rag by Roar

Butch 4 Butch by Rio Romeo

Appetite of a People-Pleaser by Ghost and Pals

Valentine, Texas by Mitski

I’m Yer Dad by GRLwood

Cry Baby by Melanie Martinez

Freaks by Surf Curse

Neighbour by Mother Mother

“You stay soft, you get beaten; only natural to harden up.” — Mitski, Stay Soft

*~*~*~*

Regardless of how much time has passed, this convenience store always remains the same.

There is always the familiar, tired face of the clerk behind the cash register, her gaze never on you or any other customer who walks in and out of the doors, a simple, muted hello being the only proof that she noticed you.

The lights dim and blink without fail, fading from white to a shade of daffodil to dark flaxen before disappearing and resurfacing yet again as alabaster. No matter how black the night sky is, the less-than-bright illumination never changes.

Neither does the rest of the scenery.

Next to the payment area are two vending machines, with one not functioning. It is dead, with the glass broken by a punch that left a large gaping hole in the dead center. Once when you accidentally touched the front wall while bending down to get your can of lemonade from the working one, it left a sticky residue that had you rubbing your palm on your sweater for what felt like an eternity. It somewhat helped, you guessed, but it also stained your clothes. The vending machine to its right was always out of most sweet drinks, often leaving you with the choice of coffee, lemonade, green tea, or water.

You don’t buy any snacks aside from strawberry Pocky and, if you are lucky, a chocolate bar.

But you do buy meals here because it is cheap. Usually fish with miso or a salad, but there have been times when you can find a premade sandwich.

The total cost comes to between 500 to 1000 Jenny. There is always a poster that claims the cashier is the employee of the month, though you are certain that she is the only one who works there.

The only thing that ever changes is the calendar behind her. The past dates are crossed out in red ink that is in the form of thick, scraggly lines. They remind you of the drawings you used to make as a child when your father was too busy screaming outside your door and your mother was too powerless to do anything but cry and yelp as he hit her. One time you drew them fighting, and when one of your maids saw it, it inevitably found its way to his desk.

Needless to say, he was not happy by any means.

*~*~*~*

The calendar behind the worker reads the 17th of April, 1998. On this day in 1985, your first and only ever friend, the head gardener’s apprentice, went missing. When you eventually gathered up the courage after waiting for hours outside, you went to your father’s room to ask where she was.

“She has been removed from the premises for distracting you instead of doing her job.” The answer you got was to the point, because when has he ever been warm to you? “I made sure that she had learned her lesson before she died. She was in pain the whole time. It was a shame to put a bullet between her pretty eyes. But at least she had a bit more use to me beforehand.”

You cried and cried until you threw up.

That is when your mother, the usual bandage over her left cheek this time, came in and sat on your bed gently, sadly.

She patted the area next to her and slowly you stood up from the floor where you kneeled as you sobbed and went over. She asked you if you wanted a hug and you said no. She responded with a simple nod, respecting your answer. But then what she said next turned your tear-stricken face into a glare.

“She’s alive.” She muttered, along with thanks to God and a hold of the cross on her neck. 

“...What?”

Your mother shushed you when she heard footsteps coming to the door. When the sound eventually leaves further into the hallway, she leans into your ear while pointing to your vanity. Your gaze leads you to the dusty cat statue made of garnet.

It got shattered a little while ago when a maid cleaning your room accidentally made it fall to the floor. You felt bad for her as she was a new hire, so you never told anyone aside from your mother. You knew that if your father, the head of this household, ever found out he would punish her severely, even when he did not care for the statue at all. You got to choose, if you were lucky, which part gets whipped or cut off.

“Yes.”

Her short answer leaves you almost jumping up out of your seat. “...Huh?”

“At last week’s banquet, she caught the attention of your father’s wealthiest business partner.” She turns to the curtains covering the lone window in your room, her back now facing you. “She was tricked into boarding a car when the driver claimed you were inside waiting for her. To the partner in question, she is nothing but another pretty face to add to his collection.”

At the slight turn of the doorknob next door, you two go as still as wax people in a museum. “Why did he lie to me?”

“Why? Well, he certainly did not want you rebelling against his decision.”

“But I have never rebelled against him before.”

“I know.” Your mother lets out a sharp laugh, salty and sour. “I know you are always trying to be good, trying to stay under the radar. I know, I know because you are a lot like me. but now I am going to teach you a lesson about your father and the world at large. Remember that a man’s resentful attitude will always result in a woman’s agony, physical or otherwise, always. However, when things go right for a man, a woman is either praised like a dog or ignored until something goes wrong because it is never enough.”

You can’t breathe. “But why? Why, why, why? What did I do wrong? What could I have done right?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. There is nothing you can do or could have done. No matter what, your faults will always be found. That is how most men are raised, to find, and how most women are raised, to hide.”

“...”

“Men’s hearts are such cruel, small things. Oftentimes they can only fit themselves in them, but there have been times where even they cannot fit.” She is still holding onto the cross charm on her gold necklace, firmer than she has ever held you. “They are cold, are or are almost dead. There is no room for people like you and me. No room at all. All they see us as is something to own, something with no feelings whatsoever, and whose only purpose is to please no matter the cost. Such pigs, all of them.” She murmurs some prayers that you cannot hear. “I want you to be better. I want what is best for you, what I never have been able to accomplish; run and live.”

She opens the drawer beside your bed, and you don’t do anything to stop her. It is not like you can hide anything, from her or anyone else in this house. Whatever is buried eventually resurfaces. She pulls out your rarely used bible, a thick layer of dust on the leather cover. It smells and makes you cough. She doesn’t though.

“At least your father does not force you to read this day and night.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It is one of the few things I appreciate him not doing, I do not want you to grow up hating the church.”

“I know.”

“He has made you hate a lot of things already.”

She turns the pages, dust flying around the cold air.

“He made me hate a lot of things too. Blankets, steaks, cameras. The color white, the color black, the color red. The sounds of belts unbuckling, the sound of laughter, the sounds of doors opening and closing and locking.”

You don’t say anything, only looking at her hands. Only in the dark can you not see her scars, her blooming wrinkles, and the bruises that are always fresh. 

You don’t say anything, because you have learned from a very young age that you are her only listening ear. You are the only one who keeps her head on her shoulders. You don’t say anything, because she is right. He has made you hate plenty of things. But, but, but. But you can’t hate him, and you can’t hate your mother.

You can’t hate her, because who knows what she would do when she finds out that no one cares about her pain in this hell?

“Mother.” You mutter, putting your head on her shoulder as you scan the text on the page that she selected. She does not stop you. 

“Yes, [First]?”

“Do you hate me?” You ask, trying so very hard to not let her see the tears that threaten to come out of your eyes. “Because… because… if I wasn’t conceived, you wouldn’t be here hurting, would you?”

You could swear that you heard her heart skip a beat.

“...I would not be here, yes.”

She is honest, for once. You know at least some of this situation is all your fault.

“Do you hate me?”

“...”

“Mother, please answer me.”

You hear a sniffle as she starts mumbling the words written. “‘A gracious woman gets honor, and violent men get riches.’”

You choose not to press on the subject. You don’t want her to suffer anymore.

*~*~*~*

You buy an orange-flavored Ramune soda, a pack of pork ginger instant ramen, and strawberry Pocky.

The total would come to about 600 Jenny if your quick calculations are right. You could get something extra, like a topping for your ramen or some chips. But would it be wise? You have never been someone who finishes their plate after you had ran away, so what if you just waste your money?

So, you decide not to get anything else.

You walk to the cash register.

You hear an explosion from the back of the building. Small sparks of white and orange. The lights go off before you can place your chosen items down, and you can hear the employee cursing under her breath. The breaker. What happened?

