#and you can tell I have never draw an egg before

[disfrutalakia]

Very very silly, but here is a quick doodle of the qsmp tag new child, A1! Gave them a frog bucket hat since the tag adopted them, they are now cared for and has a bunch of fun hats (please someone tell me if a name has been decided for this egg)

[roastedoatmilk]

Lunch Box Scandal

Kento Nanami x Gn! Reader

Summary: Someone seems to be packing Nanami’s lunch for him and Gojo is determined to figure out who it is.

Word Count: 1.2k

Tags: the most tooth rotting fluff, mentions of satosugu, gojo needs a hug he's also a little shit in this, nanami being insanely whipped for his partner

This is also on ao3 !!

Little Things Masterlist here

Kento Nanami sighs as he walks into the faculty room, lunch box in hand, Gojo had been on his nerves all day pestering him over the smallest things. Sitting down at the farthest table from the door Kento sets his lunch box onto the table wondering what you had prepared for him for his lunch that day. Unlatching the buckle holding the tin box closed Kento hears the door to the room open and then quickly close again, he inwardly groans knowing exactly who had just entered the room.

“Nanamin!” Gojo cheered, “not having lunch by yourself, are you?” Making his way over to the table that the blond man was at and plopping down into the seat closest to him.

Kento tries his hardest to ignore the 6 '3 man child and opens the lid to his lunch box finally getting a view of what you had packed for him that morning. A small smile comes to the man’s face when he sees the effort you put into his lunch. The rice balls molded to be shaped like penguins each one having a different little face, the sausages cut to be shaped like octopuses, the eggs made out to be a duck with little faces, and a star shaped carrot placed over his peas. Taped to the lid of the box is a little note in your handwriting that says “You’re my Honey Bee” with a tiny drawing of two bees underneath it. As he was reading the note he could feel the gaze of a certain blindfolded man on him.

Sighing, Kento turns to the white haired man and asks, “Yes Satoru?” trying his hardest to make it look like your note didn’t affect him.

Gojo didn’t buy it for one second, a wicked grin on his face. Snatching the note from the top of the lunch box before he could say anything, Gojo brings the note closer to him and reads it before laughing, Kento just groans knowing what’s coming next.

“Awwww Nanami I didn’t realize you were the type to like being called such sweet pet names, I always took you for the type to hate them.” Gojo commented before continuing with “Maybe I should start calling you Honey Bun.”

Kento glared at the white haired man while he angrily munched on one of the rice balls that you had packed him, it was delicious as usual. You always insisted on waking up early to pack his lunch for him even though he has told you countless times that it isn't necessary. Gojo eyes the food curiously taking in the presentation of it.

“Hold on now Nanamin, who exactly packed this lunch for you?” The white haired man questions noticing how much effort was put into the lunch.

Gojo likes to think that he knows Nanami well enough at this point and he is certain that the stoic man wouldn’t put this much effort into his own lunch instead opting to buy a sandwich from a local convenience store and call it a day. Kento sighs not really wanting to tell Gojo about you, not because he was ashamed of you, that's not the case at all. Instead, it’s because he knew that the second the special grade sorcerer knew of your existence, he would never hear the end of it. Popping one of the sausages in his mouth the blond chews as slow as he possibly could to avoid answering the question.

Gojo groans at this before chirping “Come on now Nanami you can tell me anything.” to prove his point Gojo props up his head with the palms of his hands to signal that he’s paying attention.

Kento exhaled heavily before wiping his mouth with a spare napkin, turning his head away from Gojo he finally mumbles “Mypartnermakesmylunchforme.” saying it so quietly that Gojo wasn’t able to catch it.

“Nanamiiiii speak up. I may have six eyes, but my hearing isn't the best in my old age.” Gojo retorts, chuckling at his own joke.

Kento turns his head to face the lanky white haired man, a bright red painting his freckled face and his ears. Taking a deep breath the blond finally says, “My partner makes my lunch for me, now that’s quite enough Satoru I’d like to finish my lunch in peace.”

The second Gojo hears the word partner he perks up immediately, questions racing through his head. He takes in the look on his junior’s face, the red painting his cheeks and ears, the look in his eye as he reads the note you left him over again. In all of his years knowing the man, not once had Gojo seen him look like this. Instead of teasing the blond Gojo nods his head in understanding.

“They must be a really great person to have you looking like this.” Gojo says softly remembering the only person to ever make him look like the blond did now, causing Kento to look up at him.

“They’re the best person I know, they make me a better man.” Kento stated as if it was a fact, the love the man had for you was obvious.

Kento reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, opening it up and turning it towards the special grade sorcerer. Inside one of the main parts was a photo of a person looking directly into the camera, a bright smile lighting up their face. Flour covering their entire being smeared all across their face and clothes, some of it even making it into their hair. Kento smiles fondly at the photo remembering how you both had attempted to try a new recipe which ended in the both of you covered in the ingredients barely any of it making it into the bowl. The blond takes the photo out of the wallet and hands it to Gojo.

“This was the result of the first and last time the two of us tried to bake something together,” Kento explained “We came to realize that we don’t make a good team in the kitchen, more flour ended up on us than in the bowl.” The smile on his freckled face grew the longer he looked at the photo.

Gojo could feel the beginnings of tears welling up in his eyes, thankfully hidden behind his blindfold. The white haired man felt so happy that his junior had found his person, thinking about when he lost his own person all those years ago. Clearing his throat Gojo composes himself and says to the man next to him “Your secret is safe with me, don’t worry.”

Hearing the man say this briefly shocked Kento before he nods his head in thanks, placing the photo of you back in its rightful place in his wallet. Reaching for one of the rice balls he breaks it in half and gives a piece to Gojo, not saying a word as he does so. The two men sit in silence as they eat, a mutual understanding between them.

When Kento returns home that night he asks if it would be too much trouble for you to pack a sweet in his lunch for the future. You nod with a small smile on your face knowing that your lover isn’t a sweets fan but that a certain white haired sorcerer is.

A/N hiya !!! this is part one of a mini series that i’m working on i hope y’all enjoy :3 reader will be having a bigger appearance in the later parts !!!

[rodolfoparras]

The art of tardiness

Pairing: Unspecified Male Character x Male reader

cw: 18+, possessiveness, anal fingering, anal sex, top male reader, bottom male character, age gap, morning sex, writing on skin, feminization (hole referred to as cunt)

Synopsis: sometimes calling him yours just isn’t enough

There were times you were sure that your boyfriend was dating two different people.

One was the young man who’d swiftly tuck his tail between his legs at the smallest comment made about his relationship. That man could admit that he lacked experience compared to his much older partner, could admit he probably wasn’t his partner’s ideal type with his scrawny frame and short height, and he knew that even if his boyfriend were to look past those things, the people around them would never do it.

Then there was the rabid dog in the shape of a young man, that barks and bites at any potential threat, such as hostile comments made about his relationship. He’d look you straight in the eye and tell you not to make comments about a relationship you know nothing off, hell he’d get in a physical altercation if you provoked him enough.

And then of course there was the desire to bite the hand that feeds him, devour his person down to the bone so he wouldn’t have to share him with the world. He or rather you were pretty good at keeping this desire at bay but sometimes you just couldn’t contain it especially early in the mornings, when he looks like a sight to behold with his lazy smile bleary eyes, thin white sheet doing nothing to cover up his naked body.

You want to keep him in bed, mark him up, make him cum over and over again til all he can remember is the feeling of your cock

Unfortunately things aren’t that easy, especially when he has to get ready for work in half an hour, but stubborn as you are, you don’t let him go, dead set on marking him up as much as possible.

At first he’s too lost in bliss to notice what you’re doing, letting you suck and nip on the sensetive skin while desperately clinging onto your body, that is til you bite down hard enough to draw blood and the man jerks in place, wide eyed and suddenly too aware of what you’re doing.

“No marks” he says, even goes as far as to scruff your neck, as if you’re nothing but a disobedient dog to him “I have work, remember?”

“Please?” and you know that you must sound rather pathetic but honestly you couldn’t care less, especially not when you notice that a couple of marks have already started to bloom on his skin.

“So goddamn possessive what am I gonna do with you huh?” He says, while keeping a vice like grip on your neck “Should I let you write your damn name on my forehead? Would that make you happy hm?” He says gaze much softer as his thumb strokes your neck.

Even though he hadn’t intend to do so, his words gave you an idea and you immediately find yourself reaching for the night stand, hand blindly rummaging through the drawer.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” He says, brow raised but it doesn’t take long before realization strikes him “Absolutely not,”

You turn to the other man , practically giving puppy eyes. This time you do feel a tad bit of embarrassment but not enough to give up on this battle.

“I can’t go out like that,”

“You won’t,” you immediately say “I’ll do it somewhere you can cover it,”

“Jesus Christ kid,” he sighs out and pinches his brows but despite his words you know that his resolve has crumbled.

You’re quick to grab the first best pen before straddling his waist, the late night escapade having left him in nothing but a thin white sheet covering the most sensitive part of him but you can still feel you cock head rubbing upon the cleft of his ass as you settle down.

“Cheeky bastard” he breathes out, fully aware of where your mind’s gone to.

You only hush him response, muttering how you have to be focused before you attempt to put the marker to his arm.

But before you can do that he grabs ahold of your egg wrist, a firm look painted on his face “promise me it’ll wash off,”

“Promise,” you say with a shit eating grin on your face.

And as you proceed to put the marker to his skin, you realize that you’re at loss of ideas on what you could write on him. It’s like you wanted to do so much when the idea first struck your head but sitting here you almost feel overwhelmed by all the options that you have.

You play it safe at first, writing out your name just below his pec, a move that has the man squirming beneath you.

“Tickles,”

“Sorry,” you say, not an ounce of sincerity in your tone as you draw another scribble on his forearm. It’s you and him- well it’s supposed to be but your artistic skills only allow you to draw two stick figures holding hands.

For a moment there are no words exchanged as you continue draw on his skin. You do a couple of doodles here and there, some ridiculous other more scandalous. You even write some words on his skin- some being your name others being lewd quotes, everything done within range where he’d be able to hide it beneath his clothes.

“This enough for you kid?” He says, when the majority of his chest is covered in little scribbles.

He probably didn’t mean anything by those words. But the ugly monster residing inside couldn’t help but take this as a challenge especially when he says that as he lays naked in your shared bed, soft smile on his face, the scribbles of your name clearly showing under the rays of sunlight protruding through the bedroom window.

Instead of responding to him you grab ahold of his wrist, black marker writing out the letter M on his skin, bold and big, just within the range of where he can pull on a shirt if he wishes to hide the word. The letters I N E are soon added in place, big bold and curling around his underarm.

The word mine now lays written on his forearm.

But you don’t stop there, eyes flicking over to his furry stomach that looks awfully bare before you take a marker to it and start writing your initials all over it. This time around the skin isn’t as forgiving, straight lines turning jagged from coarse hair and faded scar. Not that you mind and neither does the little monster residing inside.

You continue writing on him, covering as much skin as he allows but truth be told you don’t know how his clothes will be able to cover up some scribbles, not that you plan on telling him that right now.

And he doesn’t seem to care that much as his gaze carefully follows your movements, breathing growing heavier and heavier with each second that passes.

At some point you feel the need to get closer to him even though you’re practically sitting ontop of him, swiftly shuffling around til you’re slotted between his thighs, carefully drawing a line from the crevice of his knee down to the groove of his left thigh.

He continues to watch you with attentive eyes, as you add a triangle to the end of line, the marker reaching dangerously to where his balls lay hanging between his thighs and from where you sit you can smell his musk hitting your nostrils, can feel his thighs clench beneath your fingertips , can now see the way the black arrow is humorously pointing straight to the furley ring of muscles.

It’s impossible not to reach out to the spot between his legs, a curious finger swiping over his sensitive skin and pulling a gasp out of him“Hah!”

Your eyes flicker up, cock twitching at the sight of the man who already looks so wrecked before looking back to the marker in your hand, moving it back and forth til the line on his thigh grows in size, doing anything just to busy your mind because you’re supposed to draw on him not fuck him, remember that?

But it’s not long before your attention is back onto his burning heat, a glob of spit landing onto the sensitive skin before your finger circles his now wet rim.

“What are you-“

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you slip the tip of your finger inside, watching the way he jerks in surprise, the sudden movement jacking up the straight marker line, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

“Jesus Christ kid,” he breathes, voice dripping with both arousal and amusement as you continue to sink your finger inside of him.

“This alright?” You ask, and push til you’re knuckles deep before giving an experimental curl of your finger.

Another gasp escapes his mouth, hips bucking up into your touch “ hah -now you ask?” He says, but despite his words the man nods at your question.

That’s all it takes for you to work a second finger inside, this time coaxing a hiss out of him,“easy there kid going to break me,”

You can’t help but chuckle at that”Think you’re giving me too much credit pretty,” you say but decide to move your fingers at a much slower pace, watching the way his body once again relax onto the sheets as contented hums escape his lips.

You continue curling your fingers inside while drawing onto the man; circling birth marks and scars you find pretty, drawing arrows across every inch of skin while watching the way he twists and turns in the sheets with every brush of your fingertips “so fucking pretty like this drives me crazy “

At some point you stop drawing on his skin, turning all your focus to the fingers buried inside him.

You don’t even notice the way tears have started to gather at his eyes, nor the begs and please continuously escaping his mouth, too entranced with the sight of his hungry hole practically swallowing up your hand.

It’s only when he grabs ahold of your wrist that you snap back into the present moment, now noticing how you’ve left the pen to bled out on the white sheets, and how the ink on his skin has already started to smear.

The gruesome monster inside tells you that you need to find another way to mark the man.

Within moments you’re grabbing ahold of his legs, pushing his knees up to his chest til his cunt is on full display, not wasting another second to line your cockhead up with his entrance before pushing inside him.

“Ah fuck! Insatiable dog,” he barks out, not having expected you to do that but that doesn’t stop him from practically clamping onto you as you bottom out: heels digging into your ass and nails digging into your back as you start driving up into his hungry cunt.”mpf fuck just like that keep going kid“

Who’s insatiable now? You think to yourself, a strangled chuckle escaping your lips as you continue to thrust into his tight wet heat.

It doesn’t take long before you’re setting a steady pace, thrusting so erratically he’s practically choking up on the moans that are trying to escape his lips, bed frame frantically rocking against the wall every thrust of your hips.

“Ah! Fuck! Going to - hah going to kill me,” he says through choked sobs, hands madly clawing at your back as if he’s losing his footing on this world.

And as you look down at the beautiful mess he makes, you can’t help but notice the shadow of a bulge showing on his stomach, right below the spot where your initials lay.

Once again you feel the zealous monster within you take the steering wheel, hand pushing his legs past his ears, before drilling into him.

“Say it “ you grunt out, hands keeping a vice like grip on his thighs, pushing his legs so far back you’re sure you’ll split him in half if you keep it up “Come on come on say you’re mine”

At first he’s at a loss for words, barely even able to catch his breath with the way you’re erratically thrusting into him but eventually he manages to respond to you.

“Yours yours all yours fucking fuck I’m cum-“ he splutters out, hole erratically clenching down onto your cock before he cums in hot thick white streaks, across both his and yours abondmen “‘m sorry ‘m sorry” he slurs out, while he continues to shamelessly fuck himself back onto your cock.

Something about that sight is enough to triggering your own orgasm

“Fuck!” You cry out, eyes squeezing shut before youre hit with hot blinding pleasure.

The world around you blurs out, ears ringing loud as you continue to ride out your high before you eventually slump down beside the man.

“Jesus Christ,” you say, ears still ringing loud, world barely coming into focus. “That was-“ you begin but trail off once you can’t seem to find the right word for it.

A laugh rumbles through the older man’s chest, his big hand cradling the back of your neck before he says “got that right kid,”

You look up at him only to be left speechless at the sight.

See people always said that a relationship with someone so much younger than him would ruin him. You’d hear it over and over again while eavesdropping on whatever conversation he was having about this “sudden” relationship.

You never really understood what they meant until you saw him sprawled out on your bed, gaping hole stuffed full with your cum, and every inch of his skin covered in your initials.

At least they knew he was yours to ruin.

Yours

Yours.

Yours.

That little insatiable monster that can't seem to find rest rises to life again, coaxes you to slot your lips against the older man’s, tongue slipping into his mouth and licking along every nook and crevice, leaving the taste of you behind for anyone that would dare kiss him.

It takes one more kiss before he prys himself away from you, and walks over to the bathroom on shaky steps, the sight of his inked ass is the last thing you see before the door closes behind him.

You slump back into bed with a smile on your face, the taste of him still lingers on your lips, the previous string of events practically burned into your iris and for a second it all feels like a dream that is before you hear your name being shouted behind the bathroom door followed by a string of angry words “why won’t this shit wash off,”

Oh well…

[neil-gaiman]

This may very well get lost in the flood, but if you see this, I just wanted to say that there were a lot of things I thought I wanted for good omens 2 (a happy ending for one, of course!)

But my favourite thing that a writer can do to my experience of a story is to make me go "okay forget EVERYTHING I said before, this is the outcome I didn't know I needed." This show took my hopes and said "no u don't actually :) i got something better" and it had the audacity to be SO RIGHT.

The finale I *thought* I wanted would have probably had me giggling and kicking my feet and then moving on with my day while in a bright mood for a bit.

The finale I got had me absolutely devastated, inconsolable for maybe an hour, and then just...immediately rewatching. And talking about it behind a fortress of spoiler tags. And writing, and drawing, and being invested in theories and trying to find all the easter eggs and just...falling in love with the story and the characters all over again. And I can tell that feeling will stay with me for a whole lot longer than a couple days.

I'm bad at brevity, I apologize! This is just a very long-winded way to say thank you (and thank you to everyone else on the team) for giving us these idiots (affectionately) to have Way Too Many Feelings about!! Thank you for sharing them with us.

I'm running GO in the background, crossing my fingers and looking forward to a season 3—whether or not it'll be what I'm *hoping* for, I am just beyond excited for whatever story it is that you want to tell us, and I trust that whatever it is, it will be wonderfully told! 🩶🩶

(But also, please, for your consideration...I am in fact soft and innocent, I can only take so much damage before I cry myself to critical dehydration—do with that what you must, I shall leave my electrolyte balance in your hands and hope for mercy. You did say everything would be okay, and thankfully we all know a writer would never lie!)

I wouldn't lie about that, anyway.

[luveline]

Hi Jade! I’ve been on my criminal minds rerun and it made me come up with this Spencer request if you’re taking them right now! Something along the lines of the reader and Spencer being together and she becomes pregnant but he pieces it together before she does!

tysm for requesting! hope this is ok♡ 1k

cw fem!reader has a positive attitude towards her pregnancy. vaguely adult theme

"I really don't think I can go," you say, flopping down on the bed. 

Spencer laughs and shakes out the shirt in his hands, hoping the creases from the dryer will iron themselves before dinner tonight. "You always say that."

"I really mean it this time. I miss Hotch, I do, and I'm glad he's out of WITSEC, but thinking about the restaurant is making me queasy." 

