#i just seen a listing where ALL of the images of the inside of a house were AI generated

[dunmertwink]

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[twstedfreak]

The Disappearance of Y/N L/N | PRELUDE - 00

Pairings: Various! JJK x Reader (Sukuna, Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Naoya, Toji)

Synopsis: Y/N L/N has vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a trail of confusion and unanswered questions. Sukuna, Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Naoya, and Toji are all pulled into the investigation, each one a suspect. They all believe Y/N is still out there, but none of them know what really happened. Their fragmented memories and conflicting stories of their last encounters with Y/N only deepen the mystery. As Detective Higuruma digs deeper into their pasts, he uncovers dark secrets and hidden motives, but the truth remains just out of reach.

Genre: Dark Romance(?), Mystery, Thriller, Psychological

Warnings: Mature Themes, Mentions of Death, Violence, Abandonment, Graphic Descriptions (crime scene), Trauma, Psychological Distress, Unreliable Narrator

A/N: Hey, it's been a while, but I’m back! Here’s the start of The Disappearance of Y/N L/N. If you like stories where a character lingers in the background and haunts the narrative (you know, that character), then you’re in the right place. This one's got a little mystery, a little kick, a little suspense, and a whole lot of unanswered questions. Hope you enjoy the ride! and as always, thanks for reading! I really appreciate the follow, reblogs, and likes so w/o further adeu,, let's all begin :3

teaser | masterlist | drabbles | headcanon | playlist

—Some people vanish quietly. She didn’t.

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. The city pulsed under a curtain of gray, neon signs bleeding color through the wet streets. Inside the station, Detective Hiromi Higuruma stood before a case file that hadn’t been touched in weeks—until now.

Y/N L/N.

Age: 25.

Status: Missing.

Presumed deceased.

No body. No note. No witnesses. Just absence.

The kind that wraps itself around you like smoke—clinging, stinging, impossible to ignore.

He flipped open the folder, slow and careful. Her photo was clipped to the front page, eyes too alive for a still image, lips curled slightly like she was about to laugh—or lie. It unsettled him. Most victims’ photos looked hollow, frozen in the past. Hers seemed to look back.

She had disappeared six months ago. No signs of struggle. No sign she ever planned to leave. Just a single call to emergency dispatch—never traced—then silence.

There was no family listed. No one had come forward when she vanished. No concerned boyfriend, no best friend sobbing into the receiver. Only one person had even noticed she was gone.

An elderly woman from the neighboring apartment.

Hiromi’s jaw clenched as he read over her initial statement again, scribbled in loose, looping handwriting with parts underlined and circled.

"She waters her plants every morning. Always the same time. I could hear her singing to them sometimes. But then… she just stopped." "The cat started meowing more. Crying at the door. I saw it getting thinner. Day by day. I knew something was wrong when the leaves by her doorway started to brown. She never let them wither." "I called the tenant. Told him something was wrong. We went in." "Her apartment—it looked like someone had been living there and then just left. Just… left. Plates were still on the table. Food rotting. Worms in it. The sink had dirty water. Like she got up in the middle of lunch and never came back. The cat was still inside. Barely alive." "Please find her. That sweet girl. Where could she have gone to..."

Hiromi imagined the scene. The stench. The silence. The way abandonment settles into a room like mildew. Her cat, bones beneath its fur, curling into itself, waiting.

And the apartment, it told a story, even if no one else would. No signs of forced entry. No indication of a struggle. Nothing stolen. No signs of packing. It was as if she’d simply evaporated into the walls.

That’s what got to him.

He’d seen crime scenes drenched in violence. But this? This was worse. This was absence. An unnatural quiet. Like she had been erased.

Hiromi leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. The city outside blurred through the glass—neon signs bleeding red and electric blue onto slick pavement. Tokyo was wide awake, uncaring. But inside this file, inside this room, was something unfinished. Something rotting.

The more he read, the less he understood.

Until he found the envelope.

Tucked at the back of the file was a thin, unmarked envelope. It hadn’t come with the report. There was no label, no sender. Just one handwritten note on the outside.

“Reopen. Start with them.”

Tucked inside the folder were names. Six of them.

He read them once. Then again.

Ryomen Sukuna

Satoru Gojo

Suguru Geto

Kento Nanami

Toji Fushiguro

Naoya Zen’in

No prior connection between them, not on paper. No overlapping records. No reason to suspect them, yet here they were, listed under Persons of Interest. Not suspects. Not witnesses. Just men with suspicions.

Y/N.

What stood out wasn’t their reputations— all though some were notorious in their own right, it was how different they were. Different lives, different worlds. And yet, somehow, all tangled up in hers.

The deeper Hiromi read, the stranger it got. No official record of romantic ties. No clear motive. But there were letters. Notes. Photos. Snapshots of a woman who meant something different to each of them. A chameleon. A muse. A mistake. A memory.

It was like piecing together a puzzle where every piece belonged to a different picture.

Still… No one had reported her missing.

Not one of them.

That bothered him the most.

He sat back in his chair, the storm outside echoing his thoughts. Any time now, he’d begin the interviews. But for now, all he had were names and questions and the heavy knowledge that someone wasn’t telling true.

Was Y/N dead?

Perhaps, she is alive.. somewhere

Was she hiding?

And if she was hiding... from who?

But what terrified Hiromi wasn’t what they would say. It was what they wouldn’t.

Two months have passed.

A girl with no trace. An apartment like a tomb. A cat barely breathing, clinging to hope in the only way it knew how.

And now, six men. Each one who might have a story.

But only one of them, Hiromi was certain, would know the truth.

And the truth? It would not come easy.

This wasn’t just a missing person case.

He was intrigued.

Maybe, this was something else.

Maybe something cold.

Maybe something violent.

Maybe something personal.

. . . . Who knows?

“Someone needs to be looking for this girl.”

The next morning came with no sun. Just a dull, smothered sky pressing down on the city like a weight. Hiromi walked into the precinct with the file under his arm and the envelope of names secured inside. The halls were half-awake, the scent of burnt coffee and cold sweat lingering like ghosts from the night shift.

He didn’t wait to be called in. He headed straight for the chief's office.

Detective Masuda barely looked up from his desk when Hiromi entered. He was an old dog, worn thin by decades of rot in the system, and even thinner on patience. His tie was crooked. His shirt wrinkled. But his eyes, sharp as broken glass lifted the moment he saw the folder in Hiromi's hand.

"You're early," Masuda muttered, leaning back.

"I'm taking the L/N case," Hiromi said, setting the folder on the desk with a dull thud. "Nearly two months missing. No family, no formal report, but a witness. We’ve got signs of abandonment, starvation, possible neglect, and names. Some big ones."

Masuda raised an eyebrow. "You're wasting your time on a cold ghost story?"

Hiromi’s tone didn’t waver. "It's not cold. It’s buried. There's a difference."

Then, Hiromi reached into the file—past the grainy photographs, past the neighbor’s written testimony, past the preliminary notes from the patrol officer who first stepped into that hollowed-out apartment.

He pulled out a plain, creased envelope.

Unmarked. No return address. No police seal. Just a thin fold of paper that felt heavier than the rest of the file.

He slid it across Masuda’s desk with two fingers, slow and deliberate.

"Look at this," Hiromi said, his voice low, unreadable. “Someone wanted this case reopened.”

Masuda raised an eyebrow, then opened it.

Inside were six names, printed on a small sheet of paper like they’d been clipped from some confidential database. Clean type. No context. No explanation. But they hit like a punch.

Ryomen Sukuna.

Satoru Gojo.

Suguru Geto.

Kento Nanami.

Toji Fushiguro.

Naoya Zen’in.

Masuda’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you proposing?”

Hiromi straightened. “I’m requesting search warrants. For her apartment. For their personal records. Surveillance near her building from the last 90 days. We reopen this case���formally.”

There was a pause. The silence between two men who had seen enough in their lives to recognize when something felt off.

“You’re going to stir up a hornet’s nest,” Masuda warned. “These men. Some of them have influence. Money. Ties to people who don’t like being watched.”

“I don’t care,” Hiromi said. “There’s a girl no one’s looking for. And the longer she stays missing, the colder she gets.”

Masuda looked at Hiromi and frowned as he reached for the file. 

He frowned.

“I know some of these names,” he muttered. “Whispers. Trouble. One of them’s a consultant for a private security firm, isn’t he? Another was tied to that Shibuya case, but never charged.”

Hiromi nodded slowly. “They all move in different circles. None of them clean. None of them ever in the same room at the same time. But somehow , it seems like they’re all connected to her.”

“And you’re saying this girl… Y/N…?”

“She’s the thread,” Hiromi replied. “I think she somehow ran through each of their lives like clockwork. One by one. I don’t know what she meant to them, or what they meant to her. But she’s gone. And they’re all still here.”

He leaned forward now, tone darker. “But not one of them filed a report. Not one of them called to check in. Not one of them even pretended to be concerned.”

Masuda exhaled slowly, tension creasing his brow. He looked down at the names again, like they might rearrange themselves into something less dangerous. But they didn’t.

Hiromi’s voice dropped to a near-whisper.

Hiromi didn’t stop with just the names.

He reached into the envelope again, this time pulling out a series of photographs—old, slightly worn, printed on glossy paper like someone had developed them by hand. Not police-issue. Not digital. Personal.

He laid them out on Masuda’s desk, one by one, like cards in a tarot reading.

The room seemed to quiet with each photo placed down. You could nearly hear a pin drop.

First Photo:

It wasn’t a posed photo. It looked like it wasn’t meant to be taken at all.

The grain of the image suggested it came from an old CCTV still or maybe a camera phone shot from behind tinted glass. Y/N was sitting on the floor of what looked like a stairwell—somewhere dim and industrial, like the back exit of a club. Her knees were tucked to her chest, cheek resting on them, hair messy, mascara smeared like she’d been crying.

Sukuna Ryomen was standing a few feet away, partially turned, as if caught mid-motion. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, but he wasn’t looking at her—he was looking at whoever took the picture.

His stare was dead-on. Unblinking.

Unmistakably a threat.

The only thing more chilling than the fury in his eyes was the stillness in hers. Not scared. Not begging. Just… resigned.

It wasn’t a couple caught in a sweet moment.

It looked like the last quiet moment before something terrible happened.

Second Photo:

It wasn’t the typical carefree shot. At first glance, it seemed playful enough—Y/N and Satoru Gojo laughing at something only he could’ve said, her mouth open in a wide grin, eyes squinting from the brightness of the neon lights reflecting off her face. Gojo’s trademark shades were pushed up to the top of his head, his grin wide, almost too wide.

But there was something off.

Y/N was leaning back, hands bracing against a wall as if she was about to pull away—but Gojo’s hand was still on her wrist, fingers curled around it tightly, a little too tightly. The carefree nature of the moment felt staged, the way he kept her just close enough to hold on—and the look in her eyes was no longer one of amusement. There was a flicker of unease, a momentary hesitation before her smile flickered and she tilted her head, like she was waiting for something.

Third Photo:

This wasn’t a photo that seemed like it belonged in a keepsake album. It looked like a stolen moment—an uncomfortable one. Y/N and Suguru Geto were in a photo booth, yes, but there was no fun, no laughter. The graininess of the image made it almost feel like it had been taken from some hidden corner.

In the first frame, Y/N was giving a peace sign, but her smile was strained, too tight. Her eyes weren’t on the camera, they were glancing sideways at Geto, as if she had just said something, but his reaction didn’t match her expression. 

It seems like his hand was resting on her knee in the second frame, and while she looked down at it with an almost imperceptible frown, his fingers were draped too casually. The tension between them was palpable, even in black and white.

In the third frame, she leaned in closer, but instead of the intimacy one might expect, her shoulders were stiff, her body angled away from him. Geto, on the other hand, stared straight into the camera with an unnerving, cold intensity, his eyes unwavering. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even pretending to.

In the final frame, her peace sign had dropped. Her face was half-turned, lips parted as if she was about to say something, but the silence in the booth felt suffocating. Geto’s gaze, though, never wavered—sharp, calculating, as though he was looking right through her.

This wasn’t a photo of affection.

Fourth Photo:

This was not a moment anyone would expect from Kento Nanami. The photo showed him and Y/N in what seemed like an ordinary moment at a cozy, well-lit café—her hands wrapped around a coffee cup, his resting on the table beside her. They were sitting close, but something about the image made it feel wrong.

Y/N’s expression wasn’t one of comfort; it was a mixture of betrayal and shock. Her lips were slightly parted, but she wasn’t speaking. Her eyes were focused on something—no, someone—behind the camera, and the tension was palpable. Nanami’s face was unreadable, but his eyes, usually calm and steady, had a flicker of something unsettling—guilt? Regret? His hand, which was placed casually on the table, was pressed against hers in a manner that, on the surface, seemed simple. But looking closer, you could see the slight tremble in his fingers, like he was holding back something. His eyes never met hers, not in the way they should have. Instead, he was staring down at the table, at the spot where their hands touched.

What was truly shocking, though, was the small, crumpled letter partially visible under the coffee cup, its edges bent from being squeezed too tightly. It was addressed to Y/N. But there was no smile, no warmth in her expression. Instead, there was a quiet, unspoken question hanging between them.

Had he written the letter? Had he given it to her? And why was it so clear from the photo that she was already done, even if she hadn’t said a word?It wasn’t a moment of love or affection. It was a moment frozen between a decision and a realization, the weight of something left unsaid hanging heavily between them.

Fifth Photo:

The photo was nothing like anyone would expect from Toji Fushiguro. He was known for his cold demeanor, but this shot caught him at his most vulnerable—at least, in a way no one would have anticipated. Y/N and Toji were locked in a heated kiss, but it wasn’t romantic—it was almost primal. His hand was tangled in her hair, gripping it with a force that made her head tilt back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. There was no gentle approach here. No slow build. It was pure, raw need.

Y/N, completely caught up in the moment, looked a mess. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair was tangled and falling wildly around her face, and her eyes—when they weren’t squeezed shut—held a dazed and frenzied look, as if she couldn’t even fully comprehend what was happening. In one hand, she carelessly held a cigarette, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling, forgotten and almost abandoned, as if it didn’t matter in this moment. Her other hand was gripping the back of Toji’s neck, nails digging into his skin, as if she were holding on for dear life.

The intensity between them was palpable, raw—there was no tenderness, no softness in the way their bodies collided. Toji’s chest was pressed against hers, his grip firm, almost possessive, and Y/N was lost in it, her body leaning toward him, caught in the urgency of the kiss. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t graceful. It was reckless.

The background was barely visible, a dark, dimly lit room, adding to the feeling that this was a fleeting, chaotic moment—one that wasn’t supposed to be captured, yet it was. It felt like something that should have been erased, but instead, it was frozen forever. The cigarette, the way her body was slanted against his, the way he held her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded—it wasn’t just a kiss. It was fire and danger, a reckless dance that neither could stop once it had begun.

Sixth Photo:

The image was caught mid-motion grainy, distant, probably taken by someone on the street. Y/N was stepping out of a sleek black car, one heel already on the curb, the other still inside. She looked furious. Her lipstick was smudged like she’d bitten her lip too hard. Her hand was raised in a sharp motion mid-gesture. They seem to be in a mid-argument. Naoya Zenin was still in the driver’s seat, leaned over, clearly shouting something back at her through the open door. His jaw was clenched, face twisted in frustration.

You couldn’t hear the words, but the body language said enough. She was done. He wasn’t.

No smiles. No poised elegance. Just raw emotion between two people unraveling in real time.

It was the only photo where she looked like she wanted to leave

—and the only one where someone was trying to stop her.

Masuda stared at the spread of a mess on the table.

Six men.

Six moments.

Six different versions of Y/N.

“She’s a ghost stitched into all of them,” Hiromi said, voice low. “A different girl in every photo. The question is, who was she really? And why did she vanish without a trace?”

Masuda looked back up at him, face unreadable.

Hiromi tapped the photos one more time.

“Someone slipped this into the file, chief. No initials. No trace. Just the names and these photos. That’s not random. That’s someone telling us where to start.”

He let that sit for a moment.

And then, like a hammer to glass, he added, “I think we’re not looking at a disappearance. I think we’re looking at something worse. And someone out there, someone who knew her. Wants us to dig.”

Masuda didn’t answer right away.

But Hiromi could tell by the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the envelope.

The case is open now. Whether the department liked it or not.

Ꮺ ⋮ TAGLIST OPEN ! comment to be added to the official list of this series (in the making) —

@ratedrrrr @barbare2 @artist1936 @tojis-ball-sack @mangiswig @levimaids @poopooindamouf @ukhtlindi @gremlinartstudio @stardustquills @kingshitonly @levifiance @sakanelli-afc @theanaoevre @yu-uwu @personally4runa @indiewritesxoxo @sunahsvt @sakanelli-afc @ivy-vivii @gojoslovelylover @sukunaslilsocks @amberbrevily @eolivy @miniv1x3n @grignardsreagent @noooo-onee @penguinotapioca @ladytamayolover @getomeatrider01 @lucilles-witchery @van9lla

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[occamstfs]

No Need to Apply

Here is my 1K special! Though admittedly it is nothing much out of the ordinary- Thanks to everyone who submitted prompts but especially the anonymous suggestion that spurred this transformation of a desperate twink into a cocky slob! -Occam

Brock really needed a lucky break. He had been staying with his ex since they ended it, but now that he’s sleeping with someone it’s clear that Brock needs to get his own place. Unfortunately the market is not being quite so accommodating to his urgent needs. Given that he is now to be living alone it’s evident he also needs the place on the cheap. He had been denied all reasonable accommodations that he could afford and was beginning to contemplate moving back in with his parents when he suddenly received an email from an apparent realtor he’d never met.

It was an invitation to an open house at some ritzy downtown apartment that he was sure was out of his price range. Rather than just tossing it to his spam folder though, he finds himself looking at the handful of images with a voracity, whether it’s simple curiosity or a fantasy to have such clearly luxurious housing Brock reads through the whole listing. Reaching the end of the invitation and looking at the specs he finds the rent impossibly labeled as just under half his monthly paycheck.

Nearly spitting up coffee all over himself in shock, Brock’s eyes flutter to find exactly when and where this open house was. Surely the demand for this place would box him out but god wouldn’t it be nice to just check it out and dream. He sends an RSVP and far too quickly the realtor, Lucas, thanks him for his prompt response, wishes him well, and signs off saying see you soon. Brock went about the rest of his day as normal, if not a little cheerier than he’s been for some time as he keeps finding his mind drift to that almost-too-perfect apartment’s view over the city.

Fortunately off from work the next day, Brock took the bus to the open house, stopping by his favorite cafe that just so happens to be nearby. He grabs a drink and finds himself preoccupied with thoughts of what a convenience, what a windfall, this break would be. He heads inside and takes the elevator up to the suite and hesitates before entering at the door. Odd that there is no one else here, he double checks the room and floor and puts his ear to the door to see if perhaps other visitors are inside already.

In his untrained attempt to eavesdrop he puts his weight squarely against the door, pushing it open and stumbling in, nearly spilling his coffee over the pristine floors as he crosses the threshold into the apartment. Light streams in through the blinds, only magnifying the manicured state of the spotless room around him. The floor is clean enough to see his reflection, mouth agape, staring at how impossibly clean the apartment is. The only record at all that the place had ever been lived in is the furniture that had clearly been procured by someone of great means, though one lacking any critical eye or desire for design. He sees framed posters of some real red flag movies near a large TV and some sports trophies lined on a shelf. Brock can’t help but wonder what could cause someone to leave such personal artifacts behind and feels a chill in the air. 

He wanders away from the entrance to stand at the large windows, his phone ringing as he takes in the view of his town. Answering without checking the ID he hears a man’s voice he doesn’t recognize. Though he knows this must be the mystery realtor on the line, “How do you like the place Brock?” he begins to reply before being cut off by Lucas, “Have you seen the view yet, it’s quite something else.” 

Brock feels something flicker through his mind as he gazes at the city blocks around him, below him. His eyes briefly catch on his reflection in the glass, though not long enough to see his eyelids droop slightly as he is able to reply, a tad slower than he usually likes to project, “uhh, yeah I know right, how could I not apply to live here? It’s almost too good to be true right?” There is another chill in the air and his body shivers before tensing up, shocking him back to reality and awareness to something strange afoot, “Excuse me actually, I’m so sorry, how did you get my phone number?”

Lucas clicks his tongue and speaks with an almost sickly sweet tone, “Now Brock come now, what can I do to get you to move in today?” Shaking his head in shock Brock is immediately, regardless of the clear sinister air to this man, he really cannot afford to pass up this chance. He clams up as he clambors to express interest, “No I uh! Of course I want the place, just send the lease over so I can read through it.” There is a real weight to Lucas’ words as Brock hears them, the cloying tone impressing itself on his mind, “Wonderful! That is all I needed to hear!”