“Damn it, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” She grumbles, putting her thumb and pointer finger on the bridge of her nose, rubbing. “No raises whatsoever. Only one here. Without me, this place wouldn’t be working, ungrateful pricks.”

Fighting the way your heart rate shoots up, you decide that talking to her would be best. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone aside from your boss, right? 

Maybe your anxieties would quell, and you can eventually graduate to talking to your co-workers, that would be a dream come true for you.

You haven’t had a friend, a real friend, ever since Rose was taken from you all those years ago. You still cry whenever you think about her. You miss her. Is she dead, is she alive?

You still blame yourself. If only you hadn’t talked to her, maybe she would still be with you. What kind of adult would she have been? A kind one, a responsible one? You would still be friends at least, wouldn’t you? Or would she grow to hate you, if she didn’t already?

You keep telling yourself that she wouldn’t and didn’t, but that is not what your mind tells you.

Is she dead?

You could picture a rotting corpse six feet under. An unmarked grave. Glassy, dead, amber eyes looking upward to anyone who looks down, helpless, pleading. You always liked them, always complimenting them much to Rose’s shy chuckles. She was so pretty, that much was true. You could only imagine how beautiful she would have been as an adult.

Her looks were a personal gift from God, the heavens, and the angels.

But if she didn’t have them, would she not have been treated like she was in the estate?

“Erm, excuse me,” You mutter, taking a few steps forward. “If you want I can go check it out.”

It is what Rose would do. She always liked helping others. You just wish that people would have appreciated it more and seen past her appearance. It was a double-edged sword. It helped her become the head gardener’s apprentice but also caught the attention of both your father and his business partners. You felt bad for her, and still do.

The employee turns around, her confusion prominent despite the dark. 

“Erm,” You mutter, looking down at your hands and entangling your fingers in one another. You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks in embarrassment. “Is that okay?”

It takes a few moments to respond. Her surprise was unexpected, as you never spoke to her outside of asking her if she had change or telling her you hoped that she had a good night. Rose would be better at this kind of thing. You once had a dream that at a fast food joint, an adult her would order for you and correct the staff when they put pickles on your burger. It’s what could have been, funny moments like that. She had always been the one to take charge, you following her like a lost puppy.

You miss her so much.

So much.

The worker slowly nods. “...Okay.”

“...It’s in the back, right? The breaker.”

This is so awkward. Rose would be better. You wish she was here. Or your mother. Anyone.

“...Uh. Um… I like your eyeliner.” As soon as you say that, you curse at yourself, not wanting to sound like a creep. The woman’s confusion becomes even more prominent.

“...Thanks, and yeah, it’s in the back.”

“...Okay.” Jesus Christ. You turn away from her, the heat on your cheeks hot enough to be mistaken for a fever. This is not what Rose would have done.

“...You can leave your stuff here.” She says, and you quickly spin your heel and put your items on the counter. “It’s not like they are going to grow legs and run off, so relax.”

“...” You both chuckle, and you feel slightly better. “...Thanks. I’ll go now.”

“...” You start walking. “Wrong way.”

You stop.

It takes you a few seconds for you to move back to first base and go off in the opposite direction. As soon as you open the creaky steel door, strong rain and cold wind greet you, along with a loud clap of thunder and lightning.

Perhaps you could go back and get your umbrella from the stand by the door. But that would be even more awkward.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

“If we are lucky, the wind simply detached it or something. Not the best at this sort of thing, though.”

“I don’t think breakers detach.” You could picture her shrugging and scoffing at your murmur. “Sorry. Sorry. Just… sorry. I’m the best at this sort of thing either.”

You close the door behind you and start looking amongst the pitter-patter of the raindrops and gusts that nearly make you fall over. 

Stupid. Why do you make everything so weird? Rose would have been so much more charismatic. It was one of her strongest traits after all.

Stupid.

It’s hard to see. Trying not to trip over stones and cracked cement, you grip onto the wall and walk forward. Soon, you feel something.

“Ew, ew, ew!” You cry out, quickly moving your hand away from the slimy slug. “Ew!”

“You okay?”

“Uh, nothing. Just a bug. Yeah, just a bug.”

You hear a chuckle. Stupid.

“Sorry!” You exclaim, almost bowing your head. “Sorry! Really!”

Making sure you don’t touch the slug again, you keep moving.

Eventually, you find the breaker. But it wasn’t what you were expecting by any means. The damage almost looks like it was done on purpose, the way it was open and covered in soot. Did something get to it?

The breaker that exploded was a mass of melted metal that had been blown apart from the intense amount of heat and pressure. It was now barely recognizable as a single unit–parts of it scattered across the cement path and others having been fused and becoming something else entirely. The metal had been melted and blown upwards in the sheer force of the explosion, coating parts of the wall, wet grass, and roof with small, solidified droplets of metal. The ground around the remains of the breaker is burnt and scarred with traces of the immense fire that had consumed it.

It seems the rain put it out.

“No hope for this, huh?”

“Hey,” The employee calls out. “How bad is it? If there is nothing you can do, come back inside.”

So, you do.

The way she turns at you is robotic almost. A smile is on her face that was not there before. She nods when she sees you. Something tells you to not approach.

“It exploded into molten metal.”

“Oh well.”

Under the stormy skies, her gaze turns pale. Her eyes, seemingly captivating, lack any hint of vitality, while her lips curve in a disarming and saccharine manner. A shiver runs down your spine as you meet her gaze, every fiber of your being urging you to flee. Deep within your primal instincts, an innate awareness stirs, recognizing the smile as a charade, a mask of humanity that ventures into the realm of unease: akin to an artificial being adorned with synthetic flesh or a wax figure encased in glass. Those lifeless, white eyes, coupled with a forked tongue and an unsettlingly beautiful countenance, leave you with an undeniable sense of mistrust.

“You’re not mad? Really? Um…”

Something is off. What happened? She looks more like an imposter than anything else. But if she is, where did the real cashier go?

“Don’t worry.” She says, her voice oddly chipper and no longer confused by your awkwardness. “It’s fine. I’m quitting anyway, so it’ll be my boss’ problem.”

You turn your head. “Really?”

She nods. Something is off.

“Like really?”

You blink multiple times and you don’t think she does. She just stands there. Slowly, she nods. Something tells you to run yet again.

“Um… um… okay. Okay. I’ll just pay and leave. How much does it come up to?”

She shakes her head.

“Um. I have to pay. It’s thievery if I don’t.” You get closer. “It’s the law.”

“It’s fine.”

“I can’t just not pay.” You say, taking out your wallet from your sweater pocket. “That’s stealing. It’s wrong.”

Every action she takes is measured and precise, and she seems to move like a machine rather than a person. It’s as if she’s been programmed to act and talk in a certain way, and she doesn’t seem to have the ability to break out of that. She simply stares at you, not speaking.

Run.

You undo the metallic button, hearing the shuffling of paper Jenny within your wallet. “Um. Let me pay. Please.”

She simply shakes her head again.

“It’s fine.” The employee says, the smile still plastered on her face. There is quite more than a hint of blankness and detachment in her expression. She speaks in a mechanical and emotionless manner, her words delivered as though repeated from a script of carefully chosen sentences. Her movements are quick and precise, putting your chosen items in a plastic bag. There is no life or energy in her actions, instead, she moves like a mindless machine, performing her tasks before her without showing any personality of her own. Is it better to just accept it?

What should you do? What shouldn’t you do? Is she joking? Should you leave?

What would Rose do?

One of her hands grasps onto the plastic handles and she holds it out before you. There is no authenticity or warmth. Her eyes are blank. What happened? Should you ask? Should you just take the bag without saying anything further?

“Okay,” You murmur, obeying her silent command. “I hope you don’t get into any trouble though.”

*~*~*~*

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Did you find anything?

