#i have to make my decisions on them. in like. time not like Right Away but you know fjdj

[andy-15-07]

Hi 🤗👋🏻, would you write a smut one about pedro x reader? Like they're babysitting a kid's friend, Pedro gets turned on by the reader who's trying to convince the kid to eat its food (or whatever you like). But every time things get spicy someone, even the kid or something interrupts them.

The Taste of Love

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1636| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The aroma of burnt toast hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the sweet stickiness coating the kitchen table. Five-year-old Leo, a whirlwind of boundless energy, was currently engaged in a battle of wills with a plate of spaghetti. His dark curls bounced as he shook his head emphatically, a tiny frown creasing his brow.

"No quiero," he declared, pushing the plate away with a decisive little hand.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Leo, we've talked about this. You need to eat something. You've been playing all morning."

Pedro, sprawled on the living room sofa, chuckled. "Sounds familiar," he called out, his voice laced with amusement.

You shot him a playful glare. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one dealing with a carb-resistant five-year-old."

He grinned, pushing himself up from the sofa. "Let me try my charm." He sauntered into the kitchen, his eyes twinkling. "Hey, Leo. You know, spaghetti gives you super strength. Like Superman!"

Leo eyed him skeptically. "Superman eats tacos," he countered.

Pedro’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Ah, good point. But, uh… this spaghetti… it’s magic spaghetti. It makes you run faster than a cheetah!"

Leo considered this, then shook his head again. "I want chicken nuggets."

You bit back a laugh. This was going nowhere. "Okay, new tactic," you announced, grabbing a spoon. "Leo, how about we play airplane? The spoon is the airplane, and the spaghetti is… fuel!" You made airplane noises, swooping the spoon towards Leo's mouth.

He giggled, but still refused to open his mouth.

"Come on, open wide! Choo choo!" You zoomed the spoon around his head, making exaggerated engine sounds.

Pedro leaned against the counter, watching you with an appreciative glint in his eyes. "You know," he murmured, his voice low and husky, "you're really good at this."

"Thanks," you replied, your eyes still on Leo. "It's all about persistence." You wiggled the spoon in front of Leo's nose. "Last stop, the yummy tummy station!"

Leo giggled again, finally opening his mouth. A small portion of spaghetti disappeared.

"Yes!" you cheered. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Pedro chuckled. "You're amazing," he whispered, his eyes lingering on your face. He reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His touch sent a shiver down your spine.

"Gracias," you murmured, your cheeks flushing slightly. "Just trying to avoid a meltdown."

"Meltdowns are inevitable with five-year-olds," Pedro said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "But I have a feeling you can handle anything."

"I'm pretty resourceful," you replied, meeting his gaze. The air between you crackled with unspoken energy.

Suddenly, Leo piped up, "More airplane!"

You and Pedro exchanged a look, a mixture of amusement and frustration. "Right," you said, turning back to Leo. "More airplane it is."

The spaghetti saga continued, with you employing a variety of creative tactics, each accompanied by sound effects and silly voices. Pedro watched, a constant smile playing on his lips. He occasionally offered encouragement, his voice a low rumble that resonated through you.

As Leo finally finished the last bite, he declared, "I'm full!" and promptly slid off his chair, running back into the living room.

You and Pedro exchanged a sigh of relief. "Mission accomplished," you said, smiling.

"You're a miracle worker," Pedro said, stepping closer. He placed his hands on your waist, pulling you gently towards him. "You know," he murmured, his voice laced with a playful huskiness, "watching you… it was very… stimulating."

"Oh really?" you teased, raising an eyebrow. "And what exactly did you find so stimulating?"

He chuckled, his eyes sparkling. "Your… dedication. Your… creativity. Your… everything." He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. "You're incredible, (Y/N)."

"Pedro," you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest.

Just as his lips were about to capture yours, Leo came tearing back into the kitchen. "Pedro, can you build me a tower with the blocks?"

Pedro groaned inwardly. "Of course, Leo," he said, forcing a smile. He turned back to you, his eyes filled with longing. "Later," he whispered, brushing a kiss against your forehead.

The rest of the afternoon followed a similar pattern. Moments of intense connection between you and Pedro, punctuated by Leo's constant demands for attention. Every time things started to heat up, Leo would inevitably interrupt, needing a drink, a toy, or assistance with some imaginary crisis.

As the sun began to set, Leo’s parents arrived to pick him up. After a flurry of goodbyes and thank yous, you and Pedro were finally alone.

He turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Where were we?" he murmured, reaching for you.

You smiled, anticipation bubbling within you. "I believe," you whispered, "we were about to… explore the stimulating effects of spaghetti wrangling."

He chuckled, pulling you close. "Indeed we were." His lips met yours in a passionate kiss, a kiss that spoke of pent-up desire and long-awaited intimacy. His hands roamed your body, sending shivers of delight through you.

"Mmm," he murmured against your lips. "You smell delicious."

"And you," you whispered back, "smell like… slightly burnt toast."

He laughed, pulling you closer. "Worth it," he whispered, his lips finding yours again. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. His hands moved beneath your shirt, his touch sending sparks through you.

"Pedro," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper.

"Sí, mi amor?" he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

"Let's go to the bedroom," you whispered, taking his hand.

He grinned, his eyes burning with passion. "Finalmente," he said, following you eagerly. As you reached the bedroom door, you paused, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

"You know," you said, "I have a feeling we're going to have a very… stimulating… evening."

He chuckled, pulling you into his arms. "I have a feeling you're right," he whispered, his lips capturing yours in another passionate kiss.

Pedro guided you to the bed, his hands sliding under your shirt, lifting it over your head. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You gasped softly, your fingers tangling in his hair as he explored the sensitive skin along your collarbone.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he admired you. "Hermosa," he whispered, his voice reverent. His hands moved to your waist, unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them down your legs with deliberate slowness, his fingers grazing your skin, igniting a fire within you.

You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing the toned muscles beneath. Your hands roamed his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Pedro groaned softly, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that was both tender and urgent.

He gently laid you back on the bed, his body pressing against yours, the heat between you growing unbearable. His hands explored every inch of your body, leaving no part untouched, his touch both soothing and electrifying.

"Pedro," you moaned, your body arching towards him, craving more.

He responded with a deep, throaty groan, his lips trailing down your body, leaving a path of fire in their wake. When he finally reached the waistband of your panties, he paused, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"May I?" he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

"Yes," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He slid your panties down your legs, his fingers brushing against your skin, sending shivers through you. His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing and nipping at your thighs, teasing you until you were trembling beneath him.

When he finally pressed his lips to your most sensitive spot, you cried out, your hands fisting in the sheets as waves of pleasure washed over you. Pedro’s tongue moved with expert precision, drawing you closer and closer to the edge until you finally tumbled over, your body convulsing with release.

Pedro didn’t give you a chance to recover. He moved up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he positioned himself between your thighs. You felt him, hard and ready, pressing against you, and you moaned softly, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Are you ready, mi amor?" he whispered, his voice a mix of love and desire.

"Yes," you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest.

He entered you slowly, his movements deliberate and tender, giving you time to adjust. The sensation of him inside you was overwhelming, a perfect combination of pleasure and intimacy that took your breath away.

Pedro moved with a steady rhythm, his body pressing against yours, his lips never leaving your skin. You matched his pace, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge.

"Pedro," you moaned, your nails digging into his back as the pleasure built within you, threatening to consume you.

"I’m right here, mi amor," he whispered, his voice strained with desire. "Let go for me."

With a final thrust, you tumbled over the edge, your body convulsing with release. Pedro followed moments later, his own release washing over him as he buried his face in your neck, his body trembling against yours.

You lay there, tangled together, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as the aftershocks of pleasure coursed through you. Pedro gently brushed the hair from your face, his eyes filled with love and adoration.

"Te amo," he whispered, his voice soft and sincere.

"I love you too," you replied, your heart swelling with emotion.

As you lay in his arms, you knew that no matter what life threw your way, you would always have this—this connection, this love, this passion. And that was all you needed.

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 8: welcome to my breaking point

pairing: hwang in-ho x reader

also available on ao3

word count: 8.7k

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The arena was massive, but it felt suffocating.

It was impossibly vast, a circular stage bordered by fifty vividly coloured doors. At the centre stood a carousel—not a functioning one, but a relic frozen in time. Its painted horses stood eerily still, their glossy eyes reflecting the sterile lights above. The entire setup felt like a mockery of childhood wonder, a carnival-themed nightmare dressed in bright colours to disguise the horrors lurking beneath. Bright, playful, festive—designed to look inviting.  

It felt wrong. All of it. A grotesque parody of something that should have been safe.  

You couldn’t move for a moment. Couldn’t do anything but take it all in, your mind scrambling to understand the twisted logic behind it. Your pulse quickened, a faint ringing beginning at the base of your skull.

Beside you, the others walked forward slowly, but still caught in the same silence. You quickly averted your gaze back to the group and followed them with hurried steps.

Then, the voice came.  

“The game you will be playing is Mingle.”  

Your stomach lurched. Your steps slowed as your group neared the edge of the platform, exchanging wary glances.  

“Let me repeat: The game you will be playing is Mingle.”  

Your fingers twitched. You swallowed hard. Another game you didn’t know.  

The announcer continued, her voice detached and clinical.  

“All players, please step onto the centre platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds.”  

The words felt like they had weight, pressing down on your chest, squeezing.  

Your blood ran cold as the instructions sank in. This was life and death.  

Your hands curled into fists at your sides as your mind started racing. This game wasn’t just about moving fast. It was about forming alliances in real-time, making split-second decisions. Who would be left behind? Who would hesitate? Would people break alliances to save themselves?  

Your breathing quickened. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.  

Jung-bae’s voice cut through the mounting hum of voices. “Oh, this game? We used to play something like this on school trips. We’d form groups by hugging.”  

“Yeah,” Dae-ho muttered, scanning the room. “Except now, instead of hugging, we’re going into those rooms.”  

Your group instinctively tightened into a loose half-circle, drawn together by sheer survival instinct. But it wouldn’t be enough. You knew it wouldn’t.  

Your eyes widened and you turned to Young-il. You lowered your voice so only he would hear you, “If I turn away for a second and you’re gone, Young-il, you better pray I don’t survive.”

Young-il huffed a quiet chuckle, tilting his head.  

"Oh? So now my biggest threat isn’t this game, it's you?" His lips quirked up at the corner. "Terrifying."  

You shot him a look, a wide smile appearing on your face. "You should be scared. Very scared."  

He exhaled through his nose, amused. "Right. And what’s my punishment if I disappear?"  

You crossed your arms. “You’re one move away from seeing stars."  

Young-il let out a low hum, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Damn. I’d like to see you try.”  

Your glare sharpened. “Oh, yeah? Go on then.”  

His smirk deepened, but this time, his eyes lingered on you a little longer. Then, with an easy shrug, he murmured, "I won’t."

Young-il’s fingers curled around your shoulder. The panic that had been climbing your throat long forgotten. Not gone, but suddenly contained. He didn’t pull you in, didn’t tighten his grip—just held you steady. A quiet reassurance. His fingers curled slightly, like he was anchoring you just as much as you were anchoring him.

His voice was soft, but steady. “On a more serious note, I won’t leave you. Nothing will happen to you. Or me.”  

You trusted him, no matter how scared you were.  

You nodded stiffly, forcing your breath to steady, forcing your body to still. Gi-hun was already strategising. “If the number is bigger than six, we’ll just grab the extra people we need. We’ll stick close together as long as possible.”  

“But what if it’s smaller?” Dae-ho asked, voicing the same fear that had been sitting in your gut. “What if it’s four or five?”  

What if I was the one left behind? Worse—what if Young-il was?  

His hand moved from your shoulder to your waist and pulled you closer to him, like he knew you were thinking it. Like he knew exactly where your thoughts were spiralling.  

“No matter what happens,” Young-il said, calm and sure, “don’t panic. Let’s stay calm. We will make it out together.”  

It wasn’t an if. It was a statement. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, clenching and unclenching. Young-il noticed. His gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing.

Then, his head lowered to your ear and he whispered, "You're thinking too much," he said simply, tone softer than usual. "Stop."

You exhaled, shoving the thought aside. "Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.”

The certainty in his tone did something to you. Slowed the panic just slightly, just enough for you to breathe again. He turned to the others again and extended his right hand toward the centre of the circle.  

For a second, nobody moved. Then, slowly, you reached out first. Your palm pressed against his, cold against warm. His fingers twitched slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to be the first to take it.  

The others followed soon after, hands stacking over one another. The breath between you all felt heavy, like the moment just before a storm hit.  

Young-il spoke first, voice low and steady. “One, two, three…”  

The response came in unison, whispered but strong.  

“Victory at all costs.”  

The moment stretched for just a second longer before your hands fell away. The platform stood before you, waiting. The lights above seemed brighter now, the doors looming like silent threats.

The rules had been given. The game was about to begin. And all you could do was hope you wouldn’t be the one left behind.

As Young-il let go of you, all of you stepped onto the platform, moving as one, instinctively drawn together amid the growing sea of players. Bodies pressed in from all sides, the air thick with tension, with the unspoken fear of what was to come. Your group stayed close, forming a tight knot in the chaos, an unspoken pact holding you together.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted them—Hyun-ju and her group.

They were positioned right beside you, their presence impossible to ignore. Their postures were tense, their expressions guarded, scanning the room the same way you were.

After the last game, there was a quiet understanding between you. Having them close felt almost… reassuring.

Your gaze wandered through the arena once more, when your eyes landed on a peculiar screen. The numbers displayed were bold, impossible to ignore. 255. 

Dread curled low in your belly.

It was a countdown. A tally of everyone left. Of everyone still breathing. And you knew what it meant. Another way to remind you that the numbers could—and would—drop. You swallowed hard, pulse hammering as you stared at it, heart lurching with a sudden, sick realisation. It wasn’t just a tracker. It was a tactic.  

A constant, looming reminder that at the end of this game, people would be gone. That every time you looked up, the number would be smaller. And it could go down, because of you. 

Your breath came faster, shallow, uneven. This was psychological warfare. Just like the piggy bank, just like the first vote. Fear bred desperation, and desperation made people dangerous. You could already feel it in the air, in the tense way players glanced around, already sizing each other up like potential liabilities. Like obstacles.  

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt tight, constricted.  

No, no, no. Not now. Not again. 

But the panic was creeping in anyway, slithering under your skin, curling tight around your ribs. You barely heard the announcer’s voice over the ringing in your ears, your thoughts spiralling as the weight of the situation settled, reallysettled.  

What if I'm alone?  

Your breath hitched, and suddenly, the platform felt too small. The bodies pressing in around you, the hum of anxious murmurs, the overwhelming sense of being trapped—you couldn’t breathe.  

A touch. Warm. Steady. Grounding. Fingers curled around your waist, firm but not forceful.  

"Nothing will happen to you," Young-il murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

Your body locked up, but your breath stilled. He wasn’t looking at you, his attention still fixed forward, his grip not tight but assured. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just empty reassurance. Like he wouldn’t let anything happen to you, no matter the cost.  

And for the first time since stepping onto this platform, since seeing that goddamn screen, you felt like you could breathe.

“Let the game begin.”  

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as the platform beneath you jerked to life, moving with a slow, deliberate spin. Around you, players stumbled, muttered curses and sharp gasps filling the space as everyone fought to steady themselves. The motion wasn’t violent, but it was disorienting—just enough to throw you off balance, to remind you that you weren’t in control.  

And then the music started. Bright. Nostalgic. Sickly sweet.  

It snaked through the air, light and playful, curling through the space like a taunt. A melody pulled straight from childhood, but wrong, twisted in the way it didn’t belong here. A wave of nausea rolled through you.

“Round and round.  

Round and round we go.  

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along.”  

Something cold settled deep in your stomach. The song continued, high-pitched and cheery, the kind of thing meant for playgrounds and skipping ropes—not for this. Not for this nightmare dressed up in carnival lights. The overhead bulbs flickered in a rhythmic pattern, casting shifting colours across the room, making everything feel even more surreal.  

The dizziness clawed at you, the spin, the lights, the music— It was too much.  

Your eyes darted around, searching for something, anything to ground yourself, until they landed on him. Young-il.  