It is suddenly dark in the apartment, but wasn’t he looking out the window? He can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed but he cannot see. Brock tries to move his head around to see, to feel anything, he strains his mind reaching for any muscle to flex, any tendon to pull, limbs to controt. He loses track of time and reality as he sits in the darkness, trying to grasp anything beyond his own consciousness, unable to affect anything. He feels his right hand move in a familiar way then he feels a warmth, almost a burning, completely engulfs it. He can almost see the shine of a smile, stark perfectly lined teeth that seem eerily inhuman and suddenly there is once more light. He gasps, coughs, and spits up over himself. Immediately grateful that he can feel anything at all. After feeling his body, and seeing the world almost entirely like it was before he lost consciousness, besides a copy of some contract with his name signed at the bottom.

He takes deep breaths feeling his lungs stretch and he starts to read whatever he has gotten himself into in that stupor. He reads the first few lines before he loses where he was on the page. Going again he finds his eyes suddenly dry, doing an uncharacteristically heavy blink that he can’t quite recall ever doing before and as he wonders this he again forgets his work on the contract. He slams his hand on the thigh in a rare show of aggression and gives it one last go. Brock makes even less progress this time as he is almost immediately overcome by a headache. As soon as he looks away from the sheet though, it disappears. 

Brock groans as he feels himself starting to lose control of his senses before he hears his stomach grumble, and he finds a purpose he can immediately resolve. He starts to the fridge, clearly something has happened, an episode or something, he can figure it out later, he just needs food in his stomach now. He doesn’t stop to realize that there should be no food in the fridge since no one’s been living there. Though he finds there is no need as in the fridge, under a note labeled: “To Help Moving In -Lucas,” Brock sees at least a week of prepped meals. The thought that this is bizarre beyond imagination, as well as the concern at his missing time, is immediately pushed from his mind as his stomach rumbles once more, his mouth watering as he sees his soon-to-be dinner.

Brock swiftly heats it up and begins to scarf it down, throwing something on the paying no mind or care to the thought that he’s using the account of whomever the previous tenant was. He quickly scans through seeing a handful of shows and movies that he wasn’t quite interested in before stumbling on a reality show he was watching with his Ex. He grimaces and almost loses his appetite as he thinks about his boyfriend for the first time in what feels like forever. He sets his meal down on the coffee table and crashes down onto the couch. He continues to stew in ire at his ex, palming his crotch as his feelings become more passionate. He rolls his eyes in irritation at himself and that jerk, he’s not going to masturbate to that asshole. 

He reclines in the couch and hears the sound of paper shifting in the cushions, pulling it out he finds a crusted magazine lodged in the couch. What can he do besides shout “what the fuck” and toss it across the room. How could they have possibly missed that in their cleaning? Brock’s eyes shift across the room suspiciously, though he notices nothing amiss as the room is illuminated by only the television. He looks at his hand that grabbed the porn and blushes, wanting to joke about the absurdity to calm himself down. Though his body makes its priorities known once more as his cock pulses and he looks past to see the magazine once more. He did want to masturbate to anyone besides his ex right? 

He shuffles to pick it up, the discomfort and anxiety from handling something covered in a total strangers cum only heightens his pleasure as he sits back down. He grimaces as he sees this is a real hetero-bullshit magazine, he quickly flips through to find something he can work with. His cock keeps demanding his attention as he flips through, almost impatiently pulsing as if to suggest he doesn’t need the magazine at all, just give it your attention. Though soon enough he finds an ad for some protein powder made to emasculate the reader into buying, that almost immediately helps him lose control. 

Soon after he once more fades from consciousness, his cum joining the plethora of other stains in the magazine as he tosses it behind the couch. He finds himself in a darkness that this time feels almost familiar and pleasurable. He once more feels his hand, this time though it is wet and warm. He feels it scratching in briefs that are too tight, through pubes that are too thick. He hears snoring breaking through the silence of his sleep, but that can’t be right? He would know if he snores, surely that fucker of a boyfriend would have complained. He feels his head grow warm as if he’s got a fever, though he knows it is a rage. He feels his hand feel even tighter in his briefs as his cock begins to grow in them. He continues to think of every slight his ex made, every shortcoming he was made needlessly aware of, and of how much better things are going to be now.

The heat shifts from his mind through his whole body and as light begins to break through the windows. That is not what wakes him up though, rather it is the heavy scent coming from his now sweat stained clothes. He rolls off the couch onto his face, quickly removing his hand from his briefs to catch himself, landing the stinking hand too close to his face to not smell just how loud his underwear smells. He feels his clothes sit weird on his body as he starts to rise, while his shirt just feels like it’s hanging weird, surely from the sweat, it is impossible to not see how strained his underwear is. He groans as he feels them pull strangely before he just discards them and makes his way to the bathroom. 

His eyes immediately latch onto his now exposed crotch, he does a double take as he notices that it seems distinctly larger. He also would have sworn that he shaved his pubes far more recently than it seems. He scratches through them, blushing as he sees dried cum flake off curls that are longer and thicker than he ever remembers them begin. Rather than hoping in the shower like any reasonable person would do he instead tosses on some boxers, not questioning why clothing that isn’t his would just be lying out, or why he would ever put them on. Instead choosing to focus on how right wearing them feels. He pulls them tight and turns wanting to see just how his ass and bulge fill them out, though is waylaid as his shirt blocks the view. 

He sneers as he takes off the sweat-stained shirt and tosses it to the floor, stretching high as his reeking body feels the air on his skin. He smiles in shock as he sees the body he has now exposed, he sees hair spreading across his stomach and torso and sweat dripping off of pits that were sure to stain every shirt he is to wear from now on. Beyond that he feels a body that is indisputably powerful, where there wasn’t even fat on his body before there was now muscle accompanied with weight in all the right places. His eyes then trail down to see the weightiest part of him by far as it bulges even lower in his boxers.

He feels an urge to move, to flex, to stretch, fill him as he hungrily takes in every new change in his body. His eyes trace their way past muscles contorting to land on his face, seeing a jaw that could certainly do with a shave. He sees his eager grin begin to turn into a cocky sneer as he begins to stretch once more, trying to will his torso even longer, trying to force his body even taller. His voice grows even deeper to his barely-aware ears as he closes his eyes to stretch, not seeing his throat force itself thicker and longer. There is once again a flicker in his mind as Brock is in darkness once more. Where there was once discomfort and fear there is now only hunger and an eagerness to grow even more.

He feels an itch burn across his body. He feels his hands dig deep into his pits scratching as hair grows thick enough to hold an odor that would never dissipate. He smells as even in this dreamstate he raises his hands to his nose to give them a post-scratch whiff. He feels the same itch cry out from his chest and pubes, from his lower back and his ass. He feels himself move his jaw as it squares up, a rumble in his throat as he feels his groans grow even deeper. He feels his mind thicken and slow as his muscles flex in his sleep. His arms do rep after unconscious rep as he feels biceps that should not be rub against a chest that has never been there before.

Finally he wakes one last time, his hand as it apparently always is, shoved in his pants, once more barely fitting despite wearing the spacier boxers. Brock blearily looks to see lines of takeout containers covering his coffee table. He scratches his beard using the hand from his crotch and he deeply inhales, two birds one stone after all. He sets out to get started with his day, tossing over in his head if he should masterbate again or not, a stain from a wet dream clearly showing through his boxers. Instead he throws Drake on his speakers and starts getting an early workout in, seeing to every part of his body getting a pump as he feels the hunger in his crotch grow only more urgent. 

Going about this workout Brock feels totally at home in this apartment. After all he’s lived here for? Uh? His mind empties as he looks around and sees weeks of piled up detritus and filth. He sees dirty clothes and cum stains on his couch. Looking past them there are his American Psycho and Fight Club posters, discarded underwear hanging off the latter, as well as the trophies he distinctly remembers winning back in college wrestling. He smirks and flexes tilting his head to sniff his pit. Beyond feeling at home in his apartment he also feels unequivocally at home in this, in his body, duh. He jumps to his feet with ease, his stomach rumbling as he once more goes to meet a basal need.

Throwing some of his favorite protein powder in a blender with some milk and eggs he hears his phone go off. There are a string of messages from some bitch asking him to come back and for the life in him Brock can’t remember who that little fucker is? Hearing his shake finish blending he stares at the profile picture of whoever this twink is as he starts to down it, wiping his lips on his sweaty arm as needed. The twink he doesn’t know calls him Brock and his eye twitches, ugh. Why is this dude calling him by his, uh? Is that his middle name? Or no he was Brock right?

He finishes the shake, tossing the blender onto the pile of dishes in the sink and his mind finds itself deeply conflicted. As ever though, his body is more than happy to assuage him, the phone vibrates once more and his cock begins to bring him clarity, demanding his attention once more. Brock’s a little bitch name. He smirks as he looks around at his sty of an apartment, not remembering how neat it once was. Peeking from under a particularly dirty dish there’s a contract that he remembers that he meant to have a look at. 

Bringing it to his face however he simply can’t find the motivation to even start. Why worry about this when he can masturbate, or fuck maybe he can get that whiny bitch to come over? His eyes trail to the end of the paper and see his signature, written clear as day “Adam.” He guffaws at this, god how stupid can you be, he basically forgot his own name after that twink called him uh, whatever that bitch name was. He feels his crotch grow tight again, that is kinda hot though? He moans to himself, pawing at his crotch and texts whoever this man is his address and to come ready to fuck. Adam feels no real attachment to whoever it is, nor should he, a hole is a hole after all. Saying that thought he can’t help but feel this hole is due to be taught a lesson.

If you enjoyed this I also recommend @fredwkong's The Voice in Your Head which explores a similar idea in quite a unique and captivating way!

[ghostybaby000]

Is it true? | Part 1

Part 2

Word count: 870

Warnings: 18+, Yelling, destructive behavior, suggestive behavior, swearing, symptoms of panic

Part two soon! Tag List: @yyiikes @talooolaaloolla @strawberrygato @cumsluut @sofiacoppolaslut @blackbeautyiloveyouso @casalucard @identity2212 @daydreamerwoah @lily-bug3 @sage-burrow @squeak1981 @shinebright2000

You’re stuck in a loop. Reading through old messages and swiping through photos. Tears begin to well in your eyes, you look to the ceiling and try to breathe. He wouldn’t. Would he? You gather your breath as you stand, your phone tossed back into the couch where you had been for a few hours at least, now surely lost within the cushions. 

Looking to the clock you see that he wouldn’t be home for another hour or so and decide to take a shower, maybe feeling clean on the outside could soothe the mess inside. While in the shower you hear the front door chime as he enters, he had insisted on installing a security system for while he was away. You peak your head out of the shower, the bathroom full of steam-your fragrance a tidal wave to anyone who entered. 

You hear the stairs creak as he made his way up, then a thud- his bag being left by the closet, the same spot as it had always been for as long as you could remember. You wrap up your shower and taking care of your hair and teeth, you make your way out to the bedroom. He’s turned on his side away from the door, a small snore coming from the pile of man beneath the blankets. You climb into bed, the house dark and cool as your mind tears at you with questions and possibilities you didn’t know you were ready to uncover. 

You can’t resist the urge to confirm that what you had seen earlier was real, turning on your side slowly you grab you phone and click on the small icon, ‘Messages’

A string of different conversations pop up, ones from relatives and others from random sites, and one at the top from an unknown messenger. You click it open again, your heart still shaking as you read the text. 

‘I wasn't planning on reaching out, but I figured you should know behind closed doors, your 'boyfriend' is real different...very hands-on.'

The screen goes dim with how long you’ve read it over and over, it just doesn’t make sense. You feel a headache approaching as your mind spirals and instead plug in your phone and lay back down to sleep. You would ask him about it tomorrow.

Dawn breaks through the windows as the birds begin to chirp just outside. You wake to an empty bed, something you’ve unfortunately had to adjust to with how much time he’s spent at work recently. You look over to your phone and sigh, choosing to instead get ready for the day. You put the bed back together and make your way downstairs, the house just as quiet as it had been last night. 

Most of the day was spent cleaning, doing the housewife duties that were a lifestyle to you now. Folding laundry, and putting more dirty laundry in the machine, putting away the dishes and sweeping the floors, it was all a nice distraction. After lunch time had rolled around you went upstairs, against the dread you could feel in your heels as you climbed each step, you knew you had to confront him eventually. 

You pick up your phone to the same day-to-day notifications and alerts, scrolling down your heart sinks a little further.

‘Unknown messenger: 1 Image’ 

You feel all sorts of emotions pile up, and burn down into a rage. Your finger clicks the image before you can take a second to think of reasons not to. The image is of him, tall and focused in the doorway of a room. He’s leant up on the door frame, listening to whoever was talking. 

*Ding* – Unknown Messenger: ‘Guess he’s pretty good at keeping a secret, huh?’

You start to chuckle, in a hysterical and concerning way. Locking the phone you set it down next to you as you fall back on the bed. Your hands sprawled out to the side of you, the ceiling fan cooling your physical heat to the situation. You didn’t feel like crying over it, and you didn’t feel like throwing a tantrum, but no matter what you felt, you knew you needed answers. 

After what had felt like days of waiting, the front door jingles as he opens it. You’re sat on the couch just inside the door, watching him from over the back. He goes to head upstairs, pivoting to make his way over to you once he sees you on the couch. Making his way over with a ‘Hello love’ he bends over to kiss the top of your head, pausing as you pull away from his reach.

‘What’s the matter? You alright?’ His voice sounded gentle, his eyes looking you over for any indication as of why you would have rejected his touch. 

You swallow hard as you take a breath, we’re you really about to have this conversation? You look up to him, his eyes tired with a twinkle of worry, he shifts his weight from one leg to the other patiently waiting a response. Your voice felt fragile, as if the words weren’t meant to be passed from one to another, but did not break as you looked up to him.

‘We need to talk.’

[vaadazen-codes]

How To Get Started Making Visual Novels

Wanna make a visual novel? Or maybe you've seen games like Our Life, Blooming Panic, Doki Doki Literature Club, etc. and wanna make something like that? Good news, here's a very basic beginners guide on how to get started in renpy and what you need to know going in! Before you start, I highly recommend looking at my last post about writing a script for renpy just to make it easier on you!

LONG POST AHEAD

Obviously, our first step is downloading it from their website

thankfully, its right on the home page of their site. Follow basica program installation steps and run the program. I highly recommend pinning it to your task bar to make it easier to access.

From there, you're met with the renpy app, it's a little daunting at first but let's talk about what all these buttons are for.

Projects

This part is simple, it just lists the current projects in the chosen directory. You probably won't have any in there of your own. You should still see Tutorial and The Question!

Both of those default projects are super helpful in their own ways, i highly recommend testing out the tutorial and playing around with it just to get comfortable with some of the basics.

Create New Project

The first step to actually making your game into a game!

You'll be met with a prompt letting you know that the project is being made in English and that you can change it. You can click Continue.

From here, you'll be asked to input a project name! Put in your games title, or even a placeholder title since this Information can be changed later! (this is also the title the folder will be in your file browser, be sure to name it something you won't overlook)

Now we get to choose our resolution!

If you have no idea what to choose, go for 1920x1080! This is the standard size for most computer monitors and laptops, but it will still display with moderately decent quality on 4k monitors too!

You can choose 3840x2160 as well. This is 2x the measurements of the default, with the same ration. These dimensions are considered 4k. Keep in mind, your image files will be bigger and can cause the game to have a larger size to download.

Now we get to choose our color scheme!

Renpy has some simple default options with the 'light mode' colors being the bottom two rows, and the 'dark mode' colors being the toop two rows.

You can pick anything here, but I like to choose something that matches my projects vibes/colors better. Mostly because depending on how in depth you go with the ui, it minimizes the amount of changes I need to make later.

Click continue and give it a minute. Note: If it says "not responding" wait a moment without clicking anything. It can sometimes freeze briefly during the process.

Now we should be back at our home screen, with our new project showing. Let's talk about allll that stuff on the right now.

Open Directory

This just opens that particular folder in your local file explorer!

game - is all the game files, so your folders for images, audio, saves, and your game files like your script, screens, and more.

base - this is the folder that the game folder is inside of. You can also find the errors and log txt files in here.

images - takes you to your main images folder. This is where you wanna put all of your NON gui images, like your sprites, backgrounds, and CGs. You can create folders inside of this and still call them in the script later. EX: a folder for backgrounds , a folder for sprites for character a, a seperate folder for spirtes for character b, etc.

audio - Takes you to the default audio folder. This is empty, but you can put all your music and sound effects here!

gui - brings up the folder containing all of the default renpy gui. It's a good place to start/ reference for sizes if you want to hand draw your UI pieces like your text box!

Edit File

Simple enough, this is just where you can open your code files in whatever text/code editor you have installed.

Script.rpy - where all of your story and characters live. This is the file you'll spend most of your time in at first

Options.rpy - Contains mostly simple information, like project name and version. There aren't a ton of things in here you need to look at. There is also some lines of code that help 'archive' certain files by file type so that they can't be seen by players digging in code however. Fun if you want to hide some images in there for later or if you just dont want someone seeing how messy your files are. We've all been there

Gui.rpy - where all of the easy customization happens. Here you can change font colors, hover colors, fonts, font sizes, and then the alignment and placement of all of your text! Like your dialogue and names, the height of text buttons, etc. It more or less sets the defaults for a lot of these unless you choose to change them later.

Screens.rpy - undeniably my favorite, this is where all of the UI is laid out for the different screens in your game, like the main menu, game menu, quick menu, choice menu, etc. You can add custom screens too if you want, but I always make my own seperate file for these.

Open Project - this just opens all of those files at once in the code editor. Super handy if you make extra files like I do for certain things.

Actions

last but not least, our actions.

Navigate Script - This feature is underrated in my honest opinion, it's super handy for help debugging! In renpy you can comment with # before a line. However, if you do #TODO and type something after it, it saves it as a note! You can view these TODO's here as well as easily navigate to when certain screens are called, where different labels are (super great if your game is long, and more. It saves some scrolling.

Check Script (Lint) - also super duper handy for debugging some basic things. It also tells you your word count! But its handy for letting you know about some errors that might throw up. I like using it to look for sprites I may or may not have mispelled, because they show up in there too.

Change/Update GUI - Nifty, though once you start customizing GUI on your own, it isn't as useful. You can reset the project at any point and regenerate the image files here. This updates all those defaults we talked about earlier.

Delete Persistent - this just helps you delete any persistent data between play throughs on your end. I like to use it when making a lot of changes while testing the game, so that I can reboot the game fresh.

Force Recompile - Full disclosure, as many games as I've made and as long as I've been using Renpy, i have never used this feature. I searched to see what it does and this is the general consesus: Normally renpy tries to be smart about compiling code (creating .rpyc files) and only compiles .rpy files with changes. This is to speed up the process since compiling takes time. Sometimes you can make changes that renpy don't pick up on and therefore won't recompile. In these cases you can run force recompile to force it. Another solution (if you know what file is affected) is to delete that specific. rpyc file.

The rest of your options on this right hand side are how you make executable builds for your game that people can download to extract and play later!

Sorry gang! that was a whole lot of text obviously the last button "Launch Project" launches an uncompiled version of the project for you to play and test as you go! Hang in tight because my next post is about how to utilize github for renpy, so you can collaborate easier!

[ashthesalamipiece]

hey ash can i please request soemthing? a katsuki bakugo x female reader they are married and reader is like extremely weak? like physically and she got pregnant-a high risk one the type where the doctor would say to consider a abortion? something like that? you dont have to do this Just a request from a fellow follower love your works they are chaotic and love them :)

Hii mll♡

Of you can request anything I appreciate ittt♡

I hope this is up to your expectations♡

---

"Stronger Than You Know"

Bakugo had never imagined himself the marrying type—at least not back when he was the hotheaded teen with a short fuse and a tunnel vision for victory. But somehow, you had wormed your way into his life with gentle hands and soft words, the exact opposite of everything he used to think he needed.

He used to think strength was everything.

But then he married you.

You weren’t strong like him. Not in the way that counted for most people. Your body was fragile, your energy limited, and your constitution was nothing short of worrying. Some days, he’d carry you from the bed to the couch because your muscles trembled too much. He always did it without complaint, though he grumbled under his breath just to keep up appearances. You’d laugh and call him a softie, and he’d call you a brat.

But he never once resented it. Not once.

Because you were the only one who could make him feel calm. Needed. Loved.

So when you told him you were pregnant, his reaction was… complicated.

He stared at you for a full minute before the words even processed. You were sitting on the couch in one of his old shirts, fingers wringing the hem, face pale and eyes a little wet. You’d looked scared—not of him, but for yourself. For the tiny, forming life inside of you.