"Really? I looked it up, it's a nice place. They have their Grade A, it should be spotless in there. I'm pretty sure they almost got a Michelin star." 

You groan, turning onto your side. "I looked too. The entire menu is seafood," you whine. 

"What's wrong with that?" Spencer asks, giving you a quizzical look. 

"The smell." You rub your nose against his pillow and sigh. "I don't feel good. Didn't rough me up in my sleep, did you?" 

"I would never do that," he says, putting the last of the laundry aside to sit by your hip. His hand rests naturally against the slight curve of your side, fingertips pushing the hem of your shirt up enough to steal a glance at your back. 

He wouldn't say this aloud and it doesn't matter, but you've gained a little weight recently. Actually, it does matter in that he thinks it's adorable, but he knows that telling your partner they've gained weight is a faux pas. He likes it, anyhow. It's happy weight. 

Things are so serious now but they don't feel serious. There's no solemness in your relationship, just comfort. He's putting on weight in tandem. 

"You really don't want to go?" Spencer asks. The earlier he lets Hotch know the better. 

You wrap an arm around your stomach. "Sorry, Spence. I'm so sorry, I've felt sick all day and I think it'll just be a repeat of yesterday morning." You puked before breakfast, the smell of eggs too much to bear.

Spencer feels it click into place then and there. The weight, the puking, your changing taste. Your sore chest and lower back, your sensitivity. 

He pushes you gently, a hand on your hip to encourage you down. Careful, he lays down next to you, propping his head on the pillow as he brings hand up to hold you. He can't know for sure… but if you're pregnant as he suspects, it fits. And more than that, it's insane. He doesn't know how to handle this besides wrapping you up in his arms. He'll keep you forever, if he can. 

"Don't be sorry," he says, his voice faraway. You relax completely in his arms, sliding your leg over his to lock him in. "Does your back still hurt?" 

"My chest, Spence," you lament, "it feels like I'm winded. I think I'm coming down with something. Maybe you shouldn't be near me." 

"In that case, I'm staying right here." 

You laugh softly, the warmth of it a circle on his shoulder. "I can call Hotch myself and say sorry. I'll feel better in a few days, and we'll reschedule, and I'll pay even if he tries to." 

Spencer draws a line up your back. Now or never. 

He steels his nerves, the beginning of a hypothesis hesitating on his tongue. Your symptoms in addition to your irregular period and your regular sex lives points toward pregnancy. How does he say that? How should he say it? Should he even bring it up? Perhaps he should wait until you discover it yourself. And you aren't definitely pregnant, it's just a possibility. Maybe you're simply sick—

"Hey, earth to handsome," you whisper, cupping his cheek in your soft palm. You smile as he snaps out of his thoughts. "Hey. I lost you for a few seconds, where'd you go?" 

"Nowhere. I'm here." 

Your smile gets impossibly fond. It's not dissimilar to how you usually look at him. "Are you okay?" 

"Fine. I love you." 

"I love you," you say. 

There's something about you now, this gaussian blur to you. Sunlight seeps in lazily through the blinds thick as honey, a golden kiss to your skin where you lay face to face with him, and your I love you makes him want to cry. This is all ridiculous and amazing and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to make his mouth move into the right words. 

"What is it?" you ask. You know him better than anyone. 

"I think you're pregnant." Spencer winces, though he can't beat his smile into submission. "I mean. You could be pregnant." 

"Why do you think that?" you ask, visibly startled. 

"Your sensitivity to strong smells, your soreness, your late period, to name the more obvious. That's not factoring in your worsening low iron lately, and your headaches." You make a strange sound he doesn't like. "What?" he asks worriedly.  

"I'm late," you say into yourself, looking past him as you puzzle it over. 

"It's a good thing, if you are. I mean, it's an amazing thing if you want it to be. I'm saying everything wrong. It's only amazing if you want it to be, I want it to be. But I'm on your side no matter what." He grimaces into his hands, rubbing his face with both palms. 

You sit as he panics. He clicks his neck looking up, racing to follow you, alarmed as you shimmy down the bed toward the ensuite bathroom. 

"What are you–" 

"I'm gonna take a test." 

"Wait a second." Spencer catches your hands before you can get too far, pulling you back to the end of the bed to sit down. "Wait. Is it– is it bad? If you are?" 

You look down at your stomach briefly. Anyone else might miss it, but Spencer can't not follow your behaviour, and the way you're acting now makes him think he got it wrong. That you won't be happy. 

You grab Spencer's hand. "You know, it's not funny. All our friends are gonna ask how I found out, and I'm gonna have to admit that you noticed it first." Your eyes track up his face almost shyly, and soon your smile is as blistering as his. 

Spencer bends under your weight as you jump up, throwing your arms behind his neck, your lips smashed to his ear. "I love you," you whisper urgently, "so much. This is good, right? This is really good." 

"Are you kidding?" he asks incredulously. 

Spencer takes your face into two hands and kisses you as hard as he ever has. He realises a second in that he'd much rather be squeezing you, caging you into the circle of his arms unrepentant. 

"We have a really good excuse to miss dinner," Spencer says.

He sounds close to tears. You're worse, laughing wetly as you pull him into the bathroom to take your test. 

[urhoneycombwitch]

eddie who's cynical and grumpy only because he hasn't had proper aftercare. most people just roll over or leave when they're done and those that do stay to cuddle, it's Eddie holding them and never the other way around. He doesn't want to admit that it makes him feel dissatisfied afterwards, like the sex wasn't even worth it, because he got laid, that's the point, why complain? But there's just something... missing (and I figure aftercare wasn't as talked about in the 80s so he isn't really too sure what that something is)

Until a night with reader where they have absolutely mind-blowing sex, parting with heavy breaths and as Eddie's heart rate starts to slow back down to normal again, he's waiting for reader to grab their clothes, roll over on their side, something that breaks the connection and makes his heart drop. But they don't, reaching out a weak hand (because they're sluggish waiting for their soul to return to their body) to rub his arm. A gentle back and forth, which feels nice, but Eddie's suspicious. What is this, why are they doing it, and why does it feel good?

And then, "Can I play with your hair?" (from the muse prompt lol) and he's agreeing with a shrug and when reader starts to card their fingers through his curls and massage his scalp, Eddie melts. It's like a whole brain recalibration. His icy heart getting thawed out just because someone made sure to take care of him too. And if reader wakes up earlier in the morning just to ask how he likes his eggs? Eddie's already decided that he's gotta lock them down.

+18 mdni

cw: p in v sex, cockwarming

It’s you tipping over the edge into orgasm, choking his cock with your velvet walls, soft whine spilling from the back of your throat, that takes Eddie with you.

As he comes, he burrows his face into your neck. Your hands reach for his skull to draw him closer, and he unintentionally bites down a bit too hard on the soft skin of your neck.

You let out a gasp, fingers seizing in his hair, and he’s quick to pull his mouth up, kissing and soothing over the spot he’s left with his teeth.

“Shit, sorry, sweetheart,” he pants, the affection slipping out despite himself.

“It’s’okay,” you mumble out in one word, limbs going to putty, hands extricating themselves from his hair.

Eddie rises to his elbows and moves to gingerly pull out but you stop him, fingers flying up to dig into the meat of his biceps.

“Wait, can you- will you just stay in? For a little bit?”

You’re not kidding, he can tell- you’ve got a wounded puppy look that he’s dying to change. Eddie sinks slowly back into you, rotates his hips a bit so you take less of his weight, and settles his head on your collarbone.

A big, dreamy sigh, from you- like you’re perfectly content because of how close Eddie is.

His eyes flutter shut when you begin tracing light lines with the pads of your fingers over his bare back.

“What’cha doin’?” Eddie murmurs into the skin of your sternum.

Up his spine, circling under the curtain of hair against his neck, down the spine again; looping and rhythmic. Your hands don’t slow as you whisper “Lovin’ on you, weirdo. Hush.”

You can feel the well of his dimples against your skin as he smiles.

“Can I play with your hair?” you ask quietly, and before he’s even finished nodding you’ve got both hands winding into his dark locks.

You start gentle, thumbs at his temples, light touches against his scalp, but when your hands find the roots you give a short but hard tug.

The little flash of pain goes straight to his dick, and he bucks into you with a low groan, half filled-out already.

“You gonna give me another pretty mark to look at?” you purr.

Eddie lifts his head from your chest and grazes his teeth into the opposing side of your neck just below your ear, in tandem with a sharp snap of his hips.

He catches your clit beneath his thumb and grins wicked when you moan, pulling up again to look down at you as he says, “Gimme another one of your pretty orgasms and we’ve got a deal.”

[deadghosy]

WHAT ABOUT HAZBIN HOTEL X EYELESS JACK READER ?!

Hungry for some kidneys 😋🏃‍♀️

STOPPP CAUSE I HAD A CRUSH ON HIM- WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME BRO😭 I THOUGHT THIS MAN WAS SOOOO FINE🦆💗 which he still is 🤭😘

HAZBIN HOTEL X EYELESS JACK! READER

prompt: an eyeless man gets dared to go inside of a cartoon for some free “food”

Ben had dared you to go inside of this cartoon show that was becoming popular. You said hell no of course….but then he said the impossible…

“Would you either go in the cartoon for kidneys or listen to me tell you the whole script of the new movie.” Ben says with a knowing smirk at which one you would chose.

Never in your life have you jumped into a tv before so quick. But here you are as you stand in the middle of a red twin with dead bodies around. So you smile behind your blue mask and got to work.

You were so busy kidney hunting, you didn’t notice a tall red figure behind you smiling intrigued at how you were only looking for kidneys with your scalpel. You felt skinny hands touch your shoulders as you immediately tried to stab the hand quickly. But it was a wrong move because you got pushed by some green magic.

“Quick reflexes. Amazing my friend! You would do good for this hotel im helping” the man said as you stared at him. Before you could protest you got transported to a damn hotel.

NOW ENOUGH STORY MODE TYPE SHIT! NOW FOR THE FUN🔥

I imagine Angel one time seeing you use your tongues to eat a kidney that was in disguise and Angel had so many dirty jokes for you.

“Omg, I bet you’re a woman pleaser aren’t you?” Angel says suggestively as you just raise a brow at him not knowing what he is saying.

Charlie would try to get you to wear brighter colors, but you literally deny it as if you are still stuck in your emo phase making Charlie get war flashbacks to her own emo phase.

Imagine taking your bluemask off and scaring sir Pentious into thinking you are a ghost to steal his eyes😭 so evil but so funny.

I can see husk literally side eyeing you as you just eating. Like he is just so confused how you don’t bite on none of your other tongues.

I know some people draw ej with black fingernails, but what if Angel had painted them for you instead 💗

Imagine a cartoony moment where Angel is like “ah shit I lost my wallet..” and STARTS TO LOOK FOR IT IN YOUR EYES 😭 straight up digging his hands in ya eyeless holes to look for it and he actually did find it with a smile saying “ah Hah found it!”

Legit Angel will remind you of Ben as Angel will shove his phone in your face saying some dumb shit like. “Do you see it? Do you see it ? Do you see it?” As he has a stupid smirk on his face. You snapped grabbing Angel by his throat as the crew tried to pull you off of Angel as he struggles to breathe. “It was worth it…”

I headcannon EJ! Reader and Alastor being compatible friends because they both eat from human meat. But both different as EJ! Reader just eats the kidneys as Alastor eats the whole things

NAH IMAGINE KID EJ!READER GETTING THE LEFTOVER KIDNEYS FROM PARENT! ALASTOR’S PLATE😭💗💗 (so damn cute)

“No no, you use the little fork and the knife to cut it.” “….I literally eat with my hands.”

Just two hungry boys staring at each other while discussing flavors to make out of people.

The egg boiz likes to bring you dead sinners as you had promised them to read them bed time stories for kidneys..I mean a fair trade is a fair trade. 🦆

Idk but for me it makes sense for EJ! Reader to bite someone’s hand while sleeping cause in the fanon! slender house they are use to pranks being pulled off so many times.

Literally husk was trying to wake you up cause it was your duty to do the bar tendering and you ALMOST bit his whole hand off if it wasn’t for Husk’s scream.

I can see Lucifer trying to show you his ducks because he found how amusing how quiet and blunt you are as he practically shoved a duck in your face forgetting you don’t have eyes.

“Do you see how cute and amazing this is?! It’s a duck that can do the splits while shooting fire!” “I see.” *awkward silence* “I’m so sorry-” “sorry for what.”

I can see how your dynamic with Lucifer is like “I think I forgot something x I have it in my hand..”

Charlie once had you in red as you actually just stood there while she took photos of you. It was like you were ready for the first day of school as Charlie squealed happy to see her new staff wearing red.

“SMILEE!” Charlie say excited as you just stand there trying to smile but it came out strained showing all of your sharp teeth. “Yeah don’t ever smile again.” Angel said in the background as you jumped at him like foxy in fnaf 2 😭

I imagine you just standing there as Alastor puts his arm on your shoulder like an arm rest. Literally you are “😐 what?” face as Alastor is obviously “😄 what a lovely day!”

I can see you and niffty just playing random games during break time as husk just cleans glasses at the bar. It’s a relaxing sight for once without you trying to get someone’s kidney.

I imagine you and Adam having so much beef as he is annoying asf to you.

“Why are you eyeless? So you can’t see how ugly you are?” “No, so I can’t see how fat you basically are so it won’t affect me.”

THE WAY YOU GAGGED HIM- 😭🤭‼️

I can see the Vee’s trying to get you on their side but you would probably just flip them off as you eat a kidney.

I can imagine Vaggie trying to find out why there is black goo on the hotel stairs to find you are crying since Charlie banned you to scalpel anyone’s kidneys.

Vaggie and Charlie give you the angel dust treatment and try to find any scalpels you have in your room

I can see after the battle of the heaven and hell, you would just stand there like “🧍��what the fuck just happened..” as you try to scalpel a few angels only for vaggie to pull your blue hoodie away from one.

When Lucifer first met you, he thought you was a teen demon who just got hired. He wasn’t wrong for the hired part, when you first spoke that man thought he heard god himself as his eyes were wide at you.

I can headcannon Alastor bringing a sinner to your door with a note that say, “eat well <3” and you just stand there like….. “did I just get adopted by a cannibal..” you said picking up the unconscious sinner and grabbing a scalpel.

NAH CAUSE I USE TO BE FERAL FOR THIS MANNNN😨😭😭💗💗 HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS ONE!🦆‼️

[dragonseeds]

do you think dany knew what she was doing when she hatched her dragons or was it just an accident?

oh yes i think she knew exactly what she was doing. the magic in her blood and the eggs and the fire was speaking to her, coming through in her dragon dreams—especially that last fever dream after her miscarriage. i think she knew it was possible before because she could feel the eggs stirring and the magic waking up (and she was already connecting with drogon and drawing strength from him), but it was mirri maz duur who actually taught her how to do it.

i love that what she’s actually doing is never explicitly stated, yet everything she’s doing saying and thinking gives her away. like she swears to jorah she doesn’t intend to die with drogo, she directly compares herself to aegon, she places the eggs on the pyre and tells mirri maz duur that she’s going to take her life because only death can pay for life, etc., but the closest dany ever comes to directly saying it is when it’s done and the last dragon is about to hatch:

like calling herself mother of dragons and then calling them her children is unequivocal, but before that grrm’s building the suspense and creating this heady wild momentum. it feels very similar to reading her wake the dragon fever dream, and provides such a great insight into her character. the space in the narrative where she doesn’t acknowledge what she’s doing or exactly why she’s doing it is where the magic lives, and it also gives her a place to hide any lingering uncertainty or fear, while still making it clear that she understands what’s happening: that she is in fact making it happen.

but like speaking of accidents, i’m obsessed with the difference between dany’s success and egg’s flop tragedy. she uses her husband’s funeral pyre, the husband whose life she traded her son’s for, to wake the dragons (including herself) and creates life from death. aegon v tried to hatch dragon eggs during rhaegar’s birth (the child he and jaehaerys ii traded rhaella’s happiness and agency for) and instead made a pyre of summerhall and most of his family. rhaegar was the last dragon, born in fire, and now it’s her—but it was always her and he always had to die. “the face within was her own.” crazy. insane.

i’m sure people have pointed this out before, but the magic here always makes me think of this line from the last unicorn: “real magic can never be made by offering up someone else’s liver. you must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.” grrm’s use of magic is very similar, just as the unicorn and dany are similar, and i think it’s very possible that other attempts to hatch dragons in the past failed in part because whoever was trying didn’t understand this (and also because they were a. men and b. not daenerys lol). magic has a price, and it’s always high. this is one of the hardest lessons dany has to learn, and she thanks mirri maz duur for it in the end, because she understands that it had to be her own child, her womb, her husband, her sun and his fire that’s really hers burning someone’s life away—and this whole time, the entire book up until this point, she’s been cracking open like the moon, like the eggs on the pyre, and then she joins them in the fire.

[keen-li]

COOKIES

A/n: just a little quickie

Military au

....

I brought you some of your favourite cookies I made" you smile warmly at the man in uniform infront of you. You stretch out the little bag showing him how much effort you put into bagging the goods.

And as he opens the contents of the bag, he admires the effort you also put into making it. You didn't have to, he told you this before, but you did and he appreciates it still . He knows it's one of your ways of showing him you care and love him. Plus you wouldn't listen even if he told you.

Back home you and him always made these little cookies with weired faces on them. "The weirder the face the sweeter they are" you'd say smiling like a child as you drew onto a cookie.

He'd just stare at you and admire the energy you put into it.

"I think that's very true considering how sweet you are" he says wrapping his arms around you to trap you from moving. When what he said registers you gasp

"Hey!!!" You yell and try to move in his grip but fail. He finds it amusing, cause you can't do anything and he has you trapped, that's why he did it so he can hear you whine and complain.

"Are you saying I have a weird face?" You whine energy wearing out. Jungkook let's out a chuckle and your face scrunches up in faux anger.

"Not really..." he starts "but sometimes" he moves he's head around as if pondering on times when he thought your face was weird.  Of course he doesn't think your face is weird, he loves your face; loves to place many tiny kisses on it and loves watching your expressions change according to what your thinking. You also know that he doesn't think your face is weird, you just play along cause you know that's how you tease each other.

You elbow hum lightly and his wall falters and you're set free. You immediately turn to start placing tiny (unharmful) slaps on his chest.

"Sometimes when huh?" You egg on and you continue to slap his chest, his very hard chest that's not affected by your weak blows.

"Like now" He says through your hits and at his words you throw a heavier slap that echos in your quiet shared apartment.

You pause fearing you've crossed a boundary. Yes he's your boyfriend and you've been together a while but  you're still kind of afraid of crossing boundaries,  especially the ones you are unaware of. Jungkook notices the little pout on your face and knows what you're thinking,  he doesn't know how many times he's going to tell that there's no blow that you can hit him with that's gonna hurt him, unless you kick him in the nuts.

"Hey that's all you've got?" He acts mockingly trying to lighten the mood, and with the scoff you let out he knows you know that he doesn't mind.