He was standing right beside you, steady as ever. Completely unfazed. His shoulders were relaxed, his posture loose. The artificial glow from above carved sharp shadows across his face, making him look impossibly calm.  

How was he so calm?  

His eyes met yours before you even realised you had been staring. You forced yourself to swallow, to breathe, but it wasn’t working. The numbers on the screen above the entrance loomed in the back of your mind, a constant, gnawing reminder of what was coming. They wanted you to see it. The number of players dwindling. A visible countdown to ensure panic and desperation.  

It was working, at least on me. Good for them.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your breath came too fast, too shallow, and you knew what was happening, you knew, but that didn’t make it stop. You reached for him before you could think about it. Fingers curling around his sleeve. Holding on. Tight.  

Young-il glanced down immediately, his gaze flickering to your grip, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on. Then, after a beat, he nodded once.  

Your heart slammed against your ribs. That nod was everything. The music carried on.  

“We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round

Ring-a Ring-a Ring”  

Your grip tightened. You weren’t sure if you were steadying yourself or clinging to the only thing that felt solid in this moment. Maybe both. 

“You’re breathing too fast,” he murmured, voice low, even. “Slow down.”  

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you forced yourself to follow his words, pulling in a shaky inhale, then another. His fingers pressed just slightly against your waist, grounding. “Good. Just like that.”  

Then—everything stopped. The music. The platform. Everything.  

The sudden halt sent a jolt through your body, your balance thrown before you could react. You stumbled, the ground feeling like it had been ripped out from under you, panic crashing through your chest in a violent wave. But before you could fall, a hand caught you. Warm against your waist. His other hand caught your elbow, his grip solid, keeping you upright. His thumb brushed against the dip of your waist, a barely-there motion, but enough. Enough to anchor you.  

A second passed. And then the voice of the announcer rang through the silence.  

“Ten.”  

The overhead lights pulsed in rapid bursts of red and purple, casting the arena in a dizzying, disorienting blur. Your pulse spiked, as the urgency in the air thickened, heavy and suffocating. Then, chaos.  

Voices rose around you, sharp and desperate. Bodies moved in frantic bursts, hands grabbing, pulling, shoving as players scrambled to form their groups. The panic was contagious, spreading through the crowd like wildfire, feeding into itself, turning rational thought into raw desperation. 

A sudden grip on your arm made you jolt. You turned sharply, breath catching, only to find Young-il’s hand wrapped firmly around your forearm. His fingers pressed just enough to ground you, to remind you he was there with you.

Around you, your group was already moving. Gi-hun’s gaze snapped toward Hyun-ju and her people nearby. Without hesitation, he stepped toward her, hand brushing against her shoulder.  

“How many are you?” he asked, voice steady despite the rising panic.  

“Four,” Hyun-ju shot back immediately.  

Gi-hun’s head turned sharply toward the rest of you. “We’re ten now!” he called out, his voice slicing through the noise.  

“Come with me and don’t let go,” Young-il commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. Then, he moved. Fast.  

Before you could think, before you could process, his grip tightened, pulling you with him as he cut through the crowd. You barely had time to register the others falling in step behind you, Hyun-ju’s team blending seamlessly with your own as Young-il led the charge. Your feet barely kept up, your breath was sharp, uneven, but you focused on the tug of his hand, on the way his grip was certain.  

Ahead, a door loomed. One of many.  

Young-il reached it first, yanking it open with a sharp motion. His body twisted, gaze locking onto yours. “Get in.”  

You didn’t hesitate. You darted inside and stood near the entrance, the rush of bodies following closely behind. One by one, they poured into the room. Young-il was last.  

He lingered at the threshold for half a second longer than necessary, scanning the arena one last time before stepping inside and pulling the door shut with a firm, final click.

Silence.  

The room was small, barely large enough to hold all ten of you, but compared to the chaos outside, it felt like a fortress.

Overhead, a timer glowed on the wall, the numbers ticking down in bright, merciless red.  

2… 1…  

Your chest rose and fell too fast. You couldn’t look away. The sound of your heartbeat thundered in your ears.  

0.  

Young-il’s hand reached out to you and gave the faintest squeeze. A long, piercing beep rang out, the finality of it sinking into your bones. Then, the lock clicked into place.  

The screams started almost immediately.  

Muffled cries and sobs seeped through the thick wood of the door, bleeding into the tense silence of the room. You barely had a second to process before your gaze caught on something—a rectangular slot near the centre of the door. A viewing panel.  

Gi-hun stepped forward and looked through. You hesitated. You knew you shouldn’t look. But morbid curiosity clawed at you, sinking its hooks in deep. Before you could stop yourself, your feet carried you forward. You peered through the slot, alongside Gi-hun.  

The sight outside turned your blood to ice.  

They’re dying.

That was the first thought that cut through the static in your brain. The first thing you managed to grasp in the overwhelming, suffocating chaos.  

They’re dying. One by one.  

Collapsing like puppets with their strings severed, bodies hitting the pristine floor with dull, wet thuds. The sound was barely audible over the gunfire, but you could feel it. The way the ground beneath you seemed to tremble. The way something inside your chest coiled so tightly you thought you might snap in half. Your and Gi-hun’s body jolted as if you had been the one hit.  

They’re dying.

Not players. Not numbers on a screen. People. People who were just standing there moments ago, eyes darting, hands scrambling, looking for an escape that didn’t exist. Now they were still.  

The first few had been too fast, too sudden for your mind to register. But then you saw one—really saw one.  

A man. Maybe in his forties. You hadn’t spoken to him. Hadn’t even noticed him before now. He had his hands pressed against a door that wouldn’t open, his nails digging into the metal like he could pry his way inside if he just tried hard enough. You could see the desperation in the set of his shoulders, in the way his breath hitched.  

And then a single shot. He jerked violently. Then crumpled. Just like that. 

A high-pitched scream cut through the air, raw and wrong. You flinched. Someone stumbled. Fell. Their hands outstretched toward nothing, their lips forming words they never got the chance to say. Another shot. Another body.  

The number on the screen was already dropping.  

Don’t look.

You forced yourself to turn away, to stare at the floor in front of you, at the people in the room with you. The ones who made it. The ones still breathing. Your legs felt locked in place, stiff, heavy. Your hands trembled where they curled at your sides.  

I made it.

That should have been enough. But the thought lingered, curling around your ribs like something rotten.

What if I hadn’t? What if my foot had slipped? What if my hand had missed his? Would I still be out there? Would he have even turned back?

The gunfire was slowing now. The screams were fading.  The arena outside was quieting. Bodies littered the floor, unmoving. Not players. People. And you watched.

You stumbled off to the side, your shoulder slamming into the wall. You didn’t realise your legs were shaking until you nearly lost your balance. The images were already burned into the back of your eyelids. You couldn’t stop hearing it. The shots. The screams. The silence that followed.  

A firm hand found your waist. Fingers pressed lightly into your side, just enough to remind you where you were. Who you were with.  

“Breathe.”  

The voice was low, even. But when you looked up, Young-il’s face was full of concern, his lips pressed in a firm line. His grip on you didn’t tighten, didn’t waver. Just remained there—present, unwavering. His voice dipped lower, quieter. Just for you.  

“None of that is happening to you,” he murmured. “Do you understand?”  

You swallowed, throat tight, nodding slightly.  

“Say it,” he pressed, not unkindly.  

You swallowed hard, forcing the words past your lips in a mere whisper. “It’s not happening to me.”  

Young-il held your gaze for a beat longer before giving a small, approving nod. And just like that, the moment passed. His hand fell away, taking his warmth with it. But the steadiness it left in its wake remained.

“The following players have been eliminated: Player 013, 043, 049, 054, 060…”

You try to drown out the mechanical voice as best as you could. Minutes passed in heavy silence, the only sounds filtering through the door were the distant shuffling of boots, the scrape of bodies being dragged, the wet splatter of something you refused to name. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, even from behind closed doors, seeping into your lungs, clinging to your skin like something permanent.   

Click.   

The lock disengaged with a dull, mechanical sound, the finality of it settling over you like a weight. One by one, your group stepped forward, filing out into the arena. You followed, your legs stiff, your pulse drumming against your ribs.  

The moment you crossed the threshold, the smell hit you harder. Coppery. Sharp. It clung to everything—the floors, the walls, the very air you breathed. And then you saw it.  

The blood. It was everywhere.  

Dark pools stretching across the pristine floor, smeared in streaks where bodies had been dragged away. Some of it had begun to dry, thickening in ugly patches, while fresh streaks still glistened under the harsh lights. Footsteps tracked through it, careless and indifferent, as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be wiped away. A fresh wave of nausea curled in your stomach, but you shoved it down, locked it up, buried it beneath something colder.  

Get it together.  Focus on your breathing. In. Out. Keep it steady. Don’t let them see. Don’t make yourself an easy target.

You squared your shoulders, forced your muscles to relax, forced your face into something neutral—something unreadable. The same way you always had. The same way you always would. Fake it till you make it.  

You stepped forward, deliberately avoiding the larger pools of blood, careful not to let your shoes smear through it. Not because it mattered—it was already everywhere—but because you refused to let it touch you. Not more than it already had. You exhaled a loud sigh, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well. That sucked.”  

Young-il’s gaze flickered to you. He didn’t answer right away, just studied you with that quiet, infuriating patience of his. Like he was waiting for you to drop the act.  

Then, finally, he hummed. “That's what we’re calling it?”  

You stepped over a streak of blood without breaking stride. “What else am I supposed to call it?” Your voice was steady. Casual. Too casual. “We didn’t die. Could’ve been worse.”  

His eyes didn’t leave you. “You were shaking.”  

Your jaw tightened for half a second. Then, with a careless shrug, you shot him a look. “And now I’m not.”  

It was a lie. You were still shaking. Just… on the inside. He tilted his head slightly. You caught the way his jaw ticked, the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides before curling into a loose fist. He saw right through you. Of course he did. But he didn’t call you on it.   

He saw the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands twitched like they wanted to curl into something solid. He saw the way your breath came just a little too fast, the way your muscles were coiled just a little too tight. Instead, he let out a low hum. “Guess that’s one way to look at it.”  

The rest of the group moved forward. You kept your chin up. Kept your steps steady.  No one had to know that every inch of you was still trembling beneath the mask.

The second round passed in a blur, tension clawing at the edges of your mind even as you forced yourself to move, to react, to survive. The number had been four. Your group didn’t stay together and you were forced to part ways with Young-il and Gi-hun. It all happened too fast. The moment the number was called, the platform erupted into chaos, bodies moving in every direction, scrambling for safety. Young-il shoved you in Dae-ho’s arms and told you to go. His face said everything; Don’t argue and go. 

But he promised me? 

No time to think about that right now. You grabbed the nearest person—Jun-hee—and barely had time to latch onto Jung-bae before the frantic rush toward the doors began. In those thirty seconds, you lost sight of everything but the desperate need to make it through. Not everyone would. The buzzer blared. The doors slammed shut. Gunshots soon followed.  

You stopped flinching at the sound—mostly. But as you leaned against the closed door, breathing hard, the weight of it pressed down on you. It was impossible not to think about who was still out there. Who might not have made it.  

Young-il. Gi-hun.  

You hadn’t seen where they went. You hadn’t seen if they found two more people. The thought made you want to throw up, panic gnawing at the edges of your mind. Your pulse was a hammer, each second stretching unbearably. You tried to tell yourself they were fine. That they had to be fine. That people like Young-il didn’t just disappear in an instant. But you knew that wasn’t true.  

The seconds bled into minutes. The screaming outside died down. Then, silence. The mechanical whirr of the clean-up. The guards moving with calculated efficiency. You barely registered it. You needed the doors to open. You needed to see them.  

Finally, the locks clicked open. You swung the door open, and you pushed through, your head snapping up, eyes scanning the thinning crowd with frantic precision.  

Jun-hee was by your side, holding her belly and trying to control her frantic breathing.  Soon, Dae-ho appeared by your side, ”Do you see them?"  

No. No.  

The empty spaces where bodies had once stood made the room feel impossibly vast. Your gaze swept over every face, your heart slamming harder with every second that passed.  

"(Y/N)!"  

You held your breath. You spun around so fast you almost lost your footing. There. Across the arena. Young-il, standing at the edge of the crowd, Gi-hun beside him. The relief hit you so hard it was almost painful.  

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t stop yourself. You ran.  

Not like yesterday. Not like after the second game, when you had forced yourself to freeze, to pull back at the last second, to pretend that the instinct wasn’t there. This time, you didn’t stop. Your feet barely touched the ground as you closed the distance, pushing past other players without care. And then—finally—you reached him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in before you could think twice. Warm. Alive. 

Young-il stiffened for a half-second, caught off guard, but then he pulled you in. 

His grip was firm, grounding, one arm tight around your waist while the other slid up, fingers threading through your hair, cradling the back of your head.

He wasn’t a man easily shaken, but the way he pulled you in, the way his hand curled just slightly against your spine, told you enough. He had been just as scared as you were.  

You buried your face against his chest, breathing him in, heart still racing against your ribs. You didn’t care how it looked. Didn’t care if anyone saw.  

Young-il exhaled, a slow, steady breath against your ear. His voice was quieter than usual. Less controlled. "I told you not to worry."  

“Doesn't work like that. Not with you. Don’t ever do that again. You promised.” 

Young-il's grip on you tightened just slightly, the warmth of his palm pressing firm against your back. His breath hitched—barely, but you felt it.

"I know," he murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something almost regretful. "I know."

You clenched your fists against his jacket. "Then why the hell did you let go?"

"I had to," he admitted, his voice quiet but unwavering. "But I won’t again."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your pulse still hammering in your ears. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—dark, sharp, searching—were anything but indifferent. He was watching you too closely, like he needed to make sure you believed him.

And maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.

Either way, he deserved this. Without thinking, your fist shot out and smacked his arm—hard.

Young-il lurched back slightly, like you’d just stabbed him instead of hit him. He grabbed his arm with an exaggerated wince, staring at you in open-mouthed betrayal, eyes widening in mock betrayal. "Ow—what the hell?!”

"You deserved that." You flexed your fingers, shaking out your knuckles. "And if you ever pull that shit again, I swear I’ll make it worse."

Young-il blinked, still clutching his arm like you’d actually done damage. "I just risked my life getting us both through that round, and this is my reward?"

"Your reward is that I didn’t aim for your face."

He scoffed, rubbing his arm in slow, exaggerated circles. "I think you fractured something. I can’t move my shoulder."

You rolled your eyes and laughed loudly. "You’re so full of shit."

He gasped, feigning offence, but you could tell that he was fighting a smirk. "You hit me with intent. I felt malice. There was rage in that punch."

You raised a brow. "You’re about to feel it again."

Young-il immediately dropped the act, hands up in surrender, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. "Okay, okay. Point made."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Good. Let’s keep it that way."

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer. Then, softer, quieter— "I really won’t leave you again."

You sighed, the weight of the moment settling between you. "You better not."

A sharp mechanical beep cut through the dormitory, signalling the next round was about to begin.

"Come on," he murmured, voice softer now. "We have to go again."

The words sent a fresh wave of unease rippling through you. Again. The game wasn’t over. Not even close. The fear that had gripped you moments ago wasn’t a one-time thing—it would happen again, and again, until there was no one left to lose.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. To focus. To push past the lingering warmth of his embrace and the way your chest still ached from the last thirty seconds of sheer panic. Because the carousel was already spinning again, the music was starting, and another number would be called.

The third and fourth round was much worse. People weren’t just scrambling anymore—they were fighting. Someone shoved you in desperation, nearly sending you to the ground before Young-il pulled you back. The numbers were three and six this time, and you barely managed to make it inside a room before the buzzer blared both times.  And the gunshots on the other side were getting less and less per round.

The first time someone died in front of you, it had felt like your own lungs had been ripped out. The gunshots had echoed in your skull long after they stopped, rattling your bones, your breath hitching every time the trigger was pulled.

But now?

Now the sound barely registered. The fourth round had ended, another group of players executed in the middle of the arena, and you didn’t even flinch. You barely even looked. Just kept walking, stepping around the fresh blood without a second thought.

You caught Young-il watching you. His dark eyes flicked down to your hands, curled loosely at your sides—steady, not even trembling. He didn’t say anything. But you could feel the thought lingering between you.

