#dylan blue hair

[scisac]

stiles in 3x04: unleashed

[wonderatmywoman]

Why does Dylan look like someone put 'French artist' as an AI art prompt?

[stanleypolecat]

UHM WATCHA MEAN FELLA?!?!?🤨🤨🤨

[misschanadlerbong]

DYLAN MINNETTE ICONS

[jinx-aesthel]

Another throwback from the drive!! This was back in 2018 when I went to NYC at Dylan's Candy Bar! I wore a cute sugary sweet outfit just so I could take cute photos in there!

[z5mbiegrlz]

thoughts on wallows new album??

LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE

[ratchasm]

i always think it's not possible to love women more than i already do and then SUDDENLY

[egoschwank]

al things considered — when i post my masterpiece #1294

first posted in facebook march 27, 2024

fritz winter -- "rot vor blau" [i.e., red before blue] (1966)

"every work is or ought to be a statement about the unknown" … fritz winter

"early one morning the sun was shining i was laying in bed wondering if she'd changed at all if her hair was still red" … bob dylan

"it is not a matter of showing what is there, but of revealing what is also there, because there is far more visible than we can see and far more audible than we can hear and far more there than we are ourselves" … fritz winter

"it is not a matter of me posting that her hair was, or was not, still red … it's more an unknown matter of wondering if she'd changed at all … or only at AL" … al janik

[ajaxbell]

[sinfulcries]

I WANNA FUCK YOU LIKE AN ANIMAL! / GOJO SATORU

AUTHORS NOTE: wow dylan’s writing again after a million years 🤓 i could not miss out on halloween so what better way to celebrate than to destroy gojo’s ass? i miss you guys lots and i miss getting all creative nd being able to write again after dealing with so many stressful things irl <\3 this is pretty tame compared to my previous smuts and this is like also a month old so my apologies 🙂‍↕️

CONTENT WARNINGS! knife play, overstimulation, pet names (doll, sweetheart,) slasher reader x victim gojo, implied marathon sex

"That's it, baby, spread those pretty legs f'me." A dark chuckle escaped your lips as the rough tips of your fingers roamed the smooth expanse of Satoru's legs, opening them wide enough to reveal his leaking cock lying hard and useless on his flat stomach. Satoru could only muster a whine in response, trying to pull you in deeper whilst your thick cock nudged teasingly against his puckering hole. "Please," He whimpered prettily, his pale cheeks flushing red with arousal and hunger.

The white haired man didn't need to see your face to know that you were grinning down at him sadistically underneath the ghostface mask you were wearing, and it only made his cock twitch with need as you pinned him down onto the plush mattress— rendering him utterly helpless against you. "I'm about to kill you and yet here you are begging for my cock." You laughed amusedly at the absurdity of the situation, making the poor man pout. "S'not fair you're so big that I wanna feel you in my guts."

Okay, Maybe you'd keep him as your slut instead with how desperate he was. Slender legs wrapping around your waist coaxing you to just fuck and claim him already.

"You're playing a dangerous game here, sweetheart." You growled through the cheap plastic of your mask, reaching down to push your thick fingers between Satoru's lips, his tongue instantly swirling around the thick digits getting them nice and wet as his gaze never left yours.

God, He was a filthy little thing, and you couldn't help but notice the way his hole clenched around nothing every time your free hand trailed the knife's blade teasingly against his inner thigh. Satoru pulled away from your fingers with a wet pop, glaring up at you through thick eyelashes. "Just put it in already." He growled impatiently, and you only responded by pressing the blade harder against his skin, the tip of the knife threatening to dig into his flesh.

Satoru only gulped in response at the action, a shiver running up his spine feeling the cold metal of your knife kissing his thigh. "Okay, okay— calm down." He tried to laugh off his insistent whining with a practiced grin however, you could see the lingering traces of fear swirling in those blue eyes. "Just be patient, doll." You murmured raspily, spreading the lube you had used earlier to finger his sweet little hole open with your thick fingers around his twitching rim.

You couldn't help but notice the way Satoru threw his head back against the pillows, his bruised chest heaving as you rubbed his lubed entrance messily. He was so sensitive. So easy to break. And the thought of splitting him open on your fat cock made it jut against his thigh with aching need.

Wasting no more time, you aligned the fat head of your cock in front of his wet hole before thrusting in with one brutal snap of your hips. Satoru's eyes widened impossibly, his hands scrambling to grip the headboard as a high pitched scream ripped past his throat.

"Fuck—! S..So big—!" He mewled, moving his hips in sync with the way you jackhammered into him like a cheap fleshlight. Satoru wrapped his legs around your waist weakly, trying to anchor himself with the way your fat cock battered his prostate— And as his screams and the wet squelch of skin against skin filled the room, the white haired man could slowly feel his brain melting with searing hot pleasure.