"I outta take you to the gym, your punches are kinda disappointing" you chuckle at him as you turn back to your cookies.

"i don't need the gym, I walk enough stairs and carry enough files at work" your wrist rolls as you draw your weird faces.

"And how do those things help with you learning to throw a good punch" he wraps his arms around your waist and closes the space between. Your stomach does a little flip as you feel his closeness, it feels like the first time everytime he does that. You hope he never stops.

"I don't need to learn to throw a punch..." you bend a little to get the right angle for the face you're making and as you do you brush against jungkook and he can't help but groan.

"...I have you" he can hear the smile and confidence in your voice. He's happy that you find confidence and safety in him, but he's not always gonna be around and those moments make him sick. Sometimes he wishes he could become a diety so that he can watch over you and protect you, but its not a fairytale and he knows he can't always be around. He always tries to make you understand that but you always take it as a joke. He doesn't know this but you do understand him and where he's coming from but you're just avoiding the reality of things.

"I won't always be around" his voice softens as he breath brushes past your neck and his head is quite heavy on your shoulder.

"Oh yeah? And where are you gonna go?" You say wanting to bring up the topic you've both been avoiding but needs to be had.

"The military?" You finish for him knowing he's not gonna say it.  You chuckle at the little sigh he lets out.

Your bodies disconnect and you regret bringing it up,the cold of the apartment finally getting to you. You know he isn't mad, its just hard to have serious conversations when your ass keeps brushing past his growing hard-on.

 He goes to stand on the opposite side of the island sighing as if ready to have the conversation. Your demeanour becomes a little more serious and your face falls as you hope you don't cry. You're the one who brought it up anyways,  but it's good, you need to face this.

"Do you think you'll be okay" his soft voice airs out.

You sigh and hope your tears don't fall and salten the cookies. You don't have an answer for him, you've never had the answer to that question. You can only hope.

"I hope I'll be okay" your voice fades out quite early at the end.

Jungkook knows its gonna be hard for the both of you. Sometimes he wishes he'd met you after he'd already served but that's not possible. He's glad he met you before though, gives him a reason to complete the service, come back home and now actually start life with you; like proposing. He wanted to propose to you before he left but he's mother told him he should do it after and he agrees. Proposing to you before he leaves feels like he's tying you to him and making and forcing you wait for him. He doesn't want to make you feel obligated to wait for him.

"You can move on you know" you roll your eyes once you hear him, you hated when he said stupid things and he often did when he got sentimental.

"Jungkook please" you chuckle "move on?"

You lift your eyes and they meet his doe ones, he should really hear how silly he sounds.

"Yeah, I don't want to make you feel tied to me. You you can move on find some dude who's already done his service and start the life you want" even though it leaves a burning bitter taste on his tongue and heart, he says it anyways. He doesn't even mean a single word, if he could he'd take you with him or he wouldn't even go.

You don't even react to him, knowing he's just spewing nonsense.

"And you'd be okay with that me starting a life with someone else?"

No.  Of course not. He'd rip the dude's head off once he found him.

"If it's what you want" you can hear the lies through his tone and demeanour.  You know jungkook wouldn't want that, he hates the idea and you know it would kill him cause it kills you too.

"You're acting like you're going away forever" you force a smile, it isn't forever but even a day away from him feels like eternity, what more him being away for months?

You hear him release a chuckle.

"Plus I've given you 4 years of my life, why would I throw that away. Its not like when you leave I'll stop loving you. Yeah I will miss you, yes I will cry but its not gonna hurt so bad that'd I'd want to move on or find someone else"

He listens to you and is happy you feel like that cause he does too, he could honestly just propose to you now but he'll still do it after.

"Babyy" he coos. He stands and walks up to you, immediately turning you around and capturing your cheeks with his palms. It's the first time he's heard how you feel about it, but in all honesty it's the first time you've just talked about it. There's still more to talk about but today's a good start.

"I'm going to miss you soooo much" he places a peck on your lips and you place your hands on his waist.

"I'll think about you everyday, I'll go through everyday knowing I'm a day closer to coming back to you. I'll do this so I can come back to you an we can make all the weird faced cookies of yours"

He kisses you softly again. You just lean into his kiss.

"Promise me something jungkook" your lips are only millimetres from his.

"Yeah baby"

"Don't think about me too much okay" you stroke his sides more to comfort yourself,those tears you've been holding are making their way. Jungkook holds you tighter noticing.

"I can't do that. I don't like lying"

And the flood gates open. This is gonna be harder than you thought.

The smell of the sweet cookies makes jungkook smile and he's already blushed cheek blush more. He pulls one out.

He let's out a laugh.

"Kept the weird faces huh?" he smiles and takes a bite, tastes like comfort and everything's he's been missing.

"Why would I change them. Told you the weirder the sweeter" you speak happiness in your tone cause you've finally gotten to see him. You grab a cookie from the bag and take a bite aswell. After having a couple more he rolls up the bags and packs it.

"I should hide these before someone else wants some" you chuckle at his words. Jungkook isn't the most generous when it comes to the things you make for him and he's not afraid to admit that.

"Not even one?" You mock.

"Nope. They can go tell their girlfriends to do that." He adjusts his uniform that you've been admiring him in. "But most of the guys don't have girlfriends so that's a shame for them" you both laugh.

"How's your friend jimin." You ask suddenly remembering him. Jungkook's surprised you remember him but again how can you forget the person you made you two start dating.

"He's okay. Been kicking his ass in training though" he pats himself on the shoulder with his tone.

"Take it easy on him,"  you try an bargain for jimin.

"There's no time for nursery care here baby" he stretches his hand out for you to take it and you do.

"Want me to show you my room?" He says pulling you towards a building.  He feels your hesitation and turns to you with a lifted brow.

"Am I even allowed there?" You bite your inner cheek.

"Yeah I can get permission if you want though."

You'd prefer he gets permission first you don't need him in trouble. And so you nod which hums to.

You start walk to jungkook's superior's office.

"Did I tell you how strong your hand feels" you say admiring the veins on his hands and the way he holds your hand for dear life.

"Is it?" He squeezes your hand slightly.

"Yep, gonna put them to work when you get back home" you rejoice swinging his arm.

"Is working ever gonna end for me?"  He whines.

"Nope.Never"

[sourwulf]

stiles comes to you after his female anatomy class and asks you to help. he says he’s never even watched torn so has never even seen a vagina, but yours is the first one he winds up seeing and eating out

༄  word count  —  2.3k

፨  characters  —  stiles stilinski

☓  tw  —  none

⊹  cw  —  smut & oral, losing of virginity

☼  a/n— i have... severely neglected this blog

✎  masterlist

─

you were sitting on your couch watching tv, a root beer flavored sucker between your lips. you were channel surfing, nothing catching your eye. your front door opened unannounced, making your head whip towards it.

after it closed, the familiar face of stiles poked around the corner.

you sighed, glad it wasn't an intruder.

"hey," you greeted. "ever heard of knocking?"

"sorry, it's raining and the door was unlocked. i figured you wouldn't mind."

he kicked his shoes off and walked over to sit next to you, mimicking your position by crossing his arms.

"what flavor is that?" he asked, looking at the stick in your mouth.

"root beer."

"nice."

"so what's up?"

"i was hoping you could help me study."

"as long as it's not math."

"honestly, i kinda wish it was."

"why? what is it?"

"so... it's for my health class. we're doing a human anatomy course for the sex ed unit."

"and you need my help... why?"

"well... it's female anatomy." you raised your eyebrows. "you're the only person i'm comfortable with asking for help on this."

you just looked at him for a second before taking in a deep breath and turning off the tv.

"alright, fine."

within a couple of minutes you were both upstairs on your bed. you sat against your headboard, him laying on his side horizontal across the bed with his assignment in front of him.

so far, it was just multiple choice and fill in the blank questions. he was reading them out, getting your answers.

"what do the ovaries do?" he asked, a diagram of the uterus, ovaries, and fallopian tubes above the questions, with lines to label each.

"make hormones and contain eggs."

he skimmed the answers, finding the one that fit that description the best.

once he finished that chart, he flipped the page to see a very detailed diagram of a vagina, also with lines pointing to specific parts of it for him to label.

he looked at it for a moment, as if he was really studying it.

"vulva."

"i'm pretty sure that's just an all-inclusive word to include everything."

he circled the right answer

"what is the... clitoris? did i say that right?"

hearing stiles say the word 'clitoris' was a bit weird, but to be fair most people don't really say the full word.

"are you really asking me what the clit is?"

"yeah, what is it?"

you looked at him slightly in disbelief, chuckling a bit.

"come on, stiles."

"what?"

you were dumbfounded. everyone knows what the clit is.

"you've never even heard the word?"

"i've heard of it, i just don't know what it is."

"it's kind of obvious if you're looking at a vagina."

he shrugged. "never seen one. well, other than this drawing."

now this left you stunned. never seen a vagina? how was it possible for a teenage boy to never have seen one?

"you've watched porn, though."

he shook his head. "nope."

somehow he continued to shock you more with every sentence.

"never?"

"never."

"stiles, you're a teenage boy, and you're telling me you've never watched porn?"

"never needed to."

"the clitoris is... it's like a little bud above the vaginal opening. it's full of nerve endings and it's really only there for pleasure purposes."

"huh. interesting. can i ask you a question?"

"shoot."

"does every vagina look like this?"

"what do you mean?"

"like... are they all identical?"

"uh... no. every vagina is different. just like every penis is different. some of them are dangly, some are hairy, it just depends on the person."

"does yours look like this?"

your eyebrows dipped.

"did you really just ask me that?"

"i thought i was allowed to ask questions."

"yeah, general questions."

"that is a general question."

you sighed. "similar. but not really. i mean, they all have the same basic parts. but the anatomy is different sometimes."

he nodded. "wish i could see a real one up close."

it was kind of funny, how he was talking about vaginas like a specimen he could study.

"you will someday." he made eye contact with you and raised his eyebrows slightly. "stiles. you're not implying what i think you are, are you?"

"i mean... i'm not gonna say no."

"i'm not showing you my vagina!"

"that's not what i was asking, pervert," he said in an unconvincing tone.

to be completely honest, you weren't completely against the idea. the best way to learn was to see the real thing, not just a drawing.

you sighed. "fine." his eyes lit up a bit. "on one condition."

"mm?"

"no touching. only looking."

he nodded.

"sounds fair to me."

you could not believe you were fully exposing yourself to him right now, your vagina just out. your upper body was propped up on your pillows, your knees bent and thighs spread with his eyes glued to you.

"and no judging my lack of shaving."

he shrugged. "doesn't bother me."

he was looking at you like it was a book and he was reading every word.

"this is kinda weird, right?" you asked, trying to break the tension. and trying to distract him from the fact that his gaze was causing you to grow wetter and wetter with every second.

"a little bit, yeah."

"so... my vagina is the first one you've ever seen."

"yep. looks pretty similar to the drawing."

a few seconds of heavy silence went by.

"i mean... it's hard to learn when you're not... hands-on." you mentally slapped yourself for how cringey that sounded.

he froze, looking up into your eyes.

"what?"

"yeah, i mean... how are you supposed to learn what the clitoris is if you don't get to see what it does?"

"oh. i don't- i don't know."

"exactly."

"but you said no touching."

"i know what i said. maybe sometimes it's good to... break rules."

he slowly crawled closer to you and you spread your thighs wider. the cold air against your wetness could've given you chills.

"what... what do i do?" he asked, his face only a couple of inches away.

"see if you can find the words on your paper."

he looked over at it. "labia."

he lightly poked your wet lips — not the ones on your face.

"good."

"was that it?"

"mhm. good job."

"clitoris," he said without looking back at the paper.

"you remembered that one."

he looked around for a second before, without warning, placing the pad of his pointer finger onto your clit, making you take in a deep breath.

"that?"

"yep. right again."

"what do you... do with it?"

it was uncomfortable to explain, especially with a face in your vagina and a finger on your clit.

"uh... lots of things. really it's just different ways of touching it and touching it with different things. so, you could go in circles, back and forth, up and down. you can also use your tongue or some kind of toy. it's another thing that just depends on the person, everyone likes different things."

"what do you like?"

"circles, usually."

with a second of hesitation, he began slowly moving that finger in circles. you let out a breathy moan and closed your eyes, but he stopped.

"was that okay?"

you opened your eyes and looked down at him.

"that was good."

"so... what happens? is there like... an end goal here?"

"orgasm. it's how most women have to get there. sex, like penetration, usually isn't enough to get a lot of us there."

"really?"

"yeah. that's why it's important for our partners to do something other than just regular sex."

"so... do you usually prefer fingers or... a tongue?"

"well... me personally, i usually prefer a tongue. i feel like it's just more intimate."

"and what do you do with the tongue?"

"same thing you would with fingers. circles, back and forth, up and down-"

you were interrupted by a warm tongue on your clit, unable to hold in a gasp. he was going in circles like you said to do, and it was like he knew what to do immediately.

it felt good. you looked down at him to see him returning the gaze, a smirk creeping across his face.

"good, just like that, stiles."

you were doing your darndest to keep your hips still, ensuring he did everything right his first time. he placed his hands atop your thighs, making sure they stayed spread.

you reached up and pushed your hair out of your face, fisting a ball of your own hair. you were moaning, which he wasn't expecting to hear the first time he did this.

"you're doing good, stiles. that feels good."

he didn't answer, but his ego grew a few sizes at that. the closer you got to your orgasm, the more he had to hold you still. his arms were now wrapped around your thighs, his hands flat against your belly.

"fuck, okay, i can feel it coming," you said, looking down at him. "keep going, i'm gonna cum."

when you did look at him, it looked like he was experienced in this. his positioning, his hands, his pace, everything screamed 'i've done this a thousand times before'.

he liked this. being able to make you melt with just his tongue was making him hard, but he couldn't help it. your sweet voice moaning his name was like music to his ears, and the closer you got the louder you became.

your fingers tangled in his hair, trying not to pull too hard.

"don't stop, stiles. i'm almost there. i'll tell you when to stop."

he obeyed, not changing a single thing he was doing. if it hadn't have been so obvious, he might not have known you were cumming.

your back arched sharply, you took in a loud gasp, and your legs were trembling.

this was an incredible orgasm. you were perplexed by his skill, as ten minutes ago he had never even laid eyes on a vagina, much less eaten one out. but he was a quick learner, as you'd figured out from all the werewolf stuff.

"alright, stop, stop," you choked out. he immediately pulled away, using his shirt to wipe his mouth. you closed your legs and reveled in your high. your hand covered your eyes and you struggled to catch your breath.

"was that okay?" he asked innocently.

"are you kidding?" a moment later, you propped yourself up on your elbows. "how did you know how to do that?"

he shrugged. "i just did what you described."

"i've had more than one guy go down on me who was experienced and couldn't make me cum at all. that was, what, two minutes?"

"i guess i'm a natural," he joked.

you tilted your head to the side. "c'mere." you spread your legs again and his eyes widened, slowly following your directions. he held himself above you and you pulled him down to kiss you.

your hand trailed down his chest and landed on his belt, the clanking of the buckle making him pull away.

"what're you doing?" he whispered, looking at your half-closed eyes.

"well... i can see you're rock hard. i just figured, if you're losing your oral virginity, you might as well lose the regular one too."

he gulped hard, not moving.

"oh."

you stopped messing with his belt, furrowing your brow.

"unless you don't want to. you don't have to. don't feel like i'm pressuring you."

he shook his head.

"i don't. it's just... i didn't expect this. i wasn't planning on doing that when i came over, and i definitely didn't expect this. i didn't bring a condom or anything."

"i have some." you reached down and cupped his bulge in your hand, which made him falter a bit. "they might be a bit snug, but they'll fit."

he nodded, and you continued unbuckling his belt. when you got his pants shimmied down a bit and he was exposed to you, you noticed how red his cheeks were.

"what's wrong?"

"nothing. just... i don't want to disappoint you."

"stiles, it's your first time. i'm not expecting you to last past the first thrust." you can tell he took that as an insult. "i didn't mean it like that. no guy lasts past the first thrust during their first time. vaginas are different than hands or socks. i want you to feel comfortable with this. i promise i'm not judging you."

he nodded. "okay."

"if you don't want to have sex yet i could always just blow you instead. you might last longer that way."

"no, i want to do this."

"okay."

you reached over and grabbed a condom out of your nightstand drawer and opened it for him.

"want me to put it on for you?" you asked, to which you received a nod.

the feeling of your hand stroking down on him could've made him cum right then and there. but he wanted to wait until he was at least inside of you.

the feeling of his tip pressing into you was magical for both of you, and once he was fully nestled into you, he pressed a deep kiss onto your mouth.

he didn't move for a moment, wanting this to last as long as possible.

he was a nice size, not small by any means but not the biggest you'd had. he was perfect.

"you okay?" you whispered, pushing his hair off his forehead.

he nodded, the redness in his cheeks spreading to his chest. he slowly pulled out, and let out a loud, shaky moan with the next thrust. him laying his forehead against your chest let you know that he had cum, his arms trembling a bit.

when he looked at you again, he chuckled.

"what?" you asked.

"lasted past the first thrust." you both laughed at that, and you kissed him again. "next time it'll be better."

"next time?" he nodded. "when will that be?"

he thought for a second. "give me a couple of hours."

[carolmunson]

love language.

love language set list “hm,” he hums, face scrunching in disappointment when you lean over the bed to open the window on the wall. sunday morning rain on soggy earth from the storm last night sends a soft patter through the room. the breeze feels nice, wanting that more than any overcast light the parting of the curtains let in.

you settle on your stomach, chest and face propped up on the pillows to look outside and watch the trees sag. watch a few neighbors walk their dog far and few in between. some families quietly getting more damp as they hurry to the car for eight o’clock mass.

“hm,” softer now, more needy. his face relaxes, reaching a tattooed arm out for you with closed eyes. you feel his hand run warm over your back, sticky with sweat from the room overheating last night. he’s like a human furnace. his fingers walk over to your side, giving you a little tug. you smile, letting a breath out of your nose as you give into him, scooching over to let him wrap himself around you. bare chest against your skin.

“morning, baby.” he mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice, “you feelin’ better?”

“hm,” you shrug, “the weather helps. you feelin’ better?”

“hm,” he nods, wrapping a tattooed leg between yours. tangled up tight, entwined, “this helps.”

the fights weren’t often, but they were explosive. as big as the storm last night, fed by thunder and the promise of a downpour. who can yell the loudest? who can be the meanest? who can get the last word? two bolts of lightening that always need to be right, striking moments between each other. then the rain starts, it never matters who it is first. it’s never regularly you or him, almost always at the same time. crying like babies so hard you don’t even know why you’re fighting anymore.

you both never go to bed mad the way you used to. got in the habit of settling when the eye of the storm past over.

“i’m sorry, baby,” he’d rasp out, “m’sorry for yelling.”

“m’sorry for smashing that plate,” you’d guiltily cry, “i love you.”

“i love you, too.” teary confessions, drowsy needs.