When had you stopped reacting? You didn’t have an answer.

For hopefully the last time, all of you shifted back to the platform. This time, your group and Hyun-ju’s group stood together, with player 246, 280 and 333 joining you as well. But the relief of finding each other didn’t last. Something felt… off.

A quick scan of the faces around you sent a cold weight pressing into your chest. One was missing.

Young-mi.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where’s Young-mi?”

No one answered. A silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. 

Hyun-ju’s face said it all. 

Your stomach twisted, but it was distant. Muted. You should cry. You should feel something more than this quiet, dull acceptance. But the tears didn’t come.

Instead, you just nodded.

"Okay," you murmured under your breath, as if that was all there was to say.

Something inside you cracked.

The platform beneath you groaned as it started to rotate once more, the familiar, sickly sweet melody curling through the air. That same eerie, high-pitched cheerfulness, now warped by everything that had happened. The contrast was unbearable.  

The announcer’s voice rang out, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.  

"Now, the final round will begin."  

For a second—just one fleeting second—relief crashed over you. Final.  

This was it. The last round. One more number. One last push. One last chance to survive. But relief was a fragile thing. It barely had time to settle in your chest before something colder, sharper, meaner replaced it. Because final didn’t mean safe.  

Final meant when this round ended, more people wouldn’t be standing here. That whatever number was called next would carve names into the floor in blood. That the game wasn’t ending—it was culling. One last round.  

Your gaze flickered up—drawn to the screen hanging above the entrance.  

126.  

Your stomach dropped.  

One hundred twenty-six players left. But only 50 rooms.  

A slow, creeping dread curled up your spine.  

Two. The last number is two. That means 26 people would die this round. Maybe more. If someone hesitated. If someone got left behind at the last second. Pairs.  

Your body moved before your mind caught up. Instinct. Pure, primal instinct. You reached for Young-il’s hand without a second thought, fingers latching onto his, tethering. Like hell you were letting him wander off again.  

Jung-bae stepped in closer, voice taut, strained. “What do you think it’ll be this time?”  

Gi-hun was already deep in thought, brows furrowed, but before he could open his mouth—  

“Two.”  The word left your lips at the exact same time as Young-il’s.  

A sharp pause. Like a crack in the air.  

Every pair of eyes in your group snapped to you both. But you were only looking at him.

Jung-bae frowned. “Why?”  

Young-il’s expression didn’t shift. His thumb caressed your hand. “There are 126 people left,” he said, voice even. “And only 50 rooms.”  

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, finishing his thought, “That means there’s only enough space for 100 people.”  

Dae-ho stiffened. Jun-hee sucked in a sharp breath. The weight of it settled. Tangible. Crushing.  You swallowed hard, the words tasting like lead on your tongue, “The rest will be killed.”  

“Everyone pair up right now," Gi-hun urged, voice tight, sharp.

"And move to the edge of the platform so you can run as soon as they announce it.”, you added.

Everyone quickly grabbed someones hand. Without thinking, Player 333’s hand found Jun-hee’s, his fingers curling around hers. She went rigid for a moment, her eyes darting to his—uncertain, searching. But she didn’t pull away. You’d seen them talk before, distant. But never like this.

Was he the father of her child? God, how tragic.

Your own grip tightened around Young-il’s. His fingers curled back just as firmly, solid, grounding.  

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low, urgent. Then, he moved. And you followed, letting him pull you toward the edge of the platform, where the moment of truth awaited.

“Round and round

Round and round we go

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along

We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round”  

Suddenly, the platform lurched to a stop.  

The rotation ceased so abruptly that it sent players stumbling, gasps ripping through the crowd as the music cut out. But the silence barely lasted a second before the fast-paced melody blared back to life, louder, shriller, more urgent.  

The overhead lights pulsed violently—red and purple, turning the arena into a dizzying, chaotic blur.  

Then, the voice.  

"Two."  

A tidal wave of movement exploded around you. Without hesitation, Young-il tighten his grasp on your hand and ran. The platform swarmed with bodies, the scramble for survival more violent than ever before. You barely had time to register anything beyond the crushing urgency in your chest, the way Young-il’s grip on your hand was unrelenting as he pulled you through the madness.  

From the corner of your eye, you saw the rest of your group scattering—Hyun-ju and 246 sprinting toward a blue door, Gi-hun and Jung-bae pushing through the crowd. Everyone was desperate to make it out.  

You could barely breathe. Could barely think. 

Suddenly, a force slammed into your side, so hard it sent you reeling. Your fingers slipped from Young-il’s grasp. You didn’t even have time to scream before you hit the ground. Your hands smacked against the cold, blood-slicked floor, the force rattling through your bones.

"Young-il!" The scream ripped from your throat, sheer terror clawing at your chest as you stumbled.  

He was there in an instant. His grip latched onto your arm like iron, hauling you forward with so much force that your feet barely touched the ground. You barely caught sight of his expression—livid—before he was dragging you through the chaos again.  

You blinked at him, slow. He was saying something, you could see his mouth moving, but your brain was sluggish, like your thoughts were wading through molasses.

Your arms ached. Your legs burned. Somewhere, you were pretty sure you had a gash along your shin, but you couldn’t feel it.

Actually, you couldn’t feel much of anything. Weird.

Then you came back to your senses. A door. You needed a door.  

You saw one ahead—a red one, slightly ajar. Relief surged. Then it slammed shut.

Occupied.  

You turned immediately, heading for a different one. A mustard yellow door stood open a few meters away. Two players were scrambling toward it—too far, too slow.

You could reach it first. But only if you—

The thought slithered in before you could stop it.

Shove them out of the way. Take the spot. They wouldn’t be fast enough anyway.

Your breath hitched. The moment you registered it, disgust curdled in your stomach.

What the hell was wrong with you?

But you didn’t shove them. You just ran. Still, the thought didn’t leave. It lingered, curling around your ribs, whispering. Next time, would you?

Once you reached it, you realised that a player was standing in the threshold. Player 285.  

Young-il let go of your arm and ripped him out. A choked gasp. A flash of panic in the man’s eyes. His hand clamped around his throat like a vice, and with terrifying ease, he tore him away from the doorway and threw him onto the floor.  

"Get in, (Y/N)!” His voice was steel.  

You didn’t argue. You bolted inside. Young-il followed a second later, slamming the door shut, locking it with a harsh, final click.  

The relief was so intense that it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. But then—you turned. And your blood ran cold.  

Player 343 was still inside.  

The man was already backing up against the farthest wall, eyes darting between the two of you, chest heaving. "Wait, please. We were here first." His voice cracked, raw with desperation.  

Young-il stepped forward. His stance was lethal.

"Get out."  

The timer above the door flickered.  

15 seconds.    

The man flinched, raising his hands in surrender. "Please."  

10 seconds.  

He stepped forward, fast. Before you could process what was happening, his arms snapped around the man’s throat. A strangled wheeze—the sound of air being cut off instantly.  

Player 285 lunged for the door, desperation twisting his face as he shoved against it with all his strength. But you were faster. You threw your entire weight forward, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle your bones. Your hands locked onto the handle, gripping it so tightly your knuckles burned.

A furious bang against the wood. Then another.

"Open the door, you bastards!" His voice cracked, raw with panic. "I was here first!"

Another sharp thud. The door trembled under the assault, but you didn’t budge. You pressed harder, chest heaving, every muscle locked in place.

Young-il crouched low, pivoting with terrifying precision, manoeuvring 343’s body into submission with ease.  

You froze, eyes wide, unable to do anything but watch.  

The man clawed at Young-il’s arms, his legs kicking wildly, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. His muscles flexed as he tightened his hold, squeezing.  

3 seconds.  

The world had narrowed down to the sharp, wet sound of Player 343’s gasps, to the way Young-il’s muscles flexed as he crushed the air from his lungs. But he was taking too long. The thought came out of nowhere—quick, instinctive, cold.

Just do it yourself.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath felt too slow, too steady, like your body had already decided before your brain caught up. You could end this in half a second—snap, clean, efficient.

One twist. It would be so easy.

And then it hit you. The sheer horror of what you were thinking. It crashed down like ice water, washing away the haze. You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to step back, fingers curling into fists at your sides. 

What the hell is wrong with me?

The man struggled, hands clawing at Young-il’s arms, eyes wide with pure, animal panic. It was instinct. Desperate. But it didn’t matter. Young-il adjusted his grip, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his throat—tighter, harder. The gurgling turned to choking, then silence. It didn’t happen fast. That was the worst part.

Young-il’s grip shifted. Sharpened.  Then—crack. The man’s body jerked once. Then stilled. Your breathing stopped as Player 343’s head rolled to the side at a 120° angle.  

The timer hit zero. A piercing beep.  

"Game over."  

The silence after the snap was worse than the sound itself. For a second, neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was your own heartbeat, roaring in your ears like a war drum. Young-il let the body fall and pushed it off his own. It hit the floor with a dull, final thud.  

You lurched back, spine pressing into the wall—not because of him, but because of the thoughts twisting, snarling, sinking their teeth in.

What the fuck was wrong with you.  

Your eyes snapped to Young-il. He was only looking at you. His breathing was even, unlike your own. Like he hadn’t just snapped a man’s neck in three seconds flat.  

Then, the speaker crackled overhead.  

“Attention. Due to a technical error, the doors will remain locked for longer. Please remain calm as we fix this problem. Thank you."  

Trapped. In here. With him and your thoughts. And the body.

Oh, how nice. Fantastic.

You should feel something. Horror. Guilt. Revulsion. But you just… didn’t.

The exhaustion settled deep, thick and all-consuming, swallowing up whatever part of you was still supposed to care. It should have scared you, how easy it was to let go, how numb you felt.

You slowly turned your head to Young-il, who looked about as calm as someone waiting for a bus, then down at the very, very dead man at your feet. 

Your heartbeat was steady. Too steady.

The realisation was slow, creeping, like a sickness curling through your veins. You waited for the horror to hit. For your stomach to churn. For something, anything, to claw its way up your throat.

But it never came.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Cool. Love that for us.”

“Why are you so calm?” His voice wasn’t mocking—just genuinely perplexed. “You usually have a panic attack.”

You stared at him. Then at the dead man. Then back at him.

And something in you just… cracked.

A laugh bubbled up, sharp and humourless, slipping past your lips before you could stop it. You ran a shaky hand down your face, exhaling hard.

“I don’t know, Young-il,” you muttered, voice hollow with exhaustion. “Maybe I ran out of tears to cry.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.

You let your head tip back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I think I just lost my last fuck to give. You choked the guy out, I didn’t stop you, and now we’re locked in here with a corpse like it’s just a normal Tuesday.” You let out a breathy, almost delirious chuckle. “So, honestly? I don’t even care anymore. Welcome to my breaking point.”

Silence. Too long.

You opened your eyes again, expecting another dry remark from him, another roll of his eyes. But what you found instead— It wasn’t that.

Young-il was staring at you. His expression had cracked, just slightly, just enough to let something else slip through the fractures. And then—he took a step back.

Not much. Barely an inch. But you noticed it. Young-il shook his head slowly, breath leaving him in something too soft, too unsteady.

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.” His voice was lower now, rougher, like the words themselves scraped against his throat. “I knew you’d change in here. I knew you’d have to.” A pause, as if the weight of his own words hit him mid-sentence. “But not like this.”

His eyes flicked to the corpse. His fingers flexed at his sides. Then, finally, his gaze landed back on you.

"You were supposed to be the one thing that didn’t rot."

Something sharp twisted deep inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what could you possibly say to that?

Young-il dragged a hand down his face, eyes shutting for half a second before he let out a slow, measured breath. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“I didn’t want this.” His gaze flicked toward the body, the blood. Then back to you. “Not for you.”

A strange, uncomfortable lump formed in your throat. You swallowed it down. Or at least, you tried to. But it sat there, heavy, lodged deep in your chest.  

Because the thing was—he was wrong.  

You weren’t rotting. You weren’t turning into some hollowed-out thing, some soulless husk that no longer cared. You still felt everything. You just… couldn’t afford to let it swallow you whole. Not now. Not when you were still fighting to survive.  

But how could you explain that to him? How could you make him understand that this wasn’t you breaking, not really? That this numbness, this eerie calm, wasn’t some kind of irreversible descent into nothingness—but rather your brain’s last-ditch attempt to protect you?  

You couldn’t. So instead, you just exhaled slowly, your gaze flicking to his, searching.  

“You think I don’t care,” you said quietly. Not a question. A statement.  

Young-il’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.  

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That I’m just… gone. That I don’t feel anything anymore.”  

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. But the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands twitched at his sides—  That was enough.  

You inhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair before shaking your head. “I do care, Young-il. I’ve cared all my life. I care so fucking much it hurts.” Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “I just can’t afford to show it right now. Because if I do—if I let myself actually feel this—” Your voice wavered, just slightly. “It’s gonna break me.”  

Young-il’s gaze searched yours, like he was trying to pick apart your words, to find a lie hidden somewhere between them. But there wasn’t one.  

After a moment, his shoulders slumped slightly, tension bleeding out of him, but not completely.  He sighed, running a hand down his face.  

“So that’s it, then?” His voice was quieter now, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re just gonna go numb until it’s over?”  

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much.”  

Young-il exhaled a humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I hate this place.”  

You huffed out something close to a laugh. “Yeah. Welcome to the club.”  

For a while, neither of you spoke. You weren’t sure how much time passed. The scent of blood clung to the air. The corpse remained between you, an unmoving reminder of how far you’d already gone. Then, finally—  Young-il stepped closer.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice steady now. “If that’s how you have to get through this—fine.” His eyes met yours, unwavering. “But don’t shut me out, alright?”  

Something about the way he said it made your throat tighten. Your lips parted, instinct telling you to crack a joke, to keep the mood light, to deflect. But for once, you didn’t.  Instead, you just nodded. “Okay.”  

Young-il held your gaze for a second longer. Then, he sighed. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled you in. It wasn’t careful, or hesitant, or any of the things you might have expected from him. It was rough, desperate—his arms wrapping tight around you, like he was holding onto something solid before the ground completely gave out beneath him.

Not because you needed it. But because he did.

You barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his chest, his scent surrounding you. You breathed him in. His fingers curled against the fabric of your clothes, grip unyielding. His breathing wasn’t steady. It wasn’t uneven either. It was just off. A fraction too deep. A second too slow. Like he was still trying to get control of something that had already slipped through his fingers.

You blinked, your hands hovering slightly at your sides, caught off guard. But only for a second. Slowly, you let your arms come up, hesitantly returning the embrace. 

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It just was. Then, finally—his voice, low and raw against your ear. 

“You don’t get to lose yourself in here.” The words were quiet, firm. “Not you.” 

You swallowed. “I’m not.” 

His grip tightened, just slightly. “You better not be.” 

You exhaled softly, letting your eyes slip shut for just a second. “I promise.” 

Another beat of silence. Then, a breath. A slow, heavy inhale. 

“I fucking hate this place.” His voice was strained now, rasping at the edges. “I hate what it does to people. I hate what it’s done to you.” 

You swallowed hard but didn’t answer. You hated it, too.

Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to look at you. A long, controlled inhale. Then, a slower exhale. His hands shifted—one sliding up, the other following, cupping your face with a carefulness that made your chest tighten. His thumbs brushed lightly along your cheekbones. His breath hitched, just barely, like he was fighting something back. 

“I won’t let you lose yourself in here.” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher. “Not you.”

You swallowed, your hands instinctively gripping at his wrists, not to pull away, but to hold on. “I’m not losing myself.”

His fingers twitched against your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Dark. Intense. Like he was searching for something.

“You better not be,” he murmured

His grip tightened, just slightly, and something unspoken crackled between you—something thick, electric, thrumming under your skin. You were too close. His breath fanned across your lips, warm, uneven, and for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to pull away or close the distance.  

The air between you was thin, charged. You could feel every inch of him, the way his chest rose and fell against yours, the heat of his hands on your skin.  

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”  

Your breath faltered. His grip on your face didn’t waver. Your heart pounded, too loud, too fast. He was still so close, his lips just barely parted, his fingers brushing lower, skimming the edge of your jaw.  His grip didn’t loosen. Neither did yours.