And he felt like the ground tilted beneath him.

You were already so delicate. The idea of you carrying a child—his child—through nine months of hellish strain made his stomach twist in fear.

Of course, the hospital visit only made things worse.

“The pregnancy is high-risk,” the doctor said, voice carefully neutral. “Your body might not handle it. If complications arise, it could be fatal… for both of you.”

You’d gripped Bakugo’s hand then. He could still feel how cold your fingers were. The doctor kept talking, listing options, risks, and the word he hated more than anything in that moment: abortion.

Bakugo didn't speak. He didn’t trust himself to.

The moment you two left the office, you waited until you were in the safety of his car to finally whisper, “Katsuki… what should we do?”

He didn’t answer right away. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

“Do you… want to keep it?” he finally asked, voice low.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I want to try. Even if I’m scared.”

He looked at you for a long time. Your face was full of fear and hope, all tangled together. You weren’t strong—at least not in the way people measured it. But he had never seen someone braver.

“You’re not doing this alone,” he said, turning fully to face you. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together. I’ll be there for every damn second.”

You gave him a watery smile, and he kissed you before you could say anything else.

---

The following months were hard.

You were in and out of the hospital more times than either of you could count. Bakugo adjusted his patrol schedule, sometimes canceling it altogether just to sit beside you during check-ups. The staff got used to seeing the pro hero sitting with you, his scarred hands cradling yours, whispering quiet reassurances that didn’t match his usual brash image.

There were nights he’d sit beside your bed, wide awake while you slept restlessly. He’d talk to your belly when you were too tired to stay conscious, his voice low and steady.

“Your mom’s the toughest damn person I know, you hear me?” he’d mutter, fingers gently tracing circles on your skin. “She’s stronger than any hero out there.”

Sometimes the fear crept in.

Like when you collapsed while walking across the kitchen.

Or when the doctors said your blood pressure was too high again.

Or when they prepared an emergency bag “just in case.”

But you always pulled through. Even when your body screamed and the world felt like it was stacked against you, you kept going.

Because you had a reason now. A heartbeat you heard on fuzzy monitors. A future wrapped in warmth and baby clothes folded neatly in drawers. And Katsuki’s hand, always there. Always strong. Always steady.

---

The birth wasn’t easy. It was a blur of beeping machines, sterile white lights, and a level of panic Katsuki never wanted to experience again.

They rushed you in after you started bleeding—too much, too fast.

He wasn’t allowed in the OR.

He punched a wall.

Paced like a caged animal.

Nearly lost it when a nurse asked him to “stay calm.”

But then—

A baby’s cry.

And the nurse came out.

“A girl,” she said. “She’s healthy. And your wife… she made it. She’s going to be okay.”

Bakugo didn’t remember sitting down, but he did.

Didn’t remember the tears, but they came.

When they let him in, you were pale, exhausted, barely awake—but smiling. And in your arms was the tiniest, angriest baby he had ever seen.

“She’s got your scowl,” you whispered hoarsely.

He looked down at the two of you—his whole world in one hospital bed—and something in him broke open.

He kissed your forehead.

“You scared the shit out of me, idiot.”

You laughed weakly. “Worth it?”

He looked at the baby again, who had just punched the air in protest.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, it was.”

[jjwolves]

ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ LOVE UNDER WILL ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

This headcanon list was commissioned by @master-eclectic ! Thank you so much for your support, it means the world to me <3

What: Headcanons of ENA as a Yandere X Reader

Who: ENA by Joel G

How Much: ~700 words, ~2 mins

Credits: Banner Image -> Joel G, Divider -> @aquazero

You like ENA a lot—perhaps more than anyone else you’ve met in this constantly fluid world. She cares deeply for you right back, albeit in her own strange way, always bringing you gifts and comforting you when times are tough. Sometimes she does the comforting, sometimes you do the comforting. It’s nice. It’s simple. It’s kind of weird. ENA is kind of weird in everything she does, so her more alarming patterns of behavior end up being a drop of static in a sea of missing signal. You don’t notice that her infatuation with you runs deeper than her usual childlike curiosity—it’s something psychological, and fiercely jealous.

You don’t find it odd how she stares at you, because she stares at everyone, smile unchanging. But one day, when you’re watching a drive-in movie where the vehicles are projectors with legs, you turn to ENA halfway through to find that she’s been staring straight into you the entire time, a placid smile resting on her face. “You’re seeming very action-adventure today. If I held your hand, would you let the cosmic wheel creak to a stop?” Heart thumping, you give her your hand. She turns doom and gloom in a heartbeat, clutching your hand tightly, blue interlocking with yellow. Tingling tears fall onto your knuckles. “So beautiful… I don’t deserve to hold this! But I don’t care! I’m gonna hold it anyway!” You get annoyed glances from neighboring robots trying to watch the movie.

She starts stalking you in ways which are very uniquely hers. Once, when you were brushing your teeth, the chill of being watched ran up your spine. You whipped around to your window to find nothing there, but when you turned back around to the mirror, ENA was inside, startling at being seen and scurrying off to hide somewhere less visible in the mirror-realm. You hang a curtain over it just in case. Another time, you walked past one of the paintings hung up in your hallway and suddenly realized that there was something off about one of them once you reached your room. You ran back and found ENA posing inside one of the paintings, shifty eyes the only giveaway that she knew she was caught (and being slightly creepy). “Ah, dearest… You must admit that I gel well among the firmaments!” You reluctantly agreed that, yes, she did look like she belonged in a painting. ENA blushed and gave the closest thing to a bashful chuckle you’d ever heard out of her.

ENA normally isn’t obsessive, but her love, her adoration for you, sharpens the hazy, vivid colors dwelling in her heart into something screeching and unpredictable. A yellow that threatens to burn and a blue that promises to drown. Being near you has her flying high, bright as ever, spinning you around and keeping you to herself in a tight embrace. “You’re the dawning spring of my heart. And I’ll never let you go!” She stills and looks deep into you. “Ever,” she adds, but with a tone light and airy. She wouldn’t want to scare you away, now!

When you spend time with other friends a little more than with her, she sinks into mental storm. She’s not used to this feeling, so she doesn’t know what it is, but anyone else would tell you it’s jealousy. And it’s intense. Her blue side starts getting a lot more talkative when ENA feels like you’re paying too much attention to other people. She wails and cries on your shoulder, not so subtly smelling your hair in between sobs. “It’s—not—fair! Why do you spend so much time with them?!” She slumps forward and looks upwards, her blue eye meeting one of yours. You explain that you’ll always like her the most, but that there are other people who are important to you as well. “NO!! Boo-hoo… You’re only supposed to love ME! All those other people should just disappear!” You’re perturbed, to say the least, and not by the fact that your clothes have essentially become ENA’s impromptu handkerchief. (That part’s par for the course.) Either way, you hold ENA tighter as her floating hair pieces gently brush against your ear.

[shinestarhwaa]

CLIMBING A MOUNTAIN || SAN

PART 1 OF THE YOURDESIRE.COM SERIES

Genre: Smut

Pairing: San x Fem reader

Word Count:3.8K

Tags/Warnings: Sexworker!AU, Sexworker!San, dom!San, strength kink, creampie, praise, orgasm control, bath sex, aftercare, handjob, oral sex, fingering, unprotected sex, riding, doggystyle, dirty language, petnames, bigdick!San

Taglist: @anyamaris @a-soft-hornytiny @whatudowhennooneseesyou @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @woosanbby @dreamlesswonder86 @changbinslovelylegs @jonghostie @lovjensoo @mjyungi @bratty-tingz @sugarnspice630 @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisg00dgirl @vesvosmozhno @therealcuppicake @unholywriters @enbymingi @jjoongstar

ENJOY!

A bottle of wine on a late Saturday night combined with the internet might be certain to lead to trouble. Or a lot of pleasure. You're not entirely sure yet which is the case. It was supposed to just be an innocent scroll through your socials but when you landed on a special Twitter account that got your attention, you stopped. You stared at the username for a while, seeing the header and reading the bio. 'Yourdesire.com', it said, which made your heart flutter ever so slightly. The account was full of pictures and videos of handsome men acting seductively and almost pornographically. No, definitely pornographically.

Curiosity got the best of you, and you placed your laptop on your lap and googled the website. You quickly learned it was a company that provided sexual services. Those men are sexworkers, you concluded. Something inside you told you to close the tab and mind your own business but you felt so intrigued you couldn't help but explore the website a little more.

Soon enough you click on the blue ''Our men'' button and you are met with 8 gorgeous individuals posing sensually. You scanned each of them, noticing that they are all different-looking, some are much taller, some are buff and some have the most filthy looking gaze you've ever seen before.

It's not that you're entirely new to sex; you have done it before. But because of certain circumstances you haven't been dating much and therefore you haven't gotten laid in way too long. Maybe hiring a gigolo was the perfect way to get your needs taken care of, while not having to go out to meet somebody to date.

You scroll down the page and look at the pictures of the guys. Without thinking much more you click on the first man's profile.

Hongjoong - 1998 - Dominant

View Hongjoong's kinks/specialties list.

You released a breath you didn't know you were holding after reading his kinks/specialties list. You swallow thickly and scan the others' pages until you land on San.

San's image makes him look cold, stern, even strict maybe. His body is certainly well taken care of. You could only imagine what it's like to touch his toned, muscular body. He has broad shoulders, big arms and defined abs. His eyes are small and his bone structure is absolutely to die for, his lips full and soft-looking.

When you read about him you learn he identifies as a Dominant, but he's the most gentle and caring one of them all - he values women a lot and wants to provide a setting where he can rock their world but also make them feel safe. This made you smile softly, a warm feeling spreading through your body. It wouldn't do anyone any harm to look further, would it? You decide it won't so you click on his profile.

San - 1999 - Dominant

View San's kinks/specialties list:

Strength kink

Creampie

Orgasm Control

Voyeurism

Bath-/Shower sex

Voyeurism

Aftercare

You could feel your pussy pulse after reading about him and you took another sip of your wine. Before you realized it you were looking at the prices of hiring one of their men and the kind of experiences they offer. You kept telling yourself 'No, don't do it, it's ridiculous', but two glasses of wine later you booked yourself a dinner- and hoteldate with San for next Saturday.

The next morning you realize what you've done, looking at yourself in the mirror. ''I must have gone completely insane,'' you mutter to yourself, but you can't bring yourself to cancel the appointment either. The rest of the week you are filled to the brim with anxiety about it and your friends notice something's off. ''It's just my cycle, I guess, you know, hormones,'' you lie, but it works for them.

When the day finally arrives you have no clue what to wear, because what does one wear on a sexdate with a sexworker? You decide to not do much with your hair, letting it fall loosely on your shoulders. You keep your make-up light and put on a darkred lingerie set. 'It's nothing special, but pretty enough for a date' you convince yourself. After about 30 minutes of trying on different clothes you end up wearing a long, fitted black dress since your friends always tell you, you look absolutely snatched in it. And well, they're not wrong. You finalize the look with black heels and some accessories before grabbing your purse, leaving your house.

Your body is shaking while you drive to the hotel. You wonder if your friends would judge you for doing this. Would they think this is weird? Is this actually weird? You know there's no turning back now, since you can't cancel 10 minutes beforehand. With slight shame you look into the rearview mirror and look into your own eyes. There's no turning back now, you realize, you have to own it and enjoy it.

With a partly fake confidence you enter the hotel and enter the luxurious lounge, where you are supposed to meet San. You look around and the place is absolutely gorgeous. Dark floortiles reflect the large amount of lighting on the walls and ceiling. You see businessmen left and right, looking seemingly rich and equally busy with their calls. You wonder how many of them were also hiring a sexworker.

Suddenly you feel a light tap on your shoulder - to which you turn around. ''Miss Y/N?''

You felt your heart stop beating at that very moment, because holy fucking shit, the most handsome man on earth is standing right in front of you. ''Hi, it's nice to meet you, I'm San,'' he says with a kind smile. You shake his hand and nodd, still a little in shock. ''How did you know it was me?'' you wonder out loud. He grins softly. ''Because while discussing the arrangement you had to clarify what you look like and I've seen the photo. Although I have to say you're even more attractive in real life, if that's even possible.''

Everything about San was breathtaking, from his looks to his way with words. ''Let me guide you to our table, I hope you're hungry, the food is lovely here,'' he says with a gentle smile, and he carefully lays his hand on your lower back. You nodd and let him guide you to the table, where he takes place across from you.

After placing your order he looks you up and down. You're feeling slightly nervous, and he quickly picks up on it. ''Is this your first time having an appointment like this?'' he asks. ''Is it that obvious?'' you grin nervously. ''A little, but don't worry, it's completely fine. All I care about is that you're comfortable with me, then we're all good.''

San definitely succeeded in making you comfortable throughout the dinner date, he asked questions about you - not just sexually - and made sure to listen intentively. He occasionally flirted with you and held your hand and it was almost impossible not to fall for him. He was incredibly charming and even cute sometimes.

Since the dinner was paid beforehand, San took your hand and guided you to the elevator. You felt slight anxiety bubble up in your chest, but you pushed it down. San had been so great and gentle with you, you felt like you could definitely trust him.

Now you're standing in the elevator, all alone and suddenly the tension rises. The hand on your back slowly slides down over your ass and you feel his hot breath fan over your neck. ''I can't wait to feel you, darling, I'll make you feel so incredibly good.'' Goosebumps erect from your skin and you swallow thickly. You nod, because that's all you can do when San smirks slightly.

The elevator reaches the 4th floor and you enter the room that was reserved for you two. It was much fancier and bigger than you expected. You first see a large kingsize bed, covered with gorgeous luxury bedding, there's a small lounge and the half-open bathroom where you find a shower and a large walk-in bath created in the floor as if it was a hot spring.

''Wow,'' you sighed softly as you placed your purse on the bedside table, ''It looks absolutely incredible, don't you think?'' ''It truly does, it's gorgeous,'' San says, ''it suits you.'' He gently strokes your rosy cheek with his fingers as he sits you down on the bed.

''You've established you're interested in performing all my specialties, excluding the voyeurism, is that correct?'' San asks, sitting next to you. ''Yes,'' you nod, ''it's not like I'm against it but I haven't had sex in a long time and I just... I need some time.'' San chuckles at your shyness and strokes your hair caringly. ''You don't have to explain yourself to me, dear. Any way, if at any time you want me to pause or stop, tell me and we will pause or stop. Do you have any more questions?'' You shake your head. ''Please use your words with me, dear, I need verbal clarification.'' You shake your head again, muttering a soft ''no''.

''Perfect, let's get started then, dear.''

He pulls you a little closer and lifts up your chin with his fingers. ''Can I kiss you, Y/N?'' ''Yes, please,'' you say, leaning into him. San presses his lips to yours in a smooth motion. His lips are soft and his movements tender, but the grip of his hand on your upper thigh is firm, enough to slightly startle you.

You moved your arms around his neck as he laid you down on your back. His hands roamed over your thigh, down to your calf and ankle. San pulls away from the kiss and you pant softly, looking at him with full anticipation, your mind dizzy. He gently kissed your ankles before slipping off your heels. His hands move up again, along your hips and your sides, stopping to cup just underneath your breasts.

''You look so delicious angel,'' he grunts as he presses kisses over your chest and the top of your breasts. He helps you get up before he unzips your dress. You feel the way it slides down your legs and pool at your feet. You feel much more vulnerable now, noticing he's still fully clothed.

''I wanna see you too, San,'' you pant softly when you feel his lips in your neck, sucking on your skin gently. ''You wanna see me, baby? You got it.'' He smirks as he takes off his jacket, waistcoat and slowly unbuttons his white shirt, revealing his toned abs. You sit down and feel your throat go dry at the sight of his sculpted god-like body.

''How's that baby? Does that look like something you can get used to?'' he smirks. ''God, yes, definitely,'' you sigh, before laying your hands on him. When you place your hands on his abs you realize his cock is already half-hard. The desire to suck a man off has never been stronger than tonight, but San seems to have other plans as he gets on his knees in front of you.

His skilled fingers trail up your thigh and curl around the fabric of your panties, yanking them down and tossing them to the other side of the room. ''Look at that, what a perfect pussy,'' he praises as he settles himself between your thighs. Instinctively you try to close your legs out of embarrassment, but San is unbelievable strong and he keeps them parted.

''Don't you want me to play with that pretty pussy of yours, angel?'' ''N-No, I do, I really do, please,'' you cry out when you feel his breath fan over your sensitive wetness. When San's mouth makes contact with your sex you throw your head back and moan. He's literally 3 seconds in and you're already so disheveled.

His fingers skim over your thighs while his lips close around your sensitive bud, giving it a few soft sucks and kitten licks to test you. Even the feather-light touches are driving you crazy, and you think if he doesn't start to properly eat your pussy you'll go absolutely feral. ''Please, San, please,'' you whine out.

''Okay baby, don't worry, you don't have to beg, I'm here for you, angel, you're doing so well,'' he smiles before diving between your legs again. San starts to lick your sensitive clit, leaving small kisses across your sex, before diving his tongue in again, and God you could feel him everywhere.

You felt tingles throughout your body, your entire being responding to San pleasuring you. You're starting to think that stumbling on Yourdesire.com was the best thing that could've ever happened to you, just from his oral alone. It makes you wonder if he would fuck you as good as he eats you.

You let out nothing but loud moans, not having to fake anything, just letting all your inhabitions go. For the first time in your life you felt truly understood, truly taken care off. ''That's it, that's so fucking good,'' you whimper. He' takes his time's thorough with his work, every flick and twist of his tongue feeling deliciously good and evil all at once.

San took his time - unlike most men would - and spent over 10 minutes between your legs before finally pulling away and regaining his breath. San looks somewhat disheveled himself when he pulls away, looking pleased and fucked out just from eating your pussy for a while.

You feel his fingers skim through your folds before pushing two of his digits inside. You whine when he fingerfucks you with slow strokes, curling his fingers just right. He pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy that's gushing with arousal. With every stroke you feel yourself come closer to an orgasm, and San quickly seems to pick up on that.

''That's it baby, you're doing so well for me, are you gonna come for me? Come on my fingers?'' he taunts. You nod and cry out his name, ''S-San! G-God, yes!'' ''Alright princess, I'm going to count down and you're gonna come at one, am I clear?''

You nod again, but you feel like you could burst at any moment, pussy clenching with each thrust of San's fingers. With all the willpower you've got, you hold on, waiting for San to count down.

''Three...,'' he taunts, looking deeply into your eyes as he keeps fingering your wet hole, ''Two...,'' he says, lingering for a moment before coming down to the last number. ''One,'' San says, and in that exact moment your body releases, an enormous wave of pleasure washing over you, making your body tremble uncontrollably as he rocks you through your climax. ''That's it, that's a good girl...'' he whispers as he calms you down. San retracts his fingers and licks them off to clean them, looking at your fucked out state with a content smile.

He stands up and discards his remaining clothes and as you're starting to escape your high, you remember to take off your bra too, leaving both of you completely naked. You eye San up and down, eyes trailing from his toned torso to his bulky thighs and his crotch.

His cock is so thick, heavy balls hanging underneath as it stands up proudly against his stomach. ''Wow,'' you breathe out. San smirks as he comes closer, and you sit up, eye-leveling his cock. You lick your lips before running your hands up and down his muscular thighs.

''What do you want angel? Want me to make you feel good again?'' ''I want you inside... I want you on your back, and I wanna get on top of you,'' you pant. ''Well, that can be arranged, darling,'' he says as he takes place on the bed, laying against the soft, fluffed pillows.

You straddle San and spit in your hand before taking his stiff cock in your hand. You pump it up and down a few times, not because he's not hard enough but because you desperately wanted to touch him before taking him in. San grunts when you jerk him off faster and flick your wrist every now and then. ''That feels so good baby, you're so perfect, so perfect for me,'' he moans.

After letting go of his shaft you hover your pussy above it. With a loud moan you let him fill your tight pussy up completely. His hands hold your hips steady as you start to grind and roll your hips against him. You let out a shaky moan as his cock drags along your walls - still sensitive from your orgasm.

The pleasure quickly becomes too much and as your body gets weaker, San pulls you close against his chest and kisses you. Your lips move together in perfect harmony, swallowing each others moans as you keep grinding on his cock, his pelvis crazing your sensitive clit.

San starts to move his hips along with yours and fucks up into your pussy, earning loud whines from you against his plush lips. San's thrusts become rougher but keeps a steady pace, knowing just how to make you go crazy. He can feel your pussy clench down on his dick and he pulls away from your mouth, moaning out a string of curses.