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Feitan found her heels nearby along with some blood, so she couldn’t have gotten very far.

You (9th May 1996 17:45)

Nothing yet

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

Try checking the stores nearby.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

From the blood trail, she is most likely injured from running and trying to fix herself up in some sort of shelter.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:48)

She may have also discarded the rest of her clothes, not just the heels, and is currently wearing something else.

You (9th May 1996 18:15)

I found a dress and jewelry at the bottom of a lake

You (9th May 1996 18:18)

(image sent)

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

That’s it.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

Disappointing. I’ll send over Pakunoda to ask people nearby.

You (9th May 1996 18:20)

K

You (9th May 1996 18:21)

Don’t cry, I’m sure we’ll find her soon :) 

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I wasn’t crying.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I just thought she came around already.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:23)

This will set our heists back weeks.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:24)

She has planned this out for more than a year, it seems.

*~*~*~*

Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. You can’t hear anything else. The sounds sting your ears like an aggravated hornet. 

The darkness around you is solid, more so than the cracked, aged concrete path beneath your shoes. There is a tiny light in the distance; a streetlamp.

Silence.

“...”

“Have a good day!”

“...Thank you.”

Let there be light.

“Um…” You can’t see anything. The sounds… stopped. “...Time to go home.”

But the pain stays. 

It feels like a drill. 

It hurts.

“...” You feel deaf and blind. No, maybe something even worse. “...”

You turn around, to the dark convenience store, and you see the cashier still staring at you. “Have a good day!”

“...”

“[First]?”

…How does she know your name? Did you say it to her in the past?

When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

“[First], dear.” She starts waving as you look at her. “[First]. [First]. [First]. [First]. [First]!”

There is nothing but emptiness. Is your name all she can say? What happened to her? It is like she has regressed. Like a storm cloud in summer, you do not wish for this pain. Now you feel deaf and blind and mute now. 

You almost wish that you were dead. All there is is pain. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

Interruption. The sounds returned. Is this good? Is this bad? Does it matter at all? 

You walk. You don’t speak. Only walk. You can’t breathe. You can only move. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. 

Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

A hand clamps over your mouth.

You drop the plastic bag from shock, and then you finally hear something other than those sounds; glass shattering.

“Sh…” A voice, calm, along with the smell of oranges. “It’s okay.”

“...!”

“Don’t scream.”

The touch of lips, a man’s lips, on your ear, thin and hard. 

“Breathe. Just breathe for me, okay?”

But you can’t. The wind goes down your throat. It is suffocating. You can’t breathe. You smell oranges and something rotting, blood.

It stinks. It fucking stinks.

Christ. Get away. That stink. That fucking stink. Your body rejects it by continuing to not breathe.

“Sh… Breathe. Just breathe, for me, for you, for us.”

“...St… Sto-”

“Sh…” The voice is sweet, not at all sour, like candy. “Calm down. Nothing bad is going to happen. Just breathe. You’re going to pass out.” The lips and the scent of his breath are like salted leather in a butcher’s shop, stinky and rotting. “Calm down. Don’t worry.”

“...Sto… Si-”

“Breathe. Sh… It’s okay. Breathe.”

“...Ge… Sti…”

“Sh… Breathe. Breathe, [First]. Breathe. [First]. Breathe. Breathe. It’s okay. Don’t worry about all this. Breathe.”

When you finally do, you gasp, desperate. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

Get off of me, I can smell you. 

“There we go!”

Your vision clears up a bit. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

“Just keep breathing.”

“...Huff…”

You can smell him. You can practically taste him, with his mouth so close to you.

“Whew! That was a close one!” The man exclaimed, wrapping his other arm around your waist.

Pain. Get off of me. I can smell you, I can hear you, I can taste you. Get off of me. Please.

The pain still stays, in your chest and your ears, and your head. Oranges. Blood.

Get off of me.

Please–

A pain in the back of your neck and you go limp.

Darkness. Then pain again. You can’t move. You can only breathe. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

*~*~*~*

SAINTSHORE SPACE THEATRE

UNDER THE DIRECTION OF RANDOLF URASLEF, GRETEL JAMES, AND QUINCEY J. ORATICE

PAUL DONSHEL CELESTE BAKER   ANNE CROAKS

AND

THE GREAT COMET THEATRE COMPANY

SWAN LAKE

ADAPTED BY MUSIC WRITTEN BY PYOTR ILLYICH TCHAIKOVSKY

INSPIRED BY THE CHOREOGRAPHY OF JULIUS REISINGER

WITH THE WONDERFUL CAST OF

(IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)

Odette, the White Swan………………………………………………………….JEAN YVETTE

Odile, the Black Swan……………………………………………………………...JUNO LILOU

Prince Siegfried……………………………………………………………(the name is illegible.)

The rest of the list’s names cannot be read just like Prince Siegfried.

“She is simply beautiful. Just so beautiful. Simply wonderful, perfect.”

As the spotlights ignite, their scorching beams engulf you, causing you to shield your eyes with futile resistance. The sheer force of the light overwhelms your feeble defense. An ethereal audience erupts with exuberant cheers, applause, and whistles, resonating from vacant seats. Champagne flutes collide, men erupt with hearty laughter from their very core, and women unleash piercing screams akin to banshees.

The temperature rises and the noise intensifies, repeatedly, enveloping you in a symphony of overwhelming sensations.

Onlookers casually share their thoughts.

“Get off the stage, we want to see the play, not some stagehand!”

“Boo!”

“Fuck off!”

You run off crying.

“Where is that Odile girl?”

You run into a dressing room. One used by a woman wearing a black dress. She is so pretty. Her long strawberry blonde hair falls off her bare shoulders, clearly just done with a flat iron. There is a burning smell in the air. Smoke. When her gold eyes meet yours, she marches towards you and slams the door shut.

You can almost hear sobbing coming from the other side. Cries.

“So lonely…” The woman mutters. “When will it ever be enough?”

The voice sounds familiar. Her eyes. Her hair.

Nostalgia. Memories you would much rather forget. The basement. The imaginary ripping of clothes and tears and men’s laughter.

“I can’t do this much longer…”

Someone else knocks on her door. You want to scream.

“Come out, dearest.”

The devil. Tall with curved horns and a forked tongue. You want to warn her. 

You want to save her. “I’m not going to harm you, I am going to make you happy.”

You are so focused on whether the woman opens the door or not that you do not notice what happens next until it is too late. A clawed hand on your mouth. A tongue licking your ear. Tasting your sweat. Your tears. Laughter. The rest of the world disappears, and the only one there aside from you is the one behind you.

Sh… Sh… Sh… Sh… Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

Get off of me. Please.

“Breathe. It makes things more fun for me.” The voice echoed like you two are in a cave.

You gasp for air, and the smell of blood and oranges fills your nostrils.

“...Huff…”

“That’s better.”

You turn around. There is a body of a man. 

But the scaled, furred, horrifying face of a demon.

“Good.” He says, smiling his sharp teeth. “Deep breaths, in and out, come on.”

You do what he says. He praises you again, you think. But you can’t hear it. Either that or you simply do not pay attention to it. What happened to the woman? 

“...”

“We should go.”

The woman. The devil, this other… thing.

“...Rose…”

The demon laughs.

“Wake up.”

*~*~*~*

The first things you hear come from a happy man’s voice. “My boss’ girlfriend ran away more than a year ago you see, and he’s been heartbroken ever since. I want to prevent that kind of loss from happening to me. Real pretty one, too! He didn’t expect it, but I don’t blame her. After all, she’s been held captive for more than a year, she had to try to escape eventually.”

…The first thing you feel is lace on your neck. A collar.

It does not tickle or hurt. It itches. 

A cold hand plays with it, and it almost chokes you. At your discomfort, the man laughs.