“let’s just clean up and go to bed, okay?”

warm silence. you were both never violent, not even in bed. soft cascading hands, desperate clingy touches. but never speaking in bodies, never keeping score with him inside you. you kiss goodnight and draw the curtains so the moon doesn’t interfere.

and morning. wrapped up in each other in the rainy breeze, clouds joining for breakfast. you feel his limbs slide out of yours while he sits up in bed, bare aside from a pair of his boxers. he yawns and stretches, hand coming down to squeeze the fat on the back of your covered thigh while he crawls out of bed.

sweatpants from a pile of clean laundry are all he adds, a pair of socks with holes in the heels. his fingers glide over a hung acoustic guitar in a strum.

“gonna make us some eggs,” he tells you. he means more than eggs, but he always just says eggs.

“we’re out of sugar,” you mention, rolling onto your side, legs stretching like a cats, “for coffee.”

he smiles lazily, the cold breeze from the window catching his curls while he leans over you. he presses a warm kiss to your cheek, and then your lips, “you’re sweet enough for me.”

“hm,” you hum, sticky syrupy affection slipping in from your head to your toes, “smooth this morning.”

“it’s the munson way,” he mumbles, his voice still gravelly, noses brushing. butterfly kisses.

“hm,” you reply lazily, your lashes and his lashes meeting.

“hm,” he grins, another warm kiss against the cool breeze. he looks back at you before he leaves the room, brown eyes saying all he needs to say and yours match. he blushes. you’ll have a few more moments to yourself in the window before you go meet him in the kitchen.

[b0nten]

COOKIES

[SYNOPSIS] ˚⁀➷｡ baking cookies with ran

[NOTES] ˚⁀➷｡ fem reader, rindou guest appearance🤗; requested by anon !! not proofread

“girl, you know damn well we could’ve bou—”

“shut it.”

RAN snaps his mouth shut — as instructed — while his brows raise and eyes widen.

“yes ma’am.” he nods, looking at you expectantly, like he’s a puppy waiting to be rewarded after doing a trick.

he looks around the kitchen, and sighs. if it makes you happy, then he’ll bear the burden of spending the next hour in front of the stove, melting butter and sticky hands from separating eggs.

‘if it makes you happy’ has become his new mantra, at this point.

“come onnnnnnnnnnn!” a whine echoes from the living room, “i’m hun-”

“you go to your room.” you command, and rindou quickly shuffles away, shōchū bottle slipping from his hand and hitting the hardwood floor before he quickly picks it up again; followed by the sound of his door closing.

“now,” you hum, tapping your index against your chin, “preheat the oven at 170°C.” you say, and even though he barely understood half of what you just said, your boyfriend speeds towards the oven and starts turning the buttons, “and when you’re done, separate a yolk from the white, and keep it. then, sift me the flour.”

“am i gonna be doing everything?” ran complains, but quickly quiets down when you give him a glare.

how you managed to tame ran haitani might have to be considered a new wonder of the world, but in all honesty, it’s fun. he — somehow — behaves whenever you’re around, and whenever you need him to. and despite his childish antics, he’s actually quite sweet, especially when he wants to be.

“do you need the larger ones, or the smaller ones?” he asks, inspecting the eggs like he’s never seen one before.

“large, please.” you reply, stirring through your bubbling butter, “do you know how to properly separate them?” you add.

“i’ve seen you do it plenty of times.” he shrugs, and cracks the shell. you absolutely try your best not to laugh while he gags in silence — egg white slipping through his fingers into the sink — recoiling in absolute disgust.

sometimes you wonder how he can beat people bloody but he draws the line at a freaking egg.

against your initial expectations, ran actually does good — everything exactly as you ask him to. he mixes the dough, something he insisted on since he’s “the man of the house”;

(said louder than normal to elicit a ‘whateeeeeeeever’ from rindou)

and you don’t even have to ask him twice to pop the tray into the fridge for the cookie dough to chill. he even offers to put the cookies into the oven, all by himself, like the proud baker he’s become in the span on an hour.

and when you lay your head on his shoulder and say “wake me up in fifteen.”, accompanied by a small yawn, he feels like he’s on cloud nine.

except for the fact that he understands fifty instead of fiteen, so after fourty-five minutes you feel him nudge you gently.

“hey, sweetheart-babycakes-honeybunch?” he pokes your cheek sheepishly.

“hm?” you hum, eyes fluttering open to see him in his apron, gloves on his hands.

“i might have… accidentally..misunderstood you….” he says, “and…. kinda let you sleep for fifty minutes, and the cookies bake for about the same time… haha!” long, bouncy hair sways in front of your face while ran tries his best to look not afraid.

you glare at him.

“they’re still edible…!” he defends his creation, placing a burnt cookie in your mouth.

‘deep breaths.’ you tell yourself, ‘deep breaths.’

“NO THE FUCK THEY’RE NOT!”

looks like rindou’s good for something, too.

[dira333]

The World’s most (un)serious Game of Chicken - Hanamaki x Reader

Hanamaki has never been serious a day in his life. Lots of crack and luff and Seijoh Golden Four.

Warning: Over 6k words. My hand slipped.

Kindergarten - 5 years old

Yasuda, known for her large forehead and rich parents, points her finger at her newest enemy. 

“Hanamaki is ugly,” she declares. “No one can touch him or they are ugly too!”

You’re pretty sure she’s just envious of the fact that his mother gave him a Squishmallow to bring along, and it’s a rare one too.

The other kids draw away. Hanamaki’s looking a little confused, but he’s not crying. You’re pretty sure you’d cry. 

Yasuda grins. It’s an ugly thing, that grin, and it makes you want to punch her in the face. But then you’d get sent in time-out again.

Besides, your mother told you to “kill them with kindness” this morning, whatever that means.

Before you can rethink your strategy, you take a step forward. 

Yasuda’s eyes widen at your challenge.

But it’s too late. You’re throwing yourself at Hanamaki who’s luckily catching you. He smells like bubblegum.

“Now I’m ugly too!” You declare before turning around with fire in your veins, your determined eyes catching Yasuda’s. You can see the fear in them.

“Run!”

-

“Hey,” Hanamaki waits outside, Squishmallow in his hands.

“Hey,” you say, wiping the snot from your nose and into your skirt. You hate that you cry all the time, especially in front of the teacher who just scolded you. It’s not your fault Yasuda tripped when you ran after her.

“Thank you,” he says, voice earnest, “For that. You know.”

You sniff and shrug at the same time. “It’s nothing. I don’t like Yasuda. She’s nasty.”

He grins wide, revealing a missing tooth.

“Me too.” He offers the Squishmallow to you. “Friends?”

“You can’t buy me,” you tell him, the sentence grown-up and unfamiliar in your mouth. You heard it last week on Mom’s TV show. But you take the Squishmallow anyway. “Thanks.”

“Takahiro,” a breathless voice calls out. You both turn to his mother rushing down the street. She stops, catches her breath, and smiles down at you.

“Aww, did you give her your Squishmallow? Is she your friend?”

The two of you share a look. Kindergarten is hell already, you can’t have rumors like that going around.

“Nah!” You declare loudly, “Boys are nasty. This is blackmail.”

And before she can say anything, you rush back inside, determined to hide until they’re both gone.

-

Elementary school - 6 years old

The boy is tall, with dark curls hiding his tired-looking eyes.

“Yes?” You ask, annoyed that he’s blocking the sunlight streaming in.

“This is Hanamaki’s place.”

“So?” You push the lollipop in your mouth to the other side. “What’s it to you?”

“Hanamaki said I could sit with him at lunch.”

You sniff, clearly unimpressed.

And as if he’d heard it, Hanamaki appears in the doorway.

“Matsukawa, you made it.” He grins, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he slides into his seat. “What’d you get for lunch?” Hanamaki asks you without skipping a beat, already lifting the lid of your Bento Box. “Sausages, nice. Do you want to switch? I’ve got egg rolls.”

“Is this your friend?” Matsukawa asks, obvious interest sneaking into his voice.

Hanamki snorts. “No? She’s my mortal enemy.”

“Yeah,” you agree immediately. “Watch out for the rice. It’s laced with cy-cy-”

“Cyanide,” Matsukawa offers, pulling a chair closer. “I want the rice then. I’m offering tomatoes.”

- 

Elementary school - 9 years old

“So, what did Yamagata want?” Hanamaki asks when you join them.

“He asked me out on a date.” You pick a tomato from Matsukawa’s Bento and chew on it as if you don’t care about it at all.

Hanamaki’s eyes are wide and round as he takes you in, his mouth open yet he seems to be speechless. Which is a first.

“You okay?” Matsukawa asks and for a second you’re not sure who he’s taking to, you or Hanamaki. 

“That means you’re grown up,” Hanamaki whispers finally. “Like, a grown-up grown-up. Did you say yes?”

“No?” You ask back. “Yamagata is disgusting. He eats his snot.”

“You do that too,” Matsukawa points out.

“I stopped last year,” you point out, chopsticks raised for emphasis. “But if you think Yamagata is such a catch, you can date him if you want, huh?”

“No thank you,” Matsukawa waves his hands, “I’m waiting for Yoshida-chan.”

Yoshida-chan, your very lovely though also very old teacher, lifts her head from where she’d been reading at the desk and smiles in your direction, clearly not clued in on the joke.

You all smile and wave back, snickering quietly when she turns back to her book.

“But if you want to date,” Matsukawa points out, an eggroll perfectly placed between his chopsticks as he points, “You two can just date each other.”

“Yuck!” You both spit out at the same time and Matsukawa rolls his eyes.

-

Elementary school - 12 years old

You’re not the only girl waiting outside the gym. 

Both Hanamaki and Matsukawa have started playing Volleyball and you’re seriously considering taking it up next year as well. They make you train with them anyway in their free time and it sucks to either have to wait for them or go home alone. Baseball is only half as fun without them there.

“You think he’s going to say yes?” One of the girls in a group near you asks her friends. She’s pretty and you think she might be from one of the top classes. 

“Of Course! Hanamaki would be dumb to say no.”

You turn a little at the mention of his name but it’s too late to do anything about it anyway when the doors open and the boys step out. 

“Hanamaki, hi!” Pretty Girl all but dances over to where he’s walking toward you, stopping him in his tracks.

Matsukawa immediately realizes what’s about to go down, you can tell by the face he makes, but he doesn’t walk off, just stands there, stiff as a board, looming over Pretty Girl’s face.

“Uh, could you… walk away?” She asks and you hide your snicker behind your hand. 

“Why?”

“Because… I was… uh… going to ask… Hanamaki… something?”

“So?”

“Hanamaki?” She’s determined, you have to admit that, turning back to him, “Could we talk in private for a second?”

To your surprise, both of the boys turn to where you’re waiting, looking at you as if waiting for a clue. It’s annoying as hell.

“What?” You ask, pointedly raising your hand to check your nails as if there’s anything to check but the dirt hiding under them. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

-

Matsukawa waits next to you, quiet like a stone. 

You want to know what she’s saying. Not that you don’t know what she’s saying, but you want to know what words she’s using. Hanamaki still can’t help but snicker every time someone mentions the L-Word like a little kid.

You don’t have to wait long.

Her face tells you everything you need to know as she slips into the group of her friends. 

Hanamaki looks like nothing happened at all and you turn to leave with him, satisfied in a way you can’t properly explain.

“Is she-” A voice raises as you move and the three of you turn back again. It’s not Pretty Girl but one of her equally pretty friends. “Is she your girlfriend?” She nods in your direction.

You pull a face before Hanamaki can react.

“Ew. I’m his cousin.”

-

Matsukawa lives one street down from Hanamaki and you live one street further down, right at the river.

Today, he doesn’t stop at his place like he usually does, kicking a pebble down the street as if to tell you to keep walking.

“What did she say?” You ask eventually when the silence gets too loud.

“She told me I’m pretty.”

You snort. 

“What?” He asks, laughter audible in his voice. “I’m pretty.”

“In your dreams,” you tell him and he’s full-on laughing now, both of you howling out a “He’s ugly!” as if Yasuda’s torment happened days ago instead of years.

Eventually, he kicks the pebble over to you to keep going and you follow suit, still snickering.

“I’d never have said yes,” he tells you, halfway caught between a snicker and something else, “Her lips looked like she put glitter glue on.”

“That’s lipgloss,” you explain, “It probably tastes like fruit.”

“I like fruit,” he says earnestly. “Do you have lipgloss like that?”

“No,” you lie and you don’t know why but your heart beats fast like a humminbird.

“Shame,” he sighs and you’re not sure if he means it. “Tell me when that changes.”

-

Junior High - 13 years old

“Your name’s going to be Makki,” Oikawa declares with the air of someone who rarely gets told off. “And your name’s going to be Mattsun.” 

You push your lollipop to the side and narrow your eyes at him.

“Why?”

“Because it sounds cooler.”

“Shittykawa,” you offer, “Sounds way cooler.”

Iwaizumi next to him snickers and Oikawa turns to him with a pout. 

“Iwa-chan!” He whines. 

“Iwa-chan!” You repeat after him, expertly copying his whiny tone. Everyone laughs.

“You’re friends?” Oikawa asks just minutes later, still pondering on what nickname to give you. He points at you, then Mattsun, then Makki.

You roll your eyes.

“Mortal enemies,” you declare. “We’re bound until we kill each other. This is just our latest reanimation.”

“Oh, cool, like in that anime?” Oikawa asks immediately, eyes glowing.

You snort. Hanamaki leans over you, pushing your head into his sweaty armpit. You fight to get him off. Mattsun changes the topic.

-

“Hey,” Iwaizumi asks right as you part after class, “Do you want to become a manager?” 

You blink, surprised that he asked you. He’s pretty shy around girls even if you don’t act like one most of the time. 

“Didn’t think about that,” you tell him honestly, “I was going to try out for the girl's team first.”

“Oh, sure.” He starts to stutter, turning away. “Good luck.”

Makki looks after him, mouthing an exaggerated “Good luck” your way. 

You roll your eyes.

-

“Do you think I should become a manager?” You ask as soon as Mattsun is out of sight.

Makki kicks a pebble over to you and you kick it back.

“I dunno, we didn’t have a manager in Elementary School,” he remembers. “Isn’t that job kinda boring?”

“Sure, but we could be in the same team, kinda.”

He nods slowly. Then, he grins. “You would have to wipe away my sweat.”

“Ugh, no!” You whine. “Gross!”

“Fetch me my water bottle, manager-chan!” He orders in the most conceited voice he can muster. “Hush hush, we have a game to win.”

“You’re impossible,” you tell him, pushing him off when he leans into you with all his weight. “You can get your own water bottles, loser.”

It’s only when his door comes into sight that he sobers up again, turning back to you.

“What do you think of Oikawa and Iwaizumi?” Makki asks, voice suddenly serious. It’s the first time he’s ever asked you something like that. You doubt he would have cared if you didn’t like Mattsun back then. Or would he?

“They’re okay,” you declare. “Oikawa is a little conceited if you ask me, but I guess Iwaizumi keeps him in check. Iwaizumi could be cool if we get him a little out of his shell, maybe? He’s so serious.”

Makki nods slowly. 

“And lookwise?”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t ask me something like that, you know I don’t have any taste. We’ll see if the girls like them when it’s time, right? They liked you too and you look horrendous.”

“He’s ugly,” he crows softly and you roll your eyes, try to trip him and fail spectacularly.

-

Junior High - 14 years old

“I don’t want to be the referee again,” you declare pointedly when you join the boys at the riverbank, golden sunlight streaming over the area that has probably seen more Volleyball training sessions than your school gym. But who’s counting?

“Fine,” Oikawa huffs, yet again the one who decides everything. You roll your eyes behind his back. “You can be libero.”

“Oh yes, I’m saving your asses. Again.” You drawl out, smacking Makki’s butt as you pass by. He wiggles it again for good measure and Iwaizumi’s face turns red.

-

Half an hour later a group of boys joins you at the riverbank. You don’t know their faces, but Oikawa greets them eagerly. Not like friends, but friendly acquaintances.

“Who’s girlfriend is that?” One of them asks, pointing at you. 

You scowl, but Makki’s faster than you.

“This, my esteemed gentleman, is my bodyguard,” he declares loudly. “It’s her job to keep me from getting killed, which is rather unfortunate.”

“Most of his death threats come from her,” Mattsun adds dryly. “Watch out, she bites.”

-

“Hey,” Makki’s leaning against the doorway of your bedroom, staring out your window at the riverbank below. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you groan into your pillow, wishing he’d leave. It’s one thing getting your period in a friendly mixed match. It’s another thing if you bleed through your pants so spectacularly one of the boys on the other team has to puke at the sight.

“You can leave,” you tell him when he’s still not moving minutes later.

But when you hear his footsteps, they come closer. Before you can look up and glare at him, he drops, his body almost crushing yours.

You yelp, but he’s too heavy, too much arms and legs and everything else and trying to fight him off turns into a tickle-fight instead. He begs for mercy minutes later, claiming he’ll pee on your bed if you don’t set him free.

“You suck,” you tell him as you stretch out next to him, looking up at the ceiling of your bedroom, all the glow-in-the-dark stars that you claim you will take down soon.

“You suck more,” he answers softly, falling silent for a while. It’s comfortable, being like this, just Makki and you, and no one else to judge it.

“You wanna go back out and kick their asses?” Makki asks eventually and you nod, slipping off your bed before he can push you off.

-

Junior High - 15 years old

“Interesting,” Mattsun watches Oikawa’s fanclub with the most bored look on his face, “Collective loss of good judgment. That’s rare.”

“Ah, there are still some good ones left,” you tell him, “Ishikawa from my Volleyball Club has a crush on you, by the way.”

“Oh?” Mattsun asks, turning. “Which one?”

“First year, pinch server, the one with the pixie cut.”

He ponders that for a moment before he shakes his head. “I don’t like short hair on girls.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re superficial.”

“What do you like?” Mattsun asks, a weird kind of grin on his face. And you know all his grins by now, or so you thought. “In boys, I mean?”

You furrow your brows. “How would I know? There’s no boy I like.”

Mattsun scoffs disbelievingly.

“What?” You ask, hackles rising.

A warm arm slings itself around your hips and a head lands heavy on your shoulder. 

“What are you talking about?” Makki asks, smacking his bubblegum into your ear.

“What kind of boys she’s into,” Mattsun points out. 

“Oh, I wanna hear that,” Oikawa fights himself free from his groupies and shuffles over, pulling Iwaizumi with him. “Because I have a feeling they have to be tall, good looking and into Volleyball.”

You roll your eyes, unsure if the heartbeat you feel in your chest is your own or Makki’s from how closely he’s pressed against you. It’s annoying, and you hate annoying things.

“Actually,” you tell them as pointedly as you can, “I like them small. Tiny, even. Really ugly too, because that adds character. It’s best if they’re practically disfigured.”

“But they have to be into Volleyball?” Iwaizumi asks, a small smile dancing over his lips. 

You shrug, almost managing to push Makki’s head off your shoulders. 

“Hobbies are Hobbies. He could be into knitting for all I care.”