''You're taking my cock so well, princess, God damn, your pussy's so well behaved huh? Squeezing my cock just right, you want me to come inside you, hm? I'll fill this pussy up with my cum, make it look so pretty and white. Bet you'd like that, hm? Isn't that the perfect reward for my pretty girl?''

All you can respond are merciful pleads and shards of his name. Your breathing becomes so uneven and you feel yourself getting close again when he reaches places no one has ever reached before. His hands grip your ass tight as he drives his cock inside you. ''I can feel you're about to come baby. Hold it, Hold it like the perfect girl you are, hm? Hold it for me baby, just a little longer,'' he orders you.

You try your best, you try so hard to hold on, keep yourself from coming while he fucks you into oblivion. Lucky for you he says the word ''Come,'' and you burst instantly, crashing onto his chest you scream his name and writhe, your orgasm taking over your entire body. With a few more thrusts he empties himself inside you, filling you up with his hot cum.

''That's it, angel, slow breaths, good girl,'' he says as he slows down and then lays you beside him. He gives you a moment to calm down and drink some of the water from the mini fridge before he gets up.

''Where are you going?'' you ask him. ''Follow me, darling,'' he says with a smile, reaching out for your hand. You hold his hand and stand up, legs wobbling as he takes you to the bathroom. You could feel the mixture of his and your own cum trickle down your inner thigh, but decided not to say anything.

The both of you walk down the steps and enter the hot bath that was ready for you. You hum softly when your body gets absorbed by the nice, warm water, feeling more relaxed instantly. San pulls you closer by your hips and pulls you in his lap as he sits down. You feel his half-hard erection slide between your asscheeks, and he groans. ''Oops,'' you giggle.

San smiles and shakes his head, ''You're so cute and sexy, my princess, you know that? I'm having an amazing time with you, you've been taking it all so well, haven't you?'' he praises you. You feel San's lips on your skin, pressing soft kisses over your shoulders.

''Hm, I'd say so, yeah,'' you giggle, grinding your ass back on his cock once more. ''Hm, was it not enough, my angel, does your pussy need a good fucking again?'' He asks, his voice low. San's cock hardens again and you feel him grinding himself between your cheeks. ''Hm, yeah, you should take me again, San, as a reward~'' you say playfully. San definitely can't say no to that, so he orders you to lean on the edge of the bath. You obey him and push your ass up as much as you can for him.

He pumps his dick a few times before sliding it into you with ease. ''God, you're so perfect, taking me instantly,'' he grunts as he leans on you. You feel the heavy weight of his body on yours and moan. You've always loved a strong man, and you love the feeling of having one on top of you.

San holds you in places as he ruthlessly fucks into you. You try to move as you whimper out his name, but you can't go anywhere. San's got you trapped under his body, holding you so tight there's no possibility of escaping. You whine as you try to hold onto him, overwhelmed by his hard thrusts, abusing your hole and making you feel good at the same time.

''Good girl, that's it, taking it perfectly angel,'' he moans, quickly chasing his own release. San fucks you at a pace you're sure is inhumane, and you can't do anything else but moan, moan loudly and let the entire hotel know how insanely good you're being fucked.

With one more rough thrust he combusts, releasing inside of you a second time that night. When he pulls out he lays you on the edge of the tub and makes you spread your legs. He watches your pretty pussy covered in his cum, and rubs your clit just as ruthlessly as he fucked you. You moan loudly and uncontrollably as San gets you to your fastest orgasm you've ever experienced.

After calming down and drying yourselves up San holds you in his arms as you lay on the bed. He whispers sweet nothings in your ear as he playfully nibbles on them. You love laying in his embrace, taking in his warmth.

''Thank you,'' you breathe out eventually. ''My pleasure,'' he smiles, ''it's my job, but I've certainly enjoyed this.'' You grin. ''I'm glad you did, I loved it too. I definitely needed to just get pleasured again by someone else. It was perfect. And worth every penny,'' you smiled.

After cleaning up and getting dressed you gave San one last kiss before saying your goodbyes. As you drive home he keeps playing on your mind, but your mind also wanders to the other men on the website. Would they be able to pleasure you just as much? How different would they be? You suppose there is only one way to find out...

[giverjoe]

Dirty Little Rabbit

Perv!Eddie x Fem!Reader Smut

word-count: 992

a collab with @reidsbtch I love you mariah! 💜

a special thank you to @xxhellfirebunnyxx for coming up with the title for us, we love you dolly!

do not read if the following list triggers you, if we missed something please let us know! feedback is welcome!

warnings// cum eating, masturbation male & female, stalking, panty sniffing ((licking)), voyeurism.

Eddie knew you could be senseless sometimes, but he really expected you not to be this stupid. The sounds of your moans carried from your bedroom window, down to where he was currently hiding in the bushes surrounding your house. This was almost a nightly occurrence, Eddie waiting to catch a glimpse of you in your bedroom window, but tonight was far different. He hadn’t even seen you, but that didn’t matter in the slightest, not when your pretty moans, including ones of his name, were drifting through the quiet night and right to his ears.

All of the sanity he had left his body, as soon as a particularly high pitched ‘Eddie’ slipped from your soft lips. He wanted to see for himself, so regardless of having a boner that was pressing against his pants so hard it ached, he decided to climb the vine up the side of your house. His body was pressed uncomfortably up against it, causing his zipper to get caught on his erection, biting back a hiss he pulled himself up just a bit higher until he could see into your room.

It took him a while to climb up so he hadn’t realized that you had already finished, your frilly panties laying against the lush carpet in front of your bed. He laughs quietly, putting his foot up onto the edge of your window before he’s quietly slipping inside. “What a dumb little bunny you are.” He murmurs, listening to the sound of the water in your shower hitting against the wall. He slowly walks over to your panties, picking them up and trying his best not to moan as he holds them up to his nose, breathing in deeply. The scent of you drives him insane, his cock somehow getting even harder than it was moments before.

A quiet ‘fuck’ slips past his lips as he quickly makes work of undoing his belt, his eyes observing the pink panties gripped in his other fist. They were soaked, he needed to taste you and he couldn’t hold back anymore, quickly licking a fat stripe up the crotch, moaning obscenely, as he pulled his thick cock out of his pants. The tip is an angry sort of red, practically weeping with pre-cum, he goes to wrap his hand around himself but not before he hears your sweet voice over the sound of the running water. He clutches the frilly material in his fist as he makes his way over to the door.

Pressing his ear against the door as another slip of his name leaves your sweet lips. Eddie groans lowly, spitting in his palm and gliding it along his length before wrapping your panties around his cock. He leans himself against the bathroom door, his eyes slipping shut as he imagines himself in the shower with you. How the water would drip down the swell of your breasts, your head tossed back as he buried his face between your thighs. God how he wished he could taste you fully, feel your thighs tremble around his head as he pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you.

Even then he wouldn’t be fully satisfied, not until he saw your mascara running down your pretty face. Fucked silly and writhing beneath him as he fills you full of his cum. “That’s it bunny, such a good fucking girl.” Eddie whispers, pumping his cock faster in his fist as your sounds only get louder through the door. The sound of his name on your tongue was something he’d never get tired of hearing. Especially now that he knows what it sounds like when you moan it, all breathy and soft. But he’s a greedy boy, and he wants to hear you scream it.

Between the mental image of you sprawled beneath him and your moans floating through the door he is quickly spilling into your already soaked panties. Grunting as he fills the soft material with hot ropes of his cum, continuing to stroke himself until he’s too sensitive. His chest is heaving as he hears you finish with him, knowing he doesn’t have much time before you walk through that door. He tucks himself back into his jeans, carefully setting the now ruined pair of panties on your bed. He sees a pad and a pen, a smirk gracing his features as he quickly scrawls a message down in his messy font. Panic filling his chest as he hears the water in the bathroom shut off.

He rips off the piece of paper, leaving it next to your little gift before quickly leaving out the window. Opening the bathroom door a cloud of steam follows you, wet hair dripping onto your shoulders. You don’t notice the items on your bed, as you grab out an old t-shirt and a fresh pair of panties. Dropping your towel you don’t notice Eddie still attempting to climb down from your window, the sight of you fully naked making his cock twitch in his jeans once more. You finally turn to your bed once you slip the clothing on, a look of confusion crossing your features. Knowing damn well you left those panties on the ground.

The note then catches your attention, quickly picking it up as you instantly recognize the messy handwriting. Reading over the note makes heat pool in your middle once more, your eyes darting to the pair of panties and picking them up. A soft whimper escapes you as you realize what he’s just been doing. Touching himself in your bedroom, cumming into the panties you had already made a mess in. You can’t stop yourself from opening your mouth, eagerly sucking the cum soaked fabric between your lips. Desperate to taste him, just as he had tasted you.

you left a gift for me bunny, just wanted to return the favor… (;

ps. you really should keep your window shut, some sicko could just slip right in.

-eddie

[auadd]

Article transcribed below:

(The front cover of Broadcast Magazine May 2024. An image of Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton wearing black tie suits, looking out at the viewer, their faces lit by a vertical sliver of light as if from an opening door.)

The text reads: After No. 9.

On the bittersweet task of bringing their black comedy anthology series to an end.

Writers and stars Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith are pulling down the shutters on their black comedy anthology Inside No. 9 after nine series. They talk to Robin Parker about the show's sketchy origins, why an old-fashioned weekly drop was key to keeping audiences gripped, and wrestling with the best kind of send-off for their labour of love.

Such are the mind-games played by Inside No. 9 that when Reece Shearsmith says he felt "like a rabbit in the headlights" thinking about how to end the show, it's just possible that he's referring to the hare statue that fans are challenged to find in every episode. But it is the ultimate paradox: after nine series and 55 episodes, how do you wrap up a show that resets each week? They were tempted to replay former glories with sequels to favourite episodes or returning characters, but that wouldn't have felt true to the show, Shearsmith says. "We tussled with the enormity of the fact that it was the last series, but then decided it should be like any other: six new stories. Some we'd had for a while, and some seemed to fit that it was series nine. No ending could put a neat bow on 55 separate worlds." While they've acted in other writers' plays, series and films - and, in Pemberton's case, appeared on Taskmaster - this has been their chief focus for 12 years. How does it feel to be stepping off the treadmill? "We hope it's seen as a fitting send-off," Pemberton says, but he admits it's nice not to have to think about the next series as soon as the current one ends. "While it's been a total privilege, the pressure has never gone away." Whatever comes next will require some recalibration of their writing brains. "We've become so honed into this structure where you get in very quickly, you get a lot of exposition in - or hide it - and then blow it all up within 30 minutes."

Limitless imagination.

The duo have enjoyed unprecedented freedom with the loosest of concepts. From writing an episode entirely in iambic pentameter to experiments in animation and fixed-rig, they've let their imaginations run riot. Inside No. 9's origins are almost laughably sketchy. With enthusiasm waning for a third series of their BBC2 comedy Psychoville, they looked back on an experimental episode - itself a late addition, due to some leftover budget - that was filmed on one set and looked to be shot in one take. "We said we wanted to tell a different story every week," recalls Pemberton. "Sent away to write two, we came back with a domestic comedy and a paranoid, psychological thriller. Everyone enjoyed the contrast, so that idea of doing very different episodes crept up on us. At no stage did we do a pitch document, or hand over a list of ideas for the next series."

While aware of the fortunate position afforded to them by The League Of Gentlemen's pedigree, Pemberton says Inside No 9's success offers general lessons for commissioning. "You can become far more creative by a) putting boundaries on things while b) just being two writers left to come up with whatever you come up with," he says. Having developed their talents through sketch writing, where there are few outlets today, he lays down the gauntlet for commissioners to consider more anthologies. "It's a brilliant way to bring on new writers with either a common theme or sense of tone. It's tough for commissioners - there are fewer singles every year and I think it's a great shame." They feel the limitations imposed by the show have changed them as writers. "Taking on something seemingly undramatic - someone doing a crossword, or four people sitting around at a restaurant table with all the information coming into that room, always feels like an achievement," says Pemberton. Discipline coupled with creative freedom has created a unique contract with the viewer. "It's satisfying to tell a story in 30 minutes and we enjoy exploring how to tell them in different ways," says Shearsmith. "People feel we're a pair of tricksters, so it's partly a game we play in terms of what viewers are going to get each week." Yet Inside No. 9's repeated ability to pull the rug from viewers is arguably wedded to the fading era of scheduled TV viewing. After all, the thrill of a live episode going wrong is hard to replicate on iPlayer. Shearsmith's proud that to the end, the BBC released it weekly. "Each one is its own mini event; you don't want people to binge them and you don't want all the endings and surprises out there. "I like the fact that it's drip-fed in the old- fashioned way - it's an agonising but fun wait for the next one. A lot of fans want to watch it when it goes out, which is a great testimony to its currency." Pemberton extends kudos to the BBC for allowing some of its more outlandish flourishes. "On episodes like 3 By 3 or Dead Line, we were lying to our audience and to journalists, to give that really satisfying moment of surprise and awe where they can't believe what they're watching." Which begs the question: have either of them lied in this interview? Shearsmith quickly says no, though, of course, that's no proof. Maintaining the surprise One last try at gleaning more on Inside No. 9's finale, then. Most series have concluded with an episode that erupts into full-blown horror. In its closing moments, will we be left with a smile on our face or fear in our hearts? Pemberton flashes an enigmatic smile. "We like to do a bit of both. That's the joy: even halfway through an episode, you're not quite sure what direction it might take. So the less we say about it, the better." To understand Inside No. 9's impish heart, he says, look at series five's magicians episode, Misdirection. "Each of our episodes is like our own little magic trick. We don't want you coming behind the cloth and seeing the Wizard of Oz pulling his levers - we want you to enjoy skipping down the yellow brick road." And, of course, if you live at number nine, there's no place like home.

'DEFINING MOMENTS: THREE OF INSIDE NO. 9'S STANDOUT EPISODES.'.

THE BREAKTHROUGH. The 12 Days Of Christine (series two, episode two, 2015). A disorienting series of moments are revealed to be Christine's life flashing before her eyes. Steve Pemberton: We weren't sure what we'd written. We didn't think it was a comedy, and we were a bit scared about the reaction, but it blew us away. Adam Tandy (exec producer): We thought if we could make this ep work, we would have almost reached the zenith of what we hoped to achieve. It was a very big, early win that put us on the map creatively. We haven't sought to repeat it - trying to do the same kind of emotional sucker-punch again wouldn't have come off.

THE LIVE EPISODE. Dead Line (live Halloween special, 2018). With echoes of the BBC's legendary Ghostwatch, sinister things start happening in the studio during the advertised story.

Reece Shearsmith: Keeping a lid on Dead Line going 'wrong' was great. I thought it would get out somehow. We leaned into the overarching notion of a live episode, blindsiding everyone to watch it in case we got our lines wrong - that's why most people watch live episodes of Holby or EastEnders. I was pleased that some people turned off - it meant it worked. SP: We couldn't monitor what was going on, other than we were live, being filmed, looking at our own phones - we didn't want props - and seeing the live Twitter reaction to what we were doing in the moment. It was surreal, exciting and an episode I'll never forget doing.

THE LATE SWAP. 3 By 3 (series eight, episode five, 2023). Viewers expecting an On The Buses spoof featuring Robin Askwith, as teased in publicity shots, get instead what seems to be a gameshow fronted by Lee Mack. AT: Most of the work to suggest a supposed change from the billed episode to the real one happened in the 15 minutes before TX. The broadcast chain being what it is, I was on Zoom calls of more than 30, soothing them and ensuring we made the changes to the EPG and iPlayer. At 9.55pm, we gave the continuity announcer a new script to say, "Unfortunately, we're not able to bring you this episode of Inside No. 9, here's something else." It still surprises on iPlayer, because even though it says it's Inside No. 9, it doesn't look like a regular episode.

Interview with Adam Tandy, Executive producer.

WORKING ON A UNIQUE SERIES.

Inside No 9's final series opens with one of its most ambitious shoots yet. Boo To A Goose is not the first episode set on a train but, unlike 2015's La Couchette, it was filmed not on a set but a genuine Mersey Rail carriage. Along with an episode featuring a full symphony orchestra and a rare period-set episode, it's a demonstration of where the show has been able to scale up in the two years since production moved to Manchester and qualified for the high-end drama tax credit. "In the early days, we'd have about 45 cast and crew - on this series, it's sometimes up to 100," says executive producer Adam Tandy. As ever, the mix allows for more intimate episodes, including the series' only two-hander between Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton. "Because we have a notion of there being no house rules, whatever they deliver, as long as I can achieve it, it's fine by me," says Tandy. While he finds it hard to quantify the working relationship with the show's creators beyond "hard work in a spirit of friendly engagement", he says he will miss the unique trust they've built. After 20 years on comedies from The Thick Of It to Detectorists, this show has made him a "much more complete producer", Tandy says. Effectively, he's learned a new skillset on every episode, from the authentic 1970s studio production of The Devil Of Christmas to this series' Mulberry Close, which is told through a video doorbell. After a slightly "theatrical and traditional" start, he reckons Inside No. 9's ambitions took off with series two. He credits exec John Plowman with quietly championing the show, and then BBC head of comedy Shane Allen for asking not to read scripts so he could avoid spoilers. "For four or five years, we'd have no contact with the commissioner between commission and delivery," he marvels. Endings are bittersweet, but Tandy isn't giving up hope of more from Pemberton and Shearsmith. "I'm not guaranteeing anything, but I think it won't be long before they come back with something else in the same sort of vein. They've been constantly creating the show all this time, which can't have been easy when it's just them doing it. I think they're too good at it to want to leave it alone for long."

[hongjoongtime117]

Sleepovers and Stars

Parings: Hongjoong/Reader

Genre: SMUT (MDNI 18+)

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up IRL PLEASSSSEEEE!), oral (M/F receiving), use of pet names, bulge kink, temperature play, talks of taking virginity, sorry I’m bad with warnings, as always, let me know if something needs tagged!

Author’s Notes: thank you @thejaistisjaisting for help with the texts!

Tag list: @arki-sha @cptnhngjng @klllerwaifu @youaremystar1024 @jintastic-yuyu @alliecoady98 @bigbabygremlin @ghostlovesworld @kihyuns-military-wife

It’s been two days since your night with the three boys. Your phone buzzes with an incoming call. You quickly swipe to answer it when you read the name that pops up. 

“Hey, Yeobo. Are you free tonight?” Hongjoong asks, knowing that you’re off tonight because he’s been in kahoots with Wooyoung all day.

“I’m always free for you,” you say, your tone playful.

He chuckles at your response and asks if you’ve eaten yet. You inform him that you’ve had your head buried in a work project and hadn’t even thought about food yet.

“Good, I’m picking you up in twenty. Can’t wait to see you.”

“Me either, I’ve missed you! Hey, have you seen Woo at all today?” You realized you hadn’t heard his loud, cackling laugh all day. It’s been a little too quiet around the apartment.

“Can’t say I have! Shouldn’t you know where he is? He is your roommate,” Hongjoong says, not an ounce of seriousness.

“It’s not like I’ve got him on a leash or something, Joong,” you say through your giggles. 

“I mean, it could be arranged. I’m sure he’d love that.”

“KIM HONGJOONG! Now I won’t be able to get that image out of my head, thank you!” you exclaim.

“Glad I could be of service! Now get ready. I’m leaving the studio now. See you soon, Yeobo.”

And with that, you rush to get ready. You throw on a matching red and lacy bra and panty set, a black skirt that hugs your hips just right, and a low cut red corset top. You put on light makeup and quickly style your hair. 

As you sit on the couch to lace up your Doc Marten’s, there’s a knock at the door. 

“Hey, Sannie. Can you grab that? It’s Joong,” you yell down the hallway. 

San steps out of his room in nothing but sweatpants, hanging low on his waist. “Jesus, put the tiddies away!” 

“Oh, shut up. You know you like the view. And so does Joong,” he says as he opens the door for him. Hongjoong heard the banter through the door and immediately looks him up and down and places his hands on his pecs. “See, told ya.”

“They’re not at nice as Y/N’s but doesn’t mean I still don’t want to touch them,” he shrugs as he drops his hands. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him. 

You stand up to go join him by the door. He pulls you into a tight hug, buries his face into your neck, and deeply inhales. “So pretty. You ready, baby?” he murmurs into your skin.

“Mmmhmm! Let’s go!” excitement in your voice.

“Take good care of our girl, Joongie!” San shouts as you two head out the door.

The two of you take the elevator down to the parking garage and Hongjoong opens the passenger door for you and you hop inside. He looks damn good in his black leather jacket, v neck t shirt and ripped jeans as he heads to the drivers side. The bad boy look on him has your wetness pooling in your panties already.

He slides into the driver’s side and starts the car. The engine purrs to life and he places an arm behind your headrest to peer behind him and check for other cars before he effortlessly backs out of the parking space.