"Take it." You growled possessively, continuing to rut into his ass like a beast in rut, angling your hips to reach deeper inside of his hole. "D'you like that, doll? You've been beggin' for this all night."

Satoru could only nod frantically in response, his brain too mushy to form any coherent words. You could see a white creamy ring of cum forming at the base of your cock, the sight only fuelling you to pound your willing little victim until he passed out, still impaled on your unrelenting length.

"'S too much..!" He squealed, arching his back as your cock drilled in harder, rearranging his insides until they were moulded to fit your big cock. "Can't take it—! 'M-M gonna die..!" With a loud cry, his body started convulsing in your hold, trying to squirm away from the brutal onslaught of your merciless thrusts.

"Don't chicken out on me now, doll." You warned lowly, now pressing the cold edge of your knife against his throat, each thrust driving the blade closer to his jugular. "We have a long night ahead of us."

[deathlooksgoodonyou-if]

It was the summer of 2010 when you found Jules Hawkins by the lake. But it didn't look like Jules Hawkins.

After all, how could it? Jules Hawkins was a god. And as you know, gods like Jules are unbreakable. If you knew anyone death couldn't touch, it was Jules. And yet, somehow it felt like you had never seen Jules look more like them than they did, that day, dead by the lake. Plump cherry lips, now parched and blue, dirt on their perfect knees, golden hair sticking to their forehead, exquisite clothes matted and muddied, skin, ghostly pale.

Even in death, even as Jules became a child of soil and dirt and ruin, Jules managed to look like art. How could this creature of beauty be anyone else but Jules Hawkins?

A string of murders follow the passing of Jules Hawkins and in the desperation of avoiding being tangled in the web of this cold blooded murderer, you end up right in the thick of it when you find out the killer may have set their eyes on you next.

Of course, you ended up in the killer's radar. You had always been a child of misfortune, after all.

• Customise your mc. Choose your appearance. Play as male, female, non-binary or trans; straight, gay or bisexual etc.

• Play as an emotionally scarred individual. Escape the hell you call your mind, alone or with the help of allies. Or succumb to the voices.

• Find your predator before your predator finds you. Or keep running. How far will you run? Do you even want to run?

• Befriend, antagonize, manipulate or romance fellow residents of Ravenwoods.

• Heavily character driven.

• The lake calls out to you. Will you listen?

JULIAN/NE "JULES" HAWKINS. [he/him or she/her] [semi ro]

You knew Jules in the way you wish you never did. Jules is embedded into your very bones. Jules is a part of you. You wish you could escape them.

Jules may be no more for the world but they are alive and breathing in your haywire brain and they are not very kind. Not that they ever were. But the Jules that haunts you, plagues you like a disease is ruthless with their words in a way the old Jules could never be. Not to you.

Description : Pale skin. Rosy tint to cheeks. High cheekbones. f!Long wheatish blonde curly hair with bangs. m!shoulder length curly wheatish blonde hair. Almond shaped brown eyes. Arched eyebrows. Long, thick lashes. Bow shaped lips. f!willowy frame. 5'11. m!broad back, narrow waist, long legs. 6'2.

CHAE WARREN. [he/him]

There are few you consider friend and Warren is one of them, alongside Sujin. He is revolution in a glass jar. A little rough around the edges, with bullet holes in his paper heart. Lately, the air becomes laced with awkwardness when its just the two of you around. You wish you weren't fairly perceptive. Perhaps that could have made you oblivious to the way Warren's adams apple bobs and his throat tightens when you are around, the way his fists clench when his tongue slips or the way he glances at you thinking you didn't notice.

Description : Sharp jaw. Medium complexion. Monolid chocolate brown eyes. Straight eyebrows. Thin pinkish lips. 5'7. Athletic figure. Short dyed dark red hair.

JESSICA HAWKINS. [she/her]

Jules' twin. You never bothered to acquaint yourself with her. She had always seemed too saintly and your mother had taught you well to stay away from that kind. Those who hide their tainted souls behind rosemary lies, platinum smiles and bright eyes stitched from sunshine. Beware of them, your mother had told you. But is that what she truly is doing? Spinning honeyed tales from saccharine lips?

You would never know. Unless you choose to. If it helps, Jules lips always quirked upwards and the crease in their brows mellowed whenever her name rolled off their tongue.

Description : Kind almond shaped brown eyes. Long, thick lashes. Bow shaped lips. Arched eyebrows. High cheekbones. Straight blonde hair, reaching her back. Pale skin. Willowy frame. 5'10.

DYLAN JEANE. [he/him]

Jules' boyfriend, Dylan. Well, ex boyfriend now. He seems to harbour a deep dislike for you. No matter how hard he denies it— the slight tensing of the muscles in his jaw always give it away.