You weren’t sure which of you moved first—if it was him, if it was you, if it even mattered. But the space between you had never felt smaller.

"Attention all players. The technical issues have been resolved. You may now step out of your rooms and follow the instructions of the guards." 

The words sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. Young-il froze, just a mere centimetre away from your lips. For a moment—just a fraction of a second—his fingers twitched against your skin, like they weren’t sure whether to tighten or release. Then, as if burned, he let go.  

He stepped back. Once. Then again.  

His expression shifted. The heat in his gaze, the raw intensity that had been there just seconds ago, vanished. It was like watching a flame snuffed out in an instant. His posture stiffened, his face smoothing into something unreadable.

You blinked, your breath coming out in pants, your body still tense from the moment that had almost—almost—happened.  

But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He turned toward the door, his movements sharp, controlled, his back straight as if nothing had happened. As if none of it had meant anything.  

The sudden shift was jarring. Just seconds ago, he had been right there, holding onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality. And now? Now he looked at you like you were nothing at all.  

A lump formed in your throat, but you forced it down, watching as he reached for the door. His voice, when he finally spoke, was distant. Detached.  

"Let’s go."  

That was it. No explanation. No hesitation. Just a command. Without another glance, he stepped outside. The cold air of the arena seeped into your skin as you followed him, but it wasn’t just the room that felt empty. It was the space between you.  

Something had changed. Something had broken. And you had no idea how to fix it.  

[withsubsplease]

Rewatching “Clear” [S3:12] and this is such a pivotal episode for these three learning about one another, how to work together, how each of them thinks, what their motivations are, what’s important to them.

I’d love to spend time dissecting the entire episode but for now I’ll mention a couple things about the first third of the episode:

Michonne goes on this run. Rick says he needs to keep Michonne and Merle apart and I do think that is half of it. He still doesn’t trust that she won’t kill Merle. Which I actually love. I don’t think he’s concerned about Merle attacking her, yet he does sense Michonne is determined enough to find a way to take Merle out for what he did to her. We also know Rick protects the group and tends to keep people he finds questionable close to him. But most of all, this run is a test. Up until now, Rick has seen bold, fearless, formidable Michonne. He knows she’s resourceful but is she reliable? Is she a team player? Therefore, when they pass Orange Backpack (which always tugs at my heart a bit) and they get stuck in mud, he tells Carl that it was an innocent mistake and though true, he didn’t have to say it. He offers something positive about this woman he’s made very clear (as rattled off by Carl), he found unpredictable and suspicious. Which leads me to believe he’s softening toward her, maybe because despite his apprehension, he likes her or maybe because it’s the first time she’s been completely and totally human. Also, Michonne going along shows she’s willing to invest time and effort. That she cares about these new people she’s met and desires to be a part and do her part in what they are building.

Rick says “thank you.” After Carl shoots Morgan, Rick and Michonne don’t agree on what to do next but he does tell her to be careful of all the booby traps, but promptly forgets this right before he steps on that infamous welcome mat😆. Michonne, however, hasn’t and stops him before his foot gets slashed open. Seeing what’s hidden underneath the mat (noting her word of caution was for his protection) he stops and acknowledges this by saying over his shoulder, “Thank you.” One of my favorite things about Rick is that he’s someone who is always quick to say “thank you.” It’s a quality I find endearing about people and this is the first time he says those two words to Michonne.

[sidenote: Rick thanks her often as the series progresses but as they get closer he makes more of a point to look at her directly or catch her eyes when he says it like in S6:10. Which shows “thank you” holds a lot of value to Rick as well.]

Michonne sets a standard of communication. When Rick reneges on taking the guns and leaving, deciding to stay longer than planned (out of guilt and hope), Michonne pushes back. Rick puts a stamp on his statement with a “that’s it” but Michonne isn’t quelled. She continues to not only finish her train of thought but also makes her point. Even though she lets him have the last word and respects his decision, she doesn’t dissent or shy away from confrontation with him. It’s one of the first times we see an example of them being on the same team but not in complete agreement. We also see small hints to the building blocks of this dynamic on Rick’s part. Where he shows slight and unwelcome discomfort to her possible dissatisfaction or disagreement. Because as we all learn if there is an opinion he can trust (whether he likes it or not) it’s Michonne.

In addition, this is the second time Rick displaces his own insecurities onto Michonne by insinuating she has a negative perception of him. First with the guns (Rick’s leadership and decisions) and then with Morgan’s mental health (Rick’s similar struggles with grief). What I love about both moments, is how Rick tries to mask his agitation with Michonne’s apparent judgement and the fact Michonne immediately shuts these thoughts down. While I won’t go as far as to say Rick is trying to “impress” Michonne (though he is being quite arrogant once they arrive in KC), I do believe he’s trying prove something to her and himself.

[slytherin-pen]

Heat Of The Moment

pairing: Lucien x Nesta

word count: 2.1k

warnings: arguing, slightly dramatized Rhysand

a/n: written for day 2 of @sjmromanceweek “first fight”

Part 1 , Part 3, Part 4

The envelope arrived at the manor with a flourish of magic. Lucien ripped off the venetian red Dawn Court seal of a sun rising above a valley before scanning the letter, his golden eye whirring. Nesta, seated across from him at the circular table nestled in the bay window where they had sat down for breakfast, didn’t even try to hide her curiosity. Looking down her nose at the letter while she chewed a bite of sausage.

Lucien’s face gave away nothing at first, only his russet eye flicking left to right, and him quietly muttering to himself. Then his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he released a low, tired sigh.

Nesta, already knowing she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say, set down her utensils.

“What is it?” she asked, voice steady but sharp.

Lucien rubbed his temples before answering. “A meeting of the High Lords in three days.”

“Does it say what for?”

“To discuss the threat of Koschei.”

She stiffened. “Then I’m coming with you.”

Lucien’s head snapped up, his russet eye blazing. “No, you’re not.”

Nesta arched a brow. “Yes, I am.”

Lucien scoffed, tossing the letter onto the table as if it physically disgusted him. “Nesta, don’t start. We talked about this.”

“Don’t start?” she repeated, voice dangerously quiet. “You think you can just tell me what to do? We talked about me not forcing myself into things I’m uncomfortable with, and this isn’t that. I want to come. I haven’t seen Elain in weeks, and this could be my chance.”

“I’m not telling you what to do, I’m trying to keep you from making a decision I think you’ll regret,” Lucien countered, exasperated. He was already pacing, his long strides eating up the space between the table and the living room. “Nesta, listen to me. This isn’t some casual visit to see Elain where you two will have the privacy to speak freely. Every High Lord will be there, specifically Rhysand, and you—” He gestured at her, at the force of will burning in her storm-blue eyes. “You cannot let him get his claws in you again.”

Nesta rose to her feet, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “And you think leaving Elain alone with them is the better choice?”

Lucien ran a hand through his fiery-red hair. “She isn’t alone. She has Feyre, and—”

“Do you recall Feyre stepping in to stop Rhysand from using me like a weapon?” Nesta cut in, voice like steel. “I certainly don’t, I remember quite the opposite, actually.”

Lucien exhaled sharply. “I know. I know, but they treat Elain differently than they did you.” He shook his head. “They let her do as she pleases. They don’t force or manipulate her into anything. The one thing you and Feyre could agree on was keeping Elain safe.”

Nesta’s jaw clenched. “Maybe before, but I’m not within their grasp anymore. There are only four of us in the entire world that have been Made in the Cauldron, that we know of, and only one is still living in the Night Court. They would dangle Elain in front of me every time they ‘asked’ me to do something for them. Do you really think they are just going to pass over the fact Elain likely has the same abilities as me, at least when it comes to our connection to the Cauldron?“

Lucien went silent for a moment, his eye searching hers.

Nesta pushed forward. “I may be angry with Elain due to her involvement in that—that intervention from Hel, but she is still my sister. And despite what everyone may think of me, I love my sisters. I will not sit back while I know they will likely coerce her into using magic that no one knows how to use. You cannot train for magic that’s never been heard of before. But they made me do it anyway and I almost didn’t come back. Elain got kidnapped, and the Cauldron was in my head, and—and—“

Lucien rushed toward her and cradled her face in his hands. “Okay. It’s okay, Nesta. Just breathe.”

Her hands gripped his tunic as she rested her forehead on his chest. Inhaling and exhaling slowly as Lucien pet the back of her head.

“I’m sorry. I know this is a difficult topic for you,” he whispered. “But how do you know Rhysand hasn’t already considered that you might come? He could be planning to either do the same thing he’s always done or even try to convince the other High Lords it’s a good idea to use you before we arrive.”

Nesta took another deep breath, inhaling Lucien’s scent of fresh-cut apples and vanilla before looking up at him. “l understand your concerns, I do. But the alternative is letting them use Elain and I can’t. I can’t do it, Lucien, I refuse to. You said you were looking forward to meeting Nesta Archeron. Well, this is her. She is ready to throw herself to the wolves for the sake of her sister and you will not convince me otherwise.”

He cursed, kissed her forehead, and wrapped her in his arms again. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You’re right.”

Nesta smirked. “I usually am.”

“True,” he chuckled. “I supposed we have a meeting to prepare for.”

The Dawn Court Palace was an opulent structure made of sunstone and gold. Morning glories snaked up the walls, mist from the water fountains spouting out from the archways cascaded down and surrounded the palace in an ethereal shroud. The golden domes gleamed through the haze, their reflections shimmering in the pools of water below. The first light of day painted everything in shades of gold and rose.

Lucien led Nesta up the stairs with a gentle hand on the small of her back. Servants, courtiers, and healers flocked to the grand double doors being held open by sentries in gold armor with the Dawn Court insignia centered on their chest, while others used the archways that lined the entire front wall. Some even sat on the stone benches while they ate and socialized.

The sentries nodded as the two of them walked past and Lucien, ever the emissary, nodded back.

Nesta couldn’t help the slight smile that graced her lips as she watched Lucien in his element. She almost forgot what they were walking into. Almost.

The inside wasn’t any less grand than the exterior. A set of spiral stairs greeted them in the foyer, and statues of males and females carved in gold decorated the hall. Some held swords, others held books, magnifying glasses, and various tools used for tinkering. The song of doves echoed through the building as they flew around, drowning out the chatter of the palace guests.

Lucien steered Nesta to the right where they met another set of double doors, the two sentries quickly opening them as they approached.

Nesta’s heels clicked along the marble floor, her ivory gown swishing with every step. She wore her usual coronet braid, while Lucien opted for two thin braids connecting at the back of his head to keep the hair out of his face. Lucien wore a green linen shirt and brown pants tucked into his boots.

Nesta’s heels clicked against the marble floor, the soft swish of her ivory gown accompanying each measured step. Her hair was woven into its signature coronet braid, regal and precise. Beside her, Lucien’s locks were pulled back into two thin braids, meeting at the back of his head to keep stray strands from his face. He wore a green linen shirt, its earthy hue complementing the rich brown of his pants, which were neatly tucked into well-worn boots.

The High Lords were already gathered when Lucien and Nesta arrived. Cushioned oak chairs surrounded the circular reflection pool in the middle of the room. Nesta’s eyes immediately found the Inner Circle, situated between High Lord Thesan and High Lord Tarquin.

Nesta let out a breath of air when she spotted Elain next to Feyre.

They took their seats between High Lord Tamlin and High Lord Kallias, with Lady Vivianne, his mate, sitting beside him.

Nesta clenched her jaw when she made eye contact with her sister, sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, an unreadable expression on her delicate features. Her brown eyes flickered with something Nesta couldn’t quite place. Relief? Resignation?

“Welcome,” Thesan began, “to the meeting regarding Koschei and the threat he poses to us all.” He turned to face Lucien. “Am I correct in assuming you are here to represent the humans?”

“Yes, High Lord. Jurian and Queen Vassa sent me in their stead,” Lucien replied smoothly, earning a nod from Thesan.

Rhysand, leaned forward slightly, his gaze roaming over the gathered High Lords before settling on Thesan. “As we’ve discussed,” he began, “we may have a way to locate Koschei. Elain’s gift, her ability to see the future, could prove invaluable in this search.”

The room grew quiet at the mention of Elain’s powers, eyes flicking toward her. Elain’s face remained serene, though her hands tightened in her lap. Feyre’s narrowed, but she said nothing.

“Absolutely not,” Nesta said, her voice sharp, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

Lucien stiffened beside her.

“Why?” Rhysand’s voice was deceptively calm, though the tension in his shoulders suggested he already knew her response.

“Because I won’t let you use her as some tool,” Nesta snapped, her hands tightening around the arms of her chair. “She’s not some weapon for your plans. She’s my sister, not a pawn to be manipulated.”

Elain shifted in her chair slightly, her eyes shifting between the two, but it was clear she wasn’t going to intervene.

Rhysand’s lips curled, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your sister has powers, Nesta. Powers that could save us all. I’m not asking her for anything she’s unwilling to give. This isn’t about using her—this is about preventing a catastrophe.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“I don’t care what your intentions are, Rhysand,” she hissed. “I won’t let you put her in danger just because you think she’s useful. Have you even given her the opportunity to train, to explore her magic on her own or are you just planning to experiment in the moment like you did with me before trying to lock me away?”

Stunned gasps could be heard from around the room. High Lord Beron leaned forward in his seat for a better view of the sparring match.

Rhysand remained composed, picking at his black suit before returning his attention to her. “I’m sure what you mean by that, we have always treasured you, Nesta.”

Nesta’s eyes flared with silver fire. The room grew colder still, her anger thick and tangible in the air. “You know exactly what I mean, Rhysand,” she hissed. “How exactly was this Elain’s decision? Did you threaten to lock her away in the House of Wind? To be shipped off to Windhaven to train with your General?”

The High Lords exchanged uneasy glances. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between the two of them. “Nesta—”

“Let Elain answer for herself,” she cut him off, her voice like ice.

Elain cleared her throat. “He said that if I did not do it, he would find a way to drag you back to the Night Court.”

Silver flames whooshed as they burst from Nesta’s body. The attendees had the sense to jump out of their chairs and back away. Everyone but Lucien and the Night Court.

“Nesta,” Lucien tried again, tugging on the bond for the first time since he discovered it.

Elain gracefully rose from her seat and strode over to her sister. “It’s alright Nesta, I saw it coming. I’m ready to go with you now.”

Nesta cocked her head as she surveyed Elain, large doe eyes staring at placatingly.

Rhysand and Feyre shot to their feet. “You can’t do that,” Rhysand growled, darkness seeping from him.

Lucien muttered a prayer to the Mother and grabbed Elain’s arm, pulling her behind him as Nesta’s attention focused back on Rhysand.

“Oh?” she asked with a deathly quiet. “Are you saying you will not allow Elain to leave, who is not an official member of your court, and therefore has no contractual obligation to stay?”

Rhysand’s cool facade broke for a split second as murmurs from the other guests went throughout the room.

“Nesta, Elain, please,” Feyre begged.

“When you come to your senses Feyre, you can write to Lucien to be delivered to Elain, but until then, we’re leaving.” Nesta’s silver flames disappeared as she took Lucien’s hand in one and Elain’s in the other. Golden fire swirled around them as Lucien winnowed them out of the meeting chamber.

[gallowdancingmuck]

Analyzing W(e)yler Part Three:

This is a long one that focuses on Wednesday and her arc and is a little messy.

The thing that has really stuck with me since my first viewing is Morticia telling Wednesday “sometimes you get in your own way”. I think if any one line can summarize what Wednesday’s arc is all about, it is this one. Wednesday has all the brilliance she needs as well as resources to sail through life easily. I would even argue that Wednesday could fit in socially (because look how easily she made friends) but she constantly makes decisions that set her back. It could be argued it is her ego, but I genuinely think Wednesday does not think she’s better than everybody, I think she is genuinely very afraid of emotional hurt. She has been raised in a loving family and loyalty has been ingrained in her, the very worst thing that can happen to someone with this background is loss (and betrayal). I think what set Wednesday forth on this path of emotional detachment was Nero’s death.