“You are so cute.”

Something metal is on the collar, and it blinks a small red light.

[miyamoratsumuu]

UNSENT LETTERS

↳ he was a writer, you were his muse. and every stroke of his pen reminded him just why all he wished for was to be the one to love you until the end of forever. iwaizumi hajime x female reader wc: 864 note: sappy, lovesick hajime. set around the 1950s or so?? not modern times, basically. phones did not exist yet, and traditional courting was all the rage :D

navigation . . .

haikyuu masterlist

"how many poems have gone unnoticed? my only wish is to be with you until the end"... now playing, leonora by sugarcane

the relationship between you and hajime was like no other. even though he was only courting you now, he treated you as if you were the only woman in the world.

he picked you up from your house for days together, gave both you and your mother flowers whether there was an occasion or not, and visited you after days of not seeing each other. he would have his guitar in hand, giving you a warm smile as he handed you a flower.

"let me sing for you tonight, gorgeous." hajime would sing you songs of adoration, as each chord he played on his guitar matched his voice perfectly. the looks he gave you as he sang were filled with nothing more than genuine fondness, and you felt it.

on days you and hajime were apart, a letter neatly folded inside an envelope was delivered to your front door. every single letter you've received from hajime were words of his longing and endearment towards you, as he never failed to express how much he truly loved you.

"my love, I hope you've been well. I am deeply looking forward to seeing you again soon."

"no matter how bad the rainstorm, your smile is all I need for clear skies, darling."

"I'm half a man whenever I'm apart from you, my beloved."

he loved sending you letters, it was his love language. if he couldn't put his feelings into words, he was confident enough in his writing skills to express his love to you through ink on a piece of paper.

he did it not only to assure you of his undying love but also to prove to you that he was willing to wait. he was willing to spend his days writing letter after letter for you, as long as you knew him for his affection.

the only pieces of writing he never sends you were his poems. each line is made to rhyme with the previous one as they work together to convey your beauty as a person. he could never send you those, as he considered them keepsakes of the parts of you that you only allowed him to see.

all the while hajime will do anything to prove he's worthy of your love. even if it costs him the rest of his life, he'll do it. he needs you to know that you're deserving of someone who would wait a whole lifetime just to love all of you.

hajime loved you. and if the numerous kisses on the cheek and letters that reply to the ones he sent weren't enough, the look in your eyes was enough to tell him that you returned his feelings. he was confident that you loved him.

that was until your smile began to look dim when you spent your days with him. until the warmth in your gaze whenever you looked at him disappeared. and until you stopped replying to his letters.

the day five of his daily letters went un-replied to, he decided to visit your home. only to find out from your next door neighbor that you and your family moved out a week ago. he felt his heart drop as he heard the news. you left. and he didn't know. how could he? you never told him. the only signs you spared were your painfully obvious distancing of yourself from him.

despite his disappointment, his confidence in you loving him didn't falter. he was drowned in his thoughts. he refused to believe that all the days and late nights you spent together meant nothing in the end.

he continued to write for you. day by day, piles of unsent letters and unheard poems filled the corner of his bedroom, each of the envelopes slowly collecting dust from the outside. each letter still contained his commitment to you, and the hope that you will come back to him.

numerous times, he was told that he had to move on and that he could find someone new. he was too young to be throwing away his life for someone who packed their things and left without a word.

he never listened to them. though, he decided to finally write another letter to you. he promised himself it would be the last one for a while.

hajime signed the letter as he set his pen down beside the piece of paper. his gaze traveled to the farthest end of his desk, and then he stood up and left the room before the portrait of both of you with loving expressions could taunt him longer. the last time he felt your presence was in his dreams, and that was weeks ago.

until when was he going to put up with this? until his heart felt numb and until forever ended. he'll wait, for his own sake. you were the reason long before, and it's still you until today. he isn't planning on changing that.

his last letter now sat on top of the pile of unsent ones. that corner of his room now marked the love that was left in him that he could never give to anyone else. 

hajime's until next time:

GILIW KO & AKING SINTA: two filipino terms for "my love"

both letters say the same thing, the right one is just there in case the one on the left is hard to read:)

a/n: guitar player iwa has been on my mind for AGES??? i HAD to somehow incorporate that into this 🙋🏻‍♀️ also, please excuse my editing skills on the first pic, ahahadhauehdahah

[annaraebananawriter]

Day 1 - Stars

Hello all! I come bearing a new fic for a new ship week. This one (created by @starsanspolyweek) (which is also me) is for the Star Sans Poly ship! It's so fun to explore how much they mean to one another, and I thought about doing a ship week for them a few years back, but only got the courage and motivation to start it last year. So sorry about not posting anything for that one--I honestly just didn't get anything written. But this year I have!

I will try and update daily, though today is the only full day I have pre-written. The others are mostly a handful of words, or a blank page. We'll see how it goes.

Without a further ado, happy reading!!

Fandom: Undertale, but specifically UTMV

Characters: Dream (Who belongs to Joku), Blue  (Who belongs to P0pcornPr1nce) and Ink (Who belongs to Comyet)

Pairings: Star Sans Poly/Pre-Star Sans Poly

Warnings: None, actually, now that I think about it. Let me know!

Summary: "Dream is not mortal. His brother, Nightmare, is also not mortal. They are both gods. An incident in the past involving both of them forced the hand of the other gods to create a new rule: Mortals and Gods are not to interact, let one infect the other with knowledge they should not possess.

This rule becomes a problem when Dream becomes infatuated with two mortals, Ink and Blue."

Word Count: 4420

***

I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

***

The tree was always Dream’s favorite place to watch the stars. Nothing beat climbing up to the furthest branch, using skills built upon centuries of practice to get up with the ease and grace as a nimble forest animal would naturally have, using the same skills to balance there on a branch that would’ve cracked had he been anyone else.

Being so high up got him so close to the sky, so close he could almost feel the twinkling lights kissing him. He could spend hours there, crouched in the tree, staring up at the wonder most didn’t think twice of.

Correction: he has spent hours there. He often got so lost in the beauty of things that he forgot to return home, and so his brother would be forced to come and retrieve him. Though he’s often said to Nightmare to just let him be, and though his brother often agrees to do so, forever annoyed at having to leave their house for any reason, he is often going back on his word, there at the base of the tree to call him home before sunrise without fail, every night.

Tonight, it’s still early enough that he knows he has time to watch. He settles in, leaning against the trunk, eyes searching the sky for anything and nothing at the same time. If he were an artist, his fingers would itch with a drawing. If he were a writer, it would be a story or poem instead. He is neither, however, so instead all he does is look.

That is enough to content him.

Mostly.

He does sometimes wish he were more creative. Sure, he can sketch something and have it end up half-resembling the original idea, and he can string together a short story with a simple theme, but they both end up crude and childish. That’s not a bad thing overall, it just leaves him unsatisfied, forever envious of those who can do them.

It’s funny, really, that in all the centuries he’s been alive, he has never mastered the art of art. So many other things he can do with his eyes closed. Never art. The closest thing to it is baking, maybe gardening, both things he can do well enough. Healing might be considered an art in itself, but it’s not paint and words and colours and metaphors. It’s not something people will look at for years with awe, not something people will hang up on their walls or in galleries. It’s simply a skill to help others, as is his duty and job—the only thing he is ever frustrated by.

He doesn’t hate doing his job. No, he does enjoy helping people. It makes him smile when he can dry a child’s tears with some warm magic on the knee, or when he grants a miracle to a family who now needn’t worry about the cost of a funeral for someone so young. In fact, he prides himself on doing good, spreading laughter across the world. He loves the stories told of him, the kind way they portray him in artwork, and he’s flattered by the statues of him in temples. It’s all something he enjoys.