You had always been curious about him. Jules and him were an odd pair. How could Dylan be what Jules desired? They were polar opposites. Jules was tidal waves and traditional typhoons. He is ruddy sunsets and roseate dawns. He is habit, he is routine, he is rigid, he is never changing. A sad strange kind of tragedy. Jules was anything but that. Jules was everything at once. Jules was never the same. Jules was uneven. Jules was hurricanes and tsunamis.

There is a natural downwards turn to his lips, his shoulders always a little hunched as if the burdens of life have dripped down from the ceiling and chosen to settle like dust upon his shoulders. You wonder what weighs him down so terribly. He talks as if every breath he takes from his lungs rattles him to the core. Perhaps it does. He seems to have taken Jules' death as hard as you, if not worse.

Description : Short slicked back midnight black hair. Heavy lidded hazel eyes. Slender built. Wears rimless rectangular glasses occassionally. Angular face. Sharp lips. Upwards eyebrows. Fair skin. 6'1.

AIDEN HAMILTON. [he/him]

The second child of the sleazy mayor. Boy of many faces. You don't trust him one ounce. For good reasons. It irks you to watch his eyes glimmer as if you are a specimen that intrigues him. You don't trust the myriad of unhealthy secrets he hides behind his charming gaze, the sly smile that tugs off the corner of his lips or the disarming lilt of voice as his salty tongue rolls off silken threads of honeysuckle lies frictionlessly. It comes to him as naturally as breathing. The impurity of his father's gold taints him, it runs in his veins and he embraces it willfully.

He is hiding skeletons in his closets and everybody knows that. What it is however, is a different story.

Will he let you in on a secret?

Description : Unruly brown wavy hair, in a middle part. Luscious lips, heavy lower lip, a small faint and old scar at the corner of his mouth. S-shaped eyebrows. Sea green hooded eyes. Tanned complexion. V-shaped jaw. Toned build. 6'4.

HEATHER HAMILTON. [she/her]

Eldest child of the mayor. You are not particularly friends but she is not a bad company to have around either. You like her. You have met in passing and she always has a quick smile reserved for you. You know she is a dreamer with a pomegranate heart. She has also somehow inherited her mother's love of parties. Hers tend to be a little more wild and carefree, though. Just like her.

Uncharacteristically, she is also fond of painting. Will you be her muse?

Description : Straight brown hair in a bob cut. Hooded brown eyes. Heart shaped lips. Soft arch eyebrows. Skinny frame. Tanned complexion. Dimples on both cheeks. 5'7.

MIA MORGAN. [she/her]

Mia Morgan is the kind of girl who will rip your heart out, eat it raw and call it love. With midnight eyes of catlike grace that could rival any godforsaken abyss and lips richer and darker than the blood running in your veins, she's the kind of girl that would skin you alive and chew on your fickle heart but then kiss your eyelids and tell you 'good night, baby' and you would like a lovesick dog spiral back to her, yearning for more.

Why? Because you are a fool? No. Because she was Mia Morgan and Mia Morgan was born for seduction and playing with the strings of childish hearts. A holy ruination. Destruction in its most, enchanting, enrapturing form.

Will you let her destroy you?

Description : Wispy bangs, short hush cut, black hair. Dark cat eyes. Beauty mark on upper lip. Soft jaw. Chubby cheeks. Crimson pouty lips. Fair complexion. Curvaceous figure. 5'2.

KIM SUJIN. [she/her]

She considers you a close friend, sharing every secret with you.

Description : Bronze skin, wide set brown eyes with gold flecks, button nose, freckles, curtain bangs, medium length chestnut brown hair. 5'3.

ARTHUR MORRIS. [he/him]

Aiden's friend. He's an asshole.

Description : Mahogany complexion, hollowed cheeks, has a stubble, ebony eyes, buzzcut, brawny. 6'1.

PARIS HILL. [he/him]

Local heartthrob. He looks handsome till he opens his mouth.

Description : Sunkissed complexion, wide lips, honey brown eyes, blonde hair in a fringe. Buff arms and broad back. Has an unhealthy obsession with shades. 5'10.

AUNT AUBURN MACKENZIE. [she/her]

She loves you dearly. There is nothing she wouldn't do for you.

Description : Brown hair, generally tied in a loose bun. Wrinkles near eyes and smiling lines around her mouth. Thin lips. Stout and a little hunched frame. Brown complexion. 5'1.

MOTHER. [she/her]

A woman with a twisted understanding of love. You haven't seen her in years and while you may have forgotten her face, her voice still rings crystal clear in your mind, like an old cassette on repeat.

FATHER. [he/him]

A man you knew but never quite understood. It is his face that stares back at you everytime you look in the mirror.