Even if Nero is only meant to purely be a pet, imagine how traumatizing it would be to see your puppy or cat killed in front of you (she literally walked him on a leash). However I think Nero also acts as a symbol. Him being odd and a loyal pet is equivalent to her feelings towards her family, and then with him being a small scorpion he also represents innocence and outcasts. We have seen Wednesday is very protective of these things and I think she is so afraid of these things being ripped away from her she doesn’t know how to act. She’s setting herself back with this avoidance though because unfortunately, life is filled with loss. She either risks not having it all (lost potential) or losing it after she’s loved it (grief). She’s getting in the way of her own experience.

Wednesday is so caring and loyal that everybody sees it (Weems points it out in her office and Tyler/Hyde knows to mock her with his betrayal). Where she falters is she intellectualizes these feelings rather than work through them. In terms of Tyler, she does not hate him for being a murderer or a monster (she’s an Addams, she probably likes him more) she hates him (right now) for being a traitor and a liar. What we are going to hear her talk about is how he undermined her intelligence and then it’ll fall to him being weak, and then how it is unjust, and then eventually we will finally hit the core of this problem, Tyler hurt Wednesday’s feelings. Notice how she added a few superficial layers? Betrayal cannot exist without trust and I think Wednesday is going to take a long time to actually digest that fact, but she’s a smart girl, she knows that!

Looking at how she defends the underdog (Pugsley, Rowan, Eugene) Wednesday will say it’s because of what is fair. But in reality it's because she feels sympathy for them. If Wednesday was truly Machiavellian, she would know life is not fair and cut her losses and move forward, even at the expense of the underdog, but she never does. This trait of hating injustice is going to be the driving point because eventually she’ll forgive Tyler, but only in the intellectual pursuit of removing the stigma around hydes (not because the sympathy intertwines with her attachment to him, silly goose).

The Addams Family is odd and unusual and centered on the fact that the Addams are immensely loving and good people. Wednesday, despite showing love in odd ways, loves her people a lot. This care is what drives the story forward. While she is curious, her bouts of serious action are spurred when someone she loves is threatened. Pugsley is bullied, piranhas, now she's at Nevermore. Eugene gets attacked, her vitriol (no longer just curiosity) fuels her need to find the monster. Her father is arrested, she pushes herself to reconcile with her mother and make further discoveries on the Gates family. Thing is stabbed, she goes to the manor. Tyler is hurt and she goes back and reveals her cards. Her curiosity and intelligence is a great tool, but like a mathematical problem it is the same in every language and every place, decipherable once learned. Love and emotion however are contingent on specific circumstances and people, it can't ever be truly replicated. (“There are all kinds of love in the world but never the same love twice”) Enid, Eugene, Tyler, Pugsley, those are all irreplaceable to her, and that's why her love for these people is her strongest, most unique trait. That is what makes her Wednesday Addams. Her whole problem she has right now is thinking her emotions and her connections weaken her, when in reality the show proves she wouldn't have gotten anywhere without her people.

Another thing that causes her to get in her own way and she is warned about is her negativity. The nature of her being a Raven and Morticia warning against trusting Goody is really important! Ravens are predisposed to only see bad visions and circumstances. This is important because it causes Wednesday to only see a partial picture, leading her to make inaccurate assumptions and hasty decisions. Tyler plays into this because she only saw him getting manipulated and abused and being manipulative ,and she threw out her real life observations of his goodness for visions that she has been warned against trusting. I think being warned of Goody’s vengeful nature by Morticia is a sign that Wednesday is prone to letting the darkness sabotage her abilities and become impulsive.

Wednesday’s whole story seems to be based on the idea she can’t rely on only seeing the darkness in people, that is why her greatest allies are Enid, Eugene, and (previously) Tyler. All three of these people are gentle and present as pieces of light within the show and are people she doesn’t understand but truly shines with. Even think about “I did a terrible thing but I’m not a terrible person” like that’s the whole thing. Wednesday needs to learn (much like Tyler) that you can enjoy the dark and macabre, but that you can’t feed into negativity. There is a difference, and that’s how the Addams family has always been. They’ve never been negative, they’ve just been positive towards the shunned things in life. That’s what her story is!

Now, I love Jenna but I think she is so like Wednesday with her idea of “no romance”. Jenna is getting in the way of Wednesday’s story because I think Wednesday's whole arc is about her emotional development and defeating her tendency of denying the care she has for everybody. I think we have to move away from the idea that Wednesday has to be the spooky, mean, goth girl, intellectual who only pursues her career. She can be all of those things and be autonomous and still dedicate herself to family and love! Again guys, this is literally what the Addams Family has been about since its creation. You can be alternative and spooky and still love people and be happy! None of this has to be an either or situation. Do not let Wednesday limit herself based on a patriarchal idea that love only comes for women who conform and women who do fall in love are somehow vapid or less than!

I know a huge criticism of Wednesday has been how it messed with the Addams Family dynamic and made Wednesday act angsty towards her family, but if this is the arc they are following, it actually makes sense! Every iteration Wednesday has loved her family and in two of them she was a little romantic, it would be out of character to only make this a horror series.

[msklassickilla]

Delirious | J. Uso|R. Reigns Eight

Summary: When Titania buys an old typewriter from a closing thrift store, she thinks it’s just a vintage gem—until the words she types start coming true. However, the typewriter doesn’t just bring fantasies to life—it twists them. Giving Titania way more than she bargained for.

Pairing: Titania Marshall (Black OC) x Jey Uso x Roman Reigns

Author’s Note: This story is another AU thing. So, it might align, or it might not. I will try my best to keep it current enough. Nonetheless, it’s mash up of a few things: That one episode of Goosebumps. That one episode of the Twilight Zone. And that movie by the same title, Delirious featuring John Candy. I’ma make it work. Plus, I like mystical spooky shit with a bit of Jerry Springer type mess.

Warning(s): Minor mentions of not detailed SMUT happening.

Disclaimer: This work of art is fictional in nature including the original characters created by me. I do not own any of the existing characters or lyrics from songs referenced in this story (if any). All rights belong to their respective owners with the exception of my original characters. This work is purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended to cause harm.

Eight

Titania sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress. She needed to leave, if only for a little while. She needed space away from Jey, from the house, from the suffocating feeling that had been pressing down on her since their last conversation. Something about the way he had looked at her, the calm certainty in his voice when he told her they were moving, had left a weight in her chest that refused to go away.

But she couldn’t leave. Not yet. Jey would be back on the road soon, and when he left, she’d finally have a chance to think. She just had to hold out until then. She exhaled and forced herself to lie back, telling herself that by the time she woke up, he would already be getting ready to leave for the next city.

Except, when she opened her eyes the next morning, Jey was gone—but not in the way she had expected. The house was silent, no music playing from the kitchen, no smell of breakfast drifting in. He hadn’t made her anything, hadn’t left a note. At first, she thought maybe he had left for the airport early, but when she checked her phone, there was nothing from him. A slow, creeping feeling worked its way into her stomach. Something didn’t feel right.

Jey came home late that evening, looking as calm as ever. Titania had spent the whole day waiting for a text, a call, anything to confirm he was gone for work, but now, as he stepped inside like nothing was out of the ordinary, she realized she had been waiting for nothing. He tossed his keys onto the counter, loosened the collar of his shirt, and met her eyes with a casual smile.

“Took a few days off,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Family emergency.”

Titania didn’t respond. She stood frozen, her fingers tightening around the glass of water she had been holding. He wasn’t leaving. He had no plans to leave. He was staying here. With her.

She didn’t sleep that night. The weight in her chest had grown heavier, thick and suffocating. Over the next few days, she tried to tell herself she was overreacting, that she was being ridiculous, but then she overheard Jey on the phone with Jimmy, casually telling him they would be in Florida by the end of the month. The words were spoken with such ease, such certainty, that it sent a spark of rage through her. She wanted to storm into the room and demand to know how he could keep making decisions for her, but something stopped her.

Titania knew arguing with Jey wouldn’t get her anywhere. The last time she pushed back, he had looked at her like she was just being difficult, like she was saying no to something that had already been decided. No, she needed to be smart about this. She needed time to think. She needed space.

She packed a bag, stuffing it into the spare room. It wasn’t much, just enough for a night or two in a hotel, but it was a start. Jey would shower eventually, or maybe he’d fall asleep early. Either way, she’d be gone before he could ask any questions.

When the night finally came, she crept out of bed, heart hammering, ears straining for any sound from Jey. He was still. His breathing was deep and steady. She hesitated only for a second before slipping out of the room, careful not to make a sound. The spare room was dark when she entered, and she reached blindly for her bag, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the typewriter. A sharp chill ran down her spine as she felt the distinct shape of paper sticking out of the roller.

Her breath caught.

Slowly, she turned on the lamp and looked down. There was a new message.

She didn’t type it.

The words stood out in dark ink, crisp and final.

"She asked to be loved. And till death will he love her. Unless…"

Titania’s pulse pounded in her ears. Her fingers curled around the edges of the paper as she tore it from the machine, ripping it to shreds before she could think. The pieces fluttered to the ground, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

She had to go. Now.

She grabbed her bag and bolted from the room, the darkness of the house pressing in on her. The living room was silent, the only sound was the steady hum of the fridge in the kitchen. She reached the front door and fumbled with the lock, her fingers clumsy, her mind racing.

The lamp flicked on.

Titania’s stomach dropped.

Jey was sitting on the couch, arms resting on his knees, watching her with an expression she had never seen before.

"You trying to leave me, Tee?" His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it, something that made her blood run cold.

Titania’s fingers slipped from the doorknob. Jey tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on hers, unreadable and steady. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look surprised. He just looked like a man who already knew how this night was going to end.

----

Titania’s heart pounded in her chest, the bag in her hand feeling heavier than it should. Jey sat there, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped as he watched her. The overhead lamp cast long shadows across his face, making his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way he was looking at her that sent a cold ripple down her spine.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay still, to keep her face neutral even as her mind screamed at her to move. He was just upstairs. She had felt his body beside hers, the steady rise and fall of his breath under the covers. She had heard nothing—no footsteps, no doors opening, no creaks of the floorboards.

So how was he sitting here now?

Jey rubbed his temples, exhaling like he was trying to keep his patience in check. "I asked you a question, Tee." His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it now. "Were you trying to leave me?"

Titania’s throat felt dry. She forced herself to shake her head. "I just… I needed to get out for a little bit. Clear my head."

Jey’s eyes stayed locked on hers, unreadable. He leaned back against the couch, tapping his fingers against his knee. His silence made her stomach churn. He was thinking, processing, deciding how to react.

Then he let out a slow breath, nodding once. "You should’ve just told me," he said finally, the tension in his shoulders easing—if only slightly.

Titania released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Maybe that was it. Maybe she could still smooth this over.

But Jey wasn’t done.

He patted the space beside him. "Come sit with me."

Something about the way he said it made her hesitate.

Jey tilted his head slightly, watching her closely. "Come on, Tee. Let’s talk."

Titania’s grip on the bag tightened. She could still leave. She could turn and run out the door right now. But the way Jey was watching her made her feel like he already knew she wouldn’t.

Slowly, she moved toward the couch, sitting stiffly beside him. The air between them was thick, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

Jey ran a hand down his face, shaking his head slightly. "I get it. You’re stressed. You feel like things are moving too fast." His tone was softer now, almost soothing, like he was trying to guide her to a conclusion he had already reached. "But Tee, we can’t wait. I already closed on the house."

Titania’s breath stalled.

She turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing. "What?"

Jey pulled out his phone and handed it to her. "It’s done. We move at the end of the month."

Titania stared at the screen, her hands trembling as she scrolled through the pictures. The house was perfect. Everything she had ever wanted in a dream home. The layout, the location, even the color of the walls—every tiny detail matched the house she had imagined in passing.

But she had never told Jey about it. She had never searched for this house. She had never even known it existed. And yet, here it was, already theirs.

She turned back to him, voice unsteady. "How did you know?"

Jey smiled. "Because I know you."

The words should have been reassuring, comforting even. Instead, they sent a chill through her. Because that wasn’t an answer. And deep down, Titania knew she would never get one.

----

Titania barely remembered going to bed that night. She had argued—at least, she thought she had. Maybe not with words, but with silence, with the way her body had gone stiff next to Jey on the couch, with the way she had stared at him, waiting for an explanation he never gave. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

Jey was unmoved, unaffected, as if her hesitation was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He had made up his mind. The house was bought. The move was happening. And there was nothing left to discuss.

She wanted to scream.

Instead, she lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling while Jey slept soundly, his arm draped over her waist like an anchor. The weight of it should have been comforting. She had spent years fantasizing about this—being wrapped up in him, being the woman he came home to.

But this wasn’t a fantasy anymore. This was real. And something about it felt wrong.

Jey had given her everything she asked for—so why did it feel like she was losing herself in the process? The typewriter’s message clawed its way back into her mind.

She asked to be loved. And till death will he love her. Unless…

Unless what?

Titania swallowed hard and turned onto her side, shutting her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

----

The next few days passed in a blur, Jey moving through the house with the same confidence he always had, as if nothing was out of place, as if their life was already settled. Titania, on the other hand, felt unmoored. She drifted through conversations, nodded in the right places, let herself get pulled into his warmth when he reached for her, but there was a nagging sensation in the back of her mind that refused to quiet.

That night, Jey opened a bottle of wine and poured her a glass, a quiet truce after days of tension. One glass turned into two, then four, and for a little while, she let herself believe this could still be normal. Jey was affectionate, teasing, his fingers tracing idle patterns along her arm as they talked about nothing in particular.

Then her phone buzzed.

She reached for it, already feeling hazy from the wine, but the moment she saw the name on the screen, she hesitated.

Hakeem.

A coworker. Nothing more. Jey’s mood shifted instantly.

Titania hesitated before answering, feeling Jey’s gaze on her as she lifted the phone to her ear. "Hey, what’s up?"

Hakeem’s voice was casual, asking about a project deadline, something minor, but she barely processed the words because Jey was staring at her like he was trying to see straight through her. His fingers, which had been resting lightly on her thigh, twitched slightly before curling against the fabric of her leggings.

She kept the call brief, assuring Hakeem she’d handle it, then hung up, setting the phone aside like it didn’t matter. But Jey was already shifting closer, his jaw tight.

"Who’s he?"

Titania blinked, confused. "What?"

Jey’s voice was lower now, softer but with an unmistakable edge. "Who’s Hakeem?"

She let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "A coworker. We barely talk outside of work."

Jey didn’t look convinced. He studied her for a moment, his thumb brushing idly against her knee. "You sure about that?"

Titania tensed. "Jey, come on. He’s just a coworker. Nothing more, nothing less."

Jey hummed, but the sound didn’t hold any real agreement. His fingers tightened against her leg, his touch no longer light, no longer teasing. His voice dropped even lower, almost thoughtful. "Show me."

Her pulse skipped. "Pardon?"

His grip shifted, his palm sliding higher, fingers tracing the curve of her hip. "Show me I’m the only man for you."

Titania’s breath caught. She didn’t know why her heart was racing—if it was from the look in his eyes, from the way he was touching her, or from something deeper, something colder that she didn’t want to acknowledge.

She could have argued. She could have told him how ridiculous he was being. But she was tired. Of fighting, of thinking, of questioning every little thing. She wanted to end the night on good terms. She wanted to believe things could still be good between them.

So, she gave in.

Jey didn’t just take her that night—he claimed her. His touch was demanding, his grip bruising, his lips hot against her skin as he whispered, "Mine," over and over, like a promise. Like a declaration he didn’t want her to forget.

Titania clung to him, her body pliant beneath his, but somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered that this wasn’t passion. This was possession. And it wasn’t going to stop, not now or perhaps ever.

----

Titania lay awake long after Jey had drifted off, staring at the ceiling while his arm lay heavy across her waist. Her body still hummed from the intensity of their time together, but her mind refused to quiet. She replayed every touch, every whispered word, searching for something—anything—that made her feel like herself again.

Jey had always been passionate but tonight had felt different. There had been something beneath his touches, something raw, something final. Like he wasn’t just making love to her. Like he was sealing something in place.

She shifted carefully, trying not to wake him, and turned onto her side, facing the darkened room. Her eyes landed on the open doorway leading to the hall, the faintest sliver of light spilling from the spare room.

The typewriter was waiting.

Titania inhaled sharply, a strange pull working its way through her chest. She could almost hear it, the phantom click of keys pressing down, the smooth roll of paper feeding into the machine.