“Ah well, that’s good to know,” Makki sings, “Because I saw a guy exactly like that. I could set you guys up.”

“You would do that?” You mock gasp, pressing your hands against your chest. “For your mortal enemy?”

“Anything for you,” he declares, pressing a fake tear from his eyes while the rest of the group turns away, no longer interested.

-

“By the way,” Makki tells you as he follows you down the road, Mattsun’s house growing smaller and smaller behind you, “Itoh-chan asked me out today.”

“Oh?” You look over. “When did that happen?”

“Ah, while you and Mattsun were discussing what kind of boys you like,” he grins cheekily.

“You mean while I was telling him that Ishikawa has a crush on him?”

“She does? What a shame, she’d really be his type if she had longer hair.”

“What do you guys have with hair?” You ask, a little exasperated. You don’t really expect him to pull on yours, but you’re not surprised when he does it either.

Makki stops in front of his house but he’s not going inside and you’re not leaving either.

“Don’t you wanna know what I told her?” He asks and his voice dares you to say yes.

“Not really. I’m gonna find out eventually.”

“I said no,” he shrugs, “Because she was talking about kissing me and I didn’t want to have my first kiss with someone who chews bubblegum like a horse.”

You roll your eyes.

“You’re superficial.”

“Maybe.”

Silence.

“Do you wanna practice?” You ask.

He looks at you, no sign of a joke in his eyes when he speaks.

“With or without lipgloss?” You realize that he knew what you meant when you asked, just like he’s always known what you thought before you said it out loud.

“What do you think?” You ask, moving one leg first and then the other. He falls into step next to you.

“What flavors are you offering?”

“Uh, I have one that’s supposed to be cherry flavored, but it tastes more like bubblegum.”

“I like bubblegum.”

“I know.”

His lips are dry and a little chapped, his hands clammy as they hold yours.

Kissing isn’t all that it’s made out to be, you decide unanimously a few minutes later and head down to the riverbank with a Volleyball instead.

-

High school - 16 years old

“Hey, we’re staying behind after training,” Makki tells you in between Classes, “Oikawa has this idea he wants to try out. Are you coming over to watch?”

“Sure,” you tell him, “Can’t have you walk home alone. You’d end up in Tokyo or something worse in the end.”

“What would I do without you?” He asks, exaggerating his theatrics as he dips back out of the classroom.

“Boyfriend?” The girl next to you asks curiously.

“Mortal enemy,” you declare and she furrows her brows and falls silent.

-

“Hey, we have training today,” you pull a lollipop from your jacket and pop it into your mouth, pulling a second one out when Mattsun stretches out his hand, asking wordlessly for one.

“Are you waiting for me?”

“What time are you going to be out?” Makki asks only half-listening as he copies Mattsun’s notes from the lesson. History is his weakest subject.

You calculate and name it and he nods.

“Yeah, sure, we can stay in the library until then and do our homework, right?” He turns to Mattsun who rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to wait around if you don’t want to,” you tell him and Mattsun’s eyes roll even harder. 

You can’t help but snicker at it, knocking one last time against Makki’s desk when the bell rings, calling you back to your own Class.

“Alright, see you later guys.”

“Girlfriend?” One of the guys to their left asks, leaning over. “She’s pretty.”

“Mortal enemy,” Makki declares proudly, finally looking up from his notes. “I’d be careful. She bites.”

-

“No, no, this goes here,” you pull his hand from the paper before he can put the wrong number in yet again. “We’re not talking about the Edo period yet!”

“How do I know?” Makki grumbles, kicking his feet in the air behind him. “This shit sucks.”

“You wanna do something else?” You ask, not in the least bit minding a break. “Mattsun’s not coming over for another hour.”

“If ever,” Makki mumbles lowly and you look to the side just in time to watch insecurity flash over his face.

“You think he’s going to ditch you for a girlfriend?”

“Isn’t that how it always goes?” He asks, writing the wrong date in the space in front of him. You don’t care to correct him.

“We wouldn’t be like that,” you point out, not quite sure in what way you mean it.

“No,” he agrees easily. “We wouldn’t.”

“Mattsun’s not like that,” you assure him, putting your hand over his. “Shittykawa maybe, but not Mattsun.”

He stills for a second, eyes flickering over to yours. You can tell that he’s thinking about something, but you’re not yet sure what it is.

“Wanna try again?” He asks, voice low and quiet, his eyes flickering to your lips.

Not much history is studied that afternoon.

-

High school - 17 years old

It’s one of those rare days when you’re not coming home with Makki and Mattsun, dragging your tired body from the train station down the road.

You’ve cried more than enough already, yet your tears water again when Makki’s house comes into sight.

If only you hadn’t dropped that ball at that moment, had been a little faster that one time…

You know your mom’s waiting at home, food not quite ready yet, waiting to hear about the game.

But you can’t… you can’t…

The key is where it always is, hidden beneath the little wooden Tanuki at the front door.

The way up the stairs is so familiar you could do it in your sleep.

You slip into his bed and pull the covers over your head, smelling bubblegum and deodorant and a faint hint of sweat. It smells like Makki and you close your eyes, wishing you could shut out the tears just as easily as the light.

“Hey…” a warm hand on your shoulder wakes you. “You okay?”

You shake your head and he nods, slipping into bed with you. 

“Do you want to continue Volleyball after High School?” Makki asks, arms slung around you. He’s like a monkey like that and you often wonder how he sleeps during training weeks. Does he sling himself around Mattsun or a pillow, does he dream of you or not?

“Not really, you?”

“Mhm, no. Winning is fun, but all that training would suck ass…”

You agree quietly, just a little noise in the back of your throat.

“So if you’re not going to continue playing anyway, it’s not that big of a deal, right?” He asks, “Just another blip in your life.”

“It’s not just another blip.”

“Remember how you bled so much you made a random guy puke?”

“Makki!” You howl, even louder when he bites into your shoulder.

But the pain soon subsides, turns into laughter that you can’t hold back.

“His face,” you remember, “He looked like he was going to pass out.”

“He’s ugly,” Makki howls and you press his hand, understanding finally why he keeps bringing up that joke.

Sometimes it’s best to laugh at your demons. They might not get smaller that way, but at least you have something to laugh at.

-

High school - 18 years

“Hanamaki-kun, I wanted to ask for your second button, oh…” The bright-eyed first-year stops in her tracks. The button is already missing.

She blushes a scarlet red, stuttering as she excuses herself.

“I don’t believe you,” Mattsun huffs, “You didn’t just wake up today, missing that button.”

“But I did,” Makki claims, “I swear, I’d never lie to you.”

“You always lie to me.”

“Name one time I lied to you.”

“When you told me your natural hair color was purple but it faded out over the summer.”

“Well, that’s on you, Mattsun. I can’t help you if you believe that of all things.”

“What did he believe this time?” You ask, walking over.

“Purple hair,” Makki points at his head. You scoff at Mattsun.

“I was six years old, okay?” He defends himself. “By the way, did you notice that Makki’s button is missing?” He points and you look. 

“Nice,” you high-five Makki, “Who did you give it to.”

“I didn’t. Lost it at night. Some nightmare gremlin must have cut it off.”

“For real? Probably your mother who wants to curse you to stay home forever.”

“No, Mummy wouldn’t do such a thing.” He leans into you, trying to make you sway under his weight. It hasn’t worked in years but he keeps trying.

“How many buttons did you get?” Mattsun asks. “I saw Yamagata confessing to you in the hallway earlier.”

You pull a face.

“I don’t care if he’s no longer eating his snot, I’m not accepting a confession from him.”

“Why’s that?” Mattsun’s voice is saccharine sweet now and you narrow your eyes at him. You know what he wants to hear, but you’ve always been one to deny the things others want from you. Makki’s weight on you isn’t helping.

“If I say I don’t like someone, I’m not changing my mind on that.” You declare. Makki’s snickering above you, probably because he’s close to finally making you sway. You bite his bicep but he’s not moving away. 

Mattsun rolls his eyes so hard it looks like he’s passing out.

-

College - 20 years

Your legs are flung over Makki’s and you’re so close to beating him when the door opens.

“Suck on that!” You yell as you swerve over the finish line, hitting his shoulder with your fist.

“Gladly,” he jokes, already choosing the next road as you look up.

“Oh, hi!” You wave at the guy standing in the doorway. “Are you looking for Mattsun? He’s in his room.”

“He said there’s a party going on tonight?” The guy asks. You try to place him, but your brain is failing you. He doesn’t look like he went to Seijoh, but Makki’s always been better at remembering faces. 

“Yeah, for sure.” Makki declares. “Just a little later. You’re early. You can get yourself something to drink from the kitchen.”

“Cool.” He nods, walking over. He’s back in minutes, leaning over the backrest to watch, sipping whatever concoction he’s poured himself. “You two a thing?”

You don’t look up, too focused on beating Makki. You hate the rainbow road.

“Roommates,” Makki explains, his leg twitching under yours.

“Mortal enemies,” you declare, sticking out your tongue as you drift and push Makki off the road.

“Cool.” Couch-Guy leans in even further. “I’m Terushima by the way.”

-

Terushima finds you in the kitchen hours later. His eyes are glassy as he smiles at you and you wonder how many drinks he’s had.

You wouldn’t call yourself sober either, but you’d been so obsessed with beating Makki that you’re way behind on the others, 

“What do you think?” Terushima flutters his eyelashes at you. “You and me? I could show you a good time.”

You swallow down a snort. He looks like he’s barely able to stand.

“Tell you what.” You point at your room down the hall. “Go lie down, I’m gonna be with you in a minute.”

“Awesome.”

You watch him stumble down the hall, how the door closes after him with a click. Seconds later Makki is leaning into you. He smells like bubblegum and the most disgusting brand of Tequila you’ve ever tasted.

“What are you doing?” He asks, snagging one side of the sandwich you’d been preparing. 

“I sent the baby to bed.”

He snorts and you can feel his chin graze our shoulder as he peers over into the living room.

You steal a quick glance yourself. Some girl is trying her best in flirting with Mattsun who’s deep in an explanation about something that probably no one’s interested in.

The others are either drinking, singing, or snoring on the Couch and the floor.

Makki’s lips ghost over your bare shoulder.

“You’re sleeping in my room?” He asks, voice quiet as if anyone but you could hear him.

“Where else? My bed is already occupied.”

He pinches your hip, but he doesn’t move away, leaning heavy and warm against your back. You can feel his heartbeat like that, sluggish and slow and so well-known your heart beats in sync.

-

Work - 22 years

You’re sitting on Makki’s lap, or rather, in between his legs, playing on your phone as you wait for your stop.

There’s an older woman across from you who’s giving you the stink eye, but you don’t really care. It’s late, you’re both tired, and she can suck it.

“What do you want for dinner?” Makki asks, his head resting on top of yours.

“Rice.”

“We had rice yesterday.”

“Ramen?”

“Ugh.”

“You don’t have to cook if you don’t want to.”

He falls quiet.

You let him, knowing damn well that he’s going to say it when he’s ready for it.

He pulls you up at your stop, links his hand with yours as you walk out.

It’s so not him, you’re almost worried. At least until he stops right at the corner, pulling a coin out of his pocket.

There’s a gumball machine there, one that sells cheap jewelry next to the cheap sweats.

He puts the coin in, twists and pulls a little ball out, presenting it to you.

“You shouldn’t have,” you tease, pulling the ball apart. It’s a ring, the metal bendable to fit every size. The design is even worse, a gaudy heart, but you don’t care, pull his hand up and slip it on his finger.

“Will you marry me?” You whisper as dramatically as you can and something flickers over his face, gone and away before you can catch it. He laughs, softly, and leans forward to kiss your temple.

“Oh, aren’t you a sweet couple?”

You turn, surprised to see an older lady standing behind you, squinting up at you in the fading daylight.

“Actually,” Makki starts. You can’t help but finish.

“We’re siblings.” You tell her. “Separated at birth. We just found out.”

Her eyes widen.

“What lovely news!” She chokes out, clearly confused.

You nod and bow and move away, pulling Makki with you as you rush down the stairs, suddenly no longer tired.

-

“They cut my hours,” he tells you later. 

You’re stretched out on his bed, trying to convince yourself to get up again and do his workout routine with him. But the bed is comfy and you’re tired.

“How much?” You ask.

“Might not be able to pay rent this month.”

“I’ll cover it,” you offer. His mouth pulls into a thin line.

“Seriously,” you pull yourself up until you’re sitting. “I’ll cover it. You pay for my food all the time anyway. I could move in here with you and we open up my room for someone else. It’s no big deal.”

He still looks… unsure. Insecure. Like he’s not sure what to say or what to feel.

“I’m your bodyguard,” you remind him, “Remember? How am I supposed to protect you when you sleep in a different room anyway?”

-

Mattsun looks like he wants to say something. Scratch that. He looks like he wants to say a lot.

“Another roommate?” He asks. 

“Yeah.” You nod. “You know, it makes sense, I should have thought about it sooner. As his bodyguard-”

“Mortal enemy.”

“And mortal enemy, thank you, Makki,” you pat his hand like one would do with a child. “It’s my job to protect him. I have neglected that for far too long. I’m moving into his room. Going to keep an eye on him at all times.”

Mattsun sighs.

“You can’t just say it? That you’re a couple?”

Makki gasps. You fake gag.

“We’re like siblings, Mattsun!” Makki claims. “Please keep your incestuous tendencies to yourself.”

“Ship someone else, will you?” You ask and he groans, pinches his nose, and shakes his head.

“Whatever. I’m not… You’re going to be the death of me. You can go and find us a third roommate for all I care… By the way, Makki, are we still on for Friday?”

-

Work - 24 years

“I think Ishikawa still has a crush on him,” you whisper into Makki’s ear. You have no interest whatsoever in the movie playing and neither does he, if the hand rubbing messages into your thigh is any indication.

“She still has that pixie cut,” he reminds you.

“Yeah, but it suits her now.” You point out and he shakes his head from side to side as if he’s thinking about it.

“Could you guys stop talking?” Mattsun growls from where he’s sitting. Ishikawa is sitting close enough that her hair must be tickling his nose. If only he’d put his arm around her.

“Excuse me, but we’re having a serious discussion,” Makki claims, picking a piece of popcorn and throwing it in the air. “Catch.” 

It misses your mouth by a mile, landing somewhere behind you on the floor. 

“Shit, again.” He picks another piece.

By the time the bowl is empty, Ishikawa and Mattsun are gone. You blink. The floor is covered in popcorn pieces and the movie has been over for quite some time if the flickering ad is telling you anything.

Makki picks up his phone from the table and squints at it.

“Mattsun took Ishikawa out for drinks.”

“Score.” You push him off the Couch. “Now come on, let’s get the vacuum.”

“Why do I have to?” He moans but gets up from the floor. “By the way, your hair looks pretty today.”

“What?” You look up from your own phone, your mind still halfway stuck in that email you just received.

“I said your hair looks shitty. What are you reading?”

“Apparently I got a promotion. Look.” You hand him your phone, pouring over the text together. 

“Wow, shit, you’re going to earn so much more money,” he says, pulling you closer with his free hand. “How do you wanna celebrate?”

“I dunno, you decide.” You blink up at him. “I could treat you to that fancy hot pot place you mentioned last time.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “That’s stupid. What do you wanna do?”

“Well, it’s my money and I’m your bodyguard and I need to make sure you’re well-fed. So I guess Hot Pot it is.”

“You sure about that?” He follows you down the hallway to the closet where you keep the vacuum cleaner.

“Absolutely. What else would I do with my money? Buy you a diamond ring? Wait, do you want a diamond ring?”

“Please,” he huffs, “I only take Platin, you should know my style.”

-

Work - 26 years

“Oooh, look.” Makki pulls at Mattsun’s sleeve, dragging him to the left. “What do you think?”

Mattsun blinks. In front of him, behind thick glass, is a tray full of rings. Engagement rings.

“What do I think about what?”

“The rings, doofus. You’ve been dating Ishikawa for what, two years now?”

“1 year and eight months, okay. I’m nowhere near sure I’m going to marry her.”

“Still,” Makki pulls him through the door. “It’s good to do research. Thorough research.”

Mattsun rolls his eyes, digging his elbow into his friend's shoulder and navigating him to the left. 

“Silver is less expensive.”

“Oi, since when are you a cheapskate?”

“Since gold turned expensive.”

They spend twenty minutes pouring over the options.

Mattsun has to admit, there are some pieces there that he wants to take a picture of, but he doesn’t, because it would be weird.

He watches his friend from the side, the way he takes in each ring.

It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, if this is a joke or serious.

-

“So, when are you going to ask her?” He asks when they step outside again.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“What am I asking?”

“If they marry you.”

“Why would I ask that?”

Mattsun groans in exasperation.

“Do you seriously find this funny? After all those years? Do you never just want to tell her that you love her or that she’s pretty or tell some weird dude that hits on her that she’s yours?”

“Oh, is that what you say to Ishikawa?” Makki asks, hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket.

“Yeah,” Mattsun says, “That’s what I tell her. Every day, if possible. Because it’s something she needs to hear. Because it’s true.”

Makki falters. He rubs the tip of his shoe over the asphalt under him, searching for a pebble to kick around.

“I don’t think she’d want to hear it. She’s not like… She’s not like Ishikawa, in that way. If she was, she’d tell me. She would have told me, you know.”

Mattsun sighs.

“Sorry. It’s your thing how you do it. If you’re both happy with it, continue being weird. It’s just hard to understand sometimes. But love you guys, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, you sap, I do.” Makki grins back at him. 

His eyes fall to the watch above them and they widen.

“Shit, I’m late for work.”

-

“Hey,” Makki’s back way too early.

“Hey,” he mumbles, slipping into the chair next to you. “When did you get home?”

“An hour ago. Got all the Argentinian stuff for the match next month. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, away from you, yet his hands reach out. You take his left and press it.

“You sure?” You ask.

He nods.

Silence falls over you. It’s hard to continue typing with only your left hand, but you’re not willing to let go of his.

Eventually, he opens his eyes again.

“I got fired today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.”

Another beat of Silence.

“You wanna take a holiday?” You ask, closing your notebook for a moment to look at him. “We could drive to the beach for a weekend.”

“I wanted to buy you a ring.”

“Mhm,” you reach out and rub your thumb over his cheek. “Already bought me one. How many rings do you think I need?”

“How many fingers do you have?”

You wait for him to continue, but he falls silent again.

“Did you want to keep working there?” You ask. He shakes his head. “So if you didn’t want to keep working there, it’s not that big of a deal, right?” You ask, hoping he remembers a similar conversation when the roles were reversed. “Just another blip in your life.”

“It’s not just another blip.” He says and you can see some light returning to his eyes.

“Mhm,” you say, “Remember when Yasuda called you ugly in kindergarten?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles.

“I always thought you were very pretty.” He stills, his eyes flickering over your face.

“Really?”

“Really. Also, I love you.”

He grins. “I knew it. Called it when you tried to pee on me in elementary school.”