MAYOR JOHN HAMILTON. [he/him]

The mayor of Ravenwoods. It would serve you well to have him as an ally. Having strong connections has always proved to be useful.

Description : Beige skin. Hooked nose. Green eyes. Bushy brows. Short hair, close cropped. Smooth blonde hair. Plump frame. 5'8.

MEERA CHAUHAN HAMILTON. [she/her]

Wife of the mayor. She may be a little snobby but she means well. Most of the times. After all, who isn't a little selfish?

Description : Tanned complexion. Almond brown gold eyes. Brown hair wavy reaching her mid back. Slender frame. 5'10.

LAWRENCE HAWKINS. [he/him]

Father of the Hawkins siblings. You would rather not get involved with him.

Description : Pale skin. Blonde slicked back hair. Blue eyes. High cheek bones. Sharp jaw. Wears frameless rectangular glasses. 5'11.

AURORA HAWKINS. [she/her]

Mother of the Hawkins siblings. You would rather not get involved with her.

Description : Blonde hair, generally tied in a tight bun. Pale skin. Brown eyes. 5'9.

OFFICER RYAN DOUGLAS. [he/him]

He's a good man. He tries his best.

Description : Rosy complexion. Dark brown eyes. Short brown hair. Average build. 5'8.

DEMO. (DECEMBER OR SOONER!)

COG FORUM. (DECEMBER OR SOONER!)

EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. (TBD!)

FAQ.

> Rated 18+ for mature themes such as (heavy spoilers ahead!) explicit language, sexual themes, questionable behaviour, toxic relationships, murder, elitism, child abuse, domestic violence, insomnia, toxic relationships, manipulation, transphobia, racism, internalised transphobia and homophobia, death, childhood trauma, mild nudity, feelings of being watched, stalking, infidelity, hallucinations.

Reblogs are appreciated! Thank you for your interest! <3

[vilnmelling]

"It's time to film the Nightmare Time intro! You can do whatever you want, so go crazy."

Corey: "I'm gonna wear a hat!"

Dylan: "Look look look, guys guys guys, I found a tree and a fence!"

Joey: "What if... we wore spooky hoodies and lit out faces with flashlights?" Lauren: "Fuck. Yes."

Jeff: "I have a mirror... I can edit... This is fucking happening. Also, I have fabulous hair and a fan."

Mariah: "This is my model moment" *Fucking eats and leaves no crumbs*

Angela: "I couldn't find my phone, so I filmed on this camera from the 1930s, is that okay?"

James: "I'll just sit in my corner and pull my hood over my face."

Jaime: "I have a prop and I have blue eyes, I'm all set."

Curt: "I figured we could do some spooky lighting." Kim: "Haha yeah, you can do that."

Nick: "I'm only in one clip, so I'll just be myself."

Jon: *P a u l*

[queers-gambit]

The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread > > > next part, part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

> > > next part, part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

[burreauxsworld]

Can we get dad Joe where he has five boys all mini him and wife is pregnant with baby girl🌸