It wanted to be used.

Jey’s breath was warm against the back of her neck as he shifted in his sleep, tightening his hold around her. She stiffened, her pulse kicking up when she felt him murmur something low and drowsy against her skin.

It took her a second to register the word.

"Mine."

Titania swallowed hard, staring at the darkness ahead of her.

She could write happiness.

But what if she already had? And what if this was it?

----

The days passed in a blur of heat and wine and tangled sheets. Jey’s hands were everywhere, his touch lingering long after he left the room. He had taken his days off seriously, spending every moment with her, on her, inside her, as if trying to fill any space that wasn’t occupied by him. It was overwhelming, dizzying, and Titania wasn’t sure if she was slipping deeper into love or if she was simply being consumed.

She lost track of how many times they made love, how many times he whispered, “You know you’re mine, right?” into her skin like a prayer. She stopped questioning the way he looked at her, like he could see something in her that even she didn’t recognize.

But the moment he left, the spell broke.

Titania stood in the empty house, wrapped in a robe, staring at the front door long after Jey had walked out of it. The silence felt foreign, the air too still without him there. And for the first time in days, she could think clearly.

She needed answers.

The old man who sold her the typewriter was gone, vanished like smoke, but there had to be someone who could help her understand what she had gotten herself into. She had never believed in fortune-telling or psychics, but she also hadn’t believed in objects that could rewrite reality either.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

After an hour of searching online, she found a local fortune teller. Highly rated. Well-reviewed. Close enough to drive to. Titania hesitated for only a moment before booking an appointment for later that day.

The drive was quiet, the GPS leading her away from the main roads, deeper into the outskirts of town. When she finally pulled up, she found herself in front of a small, unassuming house, the kind that looked like it had been lived in for generations. A wooden sign on the porch read Readings by Madame V in neat, curling script.

Titania climbed out of the car, smoothing her hands over her jeans as she made her way up the steps. The second she pushed open the door, a wave of warm, spiced air wrapped around her, carrying the scent of burning incense and something earthy, something older than the space itself.

The room was dimly lit, the walls lined with shelves filled with candles, crystals, and small trinkets. In the center of the room sat a circular table covered in a deep purple cloth, and behind it, a woman with piercing dark eyes and silver-threaded locs watched her with an unreadable expression.

“You’ve been searching for something,” the woman said before Titania could introduce herself.

Titania swallowed, glancing toward the empty chair. “Can you help me?”

The woman—Madame V—gestured for her to sit.

Titania lowered herself into the chair, her fingers twisting in her lap. She had no idea what to ask, no idea where to start. But the moment she looked up, Madame V tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as if she was seeing something beneath Titania’s skin.

"You’ve touched something you shouldn’t have," she murmured.

Titania’s stomach tightened. "What?"

Madame V reached for a deck of tarot cards, shuffling them between her fingers with practiced ease. "There’s something woven into your fate now, something unnatural. A choice made. A price yet to be paid."

Titania’s throat felt tight. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to hear the answer. She thought about standing up, about leaving before this conversation could go any further, but something kept her rooted to the chair.

Madame V laid out the first card. The Lovers.

Titania let out a shaky breath. Love. Desire. A choice.

Madame V laid down the second card. The Devil.

Her pulse skipped.

Obsession. Power. Control.

The third card. The Tower.

Titania’s stomach dropped.

The Tower. Upheaval. Destruction. The undoing of everything.

Titania blinked, her fingers curling against her thighs.

Madame V studied the spread for a long moment, then lifted her gaze to Titania, expression unreadable. "You wanted love."

Titania swallowed. "Yes."

Madame V tapped a finger against The Devil card. "And now you have it."

A chill ran through her.

"You got what you asked for," Madame V continued, her voice calm, measured. "But love is never free. It always demands something in return."

Titania tried to steady her breath. "What does that mean?"

Madame V’s eyes flickered toward the cards again, her brow furrowing slightly. "There are two paths before you. One leads to the man you desired, the one who holds you now." She tapped the first card.

Titania felt a pit form in her stomach. "And the other?"

Madame V flipped over a fourth card without hesitation.

Titania’s breath stalled. The Moon.

Illusions. Secrets. Temptation.

Madame V exhaled, watching Titania closely. "The other leads to the man who will test your fate."

A cold wave of understanding washed over her. She didn’t need a name. She already knew.

Roman.

Her mind flashed back to the moments she had spent watching him, the way his presence demanded attention without effort. The way her heart had stuttered the first time she had seen him, even before she had touched the typewriter.

Was this always going to happen? Had she written this, too?

Madame V leaned forward slightly, her eyes dark and knowing. "Be careful what you ask for," she warned. "The desires of the heart are often a want not a need. The heart can be a prison. And you’ll build that prison with your bare hands if you don’t take heed of the difference between the two.”

Titania sat frozen, her fingers digging into her lap. She had come here for answers. Instead, she left with a warning.

----

Titania hadn’t slept. She had left Madame V’s shop with a heaviness in her chest that refused to go away, her mind spinning with everything the woman had said. The cards, the warnings, the implication that she had trapped herself in something she could no longer control. The heart can be a prison. The words echoed in her skull long after she had gotten back home, and when she finally collapsed into bed, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, feeling Jey’s absence more acutely than she ever had before.

She had wanted love. That much was true. But now she was starting to wonder if she had given up too much of herself in the process. Had the typewriter brought her everything she asked for, or had it twisted her words into something she no longer recognized? The thought made her stomach turn, and for the first time in a long time, she wished she could talk to someone who wasn’t tangled in the reality she had created.

The next morning, she picked up her phone and called Mia.

It rang a few times before her best friend’s familiar voice filled the line, bright and easy. "Tee! You finally crawling out of your love nest to call me?"

Titania let out a small laugh, but it felt hollow. "Something like that."

Mia sighed dramatically. "Girl, I was starting to think you forgot about me again. How’s everything? Jey still spoiling you rotten?"

Titania hesitated. Mia only knew the version of Jey that Titania had written for her—the charming, affectionate man who adored her, the one Mia had no reason to think was anything but perfect. If she told the truth now, would Mia even believe her?

"Yeah," she said finally, forcing her voice to stay light. "He’s… definitely something."

Mia laughed. "I bet. You’ve been on cloud nine ever since y’all got together. What’s up, though? You sound off."

Titania exhaled, leaning back against the couch. "I just—I needed to talk to you about something. Jey wants to move. To Florida."

Mia hummed thoughtfully. "I mean… that makes sense, right? His family’s there, and you work from home. You don’t sound excited about it, though."

Titania swallowed, gripping the phone tighter. "It’s just happening really fast. Like, I barely had time to process it before he started making plans. He already bought the house."

Mia let out a low whistle. "Damn. He really locked you down, huh?"

Titania didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

"But honestly, Tee, maybe a change of scenery is what you need," Mia continued. "You’ve been in the same place for so long. Maybe moving with down there with Jey is the start of something good."

Titania closed her eyes. The problem was, she wasn’t sure this had ever been her choice to begin with.

Mia was still talking, but Titania’s mind was already drifting. Florida. Her family was in Atlanta, only a few hours away, which meant she’d be closer to them. That should have reassured her, should have made the move feel easier. But when she thought about Florida, her mind didn’t go to her parents or her siblings.

It went to Roman.

Her stomach knotted at the thought, and she shook her head, trying to push it away. But the feeling lingered, a quiet pull, like a thread being tugged loose. The fortune teller’s words crawled back into her mind. The other leads to the man who will test your fate. She had said it like it was inevitable, like no matter what Titania did, she would end up standing at some kind of crossroads.

Her pulse quickened, and she sat up, rubbing her hands over her face. She needed to stop. Needed to focus on what mattered. She was with Jey. They had a future together. This was what she had wanted.

She wasn’t going to fight fate anymore.

That night, after tossing and turning for hours, Titania got out of bed and walked toward the spare room, her fingers trembling slightly as she turned on the lamp. The typewriter sat there, waiting, as if it had known she would come back to it. She stared at the blank page, heart pounding, then slowly reached for the keys.

Her fingers hovered over them for a moment before she started to type.

"Titania was happy. Happy with the move, happy with Jey, happy with whatever came next."

She sat back, staring at the words. It was done. But as she sat there, something inside her twisted uncomfortably. It should have been simple. It should have felt like relief.

Instead, all she felt was the creeping, nauseating certainty that happiness was never as simple as it seemed. And that somehow, some way, this was only the beginning of something… something she couldn’t undo.

----

Read Chapter 9... (coming soon)

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[lady-dragon-rider]

The Towers Lost Maiden Pt.4

Targaryen Fam x Hightower! Reader

With the Driftmark incident behind the Targaryen family, and tensions strained to their fullest. Reader must take drastic action to purge the rot that nips at their families heels. The threat of potential war being the consequence for failure.

Containing: both cannon divergence and cannon adherence (as necessary), protective dragons in all forms, daemon living for not being the family drama for once (for a little at least, some time skip, more sucession drama, death, blood and violence

Featuring: daeron mention (will make an appearance soon), Aemond being petty aka mild bullying offscreen (aemond milks Luce’s punishment)

Next part>

<<Previous Part

---

The next morning arrives without further incident. Now, you sit in a chair facing a weathered old maester, who sews the cut on your arm.

“You are fortunate your grace, the blade was Valyrian steel, so the cut was a clean one. It will scar, but it will heal well.”

“Thank you Maester Mordin” you mumble, wincing again as the he finishes the final stitch. Aemond and Aegon watch on silently. When Maester Mordin moves to Aemond to check on him, Aegon round the table from the other side, coming to grab your unwounded hand. The doors open and Aemma walks in quickly. Without a word she reaches you, delicately tracing the skin around the stiches.

“What is to be done with your sister?” She mutters cooly

“I will deal with it love, trust me. Ill be handling it shortly.” You speak quietly. You stand slowly. “Boys, go with your mother to breakfast, i will join you shortly.”

“But Mother-”

“Please dont argue my love. Ill be quick and then be right back at your sides.” You reassure, pressing your hands to your childrens cheeks. They both look like they want to say more to you, but they eventually leave the room with Aemma. She has her arms around them comfortingly as the door clicks behind them. You motion for the gaurd by the doors attention. “Bring my sister Alicent to me at once.”

---

“Sister-” Alicent gasps

“My decision is final.” You state coldly “it was like i didnt even know you last night. My sweet, wonderful sister, who likes reading and embroidery, attempting to attack A Child in the name of Justice? Vengeance? Against a Child? ” You sneer

“I admit it was not my finest moment. i acted in a moment of weakness… know i regret my actions. That my love for you and your children is what makes me so protective, you have always done so much for me… always shown restraint and wisdom… please, know this and forgive me.” Her voice cracks. For a split moment you can see her; that young girl from all those years ago, clinging to your skirts and crying during thunder storms… who came to you to read her stories before bed…. and the girl who came to you in the middle of the night because she didnt want to marry the king.

“This IS mercy” You murmur strongly “But… i may find it in my heart to give you leniency if you answer this question”

“Of course-”

“Were you the one to spread the rumors of Luce and Jace?”

Alicent stops mid answer. The air choked from her lungs. She looks at you with a shocked expression. Your eyes stare through hers with a cold stormy expression,

“If you cant answer that, then were you the one who told Aemond these lies?” Again, your question is met with silence, alicent looking away, the picking her nails indicating all you need. You heave a sigh, now knowing the truth.

“Then the decision still stands; you are to prepare yourself for the journey back to Oldtown. Ill arrange to have your posessions from your chamber sent there to meet you.”

“And if i said i did?” She interjects “that i did because their very existence is an insult to everything that you have gone through? Everything you sacrificed to save me? So that i wouldnt have to betray someone i thought a firend? That she uses your love for her to protect her from her misdeeds?”

“Then i would say that i didnt think you would be so vindictive and spiteful. That you, of all people, after all the lessons i tried to teach you, could be so short-sighted. Do you know the danger such slander holds for my children? That by putting such things to question you threaten their safety with the threat of civil war. Such that would burn everything away and leave everything i did for you naught.”

“How can you not see they arent true born?” She pleads “you cant be blind to the truth!”

“They are my grandsons. With Targaryen dragons to show their lineage” You affirm “the only thing i was ‘blind’ to was not seeing my sister straying from my side… who let darkness and lies into her heart. No doubt from the heartbreak of losing her friend and having no true comfort of her own. For that i am sorry… i never meant to leave you alone”

“(Name)…”

“You will go back home to Oldtown. You will speak no more on these fictitious rumors. And hopefully finding a suitable match and some time away will help soothe you.” You take Alicents hands gently, squeezing and rubbing her knuckles with you thumbs. You both smile sadly at each other. kissing her temple you mutter “please find happiness, this is all i wish for you. We will be with each other soon, i promise.”

You then motion for the guard to escort her back to her rooms, and head to the hall for breakfast.

---

“I still cant believe you talked to her. After all she did, you have a much better temperament that i your grace” Rheanyra sighs. You both watch as the dragons fly over head; back home to kings landing. “I wouldve had her head…”

“Nyra, darling you dont mean that…” you scold gently

“But i do!” She barks voice wavering. “She hurt you… she tired to hurt my son.” Her tone turns cold when she finishes her statement. Delicately, she rolls the sleeve to judge the wound. You can hear her harshly suck in a breath as she traces around the wound; like Aemma had done ealier. She speaks quietly in High Valyrian, with a scowl permeating her face.

“Fret not dear, she is on her way back to Old Town, and she wont be back unless i allow it.” You reassure. Rheanyra huffs childishly, and holds your hands tightly. “That matter is settled. Now, we will need to look to the future, i doubt itll be the last time we will need to discuss the boys succession… now that the seeds have been planted.” You grumble. You loved Alicent truly, but she sometimes made things so difficult. You both look out towards the sea again, the figures of dragons now a little smaller against the horizon.

---

You were right when you said it wouldnt be the last time youd need to discuss Driftmarks succession. You stand next to Aemma, who sits on the iron throne in place of Viserys, weary expressions on your faces as you listen to Vaemond drone on again; with yet another petition for driftmark, claiming Rheanyra’s children illegitimate and him the rightful successor. With Corlys on his rumoured death bed and with the death of Leanor, Vaemond had wasted no time in calling forth a meeting of the court.

As either side said their piece; Vaemond with his 'My blood is of true Velaryon descent’ and Rheanyra again stating that the matter had already been discussed at length years earlier, the silence with so deafening that you would be able to hear a pin drop.

“I would get a blade and show you princess but im afraid it would look unfamiliar to you.” He snarls.

“That is enough Lord Vaemond, this is the second attempt you have made to undermine your uncle Corlys’s verdict on Driftmarks succession. The only person here who would know his wishes most intimately would be the princess Rheanys.” Aemma states, the wrinkles around her eyes showcasing her tiredness at this debate. She, along with Viserys, had seemed to aged rapidly, almost as if the throne itself had finally succeeded in saping their strength. It was either that or the constant in-fighting between rambunctious relatives.

Rheanys steps forward and with little emotion on her face, cooly adresses the room. “It was ever my husbands wish to have Driftmark pass through his son Ser Leanor to his tureborn grandson Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. The Princess Rheanyra has also informed me of her desire to wed her grandson Luce with Corlys’s granddaughter Rheana, a proposal in which i heartily agree.”

“Then the matter is settled… again. In my husbands name, i affirm that Lucerys Velaryon remains heir of driftmark, heir to the driftwood throne and the next lord of the tides.” Aemma sighs with a furrowing brow. Just as your about to assist the queen regent, you hear Vaemond scoff.

“You break law and centuries of tradtion naming your daughter as heir… and you dare tell me who gets to inherit the name Velaryon… No. I will not allow it” he grunts

“Allow it? You foget yourself” you scowl “Last time i checked Lord Vaemond, the Kings word IS law. And, by the word of King Jaehaerys himself, the princess Rheanyra’s right to the throne is protected by the widowers law. Or have you and the rest of the realm forgotten that piece of history? Along with bowing to her nearly 20 years ago.” You make no attempt to hide the bite in your tone, your eyes flaring in a protective rage. Out the corner of your eye you can see Aemma and Rheanyra smirk at your display. Aemma out of pride, and Rheanyra from vindication of your backing.