“I’m your bodyguard,” you remind him, “Your mortal enemy. Now, do you wanna go to the beach for the weekend or do you wanna stay in bed all day and play Mario Kart?”

Makki takes his sweet time to decide.

“Can we do both?” He asks eventually. “Play Mario Kart at the Beach?”

“So demanding,” you joke, leaning forward to kiss him.

-

There’s a ring packed in your things when you leave the city for the weekend. 

It’s not Platin and not silver either, bought at the gumball machine with a few coins. 

It will do for now.

“I could be your Navigator,” Makki offers as he looks up routes on his phone. “How much are you paying per hour?”

“Ah, not enough to be able to afford you,” you joke easily. “But I am looking for a housewife.”

“No way,” he gasps, eyes widening. “That’s exactly the job I was looking for. I make a fantastic sandwich.”

“Hired,” you offer him your hand. He takes it.

Tagging: @darthferbert @alienaiver @marti-mp4 @lemurzsquad @ @sachirobabe

my Kofi if you want to tip me

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

DISCOPUNK - Octobie Week #3 - Slice of Life

Well, that's one way to say 'thank you'. | Its tea time, innit. (Hobie x DiscoSpider Diane)

A.N: This was SO SO fun to draw and I'm really happy with how it came out :') - Also, I hid a lot of personal fanon-lore in this drawing so, here's some easter eggs below! As always, huge thanks to @the-kr8tor!

Easter Eggs:

Hobie lives on a boat with his lovely stray boatcats.

Hobie is proudly Jamaican (in my head).

His favorite colour is Green, though only Diane knows that.

Hobie didn't tell her, but somehow she managed to figure it out on her own.

Someone asked him, but before he could answer, she simply said 'Green'.

When he later asked her how she'd known, Diane told him it was obvious.

His carpet was green, and so was his bonnet, and his favorite shirt - to her it just made sense.

He calls her Duchess, since their first night out.

Diane sleeps with her guitar pick necklace on her left wrist.

She says she's afraid if she wears it to bed, it'll choke her to death in her sleep.

Hobie tells her that's not possible - considering she's superhuman. Green Goblin could hardly choke her out if he wanted to.

She doesn't believe him. She's 'not taking no chances'.

Diane only sleeps in high quality pastel pajama sets - with fuzzy socks to match. Hobie is the type of guy to turn any shirt into a 'sleep shirt' if he owns it long enough.

Diane likes her nails long, acrylic, and consistently manicured.

Hobie could never. After raiding Diane's extensive varnish collection, he paints every finger a different color. Sure, he could pick one. That's no fun, though!

When Hobie is enamored - or near Diane - his outline with turn her favorite color, pink!

Not only that, when Hobie's being a loverboy, pink origami hearts may start fluttering around his head - literally.

Diane knows Hobie's tea order by heart.

Another thing she'd learned by sheer observation.

Irish Breakfast tea, not British. One sugar, not too sweet, with the bag steeped a little too long.

He likes it 'her-coloured' - tea with just enough milk to match the tone of her skin. Anymore makes it taste 'like rubbish', in his opinion.

Hobie endorses tax evasion.

Happy Octobie Week #3!

Remember, if you have a spidersona, you can do whatever you want forever <3

BYE.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All the Good Girls Go To Hell 20

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, power imbalance, injury, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come home for the summer but your break is not as relaxing as you expect.

Character: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

Note: Friday! (again)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

It takes until noon to get yourself together. The world around you feels disconnected and hazy, beyond your reach. You just want to hide from the chaos your life has become, but you know you can't do that. Bucky says as much, telling you to take it all in small steps. The first; get your car.

You slump in the passenger seat of Bucky's range rover, arms folded over your fraught stomach. Never again. It's never worth it, even if it lets you forget. You just have to remember it all the next day, all while feeling shitty as hell.

He pulls up in front of Harry's house and you slowly sit forward to look around him. You gulp and fish out your keys, the jingle making you wince. You blow out a breath and undo your seat belt.

"Should I come with you, doll?" He offers, one hand on the wheel.

You look at him. His long hair is draw back into a ponytail at the back of his head, a few strands dangle loose to his chin. His square jaw is speckled with dark stubble and few patches of silver. His steely blue eyes shine as his plain white tee and blue jeans offer a perfect canvas for his easy allure. The way he looks at you makes it hard not to notice how handsome he is.

"No, no, I'll just go get my car and follow you back to your place. Should be easy."

You pull the door handle before you can lose your nerve. You're grateful for Bucky's help but you need to do this on your own. He can't coddle you and you can't expect everything from him. You don't want to be in this situation ever again; cast out and lost.

You get out and gently shut the door. You round the front of the tall rover and push your glasses up your nose. You cross the street, tucking your hands in your pockets as you keep your shoulders curled and head down. You cross the pavement and head up the tarmac, stopping short as you catch sight of your car.

Your mouth falls open as you gape at the mess strewn across it. Shaving cream streaks the hood and roof, toilet paper draped over it in tangled strips, and eggs smashed into the worn paint. As you get closer, you notice the only blank patch is keyed with the words 'dumb bitch'. You stare stunned at the desecration of your only possession.

You shake your head and don't look up at the house. You can guess it was probably Harry and his friends. This is the type of stuff the got up to in high school and these people made it clear that you're an outsider. 

You near the car and grab a few strips of toilet paper, pulling them off and wadding them up as you try to wipe off the yolk and half-melted cream. Some of it's caked on after sitting for at least half the night. You sigh and focus on just tearing the tissue off. You can hit a car wash but you don't know what you'll do about the scratches.

As you scrape off what you can, you hear a door and sense a shadow. Harry's laughter rattles in the afternoon sun and you ignore him as you toss clumps of cream and toilet paper onto the ground. You unlock the door and he catches it from the outside, holding it in place.

"Do you get the hint now?" He asks darkly.

"Leave me alone," you tug on the door and it doesn't budge.

"Naomi is better than you. You're just some stupid nerd who doesn't know her place. The only reason Peter was interested is because he wants to make MJ jealous--"

"I don't care--"

"You're too boring for her," he sneers, "so better go off back to your corner and cry, little girl."

"Frig off," you spit at him, "and let go!"

You try to jerk the door away and he just snickers again. You bear your teeth in frustration and roll your eyes. If he wants you gone, why won't he let you go?

"She helped. The eggs were her idea," he taunts. You don't care if she did or not, her loyalties are clear enough. You saw them last night.

"Hey," Bucky's voice rips through your standoff and you turn as he storms up the driveway. "Back up, jackass."

"Jesus Christ, not this geezer," Harry snarls.

"Yes, this geezer," Bucky barks, "go inside before I show you what an old man can do."

"Whatever, bro."

"Whatever," Bucky stomps past you and stops only inches from Harry, looming over him, "I'm up for whatever you choose, boy."

Harry huffs and curls his lip. He raises his hands and takes a step back, "you're not worth the trouble."

"Sure," Bucky keeps his shoulder in front of you, blocking you in, "go on and run back to your posse of dumbasses."

Harry waves him off and turns on his heel, slides flopping under him as he tramps like a toddler back to the house. You shudder and look at Bucky as he turns to you. He rests his hand on the top of the door.

"You alright, doll?" He softens his tone.

"Yeah, fine, he's just dumb."

"Mm," he looks past you, "assholes. Let's get this thing cleaned up and--" He pauses and shifts away, bending to examine the message etched into the paint, "hmmmmm," he growls, "good thing I know how to buff this stuff out." He stands straight, hands on his hips, his pose accentuating his chest and biceps, "you want me to drive this thing till we get it washed or--"

"No, no, it's okay," you murmur, "I just wanna get out off here."

"Sure thing," he tries to smile but his cheek ticks as his eyes drift angrily to the house, "don't let appearances fool you, there people are trash."

🌞

When you get back to Bucky's, he unfolds a lawn chair and points you to it. There's little argument to be had as his anger has you tongue-tied. You know it's not directed at you but you can feel it steaming off of him. You've never been good at handling that sort of emotion, especially from others.

It's probably for the better. Your head is pounding, even in the shadow of the awning, and you stomach is still wobbly with uncertainty. You rest your chin in your hand as you watch him spraying your car with the nozzle of the hose. As he does, the splash back dampens the front of his tee, the fabric clinging to his stomach as he sneers at his task.

He shut the hose off and grabs the sponge from the bucket, scrubbing at the harder to get patches until has has it mostly clean. He gives it another rinse with hose and rolls it up, dumping the bucket in the grass and dropping the sponge inside. He puts the pail down and sits on the steps, only a foot away from you. 

"Sure made a mess of myself," he looks down at his wet shirt, wiping his hands on it before tugging it upwards. He strips it off and shakes it out as you avert your wiley gaze. "I'll buff the side later and it should be fine. Probably have to find somewhere to fix the paint properly, though."

"Thanks, uh, you've really done... enough."

"Shitty," he mutters clutching the shirt in his hand. As he leans an elbow on his knee, your eyes stray to the trim of hair across his broad chest. You hide your wandering gaze and focus on your hands, "I'm sorry she dragged you into all this. Really... and I know I've probably not made it any easier."

"I guess I'm just confused. I don't know what to do with myself. I guess I should keep looking for a job but at this rate, I won't have one until I have to head back to campus. If I even get to go." You exhale shakily, "my parents split tuition but if my mom cuts me off... I don't know what to do."

He nods and gives a thoughtful hum. He sits back and props his elbow on the step behind him, his muscled stomach tugging at your gaze. No, stop.

"I never had kids. Obviously. Always knew I couldn't give them everything I would want to, you know? But if I did, I'd give them everything I could. I just don't get it. I really don't, you're a good girl and they just don't see what's right in front of them," he sucks his teeth, "well, how about..." he stops himself and lets his leg sway one way then the other, "I could offer you a job. You could do some work around the shop. Sweeping up sawdust and stuff but the pay is good."

You nod and chew your lip. It's a nice idea. More than you deserve.

"What... what about..."

"Steve? You let me handle him. Really, he's just a dumbass. Gets carried away. Besides, sounds like he has his hands full with your mom and his wife," he scoffs, "you'll be working with me, not him."

You wiggle your foot, "I don't know..."

"It's your choice but it'll keep you busy and it could help with money problems," he puts his hand flat, "all you have to do is say yes. Oh, and obviously, whatever you decide, you got a place to stay."

You glance up at the house and frown, "I don't... what about Naomi?"

"What about her? If she comes back, same thing for her. She has a room here. I made promises and I don't break those. However she feels about me, I wasn't the one who hit the self-destruct button."

You drop your head, holding it tight as it feels ready to splinter. It's not just your hangover, it's everything else. You squeak and rub your temples with your thumbs.

"You okay?" Bucky leans forward and touches your elbow.

You lift your head gently, "yeah. I just feel awful. That I ever thought you were... bad. After everything, you won't even turn her away."

"She's lost. She's careless but she's young. I only ever wanted to help her, I was just selfish about how," he shrugs and retracts his hand, "but anyway," he stands and touches his lower back, "I think you should go inside, chill out on the couch, and watch some Netflix. I'll get you something nice and greasy to eat for that hangover."

You whimper and give a pathetic smile, "I'm sorry about that," you stand with some effort, "I don't usually drink like that--"

He laughs, "don't apologise," he waves you up the steps ahead of him, "I'm going to start being honest with you so I do need to tell you that it was really cute."

You giggle and shake your head as you reach for the front door. He's fast and extends his arm past you, opening it around you, close, so close you can feel the heat roiling off of him.

"No, it wasn't," you insist.

"It really was," he snorts as he follows you inside, "you get this pout and it's just..." he's quiet as you slip your shoes off, a lull as he weighs his words, "gorgeous."

You chuckle nervously and rub your neck. He clears his throat and toes off his sneakers. He moves around you cautiously, as if fighting not to get any closer.

"I'll go grab my phone and we'll figure out what to order," he mutters, his tone uneven, "you just make yourself at home."

🌞

You feel a bit more stable once you have a good meal in your stomach. Good being a relative term. The greasy cheeseburger and onions rings are hardly nutritious but they are satisfying. 

You slurp on your diet coke as you lay with your head up against the armrest and lose yourself in the shallow drama of the reality show personalities. An argument about a dress really is compelling theatre. You put the cup down and hug the cushion to your chest, laughing as a woman storms out, tossing her wine in the process. Wow, and you thought your life was ridiculous.

You yawn and close your eyes. It's getting late. You should probably go to the guest room and try to sleep off the last of your alcoholic regret. 

The end of the couch dips and your eyes snap open. Bucky sits just below your feet, tilting his head at the screen. He arches his brow as his eyes search the television. His mouth slants as he looks at you.

"So, why are these women screaming at each other?" He asks.

"Oh, uh, you can change it," you go to sit up but he firmly puts his hand on your ankle.

"No, I'm curious. Genuinely."

"Really, it's just a stupid show--"

"I want to know," he smiles and glances back at the TV, "they are really angry."

"Well, the blonde one borrowed a dress from the brunette and never gave it back but the blonde claims she did and the other woman is lying. And the other blonde is saying she saw the dress in the brunette's closet," you explain and end with a chortle, "it really is nonsense."

He keeps his hand on your ankle, his thumb rubbing through the cotton of your sock. He nods and squints, "the brunette is lying."

"Hmm? How do you know?"

"You can tell," he points with his other hand, his other slipping down your foot. "She keeps looking left."

"Oh?" You look between him and the television, overly aware of his hand. He pushes his thumb into your sole and you groan at the delightful pressure.

"You ticklish?" He wonders as he drags his thumb along your arch, "huh?"

"A little," you confess, "what are you--"

"Just... being nice," he grips your foot as you try to pull away once more, "just lay back. Everyone loves a good foot massage, don't they?"

"I... I wouldn't know," you push yourself up on your elbows and watch him knead your foot, barely withholding a moan. He knows what he's doing. "Never had one before."

"Really? Well, you got a lot of tension right... here," he poke his thumb into you and your squeal. It sends a zing up your leg. "See? I told you, you need to relax. I'm just helping." He grabs your ankle higher up and yanks, just hard enough to have you flat on your back, "sit back and enjoy, doll. You deserve it."

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (7)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts of this story, or if you want to read more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Previous part: 6

- Next part: 8

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The walls of the Red Keep seem to close in around you as the hours slip away, each moment thick with the weight of unspoken fears and the ever-present shadow of your father’s madness. Two weeks have passed since the last incident in the throne room, but the dread in your stomach has only grown, an ever-tightening knot that never truly loosens.

It’s late afternoon when you hear the muffled sound of voices just outside your chamber door. Your hand tightens around the edge of the table you’re seated at, the delicate embroidery in your hands forgotten. A soft knock echoes through the room, and you turn your gaze toward the door just as it creaks open.

Ser Arthur steps inside first, his expression as stony as ever, but there’s a tension in his eyes you’ve come to recognize—a flicker of concern that tells you something is wrong. Close behind him is Ser Barristan Selmy, and though the older knight tries to mask it, his unease is plain to see. The lines on his face seem deeper, his usual calm demeanor strained.

“My lady,” Barristan begins, his voice gentler than usual, though there’s a tremor in it that sets your nerves alight. “The king has… summoned you. He demands your presence in the throne room.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, his hand subtly moving toward the hilt of the Morning as if the very idea of taking you before Aerys is a threat he must ward against. “For what purpose, Ser Barristan?” Arthur’s tone is low, barely restrained, as he steps slightly in front of you, his protective instincts overriding decorum. “What does the king want with her this time?”

Barristan looks away briefly, his shoulders heavy with the burden of orders he clearly wishes he didn’t have to give. “It is not our place to question the king, Ser Arthur,” he replies, though there’s a note of regret in his voice. “But I have heard enough to know it involves the pyromancers… and those cursed eggs again.”

A chill runs down your spine at the mention of the pyromancers, and your mind races, conjuring images of flames, stone-cold eggs, and your father’s fevered eyes. You’ve seen this before, yet something in Barristan’s tone, the dread lingering beneath his words, tells you that this time is different. Worse.

Arthur turns to you, his eyes locking with yours, a silent exchange passing between you. He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand what he’s feeling—helplessness, anger, and a desperation to protect you from whatever fresh horror awaits. But the reality of your situation crashes down on you both. He cannot defy the king’s orders, and neither can you.

“Let’s get this over with,” you whisper, though your voice wavers despite your best efforts to remain calm.

Barristan nods solemnly, stepping aside as Arthur offers you his arm. You take it, drawing strength from his silent presence, even as your heart thuds heavily in your chest. The walk to the throne room feels longer than usual, the silence broken only by the heavy tread of boots on stone. Every step is a reminder of the peril you’re walking into, each corner turned bringing you closer to a chamber that has become a place of nightmares.

As you near the entrance, you hear the murmur of gathered courtiers, the swell of whispers rising and falling like a tide. The massive doors swing open, revealing a room packed with nobles and courtiers, their faces a mixture of curiosity and fear. You catch sight of familiar faces—Tywin Lannister standing with his cold, calculating expression, Cersei beside him with a faint smile playing on her lips as her eyes flit toward you. Pycelle’s rotund form looms near the back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Varys stands close to the edge of the crowd, his expression unreadable, a ghost of a smile curling his lips as he watches you enter. The Kingsguard stand in rigid formation around the room, their armor gleaming, but it’s Arthur’s presence by your side that keeps you from trembling.

Your gaze is drawn toward the center of the room, and your blood turns to ice. The dragon eggs—those ancient stones that have long lost their warmth—are placed in the same brazier as before. But now, close to the brazier, there are men—three of them—chained to iron posts driven deep into the stone floor. Their eyes are wide with terror, the chains rattling as they struggle against their bonds, their cries muffled by the gags forced into their mouths.

It’s only then that you fully realize what’s happening—what your father intends. Sacrifice. A twisted attempt to give life to the dead eggs through the deaths of these poor souls. The pyromancers stand at the ready, holding jars of wildfire, the sickly green substance gleaming ominously in the torchlight.

The sight nearly takes your breath away, and you instinctively grip Arthur’s arm tighter. He stiffens beside you, and you feel his tension radiating through his body. But he doesn’t move—he can’t move. Not here, not with everyone watching. Not with the king present.

And then you see him—your father. King Aerys stands near the Iron Throne, a dark shadow in his black robes. His hair is wild, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity that makes your stomach churn. Blood stains his hands and forearms—fresh cuts from the throne’s sharp blades, though he seems entirely unaware of the wounds. He grins as you enter, a grotesque display of teeth and madness.

“Ah, my daughter has arrived!” Aerys exclaims, his voice carrying through the room, drawing the attention of every soul present. “Come, come closer, my jewel. You must witness this grand spectacle, the rebirth of our house, the awakening of our dragons!”

The court falls into a tense silence, every eye turning to you, the weight of expectation pressing down like a suffocating shroud. You want to flee, to run as far as you can from this nightmare, but you force your feet to move forward, your steps steady even though each one feels like it could lead to your doom.

“Father…” You manage to keep your voice steady, though dread curls deep in your gut. “What are you doing?”