This is such a vastly different thing for me to write because I imagine Joe being the biggest girl dad but I’m gonna give it a shot!

~~~

The Burrow household is nothing short of chaos. A controlled chaos though. The kind of chaos that brings a smile to your face as you watch your four rambunctious little boys run around. You and your husband, Joe, have 4 little boys and a little girl on the way.

There’s Jackson and Joseph Jr, the twins and the two oldest at 7 years old. Then there’s Dylan, who’s 5. Lastly, Colby, who’s 3. All of them are carbon copies of your husband. With their big ocean blue eyes and curly dirty blonde hair.

Jackson, like Joe, is big into football. The two of them throw the ball back and forth for hours. Joseph on the other hand, is more of a mama’s boy. Just like his father before him. Whenever you went, little Joey went. Whenever Joe went, Jackson wasn’t far behind. The two little ones, however, could go either way. Sometimes they wanted you, sometimes they wanted Joe. It just depended on the day.

Today, it was the latter. You leaned against the door frame of the sliding glass doors leading to your backyard, watching as your husband and four boys played a game of football. Well, Colby attempted to play, but he mostly just stumbled around the yard messing with whatever random toys he could find.

A smile graced your lips as you watched your husband show his boys how to throw the perfect spiral. You laid a gentle hand on your baby bump, glancing down.

“Be prepared. This is your life” you mumble, looking back up at your boys. “Mama,” Colby babbles, while he stumbles toward you. “Mommy’s home!” Dylan tells, capturing the attention of his brothers and father. “And she brought dinner, because she doesn’t feel like cooking” you tell them, as little arms wrap around your lower half.

“Alright boys, careful. Don’t be too rough” Joe reminds them, planting a kiss on your forehead while the boys ran toward the kitchen table.

“How’s baby Gracie?” He asks with a smile. “Very active today. I think she might be the bengals newest kicker” you joke and he beams with pride. One thing Joe couldn’t wait for, was the arrival of his little girl.

[withwritersblock]

Little Freak

~Little Freak by Harry Styles~

Author's Note: requested! I looked up interpertations of the meaning behind the song and picked my favorite :) Summary: Luke recalls his favorite situationship from college Warnings: mentions of sex ig? Word Count: 2,282 Luke Hughes x fm!reader

The season was starting to get harder and harder. The media was dragging him through the dirt because he wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes and he wasn’t allowed to do that. Even though he was a rookie. It was April, the Devils season coming to an end without a playoff appearance, all Luke wanted was to go home. Yet they had three games left. 

It was well past midnight and his mind was wandering. His hotel bed was uncomfortable, despite being one of the nicer ones in Toronto. He kept tossing and turning.

Shutting his eyes, Y/N popped into his mind. 

He agreed to the costume before he remembered how hot the fraternity parties got. How crowded and instantly sweaty he got. The Scooby-Doo costume was slowly started to be zipped lower and lower on his frame as more alcohol entered his body. He mostly stuck to his friends, the other boys in Scooby-Doo costumes. Many have already resorted to letting it hang off of their waist.

Luke was avoiding being shirtless at the party as long as he could.  He kept his beer can in his hand longer than he should’ve this late into the night. It was becoming warm and nearly undrinkable. He still kept it in his hand as he leaned against the wall ignoring something Dylan was shouting towards the rest of the group. 

He lifted his gaze to see a group of girls entering the party, all of them were wearing short dresses with white boots. He couldn’t tell what they were exactly until they spun around to see tiny wings on their back. Their costume came into his mind but it quickly drifted away as the girl in the green dress struck out. She was dead center of the group, quickly left alone as each girl ran towards another person they recognized.

She stood still scanning the crowded party before she started walking deeper into the crowd. Luke lost sight of her, he clenched his jaw as he slowly dropped his gaze towards his beer in his hand. 

“LUKEY BOY!” Ethan shouted as he slammed his and onto Luke’s shoulder. Luke lifted his head, a little delayed in the action. “DID YOU JUST FALL IN LOVE!?” he shouted again teasingly. Luke smirked as he rolled his eyes. He brought the beer towards his mouth, sipping barely any of the liquid. 

“Shut up, man,” he let out while shaking his head. “I need a new beer!” he shouted towards Ethan, implying he should come with. He nodded as the pair, shoved through the crowd towards the less full kitchen. 

The girl in the green dress stood beside one of the girls she came into the party with. Ethan smiled towards Luke as they both reached into the cooler beside the girls. 

“Lemme guess!” Ethan shouted excitedly towards the girls. They stopped their conversation, looking towards Ethan expectantly, “Tinkerbell and Silvermist!” he said pointing towards each of the girls. They smirked as they nodded. 

“How’d you know that, Scooby?” the girl in the light blue dress asked. Ethan nodded confidently as he ran his fingers through his hair. 

Luke tuned out the conversation as he tossed his old beer towards the nearly overflowing trash can in the corner of the kitchen. He quickly opened the tab to his beer in his hand and the liquid sprayed out for a second. It completely hit the girl in the light blue dress. 

His eyes widened as his mouth fell open. She gasped dramatically, turning to Luke and giving him a glare. “I’m so sorry about him, let’s get you cleaned up!” Ethan said as he delicately took a hold of her arm. The girl huffed as she allowed Ethan to guide her away. Luke pressed his lips together trying not to laugh.