“So what’s the plan for tonight, Jagi?” curiosity vibrating in your voice.

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” he says, giving a little half smirk.

The short ride is filled with Hongjoong showing you a song he’s currently working on. You feel flustered because Hongjoong doesn’t just share his work with anyone. He only shares it with people whose opinions he values. 

“This is amazing, Joong!” You see the blush begin to creep up on his cheeks at the positive feedback. 

“I-it’s still a work in progress,” he stammers, taken aback by your reception of his rough drafts.

“And yet, if you hadn’t told me, I never would have known. You’re crazy talented. Don’t ever think otherwise.” 

“Thank you, Yeobo, that really means a lot. Seriously!” he says shyly as he places a hand gently on your bare thigh, the touch spreading goosebumps over your skin.

The car pulls into the parking lot of an extremely tall building. “This is us,” he says with a smile as he pulls into a parking space. You look up and admire the fancy looking building.  

“Where are we?” you ask with wonder in your voice.

“My place!” Hongjoong turns off the ignition and hops out to head to your side and open your door, offering his hand. You take it as you step out. When you’re fully out of the car, he laces your fingers together as you walk to the doors of the building. 

He scans his key card to enter the building and leads you to a set of elevators. You both make your way into the elevator and he punches the “11” button, the top floor. He pulls out his phone to send a quick text to someone, and then pockets it again. “I tried to make this night really special for you, so I hope I did well,” he says, rubbing his neck nervously and breaking the comfortable silence.

“Spending time with you is special enough, Joong,” you say, placing a quick peck to his pouting lips. “I’ve never seen you this nervous before, it’s kind of adorable.” 

“Aishhh, stop it,” he giggles, poking your side. “I just wanted to show you that there’s another side to me other than the one that wants you permanently attached to my dick.” 

You cackle at his words. “Did you ever hear me complaining, Jagiya?” you say in your fit of laughter. Just then the elevator jolts to a halt, letting you know you’ve reached your designated floor. 

“No, but… I just want you to know that I want more than just that,” the pout in his tone is evident as he leads the way to his apartment. 

You chuckle and shake your head as you nudge him with your hip. “I never once thought any different.” 

You finally reach his apartment. Apartment 1117. Both of you toeing off your shoes, your nose is hit with an amazing smell, and you hear clattering coming from the kitchen. You raise an eyebrow as Hongjoong leads you to the table set for two. Warm candlelight, creating a romantic ambiance. The table is filled with a plethora of banchan, and a dish 

you would recognize anywhere, set at either end of the cozy table. Wooyoung’s spam gochujang jigae. 

Hongjoong pulls out the chair for you and prompts you to sit. As he takes his own spot at the other side of the table, Wooyoung comes sauntering out from the kitchen, two glasses of wine in hand. 

“So this is where you’ve been all day, you sneaky shit!” You point an accusatory finger at Wooyoung.

“Heh, caught me!”

He walks over to Hongjoong and sets down the glass of wine and leans in to place an unhurried kiss to his lips. “Thank you for everything today, Youngie,” Hongjoong says gratefully to Wooyoung. 

“Anything for you, Joongie. And Y/N, of course.” 

He then walks over to you and repeats his actions, kissing you just a little longer. “I would love to stay and play, Angel, but Joongie wants you all to himself tonight. But I’ll see you sooner than you know.” He tilts your chin up and winks at you before planting another quick kiss to your lips. 

“Thank you for this amazing looking dinner, Woo.”

“Yah, it’s nothing! Eat before it gets cold!” he scolds you and Hongjoong. “I’ll see you both soon.” And with that, he makes his way to the front door to take his leave. 

You and Hongjoong share a laugh as you begin digging into the spread that Wooyoung has prepared for you. Conversation flows easily between the two of you.

A ding comes from both of your phones. 

You shoot back a text, assuming the unsaved numbers are the others you’ve yet to meet. 

You eye Hongjoong across the table as he responds in the text thread, consisting of nine. Five of those numbers unknown to you.

“They want you to guess who is who in the group chat,” Hongjoong explains with a light chuckle.

“And how would I even begin to know that!” You shake your head with a smile on your face at the boy’s goofy antics.

“Well, it seems Mingi was kind enough to give you the first one free,” Hongjoong says, now shaking with laughter. You store in Mingi’s number, leaving you with four of the members to now figure out. 

Hongjoong gives you a devious smirk from across the table as he sends the text into the group chat.

Your cheeks flush at their texts and your brain starts putting pieces together. The only ones who have heard you besides the three you’ve already fucked were Mingi, Yunho, and Yeosang. Mingi is already saved in your contacts now, so the two previous texts are definitely Yeosang and Yunho. Now to figure out which is which. Then you remember Mingi quickly hanging up, because he was dealing with a horny Yeosang.

The group chat winding down, and you and Hongjoong having finished your wonderful dinner together, he clears his throat. “I, uh… have another surprise for you.”

Eyebrows raised in suspicion, you rest your chin on your hand, waiting for him to further explain. “And what’s that, Jagiya?”

“Let me get this cleaned up, and I’ll show you.” You offer to help clean up the remnants of dinner but he objects. “You don’t lift a pretty little finger in my presence, understood?” he says as he places a light kiss to your temple. You give him a half smile and a nod. You aimlessly scroll through social media while you wait for Hongjoong to finish cleaning up.

When he finishes, he walks over to you, holding his hand out for you to take. He leads you to a sliding door you hadn’t noticed before. He slides it open and you both step out onto the spacious balcony. 

“While it’s beautiful here, I’ve got something even better.” He guides you to an easily overlooked set of iron stairs. He lets you lead the way (definitely not to stare at your ass). 

When you reach the top of the stairs, you realize you’re now on the rooftop of Hongjoong’s building. There’s a checkered blanket laid out, with a bottle of champagne on ice, and a variety of other treats for the two of you to share. He anxiously takes your hand and pulls you with him to settle onto the blanket. 

You look up at the millions of stars that are visible in the perfectly clear skies. “It’s so beautiful out here, Joongie,” and he can see the twinkle of the stars reflected in your eyes as he looks over to admire you. 

“Mmm, I didn’t even know this existed for quite some time after I moved here.”

“You had this amazing view and had no idea!?” you exclaim.

“No,” he shakes his head and looks to the stars. “It wasn’t until after Hwa and I had a disagreement and he disappeared. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I was heading out to the balcony to get some fresh air when I noticed the sliding door had already been cracked open. I looked everywhere out there and still no sign of him. That’s when I finally noticed the set of stairs, tucked back, almost out of sight. I rushed up the stairs, hoping it would lead me to where he was. I found him here, taking in the view, much like you are now. Except under a bit of a different circumstance.” You can see the way his eyes shimmer with unshed tears, recalling the events.

“What happened, Joongie?” you ask tentatively. He’s silent for a bit. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

He lets out a soft sigh and pops open the champagne, pouring each of you a glass. “No, I feel like it’s important for you to know. Seonghwa has given me every single part of himself freely. One thing in particular, without my knowledge. I was upset that he kept a very important piece of information from me. He took away my ability to choose if what happened was something I wanted.” 

You took one of his hands in yours while his other brought the glass to his lips to sip at the champagne. You rub your thumb in comforting circles against his inked knuckles. “You don’t have to continue, Joong.” 

“I just…” The unshed tears begin to fall. “I love him so much and I wish he had trusted me enough to tell me. To know that it would never change my feelings for him.” 

You turn more towards him and wipe the salty tears from his flushed face. “I can see your pain, Jagiya. What didn’t he tell you?” 

“I took his virginity, Y/N.”

You just stare at him for a moment, wide eyed, unsure of what to say. “I could absolutely understand why that would upset you. You love Seonghwa?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I do. With my entire being. Just as much as I…” He stops from finishing his sentence. He’s not sure if you're ready for him to fully admit his true feelings for you. He’s not sure if he’s ready. He doesn’t want to scare you off. He doesn’t want a repeat of when he attempted to tell Seonghwa about his feelings. After their disagreement on the rooftop, Seonghwa refused to hear his words, ghosted him, and then returned as if nothing had happened. 

“Just as much as what, Jagiya?” 

He shakes his head and waves to dismiss the discussion. “Ah, nothing, nothing. Enough sad shit for tonight. I got you alone to spend quality time with you.” 

He puts his glass down, removes yours from your hand and sets them out of reach. He then pulls you onto his lap and peppers your neck with soft, intimate kisses. His hands travel under your skirt and kneads the soft flesh of your ass. He removes a single hand to pluck a grape from the tray of snacks, and settles it between his flashy, perfect set of teeth. He nudges his head upwards, signaling you take it with your own. Your take in between your own teeth, realizing it’s frozen. 

“You and I? We’re gonna pass this back and forth with our mouths, until it’s no longer frozen.” The eye contact he keeps with you makes you shiver. “The first one to realize it’s no longer frozen and eats it, earns a prize. You ready, baby?” You give him a small nod.

He takes his time coaxing the frozen grape from your mouth, ensuring to let his pierced tongue explore the inside of your warm, wet mouth. Once he finally has the grape in his own, you take twice as long with him, earning you a small moan. 

This continues between the two of you, unhurried, until Hongjoong finally notices the cold has dissipated from the grape and he takes it into his mouth once again and eats it. “Looks like I win, Yeobo,” a mischievous glint showing in his eyes. 

You rest your forehead against his, lips centimeters apart. “So what would you like to claim as your prize, Jagi?” you whisper as you grind down on his very noticeable bulge. 

“There’s something I’ve been dying for you to do to me. And I’m pretty sure you’ve been dying to do it as well. So I took the liberty of getting rid of the barriers that have prevented that from happening so far.” He slides you off of your comfortable position on his lap and kneels to hastily undo his pants. He kicks them off to the side, leaving him in only his boxers, and settles back down on the blanket, sitting back and resting on his forearms. “Go ahead, my pretty girl. Come get it,” he says with a quick nod to his clothed dick.

You pull down his boxers just enough to let his cock spring free and the first thing that draws your attention, besides his flushed, red, leaking tip, is the absence of metal. He removed all of his piercings, specifically to allow you to be able to deep throat him the way you’ve been wanting to. 

“Is this a prize for me, or for you?” the words a jumbled mess against the saliva pooling in your mouth at the sight of Hongjoong’s long, thick cock. 

“Maybe a bit of both,” he chuckles at your eagerness. 

You grip him in your hand and give him a few strokes to slick him up with the precum already oozing out. You place a ghost of a kiss on his tip and he shivers. A small whine escapes from Hongjoong’s lips. “S-stop teasing baby, please.”

You slowly crawl up his body to come face to face with him, push him onto his back all the way, and place a single finger on his pouty lips. “Shhh, let me take my time and savor this.” His breath hitches as he gives you a single nod.

At a painstakingly slow pace, you work your way down his inked body. Marking his neck, then his collar bones. You stop at his hardened nipples and latch your mouth onto one, using your tongue to play around with the barbell. This makes Hongjoong hiss in a breath and you give a satisfied smirk against his skin. You make sure each nipple is thoroughly abused from your mouth before you move on. You sloppily kiss your way down to the “CAPTAIN” tattoo. You remember how much he loved when San traced it with his tongue, so you do the same, except you draw it out much longer. You want Hongjoong needy underneath you. 

And needy he gets. His hand comes to rest gently in your hair and his breathing starts coming out in heavy pants. His head is tilted back and eyes closed, focusing on not cumming untouched. Waiting for your mouth to finally take his cock. His moans are high pitched and getting more and more frequent. As the final tease before giving him what he (and you) truly wants, you mark up his soft inner thighs, and you can feel them trembling under your teeth. You eventually make it to his angry, throbbing cock, and messily kick the bulging veins. Another desperate whimper leaves his lips.

While his attention isn’t currently focused directly on you, you quietly grab an ice cube from the bucket the champagne has sat in to chill. You pop it into your mouth before wrapping your lips around his perfect, pretty cock, jewelry or not. The contrast of temperature around his dick makes undecipherable noises fall from his lips, and quickly sit himself up on his forearms to get his bearings. He tries not to buck his hips up as he peers down at you through his long, fluffy eyelashes, and he looks so fucked out already. You can tell he’s been thinking about having you like this for ages. 

He watches you work him as his breaths shorten into quick bursts. You use your tongue to work the ice cube around his dick, and you can feel him twitch in your mouth. “Take it all, baby. I know you can. I’ve watched you take pretty Woo,” he purrs as he pets your hair. 

As the ice melts and creates a pool in your mouth you take a slow, steadying breath before you take his entire length in one go, his thick cock stretching your mouth in the most delicious way. A long, loud moan bubbles up from his chest. Your nose pressed against him, you run your tongue on the underside of his hot, pulsing cock. You noisily swallow around him and that is almost his undoing. 

“My pretty, pretty girl. You keep doing that, and my cum is going right down your throat,” he manages to get out in between his whimpers and moans. You take that as a challenge. You take one of his hands and rest it on your throat. At first, he thinks you want him to choke you, but then another realization hits him. He can feel himself down your throat.

His eyes widened in astonishment, he murmurs, “Fuuuuck, it’s like you were made just for me.” You make him feel you swallow down his cock, and he keeps his promise of cumming right down your throat with the most pornographic moan. You do your best to swallow it all, but some escapes the corners of your mouth. You pull off of him with a wet pop, and sit back on your heels, mouth open and tongue out to show him you took all of his seed. He swipes the bit that has made its way to the corners of your mouth and you greedily suck it off of his fingers. 

“You’re such a good fucking girl. I must have been a damn good person in my past life to deserve you,�� he rambles as he comes down from his high. “Now it’s time to let me worship you.” He tips you back gently and hovers over you, riding himself completely of his boxers in the process, so he’s now fully bare over your still clothed body.

“Joongie, you don’t have to. I enjoyed doing that for you because I wanted to, not because I expected anything in return.”

“Yeobo, the only thing I love more than having my dick down your throat is my face buried in your delectable, wet pussy. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Now please lose some layers, you’re a bit overdressed for the occasion,” his cocky little smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth. 

He takes his time uncovering every inch of skin, the moment feeling very intimate. He drinks in your naked form before he does one of his favorite things to claim you, and darkens the fading marks across your skin. He litters hot, soft kisses across every bit of exposed flesh, savoring the feel of you on his lips. He plays your trick on you and snags an ice cube. Instead of placing it into his mouth, he alternates between rubbing it on your nipples and immediately blowing his warm breath onto them until they’re hardened into stiff peaks, and you’re gasping underneath him, until the ice has almost completely melted. 

He takes another piece of ice, this time taking the frozen cube into his mouth between his teeth and blazes a trail of mixing sensations, warm and cold, down your body, causing goosebumps to erupt in its path. He leisurely makes his way down to your thighs, kissing the ice against the softness of them. Once he’s had enough of teasing you and that cube has disappeared, his fun really begins. He dips his hand back into the ice bucket, retrieving two more. “I hope you’re prepared for what I have in store for you, pretty girl,” his voice husky. Your breath hitched at his words, never knowing what master plan Hongjoong will come up with.

He takes one ice cube and lightly grazes your swollen, dripping cunt before prodding at your entrance with it and without warning, uses two delicate fingers to nuzzle it deep inside you. You let out a sharp gasp, the cold sending a thrill through your body. “Fuuuck, Hongjoong!” you moan out as your back arches prettily for him.

He watches your fucked out expressions as he fingers the second piece inside next to the first. “I made sure to find the biggest pieces of ice, because my face is staying buried between your legs until they’re melted. And who knows? Maybe I’ll even forget they’re there.” 

“Jesus Christ, Joong. You can’t just say shit like that,” you whisper between pants. 

“Mmm? Why’s that?”

“I’m gonna fucking cum before you even get your mouth on me, that’s why,” your voice coming out whiny and desperate.

“Guess I better put my mouth to better use then, hmm?”

His metal clad tongue, cool from the ice, lands on your clit, and you scramble to find purchase in his soft locks. He suctions his lips around your sensitive bundle of nerves, making sure to be extra loud about it, so you know how much he’s enjoying himself. You tug on his hair, earning you a moan from him that vibrates through your pussy, and tightening the already wound up knot in your stomach. He shoves his tongue in your gushing hole, no doubt to check on the ice, while also savoring the juices he’s coaxed out of you. 

“Not even close. Can you hold out for me, baby? If you cum before the ice melts, I’m still not stopping until it does.” Hongjoong looks so incredibly pussy drunk, looking up at you through hooded eyes, pupils dilated. 

“I-I’ll try, Joongie.”

“That’s my good girl,” he growls lowly as he returns to his feast.

Right as he resumes his pussy eating mission, his phone rings. 

My Star

He stops, and you let out a frustrated sigh.

“Goddammit, Hwa. Awful timing. Baby, will you answer? He’s just going to keep calling if his call goes unanswered.”

Hongjoong returns to lapping at your dripping folds as you swipe to answer Seonghwa’s call. The minute he realizes his call has been answered, without waiting for a hello, he’s whining into the phone, upset about a missing LEGO piece. 

“Joongie, I just had it and I can’t find it anywhere!” and you can hear the pout through the phone. 

“H-Hwa? J-Joong’s a little b-busy right now…” you barely manage to reply through ragged breaths. Seonghwa goes silent on the other end for a beat longer than necessary. 

“Oh is he?” curiosity with a hint of something else hidden in his voice. “And what exactly is keeping him busy, Y/N?” At that moment Hongjoong slithers his tongue inside your hole, and you moan loudly into Seonghwa’s ear. 

“Hmm, that answers my question. You’re what he’s busy with. Do me a favor, precious Bunny, and turn this into a FaceTime call for me?” If the phone had been on speaker, and Hongjoong had heard the request, and he wasn’t so pussy drunk to be able to comprehend anything other than devouring you, he absolutely would have protested. But the sweet taste of you overcame anything else in Hongjoong’s brain. 

You start the FaceTime call with Seonghwa and at first he isn’t within view of his own camera. He instructs you to place the phone to the side of your head, and angled so he can have a clear view of Hongjoong submerged between your thighs, and if you turn your head to the side, your face from the pleasure Hongjoong is giving you. 

Your focus returns to the man tongue fucking your pussy relentlessly, that is, until you’re reminded you have an audience as a voice lilts out from Hongjoong’s phone. 

“Oh, my sweet little Joongie. Are you enjoying Y/N’s delicious little pussy?”

Hongjoong’s eyes go wide as he detaches himself from you to look in the direction of the voice, his face dripping with your juices. His eyes land on Seonghwa’s staring at him through the screen with admiration and a gleam of something else he can’t quite decipher. Hongjoong’s brain can’t even form words, instead giving Seonghwa a nod. It’s at that moment you decided to turn your attention to Hongjoong’s phone screen with a huff, again being denied your orgasm. Only to be looking at one of the most gorgeous men you’ve ever seen. Long, silky raven hair falling to his shoulders and strands framing his beautiful face perfectly. His long tongue darts out to lick his full lips. 

“Thank you, Hwa, for ruining my orgasm a second time,” you say, a bit harsher than you meant for it to come out. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Bunny. Our Joongie is going to make it up to you, aren’t you, love?” 

Hongjoong’s brain still swimming, again all he can manage is a nod. 

“Good boy,” Seonghwa praises. “Go on, give Y/N what she wants, baby.” 

Hongjoong needs no further instruction to return to your glistening folds and double his efforts in making you cum on his face. Except this time, his eyes are trained on Seonghwa as he eats you like his final meal.

“That’s a good Joongie, making sure our Y/N is taken care of. You listen so well,” Seonghwa purrs. 

You tilt your head back as the coil winds tighter yet again. “S-so close, Joongie,” moans and whimpers falling from your lips.

“Look at me, Bunny. I want to see you as you come undone on our Joongie’s tongue.”  

You focus on the screen, on Seonghwa’s gorgeous face, before a well intentioned nibble on your clit makes your eyes roll back and your mouth parts in a silent scream, as you squirt and soak Hongjoong and the blanket beneath you. 

“Oh, you listen well, too. I’m gonna have fun with you, little Bunny,” a dark expression taking over Seonghwa’s face. 

Hongjoong continues to lap up the proof of his efforts until you push him away from the overstimulation. As you both catch you breath, Hongjoong’s fuzzy brain finally comes back online.

“I lied. The ice melted a long time ago,” a goofy grin playing on his face. 

“Enjoy yourself, my love?” Seonghwa asks Hongjoong, now that he can get an actual answer from the younger. 

“Mmm. You’ll enjoy her too, Hwa,” he responds as he lays his head on your still quickly rising and falling stomach. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second. Thank you both for indulging me. You both look so pretty all fucked out. See you both soon.” He shoots the pair of you a wink before ending the call. 

“Come on, I'll clean this up later, let’s go relax in the bath.” You both dress in bare necessities to make your way back inside.