“Greatness, my child! Glory beyond imagining!” Aerys cries, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the room. “The flames will rise, the blood will flow, and the dragons will awaken once more! It is the sacrifice of these pitiful souls that will bring our ancestors roaring back to life!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, every instinct screaming that you should turn and run. But you know that doing so would only seal the fates of those chained men—and perhaps your own. You glance at Arthur, whose expression is a mask of stone, but his eyes blaze with barely contained rage. Even Ser Barristan, who stands nearby, looks as though he might step forward to protest—but he, too, is bound by his duty.

Aerys’s eyes glint with madness as he steps closer to the brazier, the heat from the flames making his skin glisten with sweat. “Come, Y/N,” he beckons, his voice dipping into a sickly sweet tone. “Stand beside me and witness what it means to truly be a Targaryen. You, of all people, must see this. You are the blood of the dragon, and it is through your presence that the flames will be given purpose.”

Your blood runs cold as he gestures for you to come forward. The eyes of the court burn into you, waiting to see what you’ll do, what you’ll say. But your feet feel like they’re made of lead, refusing to obey the king’s summons, even as your mind races for some way out of this madness.

And in that moment, you realize there is no escape—not from this room, not from the twisted plans your father has laid out. The fate of those chained men, of the dead dragon eggs, of your family, all hinges on what happens next.

As your heart pounds in your chest, you take a step forward, toward your father, toward the pyromancers and their jars of wildfire, toward the nightmarish scene laid out before you.

And then, with every eye in the room fixed on you, Aerys’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, his smile widening into something monstrous. “Come closer, daughter. The flames await.”

Your steps falter as you approach your father, the madness in his eyes more terrifying than the flames flickering in the braziers beside the dragon eggs. The heat of the room prickles your skin, but it’s the icy dread within you that leaves your hands trembling. Aerys’s grin widens as you draw closer, his bony fingers twitching in anticipation. The pyromancers stand ready, their faces half-shrouded by the hoods of their dark robes, holding vials of green wildfire that glimmer ominously.

Before you can brace yourself, your father’s hand shoots out, gripping your arm with surprising strength. You wince as his fingers dig into your flesh, dragging you forward until you’re nearly nose-to-nose with him. His breath is hot and sour against your face, his eyes alight with a manic glee that sends a shudder down your spine.

“Watch, daughter. Watch as the blood of the dragon rekindles the flames of old,” he hisses, his voice trembling with anticipation. Without warning, he pulls a dagger from his belt—its blade jagged and stained with old blood—and slashes it across your palm. The pain is sharp and sudden, tearing a cry from your lips as blood wells from the wound.

“Y/N!” Arthur’s voice rings out, laced with alarm. You glance over your shoulder, seeing him take a step forward, his hand halfway to his sword before Ser Barristan places a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him back. Barristan’s voice is grim as he says, “Stand down, Ser Arthur. These are the king’s orders.”

Arthur’s eyes blaze with barely contained fury, his jaw clenched so tightly you fear he might draw blood from his own lip. But his duty holds him in place, and you see the struggle tearing him apart inside. You want to reach out, to tell him it’s all right, but your father’s grip tightens, yanking your attention back to him.

Aerys’s own hand follows, the dagger slicing across his palm as well. His blood, dark and thin, mingles with yours as he drags you toward the brazier where the dragon eggs lie in their bed of embers. “This is what it means to be a Targaryen,” he whispers, his voice thick with twisted reverence. “Fire and blood, our birthright.”

You try to pull away, but his grip is iron. He forces your hand over the eggs, letting the crimson droplets of your blood, mixed with his, rain down upon the cold, lifeless shells. The sticky warmth of blood coats your fingers, and you can’t help the tremor that runs through you as he chants under his breath, words that sound more like a prayer to a forgotten god than anything else.

And then, as if satisfied with his grotesque ritual, Aerys shoves you to the side. You stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the brazier, the heat prickles your skin. “Set the flames ablaze!” Aerys orders, his voice rising to a frenzied pitch. “Burn them all—the eggs, the men! Let the fire consume them and bring forth our legacy!”

The pyromancers don’t hesitate. With a flick of their wrists, they hurl the jars of wildfire toward the brazier. The green liquid splashes across the eggs, igniting instantly in a blinding surge of flames that leap hungrily toward the chained men. Their muffled screams pierce the air as the fire takes hold, spreading along the iron chains and engulfing them in a hellish inferno. The stench of burning flesh fills the room, and the crackle of wildfire mixes with the sickening sound of flesh searing away.

You scramble to your feet, but before you can move away, your father grabs a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back as he forces you to watch. “Look, my daughter! Look at what power truly is!” His grip is painful, his voice dripping with a perverse kind of pride. He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, “This is our destiny—to bathe the world in fire and see it reborn in blood.”

The horror of it twists your stomach into knots, bile rising in your throat as the flames roar higher, crackling and snapping like the jaws of some hungry beast. You can feel the heat singeing your skin, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes, but you can’t tear your gaze away. The sight is too horrifying—men writhing in agony as the wildfire consumes them, their screams growing faint as the fire reduces them to ash.

The court watches in stunned silence, a mixture of awe and revulsion etched on their faces. You catch a glimpse of Tywin Lannister’s cold, impassive gaze, and Cersei’s eyes wide with a twisted fascination. Varys’s smile is barely there, a ghostly curve of his lips as he watches from the shadows, while Pycelle again strokes his beard nervously, muttering to himself.

But above all, you sense Arthur’s eyes on you—filled with pain, helplessness, and a burning fury that is barely contained. He’s bound by duty, forced to stand and watch as you endure this nightmare, unable to do anything but clench his fists and wait for the madness to end.

Then, just as you think you cannot bear another moment of this torment, Rhaegar’s voice slices through the chaos, filled with fury. “Father! Stop this madness!”

The crowd parts as Rhaegar pushes through, his face a mask of rage and desperation. His violet eyes blaze as he strides toward the brazier, his hands clenched into fists. “What is this insanity? You’re sacrificing men—innocent men—for the sake of dead stones!”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening on your hair as he sneers at his son. “You speak of insanity, boy, but you have no vision! You think yourself wise, with your songs and your prophecies, but it is I who will restore the glory of our house! I am the king! I am the blood of the dragon!”

Rhaegar steps closer, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “You are killing our people, our house, with your madness. Y/N is not your doll to use in these delusions, nor are those men your playthings to burn for your twisted pleasure!”

Aerys’s eyes flash with fury, and he releases your hair, turning to face Rhaegar fully. “You dare defy me? You dare to speak against your king? You would see our bloodline wither and die rather than embrace the fire that runs through our veins!”

“I would see us live!” Rhaegar snaps back, his voice cracking with emotion. “I would see us rise above this, not fall into ruin because of your obsession with dead dragons!”

The tension in the room is suffocating, every courtier holding their breath as father and son square off, the flames still roaring behind them. But before either can say another word, a loud crack echoes through the chamber, silencing everyone.

Your heart stops as you turn toward the brazier. The flames curl around the eggs, licking hungrily at the stone shells. And then you hear it—a screech, high-pitched and otherworldly, rising from the depths of the fire. The court gasps in unison as one of the eggs shifts, the stone splitting down the middle with a jagged crack.

For a heartbeat, everything is still, the only sound the crackling of the flames and the faint hiss of wildfire. And then, from within the shattered egg, a tiny, serpentine creature emerges—a dragon, no larger than a hound pup, with scales the color of midnight and eyes like molten gold. It lets out another screech, flapping its fragile wings as it takes its first breath in this world, born of fire and blood.

The room is deathly silent, every eye locked on the creature as it pulls itself free from the broken shell. Aerys’s eyes widen, tears glistening in them as he stares at the dragon with a mixture of awe and triumph. “It lives… it lives!” he breathes, his voice trembling with reverence. “The dragons have returned!”

But as the awe settles in, the horror of what was done to bring this moment to fruition lingers like a dark shadow over the court. The sacrifice of innocent men, the bloodshed, the madness—it all culminates in this fragile, fledgling creature that blinks in confusion, its tiny mouth snapping at the air.

And yet, as the silence stretches on, it becomes clear that the return of the dragon is not the victory Aerys had hoped for. The court watches in a mixture of horror and fascination, but beneath it all, there is a deeper, darker understanding—that this birth was a product of cruelty, not of destiny.

Aerys, however, seems blind to it all. He steps closer to the brazier, his voice rising with a manic glee. “This is only the beginning! The dragons will rise again, and our house will be reborn in fire and blood!”

But as you stand there, your heart still pounding in your chest, you realize that this is not the rebirth of your house—it is the beginning of its downfall. The dragon may have hatched, but it was born in a bed of madness, and the cost of its life was too high to ignore.

Rhaegar’s gaze meets yours, and you see the same understanding in his eyes. This moment, this creature, is not a triumph. It is a harbinger of the darkness that now looms over House Targaryen.

The throne room descends into chaos, the air thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning flesh mingling with the eerie, screeching cries of the newborn dragon. The court is frozen in a mixture of horror and fascination, eyes wide as the tiny creature struggles to free itself from the remnants of its shell, its dark wings stretching out in a fragile, jerky motion. Its scales glisten with moisture, gleaming obsidian in the flickering firelight, its golden eyes wild and hungry as it snaps at the air, testing its newfound freedom.

Rhaegar moves first, his instincts sharper than the shock that ripples through the crowd. His gaze locks onto you, and he pushes through the throng of courtiers, his face a mask of determination and fear. “Y/N!” he calls, his voice cutting through the clamor, desperation lacing every syllable. He can see the danger—you’re too close to the flames, too close to the madness that grips your father. 

At the same time, Arthur breaks from his position near the edge of the room, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, ready to strike if needed. His eyes are locked on you, the woman he swore to protect, the woman he loves, as he weaves through the crowd, dodging courtiers and guards alike in his bid to reach you. His heart pounds in his chest, each beat echoing the urgency that drives him forward. 

But before either man can reach you, Aerys’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a bruising grip. His nails dig into your skin, drawing a wince from you as he drags you closer to him, closer to the hatching brazier where the dragon now writhes. The heat is unbearable, the stench nauseating, but Aerys is beyond reason, his eyes fixed on the creature with a sick, twisted adoration. 

“Father, stop!” You cry, struggling in his grip, but he only pulls you closer, his lips pulling back in a feral grin.

“You see, Y/N? You see what we are capable of when we embrace our destiny? The blood of the dragon flows strongest in you, in me! You will be the key to awakening them all!” His voice is frenzied, manic, and there is no sanity left in his eyes—only the feverish glow of a man consumed by his own delusions. He pulls you toward the dragon, shoving you so close that the heat scorches your skin, singeing the edges of your dress.

The little dragon screeches again, its head snapping in your direction as if sensing the fresh blood that still drips from your wounded hand. It lurches forward, its movements clumsy but quick, its tiny teeth bared in what could be either hunger or recognition.

“Let her go!” Rhaegar’s voice is a furious roar as he finally shoves his way through the crowd, his eyes blazing with both fury and terror. He strides toward Aerys, every muscle in his body coiled with the need to tear you from your father’s grasp. “You’ve done enough harm—let her go before someone gets killed!”

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, and for a brief moment, something like clarity flickers in his eyes, only to be extinguished by the wildfire of his madness. He tightens his hold on your wrist, yanking you closer to his side. “You dare command me?” he snarls, his voice rising in pitch, wild and venomous. “You, who would see our house fade into nothing, who would abandon the fire in our blood for weakness and sentimentality?”

Before Rhaegar can respond, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his voice cold and measured, but tinged with something that almost resembles concern. “Your Grace,” he begins, his tone calculated, yet edged with caution. “This is madness. We have seen the dragon hatch. It is a sign, yes, but your daughter’s life need not be risked further. This is enough.”

Aerys rounds on him, his face twisted in a snarl. “Enough?” he spits, his voice trembling with rage. “You presume to tell me what is enough? You, with your golden arrogance, your schemes to undermine my rule at every turn? You think I don’t see what you are, Tywin? You would have my daughter as a pawn in your little games, but she belongs to the fire! She belongs to me!”

Tywin’s expression darkens, but he holds his tongue, his calculating mind clearly weighing whether it is worth the risk to challenge the king further in this moment. For all his ambition, even Tywin Lannister knows there are limits when dealing with a madman armed with wildfire and delusions.

Meanwhile, Arthur has drawn closer, his hand still on the hilt of his sword as he positions himself just behind Rhaegar. His eyes are locked on Aerys, his body tensed, ready to strike should the king push you closer to danger. He knows he must tread carefully—one wrong move could lead to bloodshed, and you’re the one caught in the middle.

“Father, please,” you manage to say, your voice trembling as you try to keep calm. “You’ve already proven what you wanted. The dragon hatched. Let’s leave now, before more lives are lost.”

But Aerys doesn’t hear you—he’s too far gone, too enraptured by the flames and the cries of the newborn dragon. He grips your hair once more, pulling your head back and forcing you to look directly at the creature as it struggles to rise on shaky legs. “Look at it, Y/N! Look at what our blood has wrought! We are gods, you and I! We will bring forth fire and death to those who dare challenge us!”

The dragon screeches again, louder this time, its voice high and grating, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. It lunges toward you, its eyes gleaming with hunger, but the chains of the brazier keep it just out of reach, snapping its jaws inches away from your skin.

The tension in the room builds to a fever pitch, the courtiers frozen in place, unsure whether to flee or watch the nightmare unfold. The Kingsguard stand ready, their hands hovering near their swords, waiting for a signal that might never come.

Rhaegar’s patience snaps. He strides forward, grabbing Aerys by the arm and wrenching him away from you with a force that surprises even the king. “Enough!” he snarls, his face inches from Aerys’s, his eyes blazing with fury. “This madness ends now!”

For a moment, the two men stand locked in a furious standoff, father and son, both of them breathing hard, the flames flickering wildly around them. Aerys’s face contorts with rage, but there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a moment of doubt, as if he’s suddenly unsure whether the vision he clings to is real or merely another ghost conjured by his decaying mind.

The throne room vibrates with ominous intentions, the air crackling with the mingling scents of smoke, blood, and the wild, unnatural odor of newborn dragon flesh. Aerys and Rhaegar stand toe-to-toe, the firelight casting their faces in stark relief—father and son, both dragons, yet divided by madness and the darkness of their blood. Around them, courtiers stand frozen, watching the confrontation unfold with wide eyes, their breaths caught in their throats.

“Father, stop this insanity!” Rhaegar’s voice is sharp and commanding, resonating through the hall. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, poised to draw it should the need arise. “These creatures are not the saviors of our house; they are born of blood and madness. You’re risking everything for a delusion!”

Aerys’s eyes gleam with unholy fervor, his face twisted with both rage and joy. “You dare call this a delusion? You, who have done nothing but hide behind books and songs while I’ve fought to reclaim our birthright?” Spittle flies from his lips as he raves, his grip tightening on the edge of the brazier as if he could will the second egg to crack open with sheer force. “The dragons are ours, Rhaegar—mine and Y/N’s! We will be the ones to bring them forth, to birth them anew in fire and blood!”

Before Rhaegar can respond, a screech pierces the air—the dragon, small but fierce, has freed itself from the brazier. Its obsidian scales gleam in the firelight as it stretches its wings, shaking off the ash and embers that cling to its skin. The creature is no longer the fragile thing it was moments ago; there is a dark, primal strength in the way it moves, in the way its golden eyes gleam as it surveys the room.

The courtiers gasp and stumble back, fear rippling through the gathered crowd. Even Tywin Lannister’s eyes narrow in wary calculation as he takes a measured step away from the creature, his face an unreadable mask.

The dragon’s gaze sweeps across the room—past Aerys, past Rhaegar—and locks onto you.

A chill runs down your spine as its eyes, molten gold and filled with an intelligence far beyond its size, bore into you. It slinks toward you, each step deliberate and cautious, its claws clicking softly against the stone floor. The court holds its collective breath, tension crackling like a drawn bowstring. Your heart pounds in your chest as the creature draws closer, but despite the terror seizing your limbs, you cannot move. 

The dragon pauses before you, its eyes narrowing as it tilts its head, studying you with unnerving curiosity. Then, in a moment that defies everything you’ve ever known, it lowers its head, bowing before you. You feel a strange, invisible thread tighten between you and the creature—a bond forged in the fire of its birth, one that hums with a power that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. The dragon’s screech quiets into a low, rumbling purr as it settles at your feet, no longer a threat but a guardian, a companion bound to you by forces neither of you fully understand.

The silence in the room is deafening, every gaze fixed on you and the dragon, disbelief and awe mingling in equal measure. For a moment, the world stands still—until Aerys’s voice shatters the quiet, filled with triumphant exultation.

“Behold!” Aerys cries, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The dragon has chosen! It knows its true blood—it knows its mother!” He strides toward you, his eyes alight with a fervor that borders on madness. “Yes, my daughter, this creature is ours—ours! It is as if we have birthed it ourselves, our blood flowing in its veins! This is our child, a gift from the gods, a symbol of our power!”

Rhaegar’s face pales, horror flashing across his features as he watches the scene unfold. “Father, this is madness,” he whispers, disbelief lacing his voice. He moves quickly, stepping between you and Aerys, placing himself protectively at your side. “This creature is not your child—it’s a beast, born of fire and bloodshed. You cannot twist this into something pure when it was born of sacrifice and death.”

Aerys ignores him, his gaze locked on the dragon as he reaches out with trembling fingers. “It is ours, Rhaegar. Ours to command, ours to nurture. Y/N, do you not see it? This is our destiny, yours and mine, to rule with fire and blood.”

But you see the truth in Rhaegar’s eyes—the fear, the revulsion, and the deep sadness that comes with realizing how far gone your father truly is. You take a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you finally speak. “Father… this is not what I wanted. This is not the future I imagined.”

Before Aerys can respond, Rhaegar’s grip tightens on your arm, pulling you back as he speaks urgently. “Y/N, we’re leaving. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument; it is a command, one born of desperation and love.

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, his expression twisting with fury. “You would take her from me? You, who knows nothing of the fire in our blood? She belongs here, with the dragon, with me!”

The dragon lets out a low growl, sensing the tension between its “mother” and the man who threatens her. But before it can act, a flash of white catches your eye—Arthur, his expression hard as steel, moving swiftly to stand beside Rhaegar.

“My prince,” Arthur says firmly, his eyes flicking between you and the dragon, “we need to go now.”

Aerys’s attention snaps to Arthur, a sneer curling his lips. “You think you can take her from me, Sword of the Morning? You are nothing but a servant—my servant! You would defy me?”

But Arthur stands his ground, his voice cold and steady. “I serve the realm, Your Grace. And I serve the prince and princess first.”

Before Aerys can react, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his face a mask of cold calculation back in place. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice laced with thinly veiled concern, “perhaps it would be wise to allow the prince and princess to depart. They are clearly distressed, and we wouldn’t want any further… incidents to occur.”