The girl in the green dress looked towards Luke and let out a sudden laugh. Luke started laughing as he took the spot of the girl in the light blue dress. 

He leaned towards her, talking close to her ear, “I promise that wasn’t planned to talk to you guys.” He pulled away, a soft smirk on his lips. 

“I didn’t think it was but now I’m starting to think it might’ve been,” she teased. He chuckled as he brought the beer towards his lips. He took a sip, unzipping more of the costume as he fanned himself with his other hand for a moment. “I’m sorry about Zoey! She’s a bit dramatic,” she offered.

“I mean I did get some beer on her,” Luke shrugged.

“Yeah, but it barely touched her skin,” she said laughing. “This whole fairy costume stuff was her idea, so I’m sure she’s so crushed a little bit of beer got on her,” she said sarcastically.

“Says the girl who’s dressed as the main character,” 

“I’m only Tinkerbell because I look good in green,” she offered as she looked into his eyes. He slowly scanned her frame, admiring the color against her skin. His cheeks slowly pinked up.

“Yeah, you do,” he mumbled. She smirked as she delicately rested her hand onto his arm.

“It was nice meeting you-” she trailed off.

“Luke,” he answered for her, suddenly feeling shy. 

“It was nice meeting you, Luke. I’m gonna go find my friends,” she uttered as she turned away from him. 

“Wait-!” he called after her and she spun around and faced him again. “What’s your name?” he asked. She smiled towards him as she tilted her head to the side.

“Y/N!” she told him before she slowly started walking away from him. She spotted a few of her friends huddled in the corner and she approached them. They smiled wide as she approached.

“Where’s Zoey?” her friend, Brit, asked. Y/N smirked.

“Some guy spilled beer on her and then the other guy offered to get her cleaned up,” she explained. The girls all started laughing.

“So she’s probably-”

“Yup,” Y/N offered as she glanced towards the kitchen once more. She wasn’t sure if she was searching for Luke but if she was, she didn’t find him.

It was another hour into the party and it was only getting more and more crowded. Her friends were drunk and busy dancing but she was burnt out. She wandered towards the kitchen, the only space where she could get some air. Her face scrunched together as she shoved passed a couple grinding against each other. She let out a huff of air as she stepped into the free space.

Her eyes landed on Luke who was also leaning against a countertop, drinking a water bottle. He smirked as he met her gaze. “You alright?” he asked as he took a long sip from his bottle. She nodded as she took a deep breath.

“I just need a break from all of that,” she expressed.

He nodded. “Me too,” he muttered. He tilted his head back against the cabinet, meeting her gaze through his eyelashes. He pressed his lips together as he scanned her frame. “Do you wanna escape to my room?” he asked.

She hesitated for only a second before she nodded. He held out his free hand towards her and she gladly took it. She followed after him towards the room that had a lock on the handle from the outside. Luke quickly took the lock off before he shvoed the door open.

The room was surprisingly more clean than she expected. The rest of the house was disgusting, so she was shocked to see it look the way it did. He delicately guided her inside, locking the door behind them. He let go off her hand as he awkwardly held his hands out as if to show her the room. 

“We can just chill and watch a movie or something-you know wait for the crowd to die down,” he offered as he pointed to the bed beside him.  She nodded as she watched him hop onto the bed at the same time he turned on his TV. A soft giggle fell from her lips as she slowly laid beside him. 

Luke opened his eyes, trying to send the memory far away. He hasn’t thought about her in months. He’s been in situations similar with girls but Y/N suddenly was on his mind. He reached for his phone and turned it on. He pulled up his Snapchat memories and began scrolling. 

He kept scrolling until he reached the months that he was with Y/N. He kept glancing at the photos and videos, hoping to see some evidence of their time together. Perhaps to refresh his memory. His eyes land on the photo of him and Y/N laying in his bed together a few months after they met. He smiled to himself as he admired the way she looked in the photo.

She looked tired but happy.

“What are you doing?” she asked as she shoved his arms away with his phone held up. He chuckled as he dropped his phone down to the side. He crossed his arms over his chest. She brushed her fingers through her hair as she stared down towards Luke laying beside him. 

“Just remembering this,” he muttered as he scanned her features. She rolled her eyes as she leaned towards him. Delicately pressing her lips against his. He raised his hands up and delicately ran his hands along her back slowly and cautiously.

She pulled away as she looked into his eyes for a moment before she laid beside him instead. “Am I sneaking out, or did you tell your roommates?” she asked as she stared towards her hands. He pressed his lips together as he took a deep breath. “Sneaking out, got it,” she muttered. 

“Y/N,” he let out.

“No it’s okay,” she mumbled as she slowly stood up from the bed, she crossed her arms over her chest. She wandered around the bed towards the black hoodie she wore. 

“I just don’t know what to tell them,” Luke said. She clenched her jaw as she covered her frame. She nodded as she slipped on her shoes as well. “Y/N,” he mumbled.

“I’ll see you next party, I guess,” she mumbled as she snuck out of his room, glancing down the hall. Luke tilted his head back against the pillow as he shut his eyes harshly.

“Stupid,” he muttered as he ran his hand across his eyes.

Luke frowned to himself as he continued to look for memories with her. He saw a few more photos of her in a similar light several weeks later. It was the last one between the pair. 