Vaemond chews his lips and with a clench fist, directs his anger to Luce again. “THAT! Is no true Velaryon… i will not see my line end at the hands of this…”

“Say it.” You hear Daemon whisper.

Please dont say it Vaemond. Dont do it

“Her children are BASTARDS… and she is… a whore” he finishes, his voice booming.

You pull out the knife on your hip, a gift from Rheanyra (and allegedly Daemon too) after the Driftmark incident. With a face of thunder, you begin the descent down the stairs.

“You will lose your tongue for those slanders.” You hiss.

Before you can get to him however his head swiftly meets the floor; his body falling neatly at your feet near the bottom of the stairs. Behind him stands Daemon, who wipes the blood from his sword.

“He can keep his tongue.” The look he gives you just as he turns to walk back to your step-daughters side, is one you cant quite read. Somewhere between a begrudging respect at your stepping in and a 'i protect this family… not you.’

Well that hopefully means he no longer hates you. Its a step. You guess. Sheathing the blade you glide back up the stairs to help Aemma. She is a bit shaky going down, your son Aegon is quick to grab her other side. Aemond stands vigil behind Helaena, his remaining eye alert and never straying to far from Daemon’s posistion. He guides the both of them to your side and you all make your way out of the hall. When you reach the Queens chamber, you help Aemma into a chair and then sit down yourself. Amid the silence you begin to writing your letters to your sister, brother and your son.

In you letter to Daeron you mention that he should most definitely come and visit, as 'the best part of being a prince with a dragon is that he need not seek permission in order to see family. He can simply do so as he wishes. And that if he ever wished to come and then stay, her could do that too.’

Writing to Gwayne was a joy to you. You enjoyed reading of the joyous moments he had with Daeron. If your song wasnt telling you directly through letters, then it would be read through his uncles boasting. You subtly write to him that your worried about Alicent, and to make sure she is being treated well.

Alicents letter… is a bit more vague. You try to overlook your nerves over what she has been getting up to as you keep her 'updated’ with the barest of details. You get the sense she may not fully realise the extent of the distance between through your writings, as she still writes so animatedly about the goings on in OldTown, even going so far as to ask for a visit. Its your hope you can keep it that way though you are mostly thankful that she seems a tad happier out of the suffocating air of Kingslanding. The thought of a visit sounds wonderful… but with the teetering health of your partners you find it hard to think of stepping away… the shadows that nip at the edges of court being ever fickle.

“Why the long face my love?” You hear the quiet voice of Aemma say “more letters from that infernal sister of yours?”

“Dearest please… but yes, she writes asking for a visit… saying she misses our time togther. The thought of visiting home would be wonderful… if things here didnt threaten to fall apart in my absence. Besides, i couldnt leave either of you to the jaws of that court and council.” You explain wearily. A touch of the hand stirs you from you spiral. Your wife smiles knowingly.

---

“Some letters have arrived your grace.” A messager announces as they hand you several neatly rolled scrolls of parchment. Responses from Alicent, Gwayne and Daeron. All of them hold the typical pleasantries, though your sons letter informs that he shall be returning home for a short time, wishing to see his siblings and mothers. You smile and go about your day, telling all who need to know of his return.

Later in the council chamber you sit in the position to Viserys left, opposite you is Rheanyra. You both eye each other tiredly as the lords try to make subtle attempts to weasel more power for themselves. Just as the meeting is to be concluded, Rheanyra coughs and call herself to attention. “I wish to say something quickly before we conclude”

Viserys grunts and nods tiredly “remain seated everyone.”

Rheanyra clears her throat before looking at you directly. “In light of recent discourse within our family… i would like to apologise for the roles mine played in it. And for the harm that has befallen the wounded parties…” you can see the way she spares a glance down at your arm; where the scar, now beginning to fade slightly, lay hidden beneath the sleeve. “i know no amount of apologies can fix it… but i wish to try and mend the rift between us once and for all. Jacerys will inherit the throne after me, i propose a marriage between him and your daughter Helaena. With it i hope we can finally, firmly unite our two sides for the times ahead.”

You nod and smile. “I think that is a wonderful idea. What say you dear?” You turn to Viserys, he smiles and nods in agreement. He takes your hand and Rheanyra’s as firmly as he can manage.

“A wonderful idea indeed, daughter.” He calls the meeting to an end and some maids help him stagger out of the chamber and back to his rooms. You round the table and subtly place your shawl over Rheanyra’s shoulders. She looks at you in confusion before you whisper quietly in her ear of the issue. She flushes a little but thanks you for the discretion. You both walk the halls arm in arm as you go to the Queen’s chambers for lunch. Where you mention to both that your son Daeron is on his way up for a visit.

---

“Mother you cant be serious!” Aegon gasps. Aemond too looks both shocked and mildly betrayed at the news.

“I am. You father has also approved so there is not going back on it.” You say firmly “from memory aegon i remember you saying 'so long as i dont have to marry her, she is weird’ when i brought up Helaena’s marriage prospects. I didnt realise you held such an interest now”

“I dont” he huffs, arms folded “she IS weird, but as fate would have it she is MY weird sister. And im not particularly fond of the idea of handing her off to Jace” he explains

“I thought you liked him, you were both quite close, with Luce as well. Close enough to tease one another and have fun in the training yard.”

“That was before driftmark” he snarks, eyes dark with rage. The room falls deadly silent.

“Is that because i got hurt? Or because Aemond did?” Aegon makes no move to reply, but you can see the way his fists clench and he fails to meet your eyes. You sigh and motion for both of your sons to come closer.

“I know this might seem like im rewarding them and punishing you. But im not, i promise. I want our family whole, if either of you sat in councils with me and your father you would see plainly how some of these lords try to rangle the reigns from our grasp because of the illness that renders the king; and therefore the crown, weak. Ive done my best to keep everything stable until your sister, the heir i remind you, can take the throne. In order for that to happen this family MUST remain as whole as it can be. I dont like the idea of pushing Helaena into a political marriage, but Jace will take his role seriously and will look after her, this much i know for fact.”

“I still dont like it” aegon pouts, his eyes distant as he stares into the fireplace

“I dont often agree with him mother… but i dont like it either. You have always been wise and made good decisions for the good of others and the realm… but i cant see it in this.” Aemond agrees

You squeeze their hands and stand to match their heights. “I understand you might not like it because you still hold some resentment in you for you eye my love, but Luce faithfully served his punishment to you… and if rumors are to be believed, and not all are, i have heard tell that you may have been a bit cruel to him during that period.” Aemond doesnt meet you eye with his. “They are your nephews. For all their faults and for all of yours, we are family. And when it comes to family we do our best to look out for and support one another. We can agree on this at least right?”

They both nod. You send them off with kisses and tell them that their younger brother will be here soon for a visit. That seems to brighten them a little when they leave your rooms for the night. you try and settle for the night but find the yourself unable to. You leave your chambers to cross the hall, feeling incredibly childish as you slip into Aemma’s chamber. She doesnt stir much as you gently lift the covers, and pull yourself in. Though she does turn over and in her dreamy-sleep filled state moves over to hold your arm. It eases you a tad, but the faint heaviness still sits in your gut as you both eagerly and anxiously wait to see how things unfold.

---

Taglist @your-favorite-god @juliette2

[gorgeous777]

A Flower, Neville Longbottom x Fem. Reader

Maybe this time he'll get it right.

A/N: Another bot turned story (｡-∀-)♪ https://share.character.ai/Wv9R/ie2tqwfj @jasperpasta

Enjoy!

________________________

The Yule ball had been announced not long ago, but it drew closer with every passing day. Everyone was buzzing with excitement, buying formal wear and asking people to be their dates. The hot topic for everyone fourth year through seventh was dates. Who was taking who, who was asking who, ect. It wasn't until after Professor McGonagall's dance lessons did it occure to him that he too needed a date. And fast. Everyone, especially his year mates, were already betting he'd go alone. The first (and only person really) that came to mind was you. He'd been crushing on you for ages now.

But, he'd never had the courage to make a move. He tried a few times before, though it never came off quiet the right. He wasn't the best when it came to any romantic area. With the way you reacted before, he had seriously doubted himself. He had narrowed it down to you either trying to reject him gently or him just being plain too dull. And neither were necessarily the case, still his mind told him otherwise. He promised himself that this would be the time he finally got it right. So after planning and talking himself into it fully, he did just that. His first decision was to make it into a more romantic gesture.

How he was going to manage that he didn't know. In result, he went to Hermione: the only girl he thought to talk to about this. Anxiously, he tracked. Which wasn't a hard feat, seeing as she was in the library like usual. "Hey uhm, Hermione?" He fumbled as he tripped over the chair next to her, attempting to pull it out and sit in it. "Yes Neville?"

"I was wonder if you could help me with something"

"What is it?" He pauses, his tongue slipping between his lips to wet them before he responded. "Well, uhm. I wanted to ask Y/N to be my date to the ball. But I'm not sure how, I want it to be romantic and make it clear it's not in a 'let's go as friends' sort of way, y'know?" Hermione smiled, finally tearing her gaze away from the book she was reading to the boy beside her.

"Oh Neville, that's nice! What did you have in mind"

"See that's the problem, nothing. I was hoping you could help me with the whole romantic bit"

"I see. Well, there's a few ways you could go about it"

"Like what?"

"Would could always just do something simple. Like propose with a flower. A poster, if you want to be grand about it" He thought hard about Hermione's suggestions. The idea of making a poster sounded nice, but he didn't trust his artistic skill for that. A flower sounded perfect though. And it gave him an excuse to go back to the greenhouses. So, he nods. "A flower sounds perfect" With that being said, he bid his friend good by and headed off to the greenhouses. After walking around them all and searching thoroughly, he realized that none of the flowers he found were suitable. They were all either ugly, smelt horrible or were just plain dangerous.

That put him in a difficult position. His next course of action was to go search the grounds until he found one. After several hours of doing so, he managed to find one of those big daisies. It wasn't a rose, but it would have to do. And it was the thought that counts, right? Only things left to do now was give you the flower and ask you out. That was going to be the hardest part, easily. Hours of reaching and wandering later, he managed to find a few of those large wild daisies. He picked out the prettiest one out of the small bunch. Now he just had to ask you out. He felt his stomach drop at the thought. What if you said no? Or what if he messed up and made a fool of himself? A million anxieties washed over him during his walk back to the castle.

When he got back inside he caught you out of the corner of his eye walking down a corridor. He froze. Should he do it now, or should he wait? Maybe he just shouldn't at all. He took a deep breath. He was gonna do it now. If he waited any longer that gave somebody else the chance to ask you to be their date. He did a little jog down the corridor in attempt to catch up with you. "Hey Y/N wait up a moment please!" He called out, stuttering a bit as he did. You stopped walking once you heard Neville's voice. With a smile you turned around to face him. He sighed inwardly, now able to catch up with you a lot easier. The flower was now hidden behind his back, making him look ever more awkward than usual.

"What's up Neville?"

"I was just uhm.." He trailed off momentarily, licking his lips while as his cheeks grew burning hot. His grip on the flower shifted slightly. With a small breath, he managed to hold out the flower to you. He barely managed to lift his gaze from the floor to look at you as he spoke. "I was wondering if you'd be my date to the ball..?" You felt your chest grow impossibly tight and ache. A blush quickly formed across your cheeks that matched his. Excitement erreupted through your veins like a volcano. "Yes!" You exclaimed joyfully, much to his surprise.

"Really?"

"Yes, absolutely! I would love to!" He let out a meek flustered noise as you suddenly jumped up and hugged him, causing him to stumble back a bit. Though, he's not very slow to return your hug with a growing smile. "I'm so glad" His voice came out trembling due to how flustered he was. Nonetheless, he was a very happy camper. After a few long close moments, he gently set you down and took a tiny step back. He fumbles his words a few times trying to say something. Ultimately, he gives up and just holds the flower back out for you with a small 'Here'. "Thank you" His gaze his back on the floor now, and he's rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with a soft nod.

"You're welcome.."

[911coded]

Chapter 8: Take Me Back To The Start

After Sam led Tommy away to sign the massive NDA (Buck pitied his poor, beautiful hands), Dave grabbed Buck’s wrist and began pulling him along.

”I want to show you something,” he insisted.

“I’ve already seen the gate, what more is there to see when every hallway looks exactly the same?” Buck grumbled.

With another turn down another identical hallway, Buck was now well and truly lost, “It’s down here,” Dave said.

Buck was starting to get suspicious, though. In fact, “Wait. Haven’t we…,” Dave had opened a door before he could finish his sentence, swung Buck around, and shoved him through the doorway. Buck stumbled forward and the door slammed shut, audibly locking behind him.

“You too, huh?” Tommy asked behind him.

Buck whirled around in shock to find Tommy sitting at a small table in the center of the room, “Tommy?! W-What is going on?” he asked.

“They told me to wait. The door didn’t lock until just now, so your guess is as good as mine,” Tommy shrugged and tried to look relaxed but Buck knew him well enough to tell that he was concerned about what was going on too.

At this point, Buck lost his temper, he was absolutely done with all of his friends, “Assholes! First, it’s Eddie and Hen playing keep-away with my phone when you’re bubbling me and now Dave and probably Lorne and Sam have decided to lock us in a room together? To do what?! Why am I not allowed to make my own decisions?!” Buck pounded a fist on the locked door, “Dave! You dick, let us out of here!!” When there was, of course, no response, Buck flopped down in an uncomfortable chair with a huff and decided to wait them out, temper simmering, waiting for a target.

“Buck…” Tommy muttered.

Buck jumped to his feet again and moved as far away as he could in the small room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, “No! Fuck you! You don’t get to call me that!” he shouted in frustration.

“It’s your name,” Tommy pointed out.

“Not when you say it. Hearing the nickname I’ve used to hide from my past coming out of your mouth feels like getting stabbed in the gut every time!” Buck clutched a fist and hugged his waist, “You called me Buck on your way out the door and I lost the ability to breath. I just froze, it hurt so bad. Haven’t you hurt me enough?! Hurt us both enough?!”

Tommy looked shocked at his outburst, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I just….”

“What does it matter what you were trying to do when that’s what happened? I said something stupid again, I was too much, and then you bailed, just like everyone else. That’s what happened,” Buck sighed and sat back down, looking and sounding exhausted. “I gave you time ‘cause that’s what I thought you wanted,” Buck muttered. Now Tommy is the one feeling like he was being stabbed in the gut.

“You’ve had time to miss me, to miss us. I was trying to give that to you, to give us the time to think about what we really wanted. Since that night, all I’ve wanted was an adult conversation, not whatever this is,” Buck added, gesturing around the room. He huffed and crossed his arms, turning away to stare at the wall.

The room was silent, Tommy tried to think of what to say but anything he could come up with seemed inadequate and he was afraid nothing could fix this. But Tommy’s nerves were getting to him, and there wasn’t enough floor space to pace, so talking about anything that came to mind it was, “I had a conversation today. With a spaceship.”

Buck perked up and tilted his head in question, “With a spaceship? How does that work?” he leaned forward in his chair, his narrowed gaze intense.

“I have no idea. It knew about us. Both of us….I haven’t had time to freak out about that yet.” Tommy’s voice cracked, and Buck looked at Tommy, really looked at him. The calm facade was starting to break down. Buck took in a sharp breath. “I was also beamed up to another spaceship a-a couple of hours ago? Is that right? It hasn’t even been a day since I found out aliens are real and wormhole travel has been happening for years and I-I’m just…” Tommy faltered, unable to continue. He buried his head in his hands and gripped his hair. 

Buck stood up and rushed over, leaning down and wrapping his arms around Tommy’s head and shoulders, “Shit. Come here. I’m so sorry.” Tommy stiffened in surprise for a moment, then melted into the embrace, burying his face in Buck’s stomach and clutching at the back of his shirt, “This is my fault. I panicked when I found out you left and I knew Dave was involved with shit but I just couldn’t-I couldn’t let you go without trying to follow and now I’ve dragged you in it with me. I’m so sorry, Tommy. Look, I’ll-I’ll talk to them. You haven’t signed anything yet and maybe if I commit to longer they’ll be happy just taking me. You can go back home to LA and the LAFD and pick back up your life. And I’ll leave you alone, I promise. You can be friends with Chim again without me there, being too much, and I’ll go to Atlantis and boss around Dave’s baby minions like he wants and I’ll be fine. I will. I’ll find a new hobby to keep myself from…well I’ll occupy myself somehow and you can just go back to your life and be happy again and mmmph!” Tommy had shoved to his feet, eyes wide and panicked, interrupting Buck with a broad hand over his mouth and an arm around his waist. 