That doesn’t mean he can’t find it uncomfortable at times.

One of the very first things people decided about him was that he was never selfish. He was always working in favor of others, always, no matter the demand or price. As the people have sway over how the universe works, he is bound to this fact. He can never act for himself, not without it also benefiting others. In the beginning, he hadn’t minded this, naïve to there being a different way to live, but when he found out he was the exception to the general rule, he couldn’t help but find it unfair.

Yes, he is not mortal. That shouldn’t mean he cannot be as free as them.

He should not have to bend to their whim, pick up after their messes, make every tiny wish come true. He should not have to heal all their scraps, paper cuts to broken bones, and he should not have to drug them to feel happiness, his aura meant to be something soothing and helpful in a crisis, not something to get addicted to.

Through the years, he’s grown so irritated that the common belief about him is that he enjoys being seen as a slave. It is simply not true at all. He enjoys helping people, yes, but he does not enjoy how it is half of what people see when they look at him. He is so much more than that. He is the sun and the stars and the light of your home, the lightness in your chest. He is the pleasant morning breeze against your flushed skin as you close your eyes and bask in it. He is the relationship you have with your closest friends and family, the way they know you better than yourself, that unspoken trust that they will be there to hold you when you fall.

He is so much more than a helper.

Dream is a God.

Yet, the laws of the universe dictate that he never speak about his wants, for that would be ‘—blasphemy for suggesting that we have free will like the mortals. We do not. We serve Fate, and Fate tells us to serve the mortals, to act the part they want us to play.’

Nightmare is a stickler for the rules. He never used to be. He was once as dissatisfied with the role mortals gave him while he had not been able to see what he meant, too wrapped up in the glitz of attention. Time has seen that their roles flipped over. Now, Nightmare insists he remember the laws, remember the role he plays, the one both of them play. What happened all those years ago changed him so much…

Ah, but he rambles. As he always does when watching the stars.

It’s time to clear his mind, lean his head back against the bark and fall into his trance. Crickets are abound on the grassy floor of the hill below, providing a symphony as he follows his own instructions, stretching his leg out along the branch. On a whim, he plucks an apple out of the air, biting into it, letting the juice fill his mouth.

It makes him sigh, this simple act of savoring what he eats, especially since it’s not needed. It is something he wanted, and so it was something he did.

A small rebellion, if you wish to call it that.

Closing his eyes, he took another bite.

He should eat more often. It’s a pleasant experience, and the taste is amazing. This apple was just one of the many edible things out there, too. Perhaps he should try an orange next, or maybe one of those sweets he’s heard about. Something to consider the next time he comes to the tree to watch the stars, that’s for sure.

When he opens his eyes again to look at the sky, he finds himself looking at a face instead. Freezing like a deer caught in the hunter’s gaze, Dream looks at the face in front of him, eyes wide.

It belongs a skeleton monster, that much is obvious, and it’s eyelights do a curious thing he’s never seen before. They change. Shapes and colours, they change as the monster blinks, making him fascinated. He’s never met a monster whose eyes change colours. It’s intriguing to watch, and he wants to ask this monster how his eyes work. Does he pick the colours and shapes? Or do they just happen? Does he know his eyes change, or will the news surprise him?

And then he remembers the new law, instilled after Nightmare’s incident: Mortals and Gods are not to interact, let one infect the other with knowledge they should not possess.

Remembering it, and realizing this would count as a violation of the law, makes his eyes widen even further, something in his stomach churning uncomfortably. He starts to panic, thinking of the repercussions of this act is found out, how it will affect Nightmare, since the universe is much more willing to blame any fault of his onto his brother.

The apple slips from his hand as his grip loosens.

The mortal catches the apple before it falls too far to salvage. “Hello!” The mortal says, grinning. His eyes change again, distracting Dream from his panic for a few moments. There’s an ink splotch on his cheek. Is he aware of it? “What brings you all the way up here?”

“Um…” Dream says, and then his panic returns, engulfing his line of thought. Automatically, he tugs at his magic, giving it the order to teleport him out of this interaction before he gives away more than he should.

Unfortunately, he does think of a destination along with the order, so he blinks and finds himself falling, having only teleported below where he was sitting, in a space without any branches to catch himself with. The beginning of a scream escapes him before he manages to wrench his mouth shut. It’ll do no good to draw even more attention to himself, not now. The best he can do is keep quiet and begin to teleport again.

Before he can give the order, he is caught, his hand instinctively clenching the fabric of a shirt. Blinking once, then twice, he breathes heavily as it sinks in that if he was caught that means…he looks up at the face of another mortal, another skeleton monster at that, who is looking down at him with concern, checking that he is alright.

Then, his face changes, jaw clenching, and the mortal looks up at the tree. “Ink! You were supposed to ask him why he was up there, not scare him into falling!” The mortal shouts up at the other one.

Ink, Dream thinks. How fitting, considering the splotch of the substance on his cheek.

The mortal who caught him does not have the changing eyelights of his companion, but that does not mean they are any less fascinating. They are blue, a bright blue that almost seems to glow, contrasted by the darkness that surrounds them. It’s a trick, he knows that—and really, the only eyelights that can glow are his own, a tell that he is not as mortal as everyone else—but it still makes his heart skip a beat.

Sounds of leaves being shaken come from above their heads, and they watch the other mortal—Ink—hop down. At first, the height he jumps from makes Dream panic, a feeling echoed from the mortal whose arms he was still in. Or maybe that feeling came first and he was the one that echoed it. Emotions were vague, that way. Landing perfectly fine, though with a bit of a stumble, Ink does not feel regret for making them worry, instead just laughs at them.

“I didn’t mean to, honest!” Ink says, grinning first at his companion, then looking down at Dream, blinking. His eyes change again: two question marks, different colours. “I gotta say, it’s weird that you got down here so quickly. I mean, I know you fell, but still. I didn’t hear any branches break or anything. The only leaves on the ground are from me.”

He’s observant. How terrible. Not only will he have to scramble for an excuse to leave as soon as possible, praying that he makes it home before anyone can get suspicious, he will have to find a way to avoid these questions.

The companion answers before he finds any words. “Don’t be silly, Ink, he just fell. That’s it. There’s nothing different about him.” He says the words pointedly, as if referring to something only the two of them understand. What were they talking about?

No, no, don’t ponder that!

Just go home.

Except he’s still in the mortal’s arms, and now he’s been in them so long, it feels too awkward to ask him to set him on his feet. That is the only reason he hasn’t moved, he tells himself, and nothing to do with the fact that it’s comfy here.

Ink scoffs, throwing Dream’s apple in the air and catching it. He takes a bite out of the other side, opposite from where his marks were. For whatever reason, the fact that this mortal is eating his food makes his cheeks burn. “You don’t know that. I’m telling you, there’s something off about him! Something…magical.”

His companion—he really must discover his name—shakes his head. He feels exasperated. Obviously, they have had many conversations like this. “Magic doesn’t exist.”

Unable to stop himself in time, Dream flinches. To proclaim that magic does not exist in front of a God, a being comprised of and birthed from the rawest form of magic, knowing you were in the presence of one or not…well, that hurts. It’s like someone denying a piece of you exists, no matter how much proof is written down, how many times you explain it to scholars and historians. It’s like they shake their head, telling you that you are the uneducated one, and referring you to a handful of resources that provide all the reasons as to why, exactly, you’re wrong about yourself.

Ink sees this flinch. “Ah, but he flinched when you said that! Why would he flinch unless you wounded him personally?” Grinning in triumph, he walks closer, standing in front of them with his hands on his hips. There is a small bit of apple stuck on the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps it’s time to ask the man himself. What say you, Magician? How do you explain traveling such a distance in such a short time?”

As the mortals wait for an answer, Dream swallows.