His memory quickly returned, he rolled his eyes as he recalled how he ruined it.

He was on top of her, her thigh in his hand as he kissed her urgently. Her fingertips ran through his curls. He pulled away admiring her features as he began to trail his lips from her jaw down to her neck. She hummed as she began to breath heavier. He pulled away, leaning back as he pulled his shirt from his frame. She smiled as he leaned down towards her again, kissing her urgently.

“Luke,” she mumbled against his lips, he hummed as he kissed her urgently. His hands began to roam her frame and she pulled away, “Luke,” she let out again. He stopped and stared into her eyes.

“You alright?” he asked as he scanned her features. She took a shaky breath as she ran her fingers through his hair for a quiet moment. 

“What are we doing?” she asked quietly. His gaze lowered towards her lips. 

“Having fun,” he let out casually. She rolled her eyes. She slowly slipped her hands from his hair, down his chest towards her own body. 

“Yeah? That’s it? All we’re doing?” she let out frustratingly. He furrowed his eyebrows as he rolled away from her. He sat up at the same time she did. 

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked shyly. She rolled her eyes, a laugh leaving her lips as she stood up from the bed. “Where are you going?” he continued. 

“I’m tired of this, Luke, I’m gonna go. Find another girl to have fun with because I’m tired of sneaking around. I want a relationship but I don’t want it with someone who has to hide the fact that we have sex from his friends,” she let out as she put on her outfit she had on prior. 

Without giving him a second to think about what she said she opens the bedroom door and reenters the party. Luke let out a long drawn out breath as he collapsed onto his back. 

He found himself pulling up her contact. He hasn’t tried to reach her since that night well over a year ago. He never saw her as a girl he wanted a relationship with, but he hates that he hurt her. 

He pulled the phone towards his ear, hearing it ring. A sigh of relief fell from his lips hearing that she didn’t block him. 

After a few seconds the ringing stops but it wasn’t sent to voicemail. She answered. “Uh-hello?” she let out awkwardly. 

“H-hey, I was just thinking about you and I guess I called you,” he let out shyly. He wasn’t sure how to explain it, it was so fast. He truly doesn’t remember hitting the call button.

“Oh-okay, you doing alright, Luke?” she offered. He didn’t know how to answer.

“Ye-yeah, sure. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called,”

“You shouldn’t have,” she mumbled while giggling, “But you did, what’s going on?” she asked again.

“I guess I just miss being a dumbass college kid,”

[wqlfstqr]

◟𖥻 ♡⃕ well, my boyfriend's in a band: percy jackson

▰▰▰ pairing: vocalist!percy jackson x fem!reader

Well, my boyfriend's in a band

He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed

author: saw a comment on tiktok saying dylan minnette has percy vibes and I couldn't stop thinking about it so. (blue hair dylan you'll always be loved by me)

Percy had first seen her when his band was starting, they didn’t even have a name yet and only played on small town dive bars, barely getting paid anything, but the trill of knowing they were doing what they loved.

That night, Percy was adjusting his mic, his guitar slung casually over his shoulder as he looked around. The bar was buzzing with chatter, but his eyes came to a halt once he saw her. y/n was at a table near the stage, laughing with her friends, her head thrown back.

She was beautiful, Percy had to pause a moment only to take her in. Some pieces of her hair were falling on her face, her smile was bright and her eyes were shining as she looked at her friend, a few laughs escaping her lips at whatever the other girl was saying.

As the first chords echoed through the bar, Percy tried to get his focus back to the song, but his eyes kept drifting to her. Behind him, Jason and Leo exchanged knowing glances but he was too busy looking at her to notice anything else. For the rest of the night, he sang as if the whole performance was just for her, while she didn’t even seem notice him there.

It was only at the end of the set that her friend finally nudged her, indiscreetly pointing at him. She glanced at the stage, catching Percy's gaze for the first time. He smiled, and when she smiled back, he knew there was no turning back. He was a goner.

And his eyes never left her, even when the empty bars became crowded venues or when the venues turned into sold out stadiums. His eyes always found her. He always played like he was playing just for her, even now when he was playing for thousands of people more.

She always had the option of being backstage, but she chose to be there, leaning against the barricade. Her smile always the same, his grin widening when he locks eyes with her. Even after all those years, he still sings just for her.

After the show ends, Percy finds his way backstage, and she's already there. As beautiful as ever, waiting for him with her arms wide open. Percy runs to her, picking her up in his arms as she laughs. He loves that laugh as much as he did the first time he heard it.

"Did you see that? that was like- our biggest show ever!" he exclaimed as he let her down.

"You were amazing." she nodded, her eyes shining fondly. His heart skips a beat, because he knows that look is especially reserved for him.

He hugs her again, unable to contain his excitement as he held her tightly against him. She happily wraps her arms around his neck. "You smell like an entire crowd of people."

"And yet you’re not running away. Admit it, you’re so in love with me." and she would only giggle, but that was enough of an answer for Percy.

Percy loves touring with his band—his family. He loves how Jason and Leo would run backstage after shows to continue their tradition of playing Mario Kart after a show. He loves eating breakfast cooked by Grover in the small lounge area where they all barely fit. Even in the less enjoyable moments, he loves it, even if it meant having to play mediator between Annabeth and Leo when his impulsiveness clashed with her perfectionism.