While heading up the stairs, you receive a text message. Not from the group. But from just Hwa.

Once inside, he leads you to the bedroom and gently orders you to relax while he draws a bath. Once the tub is almost filled, he heads back to the room and slings you over his shoulder and carries you effortlessly into the bathroom. You giggle the whole way, enjoying this less serious, more intimate side of Hongjoong. 

He lowers himself into the water, offering you a hand to climb in with him. “Come on in, the water’s fine,” he laughs. You hop in and he pulls you close to him, and he revels in the closeness you two share. He’s uncharacteristically silent, so you try and prod him a little to find out why.

“Jagi, something on your mind? You’re quiet, and it’s kinda weirding me out a bit,” you joke.

“Mmm, yeah. I just… Hwa was very… different tonight. The praise. It’s not like him. At least not with me. It really threw me off.”

“What do you mean? What is he usually like?” you question.

“I can’t tell you that,” he chuckles. “I can’t reveal his secrets! Just know that the dynamic between me and Hwa is different than he is with the other boys. So he caught me completely off guard. Not that I didn’t like it. It was just… strange.” 

“Aww, you liked being called a good boy while drowning, did you?” you tease as you play with his hands comfortably resting in your own. 

“Mhmm, I did.” He lazily kisses your neck, your shoulders, your cheeks. He begins dozing off a bit and you nudge him.

“Let’s go lay down, Jagiya. You’ve had an eventful night.” 

You both dry off and throw on something comfy and slide under the welcoming sheets. Before your eyes become too heavy, a series of texts come through, lighting up the otherwise dark room. 

“Joong, explain yourself!” 

Half asleep, he murmurs out a ‘what’.

“The hell did Woo just sent a message to the group chat saying ‘See you bitches tomorrow’?” 

“See, what had happened was… I may have made some plans for you to meet all of the boys tomorrow. So rest up, you’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.” He pecks your cheek before sleep takes him. 

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (7)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For all the parts of this story, or if you want to read more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 9 000+

- Previous part: 6

- Next part: 8

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The walls of the Red Keep seem to close in around you as the hours slip away, each moment thick with the weight of unspoken fears and the ever-present shadow of your father’s madness. Two weeks have passed since the last incident in the throne room, but the dread in your stomach has only grown, an ever-tightening knot that never truly loosens.

It’s late afternoon when you hear the muffled sound of voices just outside your chamber door. Your hand tightens around the edge of the table you’re seated at, the delicate embroidery in your hands forgotten. A soft knock echoes through the room, and you turn your gaze toward the door just as it creaks open.

Ser Arthur steps inside first, his expression as stony as ever, but there’s a tension in his eyes you’ve come to recognize—a flicker of concern that tells you something is wrong. Close behind him is Ser Barristan Selmy, and though the older knight tries to mask it, his unease is plain to see. The lines on his face seem deeper, his usual calm demeanor strained.

“My lady,” Barristan begins, his voice gentler than usual, though there’s a tremor in it that sets your nerves alight. “The king has… summoned you. He demands your presence in the throne room.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, his hand subtly moving toward the hilt of the Morning as if the very idea of taking you before Aerys is a threat he must ward against. “For what purpose, Ser Barristan?” Arthur’s tone is low, barely restrained, as he steps slightly in front of you, his protective instincts overriding decorum. “What does the king want with her this time?”

Barristan looks away briefly, his shoulders heavy with the burden of orders he clearly wishes he didn’t have to give. “It is not our place to question the king, Ser Arthur,” he replies, though there’s a note of regret in his voice. “But I have heard enough to know it involves the pyromancers… and those cursed eggs again.”

A chill runs down your spine at the mention of the pyromancers, and your mind races, conjuring images of flames, stone-cold eggs, and your father’s fevered eyes. You’ve seen this before, yet something in Barristan’s tone, the dread lingering beneath his words, tells you that this time is different. Worse.

Arthur turns to you, his eyes locking with yours, a silent exchange passing between you. He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand what he’s feeling—helplessness, anger, and a desperation to protect you from whatever fresh horror awaits. But the reality of your situation crashes down on you both. He cannot defy the king’s orders, and neither can you.

“Let’s get this over with,” you whisper, though your voice wavers despite your best efforts to remain calm.

Barristan nods solemnly, stepping aside as Arthur offers you his arm. You take it, drawing strength from his silent presence, even as your heart thuds heavily in your chest. The walk to the throne room feels longer than usual, the silence broken only by the heavy tread of boots on stone. Every step is a reminder of the peril you’re walking into, each corner turned bringing you closer to a chamber that has become a place of nightmares.

As you near the entrance, you hear the murmur of gathered courtiers, the swell of whispers rising and falling like a tide. The massive doors swing open, revealing a room packed with nobles and courtiers, their faces a mixture of curiosity and fear. You catch sight of familiar faces—Tywin Lannister standing with his cold, calculating expression, Cersei beside him with a faint smile playing on her lips as her eyes flit toward you. Pycelle’s rotund form looms near the back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Varys stands close to the edge of the crowd, his expression unreadable, a ghost of a smile curling his lips as he watches you enter. The Kingsguard stand in rigid formation around the room, their armor gleaming, but it’s Arthur’s presence by your side that keeps you from trembling.

Your gaze is drawn toward the center of the room, and your blood turns to ice. The dragon eggs—those ancient stones that have long lost their warmth—are placed in the same brazier as before. But now, close to the brazier, there are men—three of them—chained to iron posts driven deep into the stone floor. Their eyes are wide with terror, the chains rattling as they struggle against their bonds, their cries muffled by the gags forced into their mouths.

It’s only then that you fully realize what’s happening—what your father intends. Sacrifice. A twisted attempt to give life to the dead eggs through the deaths of these poor souls. The pyromancers stand at the ready, holding jars of wildfire, the sickly green substance gleaming ominously in the torchlight.

The sight nearly takes your breath away, and you instinctively grip Arthur’s arm tighter. He stiffens beside you, and you feel his tension radiating through his body. But he doesn’t move—he can’t move. Not here, not with everyone watching. Not with the king present.

And then you see him—your father. King Aerys stands near the Iron Throne, a dark shadow in his black robes. His hair is wild, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity that makes your stomach churn. Blood stains his hands and forearms—fresh cuts from the throne’s sharp blades, though he seems entirely unaware of the wounds. He grins as you enter, a grotesque display of teeth and madness.

“Ah, my daughter has arrived!” Aerys exclaims, his voice carrying through the room, drawing the attention of every soul present. “Come, come closer, my jewel. You must witness this grand spectacle, the rebirth of our house, the awakening of our dragons!”

The court falls into a tense silence, every eye turning to you, the weight of expectation pressing down like a suffocating shroud. You want to flee, to run as far as you can from this nightmare, but you force your feet to move forward, your steps steady even though each one feels like it could lead to your doom.

“Father…” You manage to keep your voice steady, though dread curls deep in your gut. “What are you doing?”

“Greatness, my child! Glory beyond imagining!” Aerys cries, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the room. “The flames will rise, the blood will flow, and the dragons will awaken once more! It is the sacrifice of these pitiful souls that will bring our ancestors roaring back to life!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, every instinct screaming that you should turn and run. But you know that doing so would only seal the fates of those chained men—and perhaps your own. You glance at Arthur, whose expression is a mask of stone, but his eyes blaze with barely contained rage. Even Ser Barristan, who stands nearby, looks as though he might step forward to protest—but he, too, is bound by his duty.

Aerys’s eyes glint with madness as he steps closer to the brazier, the heat from the flames making his skin glisten with sweat. “Come, Y/N,” he beckons, his voice dipping into a sickly sweet tone. “Stand beside me and witness what it means to truly be a Targaryen. You, of all people, must see this. You are the blood of the dragon, and it is through your presence that the flames will be given purpose.”

Your blood runs cold as he gestures for you to come forward. The eyes of the court burn into you, waiting to see what you’ll do, what you’ll say. But your feet feel like they’re made of lead, refusing to obey the king’s summons, even as your mind races for some way out of this madness.

And in that moment, you realize there is no escape—not from this room, not from the twisted plans your father has laid out. The fate of those chained men, of the dead dragon eggs, of your family, all hinges on what happens next.

As your heart pounds in your chest, you take a step forward, toward your father, toward the pyromancers and their jars of wildfire, toward the nightmarish scene laid out before you.

And then, with every eye in the room fixed on you, Aerys’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, his smile widening into something monstrous. “Come closer, daughter. The flames await.”

Your steps falter as you approach your father, the madness in his eyes more terrifying than the flames flickering in the braziers beside the dragon eggs. The heat of the room prickles your skin, but it’s the icy dread within you that leaves your hands trembling. Aerys’s grin widens as you draw closer, his bony fingers twitching in anticipation. The pyromancers stand ready, their faces half-shrouded by the hoods of their dark robes, holding vials of green wildfire that glimmer ominously.

Before you can brace yourself, your father’s hand shoots out, gripping your arm with surprising strength. You wince as his fingers dig into your flesh, dragging you forward until you’re nearly nose-to-nose with him. His breath is hot and sour against your face, his eyes alight with a manic glee that sends a shudder down your spine.

“Watch, daughter. Watch as the blood of the dragon rekindles the flames of old,” he hisses, his voice trembling with anticipation. Without warning, he pulls a dagger from his belt—its blade jagged and stained with old blood—and slashes it across your palm. The pain is sharp and sudden, tearing a cry from your lips as blood wells from the wound.

“Y/N!” Arthur’s voice rings out, laced with alarm. You glance over your shoulder, seeing him take a step forward, his hand halfway to his sword before Ser Barristan places a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him back. Barristan’s voice is grim as he says, “Stand down, Ser Arthur. These are the king’s orders.”

Arthur’s eyes blaze with barely contained fury, his jaw clenched so tightly you fear he might draw blood from his own lip. But his duty holds him in place, and you see the struggle tearing him apart inside. You want to reach out, to tell him it’s all right, but your father’s grip tightens, yanking your attention back to him.

Aerys’s own hand follows, the dagger slicing across his palm as well. His blood, dark and thin, mingles with yours as he drags you toward the brazier where the dragon eggs lie in their bed of embers. “This is what it means to be a Targaryen,” he whispers, his voice thick with twisted reverence. “Fire and blood, our birthright.”

You try to pull away, but his grip is iron. He forces your hand over the eggs, letting the crimson droplets of your blood, mixed with his, rain down upon the cold, lifeless shells. The sticky warmth of blood coats your fingers, and you can’t help the tremor that runs through you as he chants under his breath, words that sound more like a prayer to a forgotten god than anything else.

And then, as if satisfied with his grotesque ritual, Aerys shoves you to the side. You stumble, catching yourself on the edge of the brazier, the heat prickles your skin. “Set the flames ablaze!” Aerys orders, his voice rising to a frenzied pitch. “Burn them all—the eggs, the men! Let the fire consume them and bring forth our legacy!”

The pyromancers don’t hesitate. With a flick of their wrists, they hurl the jars of wildfire toward the brazier. The green liquid splashes across the eggs, igniting instantly in a blinding surge of flames that leap hungrily toward the chained men. Their muffled screams pierce the air as the fire takes hold, spreading along the iron chains and engulfing them in a hellish inferno. The stench of burning flesh fills the room, and the crackle of wildfire mixes with the sickening sound of flesh searing away.

You scramble to your feet, but before you can move away, your father grabs a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back as he forces you to watch. “Look, my daughter! Look at what power truly is!” His grip is painful, his voice dripping with a perverse kind of pride. He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, “This is our destiny—to bathe the world in fire and see it reborn in blood.”

The horror of it twists your stomach into knots, bile rising in your throat as the flames roar higher, crackling and snapping like the jaws of some hungry beast. You can feel the heat singeing your skin, the acrid smoke stinging your eyes, but you can’t tear your gaze away. The sight is too horrifying—men writhing in agony as the wildfire consumes them, their screams growing faint as the fire reduces them to ash.

The court watches in stunned silence, a mixture of awe and revulsion etched on their faces. You catch a glimpse of Tywin Lannister’s cold, impassive gaze, and Cersei’s eyes wide with a twisted fascination. Varys’s smile is barely there, a ghostly curve of his lips as he watches from the shadows, while Pycelle again strokes his beard nervously, muttering to himself.

But above all, you sense Arthur’s eyes on you—filled with pain, helplessness, and a burning fury that is barely contained. He’s bound by duty, forced to stand and watch as you endure this nightmare, unable to do anything but clench his fists and wait for the madness to end.

Then, just as you think you cannot bear another moment of this torment, Rhaegar’s voice slices through the chaos, filled with fury. “Father! Stop this madness!”

The crowd parts as Rhaegar pushes through, his face a mask of rage and desperation. His violet eyes blaze as he strides toward the brazier, his hands clenched into fists. “What is this insanity? You’re sacrificing men—innocent men—for the sake of dead stones!”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening on your hair as he sneers at his son. “You speak of insanity, boy, but you have no vision! You think yourself wise, with your songs and your prophecies, but it is I who will restore the glory of our house! I am the king! I am the blood of the dragon!”

Rhaegar steps closer, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “You are killing our people, our house, with your madness. Y/N is not your doll to use in these delusions, nor are those men your playthings to burn for your twisted pleasure!”

Aerys’s eyes flash with fury, and he releases your hair, turning to face Rhaegar fully. “You dare defy me? You dare to speak against your king? You would see our bloodline wither and die rather than embrace the fire that runs through our veins!”

“I would see us live!” Rhaegar snaps back, his voice cracking with emotion. “I would see us rise above this, not fall into ruin because of your obsession with dead dragons!”

The tension in the room is suffocating, every courtier holding their breath as father and son square off, the flames still roaring behind them. But before either can say another word, a loud crack echoes through the chamber, silencing everyone.

Your heart stops as you turn toward the brazier. The flames curl around the eggs, licking hungrily at the stone shells. And then you hear it—a screech, high-pitched and otherworldly, rising from the depths of the fire. The court gasps in unison as one of the eggs shifts, the stone splitting down the middle with a jagged crack.

For a heartbeat, everything is still, the only sound the crackling of the flames and the faint hiss of wildfire. And then, from within the shattered egg, a tiny, serpentine creature emerges—a dragon, no larger than a hound pup, with scales the color of midnight and eyes like molten gold. It lets out another screech, flapping its fragile wings as it takes its first breath in this world, born of fire and blood.

The room is deathly silent, every eye locked on the creature as it pulls itself free from the broken shell. Aerys’s eyes widen, tears glistening in them as he stares at the dragon with a mixture of awe and triumph. “It lives… it lives!” he breathes, his voice trembling with reverence. “The dragons have returned!”

But as the awe settles in, the horror of what was done to bring this moment to fruition lingers like a dark shadow over the court. The sacrifice of innocent men, the bloodshed, the madness—it all culminates in this fragile, fledgling creature that blinks in confusion, its tiny mouth snapping at the air.

And yet, as the silence stretches on, it becomes clear that the return of the dragon is not the victory Aerys had hoped for. The court watches in a mixture of horror and fascination, but beneath it all, there is a deeper, darker understanding—that this birth was a product of cruelty, not of destiny.

Aerys, however, seems blind to it all. He steps closer to the brazier, his voice rising with a manic glee. “This is only the beginning! The dragons will rise again, and our house will be reborn in fire and blood!”

But as you stand there, your heart still pounding in your chest, you realize that this is not the rebirth of your house—it is the beginning of its downfall. The dragon may have hatched, but it was born in a bed of madness, and the cost of its life was too high to ignore.

Rhaegar’s gaze meets yours, and you see the same understanding in his eyes. This moment, this creature, is not a triumph. It is a harbinger of the darkness that now looms over House Targaryen.

The throne room descends into chaos, the air thick with smoke, the acrid scent of burning flesh mingling with the eerie, screeching cries of the newborn dragon. The court is frozen in a mixture of horror and fascination, eyes wide as the tiny creature struggles to free itself from the remnants of its shell, its dark wings stretching out in a fragile, jerky motion. Its scales glisten with moisture, gleaming obsidian in the flickering firelight, its golden eyes wild and hungry as it snaps at the air, testing its newfound freedom.

Rhaegar moves first, his instincts sharper than the shock that ripples through the crowd. His gaze locks onto you, and he pushes through the throng of courtiers, his face a mask of determination and fear. “Y/N!” he calls, his voice cutting through the clamor, desperation lacing every syllable. He can see the danger—you’re too close to the flames, too close to the madness that grips your father. 

At the same time, Arthur breaks from his position near the edge of the room, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, ready to strike if needed. His eyes are locked on you, the woman he swore to protect, the woman he loves, as he weaves through the crowd, dodging courtiers and guards alike in his bid to reach you. His heart pounds in his chest, each beat echoing the urgency that drives him forward. 

But before either man can reach you, Aerys’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist in a bruising grip. His nails dig into your skin, drawing a wince from you as he drags you closer to him, closer to the hatching brazier where the dragon now writhes. The heat is unbearable, the stench nauseating, but Aerys is beyond reason, his eyes fixed on the creature with a sick, twisted adoration. 

“Father, stop!” You cry, struggling in his grip, but he only pulls you closer, his lips pulling back in a feral grin.

“You see, Y/N? You see what we are capable of when we embrace our destiny? The blood of the dragon flows strongest in you, in me! You will be the key to awakening them all!” His voice is frenzied, manic, and there is no sanity left in his eyes—only the feverish glow of a man consumed by his own delusions. He pulls you toward the dragon, shoving you so close that the heat scorches your skin, singeing the edges of your dress.

The little dragon screeches again, its head snapping in your direction as if sensing the fresh blood that still drips from your wounded hand. It lurches forward, its movements clumsy but quick, its tiny teeth bared in what could be either hunger or recognition.

“Let her go!” Rhaegar’s voice is a furious roar as he finally shoves his way through the crowd, his eyes blazing with both fury and terror. He strides toward Aerys, every muscle in his body coiled with the need to tear you from your father’s grasp. “You’ve done enough harm—let her go before someone gets killed!”

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, and for a brief moment, something like clarity flickers in his eyes, only to be extinguished by the wildfire of his madness. He tightens his hold on your wrist, yanking you closer to his side. “You dare command me?” he snarls, his voice rising in pitch, wild and venomous. “You, who would see our house fade into nothing, who would abandon the fire in our blood for weakness and sentimentality?”

Before Rhaegar can respond, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his voice cold and measured, but tinged with something that almost resembles concern. “Your Grace,” he begins, his tone calculated, yet edged with caution. “This is madness. We have seen the dragon hatch. It is a sign, yes, but your daughter’s life need not be risked further. This is enough.”

Aerys rounds on him, his face twisted in a snarl. “Enough?” he spits, his voice trembling with rage. “You presume to tell me what is enough? You, with your golden arrogance, your schemes to undermine my rule at every turn? You think I don’t see what you are, Tywin? You would have my daughter as a pawn in your little games, but she belongs to the fire! She belongs to me!”

Tywin’s expression darkens, but he holds his tongue, his calculating mind clearly weighing whether it is worth the risk to challenge the king further in this moment. For all his ambition, even Tywin Lannister knows there are limits when dealing with a madman armed with wildfire and delusions.

Meanwhile, Arthur has drawn closer, his hand still on the hilt of his sword as he positions himself just behind Rhaegar. His eyes are locked on Aerys, his body tensed, ready to strike should the king push you closer to danger. He knows he must tread carefully—one wrong move could lead to bloodshed, and you’re the one caught in the middle.

“Father, please,” you manage to say, your voice trembling as you try to keep calm. “You’ve already proven what you wanted. The dragon hatched. Let’s leave now, before more lives are lost.”

But Aerys doesn’t hear you—he’s too far gone, too enraptured by the flames and the cries of the newborn dragon. He grips your hair once more, pulling your head back and forcing you to look directly at the creature as it struggles to rise on shaky legs. “Look at it, Y/N! Look at what our blood has wrought! We are gods, you and I! We will bring forth fire and death to those who dare challenge us!”

The dragon screeches again, louder this time, its voice high and grating, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. It lunges toward you, its eyes gleaming with hunger, but the chains of the brazier keep it just out of reach, snapping its jaws inches away from your skin.

The tension in the room builds to a fever pitch, the courtiers frozen in place, unsure whether to flee or watch the nightmare unfold. The Kingsguard stand ready, their hands hovering near their swords, waiting for a signal that might never come.

Rhaegar’s patience snaps. He strides forward, grabbing Aerys by the arm and wrenching him away from you with a force that surprises even the king. “Enough!” he snarls, his face inches from Aerys’s, his eyes blazing with fury. “This madness ends now!”