The only way to get out of this is to lie, which goes against everything that he is; God of Honesty and all that. Which is different from truth, yes, but it still holds the same restrictions. He cannot lie here, not fully. But there are many ways to lie and perhaps he can use that to his advantage by taking a page out of Nightmare’s book: avoidance and omission.

Yes, this will work. Or else he risks all of them being in trouble.

“Uh…” Dream says, swallowing again as he draws on his courage to raise his eyes to meet Ink’s. The changing eyelights are trained on him with unwavering attention. Clearing his throat, Dream tilts his head, pushing a curious expression to fall over his face. “Your eyelights change, did you know that? I’ve never met someone like that before.”

It’s a very clear avoidance, much like seeing someone you don’t want to talk to, making eye contact with them even, and deliberately turning and walking right back where you came from. Ink doesn’t call him out on it, though, instead just hums. “I see, I see. You want to keep your secrets. I guess I can respect that. A magician never tells, correct?”

“They’re very pretty to watch,” Dream continues as if he hadn’t replied.

Ink stares at him some more before shrugging. “Alright, Magician, keep your secrets. Maybe you’ll tell me your trick one day.” Now that his topic seems to be finished, he smiles, putting on a show of blinking and unveiling the brand-new eyelights. “Thank you! They are my second-best trait, if I do say so myself.”

Dream blinks. “Second-best?”

“Yes,” Ink laughs, eyes scrunching up. New eyelights appear. “They’re fine, but I’m used to them by now. It doesn’t excite me as much as it seems to excite you.” Sending him a wink, he reaches into his satchel, which is sat on the ground on a blanket he had been too preoccupied to notice before now. There are other things scattered on the blanket, a few snacks, and a telescope aimed up at the sky.

Finding what he’s looking for, Ink holds a notebook in front of him. “But these are much more interesting. I say this with modesty, of course. I would never proclaim myself one of the greatest artists of my generation.” With a hand on his heart, and a grin on his face to say how he really feels, he offers the notebook to Dream, who reaches out to accept the notebook but falters, remembering he is still in the arms of the other mortal.

Isn’t he tired yet? His arms must be aching by now. He is not a light God, certainly would not come across as a light mortal. But the mortal doesn’t appear to really notice him in his arms, content to stand as long as needed. Still, even knowing he wouldn’t mind holding him for a while yet, it feels like he’s being mean by taking a notebook to look through, lounging in the arms like it was his idea. Certainly, if he does this, he would come across as selfish, and as already established, this is something he cannot do.

But how to explain such things to a mortal…?

Ink seems to notice his dilemma, and he smirks at his companion. “Are you going to hold him all night, Blue, or are you going to allow him to stand on his own two feet again? I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to make sure he was uninjured.”

His companion—Blue, Dream thinks to himself. How appropriate, with eyelights the essence of the word itself—jumps as if just remembering he is, in fact, holding someone in his arms.

“Oh, I am so sorry! I didn’t think to—I didn’t mean to—I’m so sorry.” He doesn’t seem to know how to explain himself, stuttering and starting over as he sets Dream on his feet. When he looks back at him, Blue is blushing, flushed from his neck up, the colour just as bright as his eyelights as it glows. Ink is laughing in front of them, not even trying to hide it.

Dream smiles, laughs a little himself, patting him on the shoulder. “If it helps any, your arms are quite comfortable.”

Blue’s blush deepens. “Thanks.”

Taking the notebook from Ink, he first runs his fingers over the cool sensation of the leather cover. He’s unable to tell what colour it is exactly, too much of the pigment sucked into the darkness that surrounds them—which reminds him of another problem. “It’s too dark to see your art.”

Ink looks up at him as he plops himself down onto the blanket. He’s still eating Dream’s apple. “Ah, right. Forgot it was night.” Laughing at himself, he shrugs. “I guess you’ll just have to borrow it and wait till morning to look at it.”

Blue frowns at Ink, having walked around Dream and is fiddling with the telescope. “You’re giving it away? You never give your sketchbook away.”

With those words, Dream’s hand stills, fingers hovering in the air, a hair width away from the cover. Never? What made him so special, then?

It seems that’s Blue’s question as well, the one not spoken aloud. Ink shrugs again, answering both of them at the same time. “I’m not giving it away forever. It’s not like he’s just going to keep it.” Pausing, he looks at Dream, appearing for the first time this night nervous. “Are you?”

Dream shakes his head. “Of course not! I understand how important your art is to you artists. I would never steal it from you.”

“Right.” Gesturing at Dream, Ink continues talking to Blue, “See? I’m not giving it away. I’m letting someone borrow it.”

“Yes, but you never do that either.”

“There’s a first for everything.”

Silence rings in the air as both companions fall silent. He cannot help but feel that an unspoken conversation was just had with those few words, a conversation he is not even somewhat aware of. Like Ink said—a first for everything. What did they talk about? Was it about him? Must’ve been. Was he really that important to them?

Oh no, he didn’t interrupt anything, did he? Is he ruining something by lingering here? Well, he is, but is he ruining something for the mortals, too?

It’s best he leaves, quickly now, before—

“Are you going to sit down, Magician?”

Blinking out of his worries, Dream clutches the book to his chest. “Pardon?”

Ink tilts his head back, looking at him upside down. “Are you going to sit down, join us? I promise you; we don’t bite.” Another pause. “Not unless we have to.”

Blue smacks his arm. “Ink!”

Ink laughs, the sound beautiful, filling the quiet as if it was always meant to be there. “What? Just telling the truth. You really have nothing to be afraid of, I swear it. We’re out here to test run Blue’s telescope, that’s all—he built it himself, you see.”

Mouth opening in surprise, Dream draws closer, inspecting the telescope. It’s true. It’s made out of a mixture of wood and metal. If he reaches a hand out to touch the barrel, he runs the risk of getting a blister. Despite this, it is pretty, the rough wood a nice texture, the cool metal that frames the edges, that makes up the legs and the viewing port a nice difference, a good compliment. He cannot see too many details—again, too dark—but he can tell that a lot of work was put into it.

Shifting his gaze, he finds Blue’s gaze. “It’s amazing. How did you build it?”

Shrugging, gaze dropping back to his fiddling, Blue mumbles. “It’s nothing special, really…just wanted to make something to look closer at the stars…”

Beside him, Ink groans. “Don’t be silly, Blue.” Scooting over, he leans against Dream’s back, his breath warming the side of his skull as he whispers into where his ear would be if he was based on a human. “I keep telling him not to be so modest. It never sticks.” Getting louder, he leans forward even more, pointing at Blue and his telescope. “You built it to prove to your classmates that you didn’t get into school by chance. You built it because you knew you could. You built it with your heart, with determination—that’s how you built it.”

It seems Blue is unused to so many compliments in a row, the flush creeping back in, but Dream can tell that this is a proud flush, not an embarrassed one. “Bit more to it than that, but I suppose…and I can tell that I need to change the glass—I don’t think this was the correct cut. I need to change other things a bit, too, as it’s not zooming in as much as I want it to…” The longer he speaks, the more confident he gets, the more relaxed. He is in his comfort zone now, talking about his telescope, about the intricacies of it.

As he rambles, Dream glances over his shoulder to Ink, finding him looking at Blue with a smile far gentler than his grins were. This one, he can tell, is only used for moments like this, looking at someone he loves. Oh, how much he loves Blue…the emotion is like flying up into the sky, being among all the stars, all the lights, and closing your eyes and letting yourself fall, the euphoria in letting go.

It makes Dream’s essence pulse in tandem, like a heart skipping a beat.

However, in doing this, it reminds him of how different he is to these mortals. Why he puts them all in danger the longer he stays.