Tommy tilted his head to make eye contact with Buck, “Evan, no, that’s not what I want! Look at me, please. Do you want to go to Atlantis?” Buck’s eyes flicked away, his hands clenched into fists at his side. But, Tommy cradled his face and Buck focused on Tommy as his eyes began to sting with tears, “Evan. Do you want to go to Atlantis with me and learn how to fly ships with our minds?” Tommy took his hand off Buck’s mouth and watched his face, trying to read what he was thinking.

Buck licked his lips, chasing the taste of Tommy’s skin, “With you?” The tears fell and Tommy wiped them away.

“With me,” Tommy replied softly. He looked directly into Evan’s eyes and prayed that what he was seeing in those beautiful, blue eyes was hope.

Buck took a trembling breath, “Honestly, I’d follow you anywhere, if you’d let me. But, yes, I do want to go to Atlantis. I want to do this. I want to help them. I think it could be really good for me.”

Tommy looked at the excitement and hope sparking to life in Buck’s eyes and bobbed his head in a nod, “Yeah, for me too. Let’s go to Atlantis.”

“And we’ll talk? About us?” Buck asked hopefully.

Tommy pulls him into his arms and holds tight, “We’ll talk. I’m not angry with you about what your emails dragged me into. It’s just-it’s been a really long week and we still have more to learn. I’m overwhelmed and struggling to take it all in. And, it’s going to be ok. WE will be ok. I know we need to talk and I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you that night. I’m sorry I just walked out. I-I regretted it right away but….I wasn’t sure that I even deserved to take it back. I still think you could do better than me and the garbage I’ve been dragging around, but I’ve been informed that I’m not allowed to make decisions about what you need and deserve,” he said with a slight smirk.

“Wow. How did that happen?” Buck asked playfully with a soft chuckle.

“An old pilot with similar issues gave me a talking to and, well….when the ship talked to me in Antarctica, they asked if WE would come home. And in that moment, most of my fear just fell away. I just felt….I couldn’t imagine going without you so I knew I was going to have to talk to you, to tell you all the things I avoided talking about before, and to see if we could work out how to move forward,” Tommy said.

There was a muffled thump at the door and Buck could hear Sam ask someone why the door wouldn’t open. They separated and attempted to appear as if they hadn’t been having an emotional moment in a locked room. They had themselves mostly back to normal when an airman shoved the door open with his shoulder and turned to hold it open for Sam with a nod, “Ma’am, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Thank you Sargeant, that will be all. Please notify Stilinski about the difficulty with the door on this room,” Sam instructed.

“Right away, ma’am,” with a salute, which Sam returned, the airman left them alone.

“Any questions before we get Mr. Kinard started on his NDA, gentlemen?”

“I just need a list of supplies I’ll need to bring with me. My bags are packed for Antarctica, I have no idea what I’ll need for a whole other galaxy,” Tommy explained.

Another man entered the room and placed a folder on the table, “Recommended reading for the Pegasus Galaxy, ma’am. Dr. Jackson put it together for new recruits, it includes a suggested packing list,” he stated, nodded at Buck and Tommy, then left again without another word.

“How-” Buck started.

“That’s Walter, he does that. The man refuses to retire. I think he’s afraid if he leaves, the place will fall apart,” Sam explained with a shrug.

“I’ll get you two a couple of tablets loaded with history of the SGC and after action reports of notable missions to add to your homework. Tomorrow, we can get started on medical and physical assessments,” Sam said with a grin.

After an eternity of signing his name to a truly terrifying document, Tommy and Buck were released from the mountain to find a hotel room, Lorne offered to set them up in visitor rooms, but with a glance at Buck, Tommy knew they needed a little more privacy tonight. 

Evan was quiet on the walk to the base vehicle they were issued and opened the passenger door without discussion. “What are you thinking about?” Tommy asked. 

“I started wondering about the gene, whether it was a mistake or an accident, but I don’t think it can be, so that brings up a whole list of questions that I don’t know how to find the answers to,” Buck replied absently.

Tommy frowned, “I don’t understand. How or why would the gene be a mistake or accident?”

The GPS interrupted Buck’s answer as it announced their arrival at their destination.

Buck followed Tommy into the elevator and then down the hall where Tommy stopped to slide a keycard in a door. Tommy led an oblivious Buck into the room with a hand on his arm and Buck plopped down to sit on one of the beds.

“Evan. Evan, could you explain what you mean?”

“I never told you about Daniel, my brother,” Buck said hesitantly.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Tommy whispered.

“I didn’t either until just a few years ago,” Buck took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “My brother Daniel had juvenile leukemia and no one in the family was a match to donate bone marrow. They decided to make one. Me. I was designed to be a match but it didn’t work and Daniel died anyway. I’m wondering now whether the gene that makes alien tech talk to me is there because Daniel had it or if it was an accident in the process. I try not to think about being created in a lab but the idea just hit me when we were walking out and wouldn’t let go. Then I realized that I never told you about him. We didn’t talk about the hard things, I guess.”

“I’m sorry that you lost your brother, but how did you not know about him until a few years ago?” Tommy asked.

“When he died, our parents essentially shut down. They moved us to another town where no one knew them or what they had done and refused to speak about Daniel again. They got rid of all of his things, swore a ten year old Maddie to secrecy, and checked out of their lives. Maddie and I raised ourselves. We were our only family and each other’s only source of affection and love. Maddie didn’t tell me about Daniel at all until she was pregnant with Jee and invited our parents to LA for a visit and even then, it was an accident. I saw a picture of a little boy who looked like me but couldn’t have been me so the whole thing came out,” Buck sighed, exhausted. “I’ll have to ask when we get our physicals if they want to check it out. The thing is, I avoided talking about my parents because Maddie still wants us all to have a relationship with each other. They try but I can’t help but think that they try because Maddie expects them to, not because they want to. I spent my entire childhood trying to get them to love me only to find out as an adult that whether they want to or not, they blame the infant me for not being able to save Daniel. So. That’s my tragic backstory, the source of most of my worst habits and biggest insecurities. Tada!!” Buck attempts a grin and manages a lopsided smile with jazz hands instead, “Your turn before I cry and this gets a million times worse.” Buck gestures at Tommy to pass on the pain dumping.

Tommy huffs a laugh at Buck’s attempt to lighten the mood, “I’m not sure where to start. You know about my father, there isn’t a specific story there….anger issues, homophobia. A man who should have never been a parent at all. I’ve got a handle on most of that, but he isn’t why I ran.”

“Could you tell me what I said to….trigger you, I guess? I know I got ahead of myself with the moving in thing but looking back, you kind of shut down at some point while I was talking?” Buck tentatively asked.

Tommy nodded and tried to feel out the words as he said them, “First, I want to say that I honestly don’t think that you being bisexual had anything to do with it, despite what it sounded like when I started throwing words at you about you figuring yourself out. I heard you ask me to move in with you and then it felt like I blacked out and was already outside trying to get home before I fell apart. I know I hurt you and I can never say sorry enough. I regret it every day.” Tommy fidgeted, restless with twitching fingers, “Okay. Um. Years ago, after Abby, when I was first out, I met Jason. He was kind and funny, and he treated me like a partner, like I was worth more than what I could do for him,” he started slowly. “I learned how I want to be loved in a romantic relationship, and for that alone, I can’t regret meeting him even if it ended badly. It was really good while it lasted. Jason had a best friend, Ryan, who he had known since college. Ryan was dating Lisa, had been for several years when I met them, and we often went on double dates together. It was fun, we all got along and when Jason and I had been dating for about a year, the two of us started talking about moving in together.”

“Oh,” Buck breathed.

“Yeah. I didn’t-I didn’t see it coming. We had been floating around the idea of marriage, just to see if we were on the same page and looking for an apartment when Lisa and Ryan had a messy breakup. Public, in front of all their friends, messy. I didn’t think anything of it when Jason talked about how hard Lisa was taking the split. Hindsight,” he shrugged. “A few weeks later, Jason ended things abruptly, with reasons that didn’t make any sense and I was left floundering. Now, Lisa is coming around to comfort me and I’m reeling and devastated, a complete mess of a person for weeks. Turns out, Jason had been carrying a torch for Lisa since he met her when Ryan introduced his new girlfriend all those years ago,” Tommy continues.

“They break up and Jason sees an opportunity to go for it,” Buck added.

“Yep. He never mentioned that he was bisexual. Not that it mattered, Lisa or Luke, he still dumped me while we were in the middle of making a commitment to each other. I was barely out the door before he was telling all his friends that he was in love with Lisa. I kind of went off the deep end a bit,” Tommy confessed.

“What did you do?” Buck asked.

“I fucked Ryan, his best friend,” Bucks snorts a laugh and grins in Tommy’s direction as he continues. “I ran into him at a bar, we were both feeling sorry for ourselves and drinking too much. I kissed him then took him back to my place and fucked him silly. The next morning, he thanked me and left, I never saw him again,” Tommy paused, shaking his head. “I made an appointment with a therapist two days later. I honestly thought I had worked through all of it in therapy, but you mentioned moving in and you’re right, I shut down. And then instead of talking, I ran. My mind was running circles around itself. I was sure that there was no way you could want me. I felt like you saw the version of me that I project to the world, not the me that I am, the mess that I am,” Tommy explained. 

“Tommy, I see you. Of course, I see you. I knew you were a mess. It takes one to know one. The Tommy that you project, that calm, cool Tommy? He can be fun and he’s certainly sexy and competent, but he wouldn’t indulge me when I want to dress up and hold a funeral for a 200-hundred-year-old corpse. He wouldn’t make me feel so safe that I could be my entire bratty self without fear of being too much. My Tommy is bitchy and sarcastic. He tells terrible jokes, likes monster truck rallies, never passes up a slice of cake, and cries at movies. That’s the Tommy I want, that’s the one…the one I fell in love with.”

Tags ❤️💕: @eliotwaughdeservesbetter @anangrylittlehobbit @grimmsdead @fiyaerrigan

[spiraledfaun]

okay so i know this is a lighthearted post, but i really do think this is the core of it

we fantasize about having our control, our autonomy, our ability to make decisions taken away from us, and the reasons for this largely fall into two categories:

-we feel as though we have NO control in our daily lives and fantasize about it being enjoyable or hot to have no control

or

-we feel as though we have TOO MUCH control (or are required to act as though we do) in our daily lives and fantasize about it being taken away from us in a manner that is enjoyable or hot

Even if you are into cnc or fantasy non-con (as I am), there is still a line that kinksters like us have: Real-World Oppression is not hot. Real-World Oppression and Bigotry comes with nothing fun or redeeming about it at all, whereas Fantasy Loss of Control, even Fantasy Oppression and Bigotry can be constrained by the container of "Well if I don't want it to happen, it's not going to".

Take acting, for example.

I have been yelled at onstage, I have been hit onstage, I have played characters who did evil things, and had evil things done to them, I have died, I have killed, I have been bully and the bullied. And every time, I get offstage, and I'm exhilarated by the fantasy I had a part in spinning for the audience. Even if the mood in the room is somber and solemn, I feel accomplished in having played my role well, so that the message of the show is clear for the audience.

But the second I go out into the real world, away from playing pretend, away from scenarios I've crafted together with people I trust, and I'm involved in or witness to real-world loss of control? It feels awful. It is not fun, no one asked for this to happen to them, and there is not a single feeling of enrichment on the part of those whose control has been taken away.

This is the difference. You, the individual kinkster, decide (or realize, teehee :3c) that you're not a person, and so you give up those aspects of control to someone for a pre-determined amount of time. But we all know that never being given the right to determine or decide that from the outset is an important issue.

We fight for autonomy and liberation, because the ability to make the decision to give up control is something we recognize as essential. And no one should ever actually be denied that right.

There's almost nothing I love more than blogs that share the most fucked up, perverted stuff, and then scrolling a little further down I also see their pro-trans, BLM, anti-fascist posts.

Does it cause a little cognitive dissonance when I'm touching myself while scrolling through their blog? Sure. Would I have it any other way? Absolutely not.

[blue-eli]

Ink October day 3: Sophistry

An argument that seems plausible, but is fallacious or misleading, especially one devised deliberately to be so.

[zoennes]

30 NOVEMBER, 2019 • ZATERDAG, 09:41

[nyan-bynary]

I'm gonna have to wait out a few weeks to be able to complain about jjk's ending bc rn half the ppl are bashing everyone who expected more as ppl who just wanted gojo back

[wonder-worker]

Any judgement on [Richard III's] reign has to be seen as provisional. The critic of the reign only has to consider how the Tudors would now be regarded if Henry VII lost at Stoke, to realize the dangers of too many assumptions about the intractability of Richard’s problems. But it would be equally unrealistic to ignore Richard’s unpopularity altogether. The fact that he generated opposition among men with little material reason for dissent, and that the disaffection then continued to spread among his own associates, says something about what contemporaries regarded as the acceptable parameters of political behaviour. There is no doubt that Richard’s deposition of his nephews was profoundly shocking. To anyone who did not accept the pre-contract story, which was probably the majority of observers, the usurpation was an act of disloyalty. Gloucester, both as uncle and protector, was bound to uphold his nephew’s interests and his failure to do so was dishonourable. Of all medieval depositions, it was the only one which, with whatever justification, could most easily be seen as an act of naked self-aggrandizement.

It was also the first pre-emptive deposition in English history. This raised enormous problems. Deposition was always a last resort, even when it could be justified by the manifest failings of a corrupt or ineffective regime. How could one sanction its use as a first resort, to remove a king who had not only not done [nothing] wrong but had not yet done anything at all?

-Rosemary Horrox, Richard III: A Study of Service

[kitkatcadillac]

i have this situation where i love talking about the queer experience particularly in the gender way, as nebulously as possible, when it comes to some sort of broader view or Other People's Experiences making Sense to me

but when i try to kind of face my own gender and thoughts i get like. scared and embarrassed to just Say It, i always have. the they/them out for may/hem jokes are one thing, but talking about my own raw and varied experience of not fitting into the binary, no matter how much i completely respect, support, and cheer on others experiences with it, its so... embarrassing. i cant face my own body a lot of the time. i hardly want anything to do with any gender most of the time, but the rest of the world operates with it really quite forthwith, and like. you can only ignore it so hard, where you fit in, or where you DON'T. where you never hardly ever see anyone else feel quite the way you do, so you feel like you're fake and invalid or doing transgender wrong 😭 (everyone else is fine and right and in charge of their life courageously though)

constantly in a push and pull of relaxing and letting myself find and affirm my identity as i best can with where im at physically, mentally, but also feeling very isolated and even shut down or shunned. the world feels like a box that gets smaller while i feel like the box shouldnt even exist at all sometimes, like it isnt that hard to just keep open and treat it like its just as plain a fact as the grass is green the sky is blue instead of something to pick apart or criticize...

im queer but im queer wrong sometimes, socially. and since im queer wrong sometimes socially, my lived-experience being queer isnt really valid due to being contrarian and so i shouldnt have much to say or have any valid reflections of the experiences around me!!! <-(feelings not reality, but important feelings to be worked through and understood and soothed, which can be difficult when relating or socializing comes with a difficulty increaser!!!!)

[termagax]

like ronnies wuest is ALSO really really good but you basically get to say to her everything i wanted to say. about it not being her fault and about how much i love her and want her to be free and live her own life and not tie herself to a sinking ship forever. girl i love you sometimes your family is determined to wallow in the mud but YOU dont have to. but like you get to tell her that straight up. the combo of not getting to say everything i want to say + arcade LEAVING ME FOREVER. SOMETHING I DID NOT KNOW WOULD HAPPEN. just leaves me with this big aching arcade gannon shaped hole in my heart that will never be filled by anything else as long as i am on this earth. i get to go back to my apartment every night and go HONEY IM HOME and kiss veronica on the mouth. i wont see arcade again for months and months and months of in game time. and i miss him dearly.