For a moment, the two men stand locked in a furious standoff, father and son, both of them breathing hard, the flames flickering wildly around them. Aerys’s face contorts with rage, but there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a moment of doubt, as if he’s suddenly unsure whether the vision he clings to is real or merely another ghost conjured by his decaying mind.

The throne room vibrates with ominous intentions, the air crackling with the mingling scents of smoke, blood, and the wild, unnatural odor of newborn dragon flesh. Aerys and Rhaegar stand toe-to-toe, the firelight casting their faces in stark relief—father and son, both dragons, yet divided by madness and the darkness of their blood. Around them, courtiers stand frozen, watching the confrontation unfold with wide eyes, their breaths caught in their throats.

“Father, stop this insanity!” Rhaegar’s voice is sharp and commanding, resonating through the hall. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, poised to draw it should the need arise. “These creatures are not the saviors of our house; they are born of blood and madness. You’re risking everything for a delusion!”

Aerys’s eyes gleam with unholy fervor, his face twisted with both rage and joy. “You dare call this a delusion? You, who have done nothing but hide behind books and songs while I’ve fought to reclaim our birthright?” Spittle flies from his lips as he raves, his grip tightening on the edge of the brazier as if he could will the second egg to crack open with sheer force. “The dragons are ours, Rhaegar—mine and Y/N’s! We will be the ones to bring them forth, to birth them anew in fire and blood!”

Before Rhaegar can respond, a screech pierces the air—the dragon, small but fierce, has freed itself from the brazier. Its obsidian scales gleam in the firelight as it stretches its wings, shaking off the ash and embers that cling to its skin. The creature is no longer the fragile thing it was moments ago; there is a dark, primal strength in the way it moves, in the way its golden eyes gleam as it surveys the room.

The courtiers gasp and stumble back, fear rippling through the gathered crowd. Even Tywin Lannister’s eyes narrow in wary calculation as he takes a measured step away from the creature, his face an unreadable mask.

The dragon’s gaze sweeps across the room—past Aerys, past Rhaegar—and locks onto you.

A chill runs down your spine as its eyes, molten gold and filled with an intelligence far beyond its size, bore into you. It slinks toward you, each step deliberate and cautious, its claws clicking softly against the stone floor. The court holds its collective breath, tension crackling like a drawn bowstring. Your heart pounds in your chest as the creature draws closer, but despite the terror seizing your limbs, you cannot move. 

The dragon pauses before you, its eyes narrowing as it tilts its head, studying you with unnerving curiosity. Then, in a moment that defies everything you’ve ever known, it lowers its head, bowing before you. You feel a strange, invisible thread tighten between you and the creature—a bond forged in the fire of its birth, one that hums with a power that is both terrifying and awe-inspiring. The dragon’s screech quiets into a low, rumbling purr as it settles at your feet, no longer a threat but a guardian, a companion bound to you by forces neither of you fully understand.

The silence in the room is deafening, every gaze fixed on you and the dragon, disbelief and awe mingling in equal measure. For a moment, the world stands still—until Aerys’s voice shatters the quiet, filled with triumphant exultation.

“Behold!” Aerys cries, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The dragon has chosen! It knows its true blood—it knows its mother!” He strides toward you, his eyes alight with a fervor that borders on madness. “Yes, my daughter, this creature is ours—ours! It is as if we have birthed it ourselves, our blood flowing in its veins! This is our child, a gift from the gods, a symbol of our power!”

Rhaegar’s face pales, horror flashing across his features as he watches the scene unfold. “Father, this is madness,” he whispers, disbelief lacing his voice. He moves quickly, stepping between you and Aerys, placing himself protectively at your side. “This creature is not your child—it’s a beast, born of fire and bloodshed. You cannot twist this into something pure when it was born of sacrifice and death.”

Aerys ignores him, his gaze locked on the dragon as he reaches out with trembling fingers. “It is ours, Rhaegar. Ours to command, ours to nurture. Y/N, do you not see it? This is our destiny, yours and mine, to rule with fire and blood.”

But you see the truth in Rhaegar’s eyes—the fear, the revulsion, and the deep sadness that comes with realizing how far gone your father truly is. You take a shaky breath, your voice trembling as you finally speak. “Father… this is not what I wanted. This is not the future I imagined.”

Before Aerys can respond, Rhaegar’s grip tightens on your arm, pulling you back as he speaks urgently. “Y/N, we’re leaving. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument; it is a command, one born of desperation and love.

Aerys’s gaze snaps to Rhaegar, his expression twisting with fury. “You would take her from me? You, who knows nothing of the fire in our blood? She belongs here, with the dragon, with me!”

The dragon lets out a low growl, sensing the tension between its “mother” and the man who threatens her. But before it can act, a flash of white catches your eye—Arthur, his expression hard as steel, moving swiftly to stand beside Rhaegar.

“My prince,” Arthur says firmly, his eyes flicking between you and the dragon, “we need to go now.”

Aerys’s attention snaps to Arthur, a sneer curling his lips. “You think you can take her from me, Sword of the Morning? You are nothing but a servant—my servant! You would defy me?”

But Arthur stands his ground, his voice cold and steady. “I serve the realm, Your Grace. And I serve the prince and princess first.”

Before Aerys can react, Tywin Lannister steps forward, his face a mask of cold calculation back in place. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice laced with thinly veiled concern, “perhaps it would be wise to allow the prince and princess to depart. They are clearly distressed, and we wouldn’t want any further… incidents to occur.”

Aerys rounds on him, fury blazing in his eyes. “You dare condescend to me, Tywin? You think you can soothe me with your false concern? You—”

But Rhaegar doesn’t wait for the argument to escalate further. With a sharp tug, he pulls you toward the exit, his grip on your arm firm but gentle. “We’re leaving now, Y/N,” he whispers urgently. “We’ll figure out what to do, but we can’t stay here.”

The dragon screeches again, its eyes following you as you move, but it makes no move to attack. It remains crouched by the brazier, watching you leave with an almost mournful expression. You feel the bond tug at you, a strange ache in your chest as you walk away, but you force yourself to keep moving.

Arthur falls in step beside you, his presence a solid wall of protection as he shields you from the madness left behind. You glance back one last time, just in time to see Aerys reach out toward the dragon, his eyes gleaming with unholy joy. “Yes, my child… my beautiful child…”

The doors to the throne room slam shut behind you, cutting off the sight of your father, the dragon, and the pyromancers who still hover near the brazier. The noise of the court fades, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths and the rapid thudding of your heart.

You collapse against the cool stone wall in the corridor outside, the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. Rhaegar pulls you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you as if to shield you from the horrors you’ve just witnessed. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice raw with emotion. “I should never have let it get this far. I should have protected you better.”

You shake your head, tears burning in your eyes. “It’s not your fault, Rhaegar. Father… he’s beyond saving. We all are, in some ways.”

Arthur stands nearby, his sword still in hand, his eyes scanning the corridor for any sign of danger. When he’s satisfied that you’re safe for the moment, he steps closer, his expression softening as he looks at you. “You did well, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice carrying the faintest tremor. “You kept your head when most would have broken.”

You manage a faint, shaky smile. “I’m not sure how much longer I can keep doing that.”

“We’ll find a way,” Rhaegar promises, his voice firm with determination. “We’ll figure this out.”

Arthur nods in agreement, his eyes meeting Rhaegar’s with an unspoken understanding. “For now, let’s get you somewhere safe. Somewhere away from all of this.”

As the three of you walk down the corridor, the shadows stretch long and dark around you, but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you feel a spark of hope—a fragile, flickering thing, but it was there.

The heavy doors of the throne room remain shut, muffling the distant echoes of court life beyond. Inside, the once-grand hall is now shrouded in smoke and the eerie green glow of dwindling wildfire. The courtiers stand frozen, torn between awe and terror, their eyes darting between King Aerys and the small dragon now prowling around the smoldering brazier. Its obsidian scales shimmer like dark glass in the firelight, and the flicker of its eyes—molten gold and full of intent—keeps everyone on edge.

Aerys is utterly captivated, his attention consumed by the creature. He paces before it, hands outstretched as though in reverence, his eyes wide and unblinking, a man who has found purpose in his madness. “You see?” he whispers, almost to himself, though his voice carries across the silent room. “The blood of the dragon endures. This is proof that our power remains unbroken—that fire still answers our call.”

The dragon moves closer to him, its claws clicking against the stone floor. The creature’s wings flare slightly, casting long, menacing shadows that stretch across the walls. Aerys’s twisted smile widens, and he drops to his knees, bowing his head in what could only be described as worship.

“Magnificent,” murmurs one of the pyromancers, unable to tear his eyes from the dragon. “It lives—birthed from fire and blood, just as the old lore spoke of.” The other pyromancers exchange looks, their fascination clear as they huddle together, speaking in hushed, fevered tones about the possibilities this creature presents for their dark craft.

Tywin Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his face a mask of carefully controlled disgust. He makes no move to approach the king, but his cold eyes remain fixed on Aerys, taking in every detail of this unfolding disaster. “Your Grace,” Tywin finally speaks, his voice calm but edged with steel. “This… event is extraordinary, yes. But surely it is time to consider the safety of the realm. The presence of this dragon—” He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully, “—in such a volatile environment is a risk.”

Aerys rounds on him, his eyes blazing with fervor. “A risk? You call this a risk, Tywin?” His voice rises, sharp and mocking. “You, with your golden pride and ambition, would dare question the return of our house’s greatest symbol? You lack vision, as always.” He laughs, a wild, grating sound that sends shivers down the spines of those nearby. “The dragon is our salvation! It will stay here, in the throne room, where it belongs—where it will be under my protection!”

Pycelle, his face pale and beaded with sweat, clears his throat and steps forward. “Your Grace, with all due respect, the throne room is—unsuited for such a creature. Perhaps it would be better served if the beast were kept in the improvised Dragonpit we can quickly construct, where it might be properly—”

“Enough!” Aerys shrieks, his voice cracking as he rounds on Pycelle. “Do not presume to tell me how to care for my child! It stays here—here, where it can watch over its throne, where all can witness the return of our glory!”

The dragon’s head turns toward Aerys as he speaks, as if it senses the intensity of his emotions. The court watches, paralyzed, as the creature inches closer to the Iron Throne, the jagged steel blades reflecting in its golden eyes. The pyromancers exchange glances, their awe deepening with every movement of the dragon.

Varys, who had been lingering at the edge of the shadows, slips away unnoticed, disappearing into the darkness with a subtle swish of his robes. No one remarks on his absence—those who do notice are more concerned with the king’s unpredictable mood and the ever-looming threat of the dragon in their midst.

As the courtiers murmur amongst themselves, Tywin presses his lips into a thin line, his calculating gaze sweeping across the room. He knows this situation is spiraling out of control, but there’s no room to maneuver—Aerys’s obsession is beyond reason, and any direct confrontation would only invite disaster.

Ser Jaime Lannister stands near the Iron Throne, his expression one of wary amusement. His hand hovers near the pommel of his sword, ready to act should the dragon—or the king—become a threat. “A bold decision, Your Grace,” Jaime remarks, though there’s a mocking edge beneath the politeness. “Keeping a dragon in the throne room—how very fitting. After all, nothing else in this cursed hall has been able to match the madness of our times.”

Aerys barely registers the comment, his focus wholly consumed by the dragon. He kneels closer to the creature, his fingers trembling as he reaches out. The dragon’s head snaps toward him, teeth bared, but it does not strike. Instead, it simply watches, waiting, as if testing the king’s resolve.

“It is ours,” Aerys whispers, more to himself than anyone else. “The blood of the dragon recognizes its own. It will stay here, by the throne. It will grow strong, and in time, we shall see it reclaim the skies.”

Tywin takes a step forward, his tone measured and laced with warning. “Your Grace, this creature is not a mere pet—it’s a wild beast, born of fire and blood. Keeping it here in such close proximity to the court is—”

Aerys cuts him off with a vicious snarl. “It is mine! It belongs to me and to my daughter! It will stay where I command, and you—” he points a shaking finger at Tywin, his eyes blazing, “—you will remember your place.”

Tywin’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing more, recognizing the futility of arguing further. The court remains silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Everyone knows that challenging Aerys now would only lead to more bloodshed, and none are willing to risk their lives in the presence of both a mad king and a dragon.

The pyromancers bow low, their eyes gleaming with eager anticipation. “As you command, Your Grace. We shall prepare the throne room to be the dragon’s new lair. It will be a place worthy of its presence, a shrine to the rebirth of your house.”

Aerys smiles, a twisted, satisfied grin that sends a shiver down the spines of all who see it. “Yes,” he murmurs, stroking the air as if he were already petting the dragon’s scales. “This will be our sanctum—the heart of fire and blood. The dragon will stay here, where all can witness its glory.”

The dragon lets out a low growl, its eyes shifting between Aerys and the gathered court, as if it understands the weight of what has been proclaimed. The courtiers exchange uneasy glances, knowing that this new “child” of Aerys could just as easily turn on them as it could serve the king’s ambitions.

But Aerys remains entranced, his gaze never leaving the dragon as he whispers to himself, lost in his fevered dreams of power reborn. The court is dismissed, but no one dares move until Aerys waves a dismissive hand, lost in his own world. The courtiers leave as quickly as they can, their footsteps echoing in the empty hall, a reminder of how far the realm has descended into madness.

As the last of them depart, the dragon curls at the foot of the Iron Throne, its eyes half-lidded as it watches Aerys with a gaze that is both predatory and curious. Aerys remains beside it, mumbling incoherently about fire, blood, and destiny, oblivious to the dark path he has chosen for himself and his house.

The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold that clings to your bones as you sit on the edge of the bed, your hand outstretched while Maester Pycelle inspects the wound left by your father’s dagger. His fingers are cold and dry as parchment, trembling slightly as he cleans the cut, murmuring in his usual pedantic tone about the necessity of avoiding infection. The scent of herbal salve fills the air, mingling with the distant echoes of the chaos still unfolding in the Red Keep.

Rhaegar stands by the window, the soft glow of dusk casting shadows across his face. He stares out into the night, lost in thought, his posture tense and his eyes troubled. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, ever protective. He hasn’t left your side since the moment you escaped the throne room, and though he remains silent, you can feel the weight of his concern in every glance he sends your way.

Pycelle’s mutterings are a dull hum in the background, your focus entirely on the tight line of Rhaegar’s mouth, the subtle slump in his usually straight shoulders. Finally, when the maester finishes wrapping your hand in clean linen, you find the strength to speak the question that has been gnawing at you since the madness in the throne room.

“Rhaegar… what happens now?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, the words trembling as they leave your lips. You’ve always known your father’s grip on sanity was tenuous, but tonight felt different—darker, more final. 

Rhaegar’s sigh is heavy, filled with a weariness that seems to age him beyond his years. He finally turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours, and in them, you see the burden of responsibility that he carries like a shroud. “Now?” he echoes, the word hanging in the air. “Now we try to hold this fractured realm together while our father plunges deeper into his delusions.”

Arthur shifts his weight slightly, his jaw tight as he struggles to contain his own thoughts. He glances at Rhaegar, then back at you, but remains silent, knowing this is a conversation between brother and sister first.

Rhaegar crosses the room and takes a seat beside you, his hand resting gently over yours, careful not to disturb the bandage. “I’ll talk to him,” he says, though there is little hope in his voice. “Once this feverish madness of his has dimmed down, I’ll try to reason with him. He must understand that what happened today cannot continue.”

You shake your head, doubt gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. “And what makes you think he’ll listen? He was… convinced that the dragon was our child, that it was born from us.” The words stick in your throat, bile rising as you recall the twisted gleam in Aerys’s eyes when he proclaimed the dragon a gift of your blood.

Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his expression hardening as he forces himself to remain calm. “He’s lost in his fantasies, yes, but there are moments—brief as they are—where he’s still lucid enough to recognize reality. We need to be patient and wait for one of those moments. If I can find that opening, maybe I can convince him to focus his obsession elsewhere.”

Arthur’s voice, low and firm, cuts through the tense silence. “You shouldn’t have to navigate this alone, Your Grace. The longer the king’s madness goes unchecked, the more dangerous he becomes—to Y/N, to the realm, to everyone.” His words are carefully measured, but the undercurrent of anger is clear. The thought of you being forced into another horrifying situation like the one in the throne room clearly torments him.

Rhaegar nods, though his eyes remain shadowed with doubt. “I know, Arthur. But what would you have me do? We are trapped in a court ruled by fear, with our own father sitting at the heart of it like a ticking time bomb. Any direct challenge to his authority could spark civil war.”

You bite your lip, the weight of your brother’s words settling like a stone in your chest. You can feel the walls closing in, the oppressive sense that there is no escape from this nightmare. “Is there really no way out of this?” you ask, your voice small and filled with a desperation you hate showing.

Rhaegar’s expression softens, a rare glimpse of the brother you knew before all of this—the one who would comfort you with songs and stories when the world outside seemed too dark to bear. “I’ll find a way, Y/N. I promise you that, even if it means I have to make decisions I never wanted to make.” His voice drops to a whisper, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. ��I won’t let him destroy us.”

Pycelle clears his throat, finishing his work and shuffling back a step. “The wound should heal without issue, Princess. Keep it clean and avoid straining the hand. I’ll prepare more salve and have it sent to your chambers.”

“Thank you, Maester Pycelle,” you reply automatically, though your attention is still fixed on Rhaegar and the quiet resolve hardening in his gaze.

The maester bows stiffly, casting a wary glance at Arthur before retreating from the room. Once the door closes behind him, the room feels smaller, the air thick with tension and unsaid fears.

Arthur finally speaks again, his voice a low rumble. “Whatever your plan is, Rhaegar, know that I’m with you. We can’t let him harm her—or anyone else—again.”

Rhaegar meets Arthur’s gaze, a mutual understanding passing between them. “I know I can count on you, Ser Arthur. But until we figure out a solution, we must tread carefully. We cannot afford to provoke our father into something even more catastrophic.”

You nod, feeling a mixture of gratitude and fear swirl within you. You know Rhaegar is trying his best to protect you, but the weight of your father’s madness is a heavy one to bear, and you can’t help but feel that it’s only a matter of time before something—someone—breaks.

“I trust you, Rhaegar,” you say softly, though the words feel fragile, like glass on the edge of shattering. “Just… promise me you won’t let him drag us all down with him.”

Rhaegar’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a brief moment, you see the depth of his fear mirrored in his eyes. But he forces a small smile, squeezing your hand one last time before standing. “I promise, Y/N. We’ll find a way through this. Together.”

With that, he takes his leave, casting one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the dimly lit corridor beyond.

Arthur remains by your side, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor amidst the swirling uncertainty. He watches you carefully, his concern evident even in the silence that stretches between you. “Get some rest, my lady,” he finally says, though his tone is gentle, almost tender. “You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next.”

You manage a faint nod, your exhaustion catching up to you as the events of the day settle like a leaden weight in your limbs. But even as you lie down, pulling the covers around you, sleep remains elusive. Your mind races, filled with the image of the dragon’s eyes—their unblinking, knowing gaze—and the twisted words of your father as he proclaimed the creature a child born of your blood.

As you finally drift into a fitful sleep, Arthur remains close by, ever watchful, ever ready to defend you. But even with him there, the darkness creeping at the edges of your thoughts is impossible to ignore.

You wonder how much longer you can hold out against the rising tide of your father’s madness—and what will be left of your family when the storm finally breaks.

Tywin Lannister sits at the head of the chamber, his expression unreadable but cold, calculating. His piercing green eyes scan the room as Jaime and Cersei stand before him, their postures tense. The usual arrogance in Cersei’s gaze is muted, replaced with unease, while Jaime leans against the wall with his arms crossed, his casual stance belying the seriousness of his expression.

“What we’ve witnessed today,” Tywin begins, his voice low and deliberate, “has shaken the foundation of this court more than any whisper or scheme could have. A dragon has been born, and with it, the Targaryen madness has been given a new life.”

Cersei’s eyes flash with anxiety as she steps forward, unable to keep her unease hidden. “Father, this changes everything. If Aerys has control over that creature, it strengthens his position—and his madness. He already considers himself untouchable, but now… now he’ll see himself as invincible.”

Jaime chuckles darkly from his position near the wall, though there’s no humor in it. “Invincible? The man is already half a corpse in his own mind, clinging to delusions of grandeur. That dragon is more of a threat to him than to anyone else in this castle. But still,” he adds, his expression turning grim, “it complicates things. Our position at court was precarious enough, and now we have to worry about Aerys using that beast to tighten his grip even further.”

Tywin steeples his fingers, his gaze distant as he considers their words. “You’re both correct. Aerys’s obsession with this so-called ‘rebirth’ will only drive him deeper into his madness. He’s unpredictable enough as it is, but now he believes he’s found proof that the gods favor him. If he sees that dragon as a weapon in his hands… well, that could make him far more dangerous than we’ve ever seen.”