If Nightmare were to catch him like this…it would not be worse than the others, but it would mean being on lockdown. He would not be able to go anywhere without his brother breathing down his back, watching his every move, through his own eye or one of his familiars’. His brother is paranoid, afraid of what the others have done. If he sees this, he will worry that the others have as well, that the same thing that happened to him will happen to Dream…

He should leave. He should leave, right now.

But…

Tuning out of the conversation, Dream looks down at the book in his hands, runs his fingers over the leather, feeling an indentation where Ink has carved his name.

Ink has given him his sketchbook, obviously a weighted responsibility with the way they were talking earlier. Then there’s Blue and his telescope, which he built from the ground up with his own two hands, and the way lying in his arms was so comforting—he wants to know everything about them both. Why build things? Why draw things? Why create things?

These two mortals are the first ones he’s spoken to in a long, long time. Since before Nightmare’s incident and the law was fashioned. He wants to know how things have changed from last time, how much progress they’ve made as a society—he has heard of an Industrial Revolution, would like to know about it from the eye of mortals, maybe even see the changes it had made for himself. He longs for it, an ache in his bones that he cannot ignore any longer, has so many questions and two people able to answer these questions sitting so close to him.

It's dangerous to stay…but it would be terrible to leave.

The mortals deemed him selfless, to never act for himself. They might have had good intentions at first, but they quickly grew greedy with their order and wishes, and the gift turned into a curse, a prison. He has spent so long behind these bars, watching mortals grow close with one another, watched the others dictate the laws of the universe like they were the only deciding factor of it. He has watched mortals revolt tyranny all on their own, watched them write into their laws time after time some version of free will, that everyone has the right to be who they are, all of themselves, without judgement, without prohibition.

Perhaps the same can be true of a God…

Perhaps the same can be true of him.

There is a first for everything, and so Dream decides to try and be selfish, sitting down on the blanket to stay in the mortals’ company for a little while longer.

[callsigns-haze]

Pretty like a crime

Chapter 12

Pairing: Agent Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Singlemom! Agent Y/n 'Cobra' Y/l/n

Summary: Cobra is finally back on the agency and is finally back in the job. With Kai at home she has to jumble being a mother and a agent. She's sent to her first U.C mission but never thought that she would meet a blonde, green eyed Texan...

Warning: Mentions of gun use, ptsd, mentions of death, mentions of shooting, flirting, mentions of abuse, description of dead body, death, blood, undercover work, alcohol use, smut, kissing

Prologue/ Part 1/ Part 2/Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5/ Part 6/ Part 7/ Part 8/ Part 9/ Part 10/ Part 11

You held him in your arms. Funerals. You hated them but at this point you've built up an immune system to the tears and pain. On the outside of course, never the inside. Your arm was wrapped around Jake's waist and you put your head on his shoulder. You looked down at the ground.

Javy.

You see, Jake loved Javy like a brother. You know? Hangman and coyote the ultimate duo. Yep, that was them, that was the two lads we were talking about. They knew that one day they'd be gone but never expected it so soon. Jake also felt guilty. He brought Javy out that night to seek satisfaction in revenge upon Matthew and yet that cost him Coyotes and Justin's life along with Matt's.

You stayed there a little bit after everyone walked away. Jake needed his moment. Honestly, how do you say goodbye, to someone who's been with you for your goddamn life. Who gave you some of the best laughs of your life and flashes a smile when he looks at yours. Jake never wanted this to end, Coyote was one of his closest friends.

Along with Bob. Bob and Hangman were rough but never strangers. He was like a younger brother to Jake, always there if he needed a hand, always helping him hunt someone down. Calling him a baby or dummy was a way of expressing his love because he expressed it through his cockiness and Bob knew that, he always did.

Phoenix. She was the 'man'. Jake always teased her about running as fast as she could but she only wanted to prove that she could be as fast as a man. And Jake was so sick of men coming at her again, because if she was a man, she'd be a man.

Fanboy, he was sweet like candy, in his veins. Surrounded by all the horrible things of the day. He was like lightning in a bottle, happiness never leaving because it was all that he thought of. All he did was strike people with the heart of electric love. He strikes with that electric love.

Payback, he was calm. His eyes are godlike and voice and tone approved. He was patient and timing with a bunch of happiness underneath the prince-like features. He was composed but with Jake he was wild.

Jake loved each one of them. They were his family. And now they were all in the stars. The six feet made it feel so far. Jake felt alone between the heavens and the embers. Oh, it just crushes him so hard, stabbed him like a knife in the back for a million different reasons. They built and shaped his heart and now a part forever stopped beating.

You whatsoever love the daggers equally as much but one man today had a special feeling upon you. Justin. He was your brother. Your love for him beats deeper than the ink of your matching tattoos. You both went through similar trauma and that's the truth. You may have grown apart, lived different lives but heaven only knew that somehow you'd find your way back to him.

And Matthew. He may have been your ex but still. He was the man that rocked your world solid while it lasted. He was the love of your life or what you thought he'd be but not anymore. It still hurts for a million different reasons, he was the light in the dark and now it suddenly dims. He took a piece of your life and now you stay here not knowing how to respond honestly.

You allow Jake to have a moment and walk over to Bradley and your little boy. As soon as Kai notices you walking over, he speeds out of Bradley's reach and runs to you. You grab him mid flight and lift him up into your arms, placing him upon your hip. You give him a delicate kiss on his forehead and walk back over to Bradley.

"Is Jake okay?" Asked Bradley, he worry about his only friend who managed to survive this murder attempt. You look over where your boyfriend stands and simply sigh. You didn't know what was going to happen from now on. There was nothing left for you here, no proof about your past existence and no survivors to tell on your tale.

Kai rests his head in the croak of your neck as you rub his back up and down and finally answer Bradley's question. "Honestly, only time will tell."

He simply nodded and asked, "And you?"

"I'll be fine." You will be fine, with time obviously. You just needed time like every normal person would.

You all stand in silence until Kai lets out a little pep in your ear, a sort of whisper, is a better way of describing it. "Can I go to Jakey? He seems sad, I don't wanna see Jakey sad."

You tried to stop your tears from welling up in your eyes and you kissed your son's forehead and nodded a simple yes and put him down on the ground. The second those little booties collided with the ground those feet took off in Jake's direction. God bless for your boys.

-------

You have just placed your son in bed and tucked his covers up tight to his chin. The two of you were telling stories, just like every single night. It was a story followed by a melodic bedtime song. You have just sang the last note as Alfie strides in with his golden fluff, slipping across the floor like a mop. You give him the lightest rubs as he gets up onto Kai's leg bed space.

You know Kai is a comfort now. He has the best guard to watch now and you could finally take two steps back before closing the door.

Jake decided to go to Javy's place to just get some last things and say a last proper good, goodbye. You knew it was a while till he would get your plans done and dusted and Bradley still was coming up to collect work papers soon.

All you have to do now is wait. Rest and wait, that's all you got to do now. You slide down to the couch with a bottle of wine in hand. You weren't even bothered to get glasses for this, you were drinking it damn straight from the bottle. You needed it for after today and the night that only sparked.

You needed to stop that November flash as it filled your eyes once again. It was like a cure. This place was once a madhouse, decking the halls with light and life. One for friendship, two for love, three for you never letting go. But too bad you're messed up in the head, nobody would even notice you're dead.

You lie there for a while, half a bottle done. How did you feel? You felt like you were going to die. You rolled your head back on the couch. Bradley would be here soon and you were far from sobber. You lay like that for a while longer, eyes closed and head tilted up to the ceiling as your last breath was long and clean before a rag covered your mouth and nose with a hand over your eyes.