Aerys rounds on him, fury blazing in his eyes. “You dare condescend to me, Tywin? You think you can soothe me with your false concern? You—”

But Rhaegar doesn’t wait for the argument to escalate further. With a sharp tug, he pulls you toward the exit, his grip on your arm firm but gentle. “We’re leaving now, Y/N,” he whispers urgently. “We’ll figure out what to do, but we can’t stay here.”

The dragon screeches again, its eyes following you as you move, but it makes no move to attack. It remains crouched by the brazier, watching you leave with an almost mournful expression. You feel the bond tug at you, a strange ache in your chest as you walk away, but you force yourself to keep moving.

Arthur falls in step beside you, his presence a solid wall of protection as he shields you from the madness left behind. You glance back one last time, just in time to see Aerys reach out toward the dragon, his eyes gleaming with unholy joy. “Yes, my child… my beautiful child…”

The doors to the throne room slam shut behind you, cutting off the sight of your father, the dragon, and the pyromancers who still hover near the brazier. The noise of the court fades, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths and the rapid thudding of your heart.

You collapse against the cool stone wall in the corridor outside, the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. Rhaegar pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you as if to shield you from the horrors you’ve just witnessed. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice raw with emotion. “I should never have let it get this far. I should have protected you better.”

You shake your head, tears burning in your eyes. “It’s not your fault, Rhaegar. Father… he’s beyond saving. We all are, in some ways.”

Arthur stands nearby, his sword still in hand, his eyes scanning the corridor for any sign of danger. When he’s satisfied that you’re safe for the moment, he steps closer, his expression softening as he looks at you. “You did well, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the faintest tremor. “You kept your head when most would have broken.”

You manage a faint, shaky smile. “I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing that.”

“We’ll find a way,” Rhaegar promises, his voice firm with determination. “We’ll figure this out.”

Arthur nods in agreement, his eyes meeting Rhaegar’s with an unspoken understanding. “For now, let’s get you somewhere safe. Somewhere away from all of this.”

As the three of you walk down the corridor, the shadows stretch long and dark around you, but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel a spark of hope—a fragile, flickering thing, but it was there.

The heavy doors of the throne room remain shut, muffling the distant echoes of court life beyond. Inside, the once-grand hall is now shrouded in smoke and the eerie green glow of dwindling wildfire. The courtiers stand frozen, torn between awe and terror, their eyes darting between King Aerys and the small dragon now prowling around the smoldering brazier. Its obsidian scales shimmer like dark glass in the firelight, and the flicker of its eyes—molten gold and full of intent—keeps everyone on edge.

Aerys is utterly captivated, his attention consumed by the creature. He paces before it, hands outstretched as though in reverence, his eyes wide and unblinking, a man who has found purpose in his madness. “You see?” he whispers, almost to himself, though his voice carries across the silent room. “The blood of the dragon endures. This is proof that our power remains unbroken—that fire still answers our call.”

The dragon moves closer to him, its claws clicking against the stone floor. The creature’s wings flare slightly, casting long, menacing shadows that stretch across the walls. Aerys’s twisted smile widens, and he drops to his knees, bowing his head in what could only be described as worship.

“Magnificent,” murmurs one of the pyromancers, unable to tear his eyes from the dragon. “It lives—birthed from fire and blood, just as the old lore spoke of.” The other pyromancers exchange looks, their fascination clear as they huddle together, speaking in hushed, fevered tones about the possibilities this creature presents for their dark craft.

Tywin Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his face a mask of carefully controlled disgust. He makes no move to approach the king, but his cold eyes remain fixed on Aerys, taking in every detail of this unfolding disaster. “Your Grace,” Tywin finally speaks, his voice calm but edged with steel. “This… event is extraordinary, yes. But surely it is time to consider the safety of the realm. The presence of this dragon—” He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully, “—in such a volatile environment is a risk.”

Aerys rounds on him, his eyes blazing with fervor. “A risk? You call this a risk, Tywin?” His voice rises, sharp and mocking. “You, with your golden pride and ambition, would dare question the return of our house’s greatest symbol? You lack vision, as always.” He laughs, a wild, grating sound that sends shivers down the spines of those nearby. “The dragon is our salvation! It will stay here, in the throne room, where it belongs—where it will be under my protection!”

Pycelle, his face pale and beaded with sweat, clears his throat and steps forward. “Your Grace, with all due respect, the throne room is—unsuited for such a creature. Perhaps it would be better served if the beast were kept in the improvised Dragonpit we can quickly construct, where it might be properly—”

“Enough!” Aerys shrieks, his voice cracking as he rounds on Pycelle. “Do not presume to tell me how to care for my child! It stays here—here, where it can watch over its throne, where all can witness the return of our glory!”

The dragon’s head turns toward Aerys as he speaks, as if it senses the intensity of his emotions. The court watches, paralyzed, as the creature inches closer to the Iron Throne, the jagged steel blades reflecting in its golden eyes. The pyromancers exchange glances, their awe deepening with every movement of the dragon.

Varys, who had been lingering at the edge of the shadows, slips away unnoticed, disappearing into the darkness with a subtle swish of his robes. No one remarks on his absence—those who do notice are more concerned with the king’s unpredictable mood and the ever-looming threat of the dragon in their midst.

As the courtiers murmur amongst themselves, Tywin presses his lips into a thin line, his calculating gaze sweeping across the room. He knows this situation is spiraling out of control, but there’s no room to maneuver—Aerys’s obsession is beyond reason, and any direct confrontation would only invite disaster.

Ser Jaime Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his expression one of wary amusement. His hand hovers near the pommel of his sword, ready to act should the dragon—or the king—become a threat. “A bold decision, Your Grace,” Jaime remarks, though there’s a mocking edge beneath the politeness. “Keeping a dragon in the throne room—how very fitting. After all, nothing else in this cursed hall has been able to match the madness of our times.”

Aerys barely registers the comment, his focus wholly consumed by the dragon. He kneels closer to the creature, his fingers trembling as he reaches out. The dragon’s head snaps toward him, teeth bared, but it does not strike. Instead, it simply watches, waiting, as if testing the king’s resolve.

“It is ours,” Aerys whispers, more to himself than anyone else. “The blood of the dragon recognizes its own. It will stay here, by the throne. It will grow strong, and in time, we shall see it reclaim the skies.”

Tywin takes a step forward, his tone measured and laced with warning. “Your Grace, this creature is not a mere pet—it’s a wild beast, born of fire and blood. Keeping it here in such close proximity to the court is—”

Aerys cuts him off with a vicious snarl. “It is mine! It belongs to me and to my daughter! It will stay where I command, and you—” he points a shaking finger at Tywin, his eyes blazing, “—you will remember your place.”

Tywin’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing more, recognizing the futility of arguing further. The court remains silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Everyone knows that challenging Aerys now would only lead to more bloodshed, and none are willing to risk their lives in the presence of both a mad king and a dragon.

The pyromancers bow low, their eyes gleaming with eager anticipation. “As you command, Your Grace. We shall prepare the throne room to be the dragon’s new lair. It will be a place worthy of its presence, a shrine to the rebirth of your house.”

Aerys smiles, a twisted, satisfied grin that sends a shiver down the spines of all who see it. “Yes,” he murmurs, stroking the air as if he were already petting the dragon’s scales. “This will be our sanctum—the heart of fire and blood. The dragon will stay here, where all can witness its glory.”

The dragon lets out a low growl, its eyes shifting between Aerys and the gathered court, as if it understands the weight of what has been proclaimed. The courtiers exchange uneasy glances, knowing that this new “child” of Aerys could just as easily turn on them as it could serve the king’s ambitions.

But Aerys remains entranced, his gaze never leaving the dragon as he whispers to himself, lost in his fevered dreams of power reborn. The court is dismissed, but no one dares move until Aerys waves a dismissive hand, lost in his own world. The courtiers leave as quickly as they can, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall, a reminder of how far the realm has descended into madness.

As the last of them depart, the dragon curls at the foot of the Iron Throne, its eyes half-lidded as it watches Aerys with a gaze that is both predatory and curious. Aerys remains beside it, mumbling incoherently about fire, blood, and destiny, oblivious to the dark path he has chosen for himself and his house.

The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold that clings to your bones as you sit on the edge of the bed, your hand outstretched while Maester Pycelle inspects the wound left by your father’s dagger. His fingers are cold and dry as parchment, trembling slightly as he cleans the cut, murmuring in his usual pedantic tone about the necessity of avoiding infection. The scent of herbal salve fills the air, mingling with the distant echoes of the chaos still unfolding in the Red Keep.

Rhaegar stands by the window, the soft glow of dusk casting shadows across his face. He stares out into the night, lost in thought, his posture tense and his eyes troubled. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, ever protective. He hasn’t left your side since the moment you escaped the throne room, and though he remains silent, you can feel the weight of his concern in every glance he sends your way.

Pycelle’s mutterings are a dull hum in the background, your focus entirely on the tight line of Rhaegar’s mouth, the subtle slump in his usually straight shoulders. Finally, when the maester finishes wrapping your hand in clean linen, you find the strength to speak the question that has been gnawing at you since the madness in the throne room.

“Rhaegar… what happens now?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they leave your lips. You’ve always known your father’s grip on sanity was tenuous, but tonight felt different—darker, more final. 

Rhaegar’s sigh is heavy, filled with a weariness that seems to age him beyond his years. He finally turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours, and in them, you see the burden of responsibility that he carries like a shroud. “Now?” he echoes, the word hanging in the air. “Now we try to hold this fractured realm together while our father plunges deeper into his delusions.”

Arthur shifts his weight slightly, his jaw tight as he struggles to contain his own thoughts. He glances at Rhaegar, then back at you, but remains silent, knowing this is a conversation between brother and sister first.

Rhaegar crosses the room and takes a seat beside you, his hand resting gently over yours, careful not to disturb the bandage. “I’ll talk to him,” he says, though there is little hope in his voice. “Once this feverish madness of his has dimmed down, I’ll try to reason with him. He must understand that what happened today cannot continue.”

You shake your head, doubt gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. “And what makes you think he’ll listen? He was… convinced that the dragon was our child, that it was born from us.” The words stick in your throat, bile rising as you recall the twisted gleam in Aerys’s eyes when he proclaimed the dragon a gift of your blood.

Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his expression hardening as he forces himself to remain calm. “He’s lost in his fantasies, yes, but there are moments—brief as they are—where he’s still lucid enough to recognize reality. We need to be patient and wait for one of those moments. If I can find that opening, maybe I can convince him to focus his obsession elsewhere.”

Arthur’s voice, low and firm, cuts through the tense silence. “You shouldn’t have to navigate this alone, Your Grace. The longer the king’s madness goes unchecked, the more dangerous he becomes—to Y/N, to the realm, to everyone.” His words are carefully measured, but the undercurrent of anger is clear. The thought of you being forced into another horrifying situation like the one in the throne room clearly torments him.

Rhaegar nods, though his eyes remain shadowed with doubt. “I know, Arthur. But what would you have me do? We are trapped in a court ruled by fear, with our own father sitting at the heart of it like a ticking time bomb. Any direct challenge to his authority could spark civil war.”

You bite your lip, the weight of your brother’s words settling like a stone in your chest. You can feel the walls closing in, the oppressive sense that there is no escape from this nightmare. “Is there really no way out of this?” you ask, your voice small and filled with a desperation you hate showing.

Rhaegar’s expression softens, a rare glimpse of the brother you knew before all of this—the one who would comfort you with songs and stories when the world outside seemed too dark to bear. “I’ll find a way, Y/N. I promise you that, even if it means I have to make decisions I never wanted to make.” His voice drops to a whisper, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. “I won’t let him destroy us.”

Pycelle clears his throat, finishing his work and shuffling back a step. “The wound should heal without issue, Princess. Keep it clean and avoid straining the hand. I’ll prepare more salve and have it sent to your chambers.”

“Thank you, Maester Pycelle,” you reply automatically, though your attention is still fixed on Rhaegar and the quiet resolve hardening in his gaze.

The maester bows stiffly, casting a wary glance at Arthur before retreating from the room. Once the door closes behind him, the room feels smaller, the air thick with tension and unsaid fears.

Arthur finally speaks again, his voice a low rumble. “Whatever your plan is, Rhaegar, know that I’m with you. We can’t let him harm her—or anyone else—again.”

Rhaegar meets Arthur’s gaze, a mutual understanding passing between them. “I know I can count on you, Ser Arthur. But until we figure out a solution, we must tread carefully. We cannot afford to provoke our father into something even more catastrophic.”

You nod, feeling a mixture of gratitude and fear swirl within you. You know Rhaegar is trying his best to protect you, but the weight of your father’s madness is a heavy one to bear, and you can’t help but feel that it’s only a matter of time before something—someone—breaks.

“I trust you, Rhaegar,” you say softly, though the words feel fragile, like glass on the edge of shattering. “Just… promise me you won’t let him drag us all down with him.”

Rhaegar’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a brief moment, you see the depth of his fear mirrored in his eyes. But he forces a small smile, squeezing your hand one last time before standing. “I promise, Y/N. We’ll find a way through this. Together.”

With that, he takes his leave, casting one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

Arthur remains by your side, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor amidst the swirling uncertainty. He watches you carefully, his concern evident even in the silence that stretches between you. “Get some rest, my lady,” he finally says, though his tone is gentle, almost tender. “You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next.”

You manage a faint nod, your exhaustion catching up to you as the events of the day settle like a leaden weight in your limbs. But even as you lie down, pulling the covers around you, sleep remains elusive. Your mind races, filled with the image of the dragon’s eyes—their unblinking, knowing gaze—and the twisted words of your father as he proclaimed the creature a child born of your blood.

As you finally drift into a fitful sleep, Arthur remains close by, ever watchful, ever ready to defend you. But even with him there, the darkness creeping at the edges of your thoughts is impossible to ignore.

You wonder how much longer you can hold out against the rising tide of your father’s madness—and what will be left of your family when the storm finally breaks.

Tywin Lannister sits at the head of the chamber, his expression unreadable but cold, calculating. His piercing green eyes scan the room as Jaime and Cersei stand before him, their postures tense. The usual arrogance in Cersei’s gaze is muted, replaced with unease, while Jaime leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his casual stance belying the seriousness of his expression.

“What we’ve witnessed today,” Tywin begins, his voice low and deliberate, “has shaken the foundation of this court more than any whisper or scheme could have. A dragon has been born, and with it, the Targaryen madness has been given a new life.”

Cersei’s eyes flash with anxiety as she steps forward, unable to keep her unease hidden. “Father, this changes everything. If Aerys has control over that creature, it strengthens his position—and his madness. He already considers himself untouchable, but now… now he’ll see himself as invincible.”

Jaime chuckles darkly from his position near the wall, though there’s no humor in it. “Invincible? The man is already half a corpse in his own mind, clinging to delusions of grandeur. That dragon is more of a threat to him than to anyone else in this castle. But still,” he adds, his expression turning grim, “it complicates things. Our position at court was precarious enough, and now we have to worry about Aerys using that beast to tighten his grip even further.”

Tywin steeples his fingers, his gaze distant as he considers their words. “You’re both correct. Aerys’s obsession with this so-called ‘rebirth’ will only drive him deeper into his madness. He’s unpredictable enough as it is, but now he believes he’s found proof that the gods favor him. If he sees that dragon as a weapon in his hands… well, that could make him far more dangerous than we’ve ever seen.”

Cersei steps closer to her father, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then we must act quickly. Rhaegar and his sister clearly do not support Aerys’s madness. They’re our best chance to take control of this situation. If Rhaegar were to become king… and if I were to be his queen…” Her eyes gleam with ambition, the familiar hunger returning as she imagines the power that could be within her grasp.

Tywin’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps approval—in his gaze. “That is the path we have been working toward, Cersei, but it is not without its dangers. Rhaegar is a cautious man, and while he despises his father’s madness, he is still bound by duty to the Targaryen name. We must tread carefully. Any overt move against Aerys could lead to bloodshed, and with a dragon in his arsenal, even the smallest provocation could have devastating consequences.”

Jaime pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms as he approaches the table. “I’ve been stationed near Aerys for long enough to know that he’s on the edge. One wrong move, and he could turn that creature against anyone he perceives as a threat. And if that happens, none of us—Rhaegar included—will be safe.”

Tywin’s eyes narrow as he considers his son’s words. “Which is why we must ensure that the dragon remains under control—or neutralized if necessary.”

Cersei frowns, her brows furrowing as she processes the implications. “You’re suggesting we find a way to… dispose of it? That would require subtlety, and the king’s attention is entirely fixed on it.”

“Not necessarily,��� Tywin counters. “Aerys’s obsession with the dragon could be his weakness. If he becomes too focused on it, it may give us the opportunity to manipulate him in other ways. We can bide our time, waiting for the right moment to strike. But make no mistake—if the situation continues to spiral, we will need to act decisively. Aerys is a danger to everyone in King’s Landing, and now more than ever, that danger is real.”

Jaime’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “You mean more real than the wildfire he’s been stockpiling under the city? Or the executions he dreams of every night?”

Tywin doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, his gaze shifting back to Cersei. “Your focus must remain on gaining Rhaegar’s trust. He will be the key to any transition of power. If you can convince him that marrying you would stabilize the realm, then we can proceed from there. But until we know where his loyalties truly lie, we must remain patient.”

Cersei’s eyes gleam with determination. “I won’t fail, Father. Rhaegar is torn between his duty and his family—if I can show him that we’re the solution to that conflict, he’ll come to us willingly.”

Tywin nods approvingly. “Good. But remember—your ambition must be tempered by caution. Rhaegar is a man of principle. If he suspects we’re using him purely for our own ends, he’ll shut us out. He must believe that aligning with us is not just the best option, but the only option.”

Jaime runs a hand through his golden hair, glancing between his father and sister. “And what if Aerys decides that the dragon is the answer to all his problems? What if he starts using it to cement his control—publicly?”

Tywin’s gaze turns steely, his voice cold and unyielding. “Then we will do what must be done. But that is a last resort. For now, we watch, we wait, and we maneuver carefully. The dragon may be a tool of fear, but fear can be wielded by those with the will to seize it.”

As the conversation draws to a close, Cersei’s thoughts churn with a renewed sense of purpose. She knows that winning Rhaegar’s favor is her path to power, and now, more than ever, she’s determined to succeed. The image of her sitting beside him as queen flickers in her mind like a beacon, drawing her forward, regardless of the dangers that lie in her path.

Jaime’s smile returns, this time with a hint of bitter amusement. “We’re all dancing on the edge of a knife. Let’s just hope we’re the ones holding the hilt when it all comes crashing down.”

Tywin’s silence is all the confirmation they need. The Lannisters, like everyone else in King’s Landing, know that the game is changing. The dragon in the throne room is not just a creature—it’s a symbol of the chaos that now reigns over the capital.

But chaos, Tywin knows, can be controlled. If they play their cards right, this madness could be the key to seizing the power they’ve long desired. And in the end, power is all that matters.

-A/N: Did I just played with the idea of the Mad King having a dragon in his arsenal. Yeah, I did. And nobody in Westeros will have a fun time with it. And words 'fire and blood' are used far too often, but it's so fitting.