But, what he loves most of all, is having y/n tagging along for all of it. She is always his biggest support, and even though he enjoyed the fun moments, those quiet moments with her held a special place in his heart.

The soft sound of her breathing when she fell asleep, the late night cuddles, her reassuring voice everytime he got nervous about playing in a new place, her coffee flavored kisses after breakfast and her humming his songs everytime she placed her head on his lap when he was writing something.

Right at the moment, he is trying to tune his guitar, sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the sofa where she is lying. Percy thought she was reading something since that's what she was always doing. But when he looked up, he found her writing instead.

He lets his head fall back on the sofa, his hair messily brushing against her legs. "Whatcha doing?"

She looks up from her notebook, smiling bashfully at his question. "hm? nothing, just writing something. It's dumb, I swear."

But Percy doesn't think that anything y/n does is ever dumb. So in one swift motion, he reaches for the notebook, pulling it out of her hands. She lets out a gasp but she doesn't try to take it back, so he takes that as permission to read.

Her handwriting is pretty, but that's not what amazes Percy, it's the words she wrote. It's a poem. A love poem. And- "You’ve been holding out on me! This could be our next single"

"I don’t write songs, Percy." she rolls her eyes fondly, now trying to take the notebook from him, but this time he doesn't let her.

"Not yet, but you do now. If you just let me to borrow these words and add a melody, you'll see." he replied, tapping the notebook excited. She can't say no to him, she never could.

And maybe she's just slightly curious about it. Still, she doesn't let him get too excited. "You're just biased because you're my boyfriend"

"No, no, sweetheart." he shakes his head. "You will see, the band will love this."

And when Percy shows them that afternoon, they do.

So after that, y/n is just a new secret addition to the band. And Percy loves it, because now they spend even more time in between concerts polishing the song.

Sometimes, she teases him. "You're loving this, don't you? This is just an excuse to turn my poem into a love letter to yourself."

And Percy quips back. "Actually, it's a love letter to you. Don't be weird."

Nobody but the band knows about their little writting sessions. Not until the song is out and Percy tells an interviewer that she wrote it because he can't seem to shut up when he gets a chance to talk about his favorite girl. He's wiped, so what?

A week later, they're playing their biggest show yet. Their last show on tour. The arena is unbelievable, and the band is definitely excited because it's a sold out show. two hours before the show, the band is preparing backstage but Percy can't help but pull her outside before the crowd arrives.

"Isn't it unreal?" she mumbles, looking around the empty place. It would be packed with people in just about a few hours.

"you're unreal." he replies fondly, sitting on the edge of the stage with his guitar on his lap.

she has her back turned to him, but she immediatly turns around once he starts to play the strings of his guitar. She recognizes the song from the beggining. Of course, it's their song. The one that started with her poem and ended with them writting it together in the quiet, stolen moments during the tour. He's supposed to be playing it live tonight, for the first time.

"you're playing it now?" she raises her eyebrows, the melody is soft and delicate in a way that contrasts with the roaring excitement the venue will hold later.

Percy looks up at her, a lopsided grin on his face, his fingers still strumming the strings. "Can’t a guy serenade his girl before a big show?"

"But you're supposed to save it for tonight," she points out, though she can’t hide the softness in her tone.

"Nah" he replies simply, his voice quieter. "tonight, it’ll be for thousands of people. Right now, it’s just for you. Like it's always meant to be."

That silences her but she can feel the way her heart almost jumped out of her chest. Finally, just as Percy starts to sing along with the tune, she smiles, walking closer to where he’s perched on the edge of the stage. He looks so at ease, as if this massive, empty space doesn’t intimidate him at all. As if he could be anywhere as long as she’s there.

When the song ends, Percy looks up at her and his look is softer now. He sets the guitar down and gently pats beside him. She's speechless, to say the least, but she immediatly goes to sit there with him.

"But seriously" he talks again, turning to face her fully. His voice drops, softer now, carrying a weight that makes her look at him. "This is the biggest show we’ve ever done, and yeah, it’s exciting, but…" He pauses, his hand brushing against hers. "None of it means anything without you. It doesn’t matter if it’s a dive bar or a stadium—when I’m up there, it’s always for you. It’s always been for you."

y/n feels a lump in her throat she can’t quite swallow. The song was beautiful, but those words- she can feel the sting of tears again, and it takes everything in her to hold them back.

"you're so cheesy" she laughs softly, wiping at her eyes, though no tears have fallen yet.

"And you love it." he replies simply, leaning to press a kiss on her temple.

"I love you." y/n leans her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "can you play it again?"

"As many times as you want"

He plays it again, and as they sit and let the time go by, the weight of the world seems to disappear, leaving only the two of them. At the concert, when Percy looks at her again while playing the sonh, he knows that, no matter how big his word gets, she'll always be the center of it.