Current taglist:

@callsign-magnolia

@shanimallina87

@callsign-dexter

@rosiahills22

@horseslovers2016

@djs8891

@hookslove1592

@emma8895eb

@hardballoonlove

@kmc1989

@dempy

@mamachasesmayhem

@senawashere

@emma8895eb

@buckysteveloki-me

@sweetwhispersofchaos

@a-beaverhausen

@itsmytimetoodream

@jessicab1991

[yinwaryuri]

Fuck this, I wasn't tagged by anybody but since y'all are making me insane sharing your lovely faves on my dash I gotta join the fun!

10 BL People That I Want Carnally

Just so we're clear, I'm immediately not limiting myself to 10. I'm bi. You think we have limits? (Tumblr says yes, but that's why I'm on desktop for this instead of mobile)

Night from Dirty Laundry

Are we surprised? This awakened a whole thing in me. I was constantly yelling from the rooftops about my love for this man in the cheapest drag you ever saw. This is my JAM. I'm already trying to calm myself down making the first entry on this post. GOD. And his whole committed-to-the-bit romancing a mafia leader and then robbing her because he needs money, but really he's a wee romantic who just wants to write exciting stories like all of us bitches on AO3? Honey I am FREE at 5pm on Saturday. Also, shush, I know it's not a BL, I'm counting it as part of the Midnight Series as a whole :P

Yok from Not Me

PAINT ME LIKE ONE OF YOUR POLICE OFFICERS. We already have matching tattoos babe. He isn't perfect but he's a well-intentioned mama's boy and has swagger.

Maya from Laws of Attraction

Listen, I don't think much explaining is necessary here. I'm a woman but she can call me "pretty boy" any day. Is she just Silvy Pavida with a MILF wife? Yeah. That's the point. I'll join. They would let me.

Speaking of Laws of Attraction, Nawin

I deserve an insane golden retriever boyfriend. I deserve a man who can't spell his ex's name but can get a pilot's license. He deserves someone who will enable his silliness, even when there's trouble with the accountant. *kisses all over his wing tattoo*

Togawa from Old Fashion Cupcake

Mr. Hamster Cheeks my love <3 The dates would be so good. And so would the food. And the food naps afterward. I'm a good snuggler, he's tall and there's a lot to snuggle. Win-win.

Ink from Bad Buddy

I know many of us are weak for Milk Pansa, but like, there's a reason for that. She gave us the ICON for lesbian side couples. Please, girl, scare men away from me when they mistake a boner for full-fledged love. Make me feel welcome and important and pretty and like I'm the specialest girl alive. Be taller than me ;)

Wen Qing from The Untamed

She didn't die, actually, we just eloped together, haha. I just think as someone who studied medicine, she'd have a lot of good tricks up her sleeve and I don't mean acupuncture needles.

Saifah from Enchanté

Yeah. I needed to use this gif. Get that record deal my man. Live your dreams king. I also love that he's both the old man and woman here. Impeccable. We deserved more of him.

Uea from Bed Friend

Gimme this catboy realness right now. Also, I just love him so much. He owns his narrative despite all the shit he has suffered and gets everything he deserves for it. We could be besties even. We could be...no I shan't say it.

SamMon from GAP

I just want whatever is going on right here. Let me join. Simple as that.

Tops and Marwin from Ingredients

I'm this guy. Except I think they'd be sad to see the other with someone else so I gotta have them one at a time. Tops, who's a shy cutie who can make yummy foods. And Marwin, who is basically Jeff Satur just pumped with extra himboisms.

Todd from Not Me

All principles out the window. He's evil, he's sexy. I know exactly how much that specific hotel room costs to stay in for a night. It would be luxurious.

Rain from Love In The Air

I know most people would say Phayu, and for Boss, yeah I understand, I am all there. But something about the way that little guy can fuck kinda makes me dizzy, I'm owning that. He doesn't have to be smart, he's just gotta be given compliments. Plus, my bed sheets match!

VegasPete from KinnPorsche

They altered me chemically once and I'd let 'em do it a second time and many more after that.

Tagging @kissporsche @thisautistic @omegaphobe @shubaka @risu442 @khathastrophe @loveable-sea-lemon @fawndlyvenus @viva-yas-vegas @first-kanaphan @wherelanguage-ends @xxatlasxx @adanima @snake-and-mouse @scarefox @scattered-stardust @callipigio @sparklyeyedhimbo @jdotsodomite @futureexmrsmalcolm @suzteel @jeffsatyr @coconuts-mafia

[most-datable-datable-bracket]

ROUND 5 MATCH 3

Elliott propaganda:

“Just look at him. Pure hunk energy.”

“I will punch anyone who dislikes him. He’s like a fire emblem character in the modern day. He’s so flamboyant and handsome, he can play the piano and he’s best friends with the old fishing man!”

“dramatic writer man with sexy hair”

"Since I like elliott. I will state some reasons why I like him

Imagine if Mr. Darcy didn’t insult your family first time you met him, that’s Elliott. The man who’s basically the hallmark romance love interest. He’s a writer who moves to the small town in the country side to find inspiration for his writing. Then he finds the farmer.

He has a crab living in his pocket

He can play the piano (hopefully it isn’t the river flows in you however)

His fans sometimes hc him as a merman and that’s just a major plus IMO

He genre of the book he writes is dependent on what genre you say you like.

He also sends letters to you if you marry him

Okay and also some things I dislike

His liked gifts, the easiest one is pomegranates, which cost like 6000g to grow a tree if you don’t pick the fruit cave. I AM NOT GETTING SQUID INK IN YEAR ONE FOR YOU.

he might be British /j

The fact he has no kitchen but still likes food like lobster, like he is just a mystery. Lives in a cabin, with no kitchen, no washroom (okay no character has a washroom), but still likes the most fancy food out there and has luscious hair worthy of a L’Oréal ad.

Gifting him on rainy days when you don’t have two hearts"

Dimitri propaganda:

“He's chivalrous, he's blood thirsty, all rolled up into one package and calling you "his beloved". Get you a man who can do both.”

“My husband <3 He's schizophrenic just like me and I love him for that.”

"First, look at him. No disrespect to the monster lovers, but even if blonde, blue-eyed hunks aren't your thing, you can't deny that Dimitri is very pretty.

Second, one of the things I love most about Dimitri is how self aware he is of his privilege as a prince (or king) and how seriously he treats the gravity of his position. He has a strong sense of duty and wants to be a good leader who listens to and provides for the needs of all of his people. This includes the citizens of Duscur, who were nearly wiped out by his own countrymen in (mistaken) retaliation for his father's murder. His commitment to righting this wrong is one of his primary goals in life.

Third, while he is more than capable of crushing a man's skull with his bare hands, under normal circumstances he absolutely wouldn't. A large part of the reason why his fall is so shocking and devastating to witness is because by the time he snaps, we know that Dimitri is actually a kind and gentle soul who hates violence and understands that even his enemies are human. Even at his worst point he still recognizes this, which feeds into his extreme self loathing. He extends compassion and forgiveness to others but struggles mightily to allow himself any forbearance for his own mistakes. He's kind quite literally to a fault, as his empathy is both his greatest strength AND his biggest flaw and I find that as heartwarming as it is heartbreaking."

"Okay first for all the "he needs therapy haha funny" (and its annoying corollary "I can fix him") comments, 1) don't we all? And 2) you can't romance him til end game when he is in a much healthier place due to his own choice to change his priorities and the support of you and his friends. He battles daily with severe mental illness in a repressed society that doesn't talk about it. And on multiple occasions tells people that it is okay to feel your feelings and offers support despite his own struggles (I include that bc that is a date able trait to me). If he's not your fave that's cool, but leave the ableist language out of it pretty please 💙💙 Okay reasons he should be your boyfriend now!!

He calls you his beloved and wants to hold your hand 🥺

His happiest moments in game are when you smile

And in conclusion, he is shaped like a dorito and has a huge cloak to snuggle you up in"