Cersei steps closer to her father, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then we must act quickly. Rhaegar and his sister clearly do not support Aerys’s madness. They’re our best chance to take control of this situation. If Rhaegar were to become king… and if I were to be his queen…” Her eyes gleam with ambition, the familiar hunger returning as she imagines the power that could be within her grasp.

Tywin’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something—perhaps approval—in his gaze. “That is the path we have been working toward, Cersei, but it is not without its dangers. Rhaegar is a cautious man, and while he despises his father’s madness, he is still bound by duty to the Targaryen name. We must tread carefully. Any overt move against Aerys could lead to bloodshed, and with a dragon in his arsenal, even the smallest provocation could have devastating consequences.”

Jaime pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms as he approaches the table. “I’ve been stationed near Aerys for long enough to know that he’s on the edge. One wrong move, and he could turn that creature against anyone he perceives as a threat. And if that happens, none of us—Rhaegar included—will be safe.”

Tywin’s eyes narrow as he considers his son’s words. “Which is why we must ensure that the dragon remains under control—or neutralized if necessary.”

Cersei frowns, her brows furrowing as she processes the implications. “You’re suggesting we find a way to… dispose of it? That would require subtlety, and the king’s attention is entirely fixed on it.”

“Not necessarily,” Tywin counters. “Aerys’s obsession with the dragon could be his weakness. If he becomes too focused on it, it may give us the opportunity to manipulate him in other ways. We can bide our time, waiting for the right moment to strike. But make no mistake—if the situation continues to spiral, we will need to act decisively. Aerys is a danger to everyone in King’s Landing, and now more than ever, that danger is real.”

Jaime’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “You mean more real than the wildfire he’s been stockpiling under the city? Or the executions he dreams of every night?”

Tywin doesn’t dignify the remark with a response, his gaze shifting back to Cersei. “Your focus must remain on gaining Rhaegar’s trust. He will be the key to any transition of power. If you can convince him that marrying you would stabilize the realm, then we can proceed from there. But until we know where his loyalties truly lie, we must remain patient.”

Cersei’s eyes gleam with determination. “I won’t fail, Father. Rhaegar is torn between his duty and his family—if I can show him that we’re the solution to that conflict, he’ll come to us willingly.”

Tywin nods approvingly. “Good. But remember—your ambition must be tempered by caution. Rhaegar is a man of principle. If he suspects we’re using him purely for our own ends, he’ll shut us out. He must believe that aligning with us is not just the best option, but the only option.”

Jaime runs a hand through his golden hair, glancing between his father and sister. “And what if Aerys decides that the dragon is the answer to all his problems? What if he starts using it to cement his control—publicly?”

Tywin’s gaze turns steely, his voice cold and unyielding. “Then we will do what must be done. But that is a last resort. For now, we watch, we wait, and we maneuver carefully. The dragon may be a tool of fear, but fear can be wielded by those with the will to seize it.”

As the conversation draws to a close, Cersei’s thoughts churn with a renewed sense of purpose. She knows that winning Rhaegar’s favor is her path to power, and now, more than ever, she’s determined to succeed. The image of her sitting beside him as queen flickers in her mind like a beacon, drawing her forward, regardless of the dangers that lie in her path.

Jaime’s smile returns, this time with a hint of bitter amusement. “We’re all dancing on the edge of a knife. Let’s just hope we’re the ones holding the hilt when it all comes crashing down.”

Tywin’s silence is all the confirmation they need. The Lannisters, like everyone else in King’s Landing, know that the game is changing. The dragon in the throne room is not just a creature—it’s a symbol of the chaos that now reigns over the capital.

But chaos, Tywin knows, can be controlled. If they play their cards right, this madness could be the key to seizing the power they’ve long desired. And in the end, power is all that matters.

-A/N: Did I just played with the idea of the Mad King having a dragon in his arsenal. Yeah, I did. And nobody in Westeros will have a fun time with it. And words 'fire and blood' are used far too often, but it's so fitting.

[trippiexlove]

Ch.19 - Serendipity

Story Master List

Main Master List - If you would like to be tagged comment below!

Druitt POV

I leaned over the toilet as I emptied out the contents of my stomach. I've been feeling sick, but didn't feel like going to my Doctor.

Part of me was wondering if I had a stomach virus or if I could potentially be with child. I was scared of the last option for many reasons. 

I stood up and brush my teeth, freshening myself up. I decided I would just go to the store and just buy the very item I didn't want to.

I quickly changed into some biker shorts and tee, and headed out the door.

I made it to my nearest store and quickly make my way in. going down different isles before finding what I've been looking for. 

I grabbed it, and swiftly made my way to check out. I smiled at the lady as she checked me out and got my stuff and left. 

I arrived home and went upstairs to my bathroom taking the item out.

I was staring at it in disbelief, not sure how I got here. Sure I know how but I just couldn't believe I was in this situation. 

I shook my head putting it away "I am just tripping, there's no way I am fine" I shut the drawer and walked out the bathroom. As I walked out the bathroom I saw Jey calling me on FaceTime. I grabbed my phone quickly answering the call.

Once it connected I saw him in the car. "Hey beautiful" I smiled as he looked really handsome today.

"Hey main event, where you going?"

He leaned back further in his seat, driving with one hand "I am on my way to go pick up my son from practice."

"Tell Jeyce I am going to come to his next game"

"He's going to be excited, I couldn't keep him away from you last time you was here"

I smiled "Awe is somebody jealous" I teased with a smirk "you are going to have to learn to share me"

"The hell I am, you my woman, I don't share you with anybody" I laughed as he sent a glare towards me.

"It's ok babe, there's enough of me to go around"

"Only for me though" I saw him come to a stop and park. We talked for a few more minutes until I heard the car door open and saw Jeyce get in the car. 

He smiled when he seen me "Dru!"

"Hey Buddy!"

"Oh forget that I am here uce" Jey held a scowl on his face.

"Don't be a hater"

"Yeah dad, don't be a hater"

"Oh excuse me" Jey said in a offended tone.

"It's ok babe, Jeyce I will be at your next game"

His face lit up with excitement "Really?!"

"Yeah buddy, I will be there"

We all talked for a few more minutes until we hung up. I got up and walked into my bathroom again and looked at the item. I stared at it for a few minutes and just decided to put the item in my bag and take it with me when I leave.

The digital image of Jey's smiling face lingered on my phone screen for a moment after the call ended. A warmth spread through me, a familiar comfort that always seemed to ground me, even when my insides felt like they were doing somersaults. But as I placed the phone down, my gaze drifted back towards the bathroom door, the unopened box containing my potential reality sitting heavy in my mind.

A sigh escaped my lips. "Just tripping," I muttered again, the words sounding less convincing this time. My body had been throwing these curveballs for a week now – the nausea that would hit me out of nowhere, the strange fatigue that clung to me even after a full night's sleep. Ignoring it had been my strategy, a flimsy shield against the possibility that my life was about to take an unexpected turn.

But the insistent whispers of "what if" were growing louder, harder to ignore. Jey and I... we were good. Really good. He was my rock, my biggest supporter, and seeing him with Jeyce always melted my heart. The thought of adding another little one to our mix was both exhilarating and terrifying. We hadn't exactly been trying, but we hadn't been actively preventing it either. A casual conversation about maybe someday now echoed in my ears with a newfound urgency.

I wandered into the kitchen, aimlessly opening and closing the refrigerator door. Hunger pangs had been another unwelcome guest lately, followed by a strange aversion to some of my favorite foods. Just the thought of coffee made my stomach churn. It was all adding up, the puzzle pieces forming a picture I wasn't sure I was ready to see.

Finally, with a deep breath, I walked back upstairs. The small bag lay innocently on my dresser. I picked it up, the weight surprisingly significant in my hand. The plastic crinkled softly as I moved, the sound amplifying the internal debate raging within me.

"Okay, Druitt," I told myself, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. "Just... just take it. Get it over with. Then you'll know."

But the thought of facing that unknown alone in my bathroom felt daunting. What if it was positive? What would I do then? Who would I tell first? My mind raced, skipping from one anxious scenario to another.

That's when Trin popped into my head. My best friend, my confidante, the one person who always knew how to cut through my anxieties with a dose of reality and a whole lot of love. She would know what to do. She would be my rock in this moment of uncertainty.

A plan started to form. Trin was wrestling in a few days, a big match. I had to be there anyway, had a few segments planned. Maybe... maybe I could take the test there. With her. Having her support, her calm presence, would make this whole terrifying ordeal a little less lonely.

I nodded to myself, a sense of purpose settling within me. Yes. That's what I would do. I carefully placed the unopened box into my bag, tucked safely amongst my usual wrestling gear and water bottle. It felt like a secret, a heavy secret that I would carry with me to the arena.

Every little twinge, every fleeting wave of nausea, felt like a confirmation of my fears. I tried to distract myself, watching some mindless television, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the small box in my bag.

Getting to the arena wouldn't be about putting on an amazing show. It was about facing a potential truth, a truth that could change everything. And somehow, knowing Trin would be there, waiting in the wings, made the journey a little less daunting.

*Few Days Later*

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the urgency in my steps as I navigated the labyrinthine hallways of the arena. Each turn felt like a gamble, each face I passed a potential obstacle. The need to find Trin was a burning ember within me, a desperate plea for her steady presence in the face of the unknown. Finally, tucked away near a stack of lighting equipment, I spotted her familiar silhouette.

"Trin!" The sound tore from my throat, a ragged call that sliced through the backstage din. Her head snapped up, her brow furrowing with concern as she took in my near sprint towards her.

"What's up, champ?" she asked, her usual playful tone replaced with an edge of worry as she hopped down from the crate. Her hug was tight, grounding, but the anxiety churning inside me wouldn't be so easily soothed.

"Nothing much," I managed, my voice betraying the turmoil within. "Are you busy right now?" My grip on her hands was tighter than intended, a silent plea for her undivided attention.

"No, I'm not. You okay, Dru?" Her eyes searched mine, picking up on the frantic energy radiating off me. Without a word, I pulled her along, my feet knowing the way to the relative privacy of my locker room.

The click of the closing door amplified the sudden silence. I moved towards my bag, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Okay, so what's up, girl?" Trin's voice was soft now, laced with a gentle concern that both comforted and unnerved me.

"Well," I began, my fingers fumbling as I rummaged through my bag, avoiding her direct gaze. "You know we went on that vacation a month ago..."

"Yeah," she replied, her tone encouraging. "We had a blast. We need to book another girls' trip soon."

"Yes," I agreed, finally locating the small, tell-tale box. My hand trembled slightly as I held it, my gaze locking with hers. "Great time, great food, great drinks..." A nervous laugh escaped me. "...great sex."

Trin's eyebrows shot up, a slow smile spreading across her face before she caught the shift in my eyes. "Oh," she said slowly, the humor fading. "Okay. He definitely put it down. But... what's going on, Dru?" Her gaze was intense, waiting.

I held up the box, the stark white cardboard a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me. Trin's breath hitched. Her eyes widened, her hand flying to cover her mouth, her expression a mixture of shock and dawning understanding. "Dru... no," she whispered, shaking her head slowly. "You think... you think you're pregnant?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fears. "I mean... I don't know," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a week late. That's why... that's why I needed to see you. I've had it for a few days, but I'm scared to take it alone."

Trin's eyes softened with a fierce protectiveness. "Go ahead," she urged, her voice firm now. "Take it now. Right now." She gently steered me towards the bathroom, her hand a steady presence on my back.

The sterile white of the bathroom seemed to amplify my anxiety. The rustle of the packaging, the small plastic stick in my hand – each detail felt magnified, imbued with immense significance. I followed the instructions, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the test. Then, I stood there, the weight of the next few minutes pressing down on me, each breath a conscious effort.

My mind conjured a rapid-fire montage of possibilities: Jey's surprised face, his potential joy, the logistical nightmare of another child, the fear of somehow disrupting the beautiful balance we had found. The digital timer on the test ticked down with agonizing slowness, each passing second stretching into an eternity.

Finally, the faint beep echoed from the bathroom. My feet felt rooted to the floor. I couldn't bring myself to look. I opened the door, my eyes locked on Trin's face. "I can't," I choked out, backing away. "You look."

I retreated into the locker room, pacing a tight circle, my gaze fixed on the worn carpet. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the frantic rhythm of my own breathing. I could hear the faint sounds of Trin moving in the bathroom, the soft rustle of plastic, the almost imperceptible click as she likely placed the test down.

The wait felt unbearable. Each passing moment amplified the suspense, the unknown hanging heavy in the air between us. Finally, the bathroom door creaked open. Trin stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable, her eyes holding a truth I both desperately wanted and desperately feared to see. The silence in the room intensified, every nerve in my body screaming for the answer etched on her face...

What you guys think??  How you think Dru or even Jey is going to handle this?

Please leave a comment and reblog! <3

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[writingforstraykids]

Letters Of Love - Jeongin🖤

Pairing: Jeongin x gn!Reader (poly!skz)

Word Count: 1026

Summary: Next on your list is Jeongin, remembering a day where the younger came home devastated after a mistake on stage.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst

A/N: Hii, I'm so sorry, life kept me busy and I had no chance finishing this little post. I hope to be back on track with the four remaining pairings and an eventual bonus chapter of how the boys react if you're interested in that🤭🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Jisung | Felix | Seungmin

Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you scroll through your photo library, searching for the right image of Jeongin. When you find it, a wave of tenderness washes over you. The picture is from a few nights ago—one of those nights that left your heart aching for him and full of pride all at once. He’s sitting on the floor of the dressing room, his hair tousled and slightly damp with sweat, his makeup smudged around his eyes, staring down at the floor with his lips pressed tightly together. You’re beside him, one arm around his shoulders, your other hand resting gently on top of his. In the photo, his expression is one of frustration and self-doubt, brows furrowed, eyes downcast. But even in the midst of his struggle, there’s something undeniably beautiful about him—something strong and resilient.

You remember that night vividly. Jeongin had messed up a part of the choreography on stage. It was a minor mistake, something no one else probably noticed, but to him, it was huge. You’d seen it the moment he came off stage—the way his shoulders slumped, his gaze averted as if he didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes. He’d forced a smile for the fans, held himself together until the lights went down, and then quietly slipped away to the dressing room, shoulders tense with self-reproach.

You’d followed him, heart aching, knowing how hard he can be on himself. He’d been sitting on the floor, looking so small and lost, shoulders trembling slightly as he tried to hold back his frustration. When you sat down beside him, he didn’t say a word—didn’t even look up. But you knew what he was feeling—the disappointment, the anger directed inward, the overwhelming need to be perfect.

“Hey, Innie love,” you’d whispered softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He’d flinched slightly, then let out a long, shuddering breath, still not looking at you.

“I messed up,” he murmured, voice strained, like the words were clawing at his throat. “Everyone else was perfect, and I… I ruined it.”

Your heart had tightened at the raw pain in his voice. “No, you didn’t,” you’d said gently. “Jeongin, it was just one tiny mistake. No one even noticed.”

But he’d just shaken his head, fists clenched on his knees. “I noticed. It’s my job to get it right, and I couldn’t. I’m supposed to be better than this.”

You’d stayed quiet, letting him speak, letting him vent. Then, without another word, you’d wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close. He’d resisted at first, his whole body stiff and tense, but then the dam broke. He’d sagged against you, his face buried in your shoulder, his hands clutching desperately at your shirt as if holding on for dear life. His breathing was harsh and uneven, each exhale filled with a mix of anger and helplessness. All you could do was hold him, murmuring soft, comforting words, rubbing his back gently until the storm inside him started to calm.

“It’s okay, Innie. It’s okay to mess up sometimes. It doesn’t change how amazing you are. Not even a little.”

For a long time, you stayed like that, just holding him, feeling his body gradually relax against yours. He didn’t say anything, but you could sense the shift—the way the tension slowly drained out of him, replaced by a heavy, weary kind of acceptance.

Eventually, he’d pulled back, his eyes red but his expression softer, more resigned. “Thank you,” he’d whispered, voice still rough around the edges but steadier now. “I’m sorry I—”

“Don’t apologize,” you’d cut in gently, shaking your head. “You don’t have to be perfect, Jeongin. You just have to be you. That’s more than enough.”

You attach the picture to a new message, feeling the emotions from that night all over again. Fingers trembling slightly, you begin typing, knowing exactly what you want to say to the boy who tries so hard to be perfect, when all you want is for him to see just how perfectly imperfect he already is.

Message to Jeongin:

Hey Innie love,

I know this picture isn’t from your best moment, but I wanted to send it to you anyway because I think it’s a reminder of something important. That night, you were so frustrated with yourself, and I know how much that tiny mistake hurt you. But to me, this photo doesn’t show someone who messed up. It shows someone who’s strong enough to keep going, even when things don’t go perfectly. It shows someone who cares deeply about what he does, who wants to give his best every single time.

But you know what, Innie? It’s okay to stumble sometimes. It’s okay to have moments when things don’t go the way you planned. That’s what makes you human, and that’s what makes me love you even more. Because you always get back up, always push forward, always try to be better. But please remember—being perfect isn’t what makes you special. It’s your heart, your determination, your courage to show your vulnerable side.

I’m so proud of you, not just for your talent, but for your resilience. So, even on the days when you feel like you’ve let yourself down, I want you to know that I’ll always see the amazing person you are. No mistakes could ever change that.

Happy anniversary, Innie love. Here’s to more moments, both perfect and imperfect, and to loving every single one of them because they’re all a part of you.

Love you so much,

Your biggest fan and supporter.

You send the message, your heart aching with tenderness. You can already picture his reaction—how he’ll probably read it in silence, his eyes growing soft and misty. He might not say much in reply, might just send a quiet, heartfelt “thank you.” But you know it’ll mean everything to him, because Jeongin isn’t someone who needs grand gestures. He just needs to know that he’s enough, just as he is.

And that’s what you’ll keep reminding him, every single chance you get. Because he’s your Innie love—the one who shines brightest, even when he thinks his light is fading.

Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Jisung | Felix | Seungmin

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[bloody-peach]

Demonic Possession (BATIM smut: Ink Demon x F!Reader) [NSFW]

(art by Hikase555)

Goodie Bag: Vaginal sex, creampie, monster sex, biting/marking, breeding, fluff and smut, dry humping, grinding [please let me know if i'm missing anything].

Now Playing: The Rigs - Devil's Playground (click here to listen)

Taglist: @omniuravity @eldritch-affair and any other fellow monster/demon fuckers!

~~~♡♡♡~~~

A/N: Oooh man, the monster fucker in me is salivating over Ink Demon rn. I couldn't find a lot of Ink Demon smut (if any) so I made one myself. A few things before we start. 1) The ink demon will not be referred to as Bendy in this, just 'the Ink Demon'. I go against canon and see Bendy and the Ink Demon as separate entities, so it applies here. 2) the look of the Ink Demon in this story is going by hikase555's design. The header image is by them, but here's another one for further reference: [click here]. 3) I had my boyfriend help me with the intro, so if there appears to be a slight disconnect in writing styles at the start, that is why. One last thing: if you ever get confused on how kissing works in this, the kisses work pretty much like how it worked in this image: [click here]. Ok, on with the show!

~~~♡♡♡~~~

Bending through the corridors of the Cycle left closed and locked away, a sound painfully wailed behind the walls. He once found comfort being given form, but now he dreads the very existence left to be his fate; why must ink demons have heat cycles?

The Ink Demon knew that his heat would start today, it started the same time each year (wait, do years even go by in the cycle?). He would usually be able to control it by pleasuring himself in many different ways, and it would usually work, but now he was insatiable. He needed to find a mate or else lose his mind trying to hold off til the end of his cycle, which he knew he couldn't do.

As he ran through the list of potential candidates in his head, a shrill scream rang out through the halls. It wasn't a scream he recognized as anyone from the studio, so he went to investigate. He followed the commotion to find a chase between the Projectionist, and a woman he'd never seen before. A smile grew on the Ink Demon's face. Maybe this was his chance.

-Some time before-

You heard the rumors about the abandoned studio from the 1930s near your apartment from many people, but never really believed them. However, the mystery of what could be inside the surprisingly intact building enticed you to go see for yourself. When you entered the studio, everything around you turned black and sepia. You walked through the halls and explored the many rooms, to the point where it seemed endless.

But you soon found that, unfortunately, you were not alone.

Many humanoid blobs made of ink and morphed versions of the Bendy characters would try to attack you, at an increasingly growing rate. You were able to outrun them, but you started to grow paranoid over whether they'll be back. Nevertheless, you kept exploring, but you carried a makeshift weapon (you found a broken piece of pipe). You walked into a room where there was a projector running, displaying some footage for some TV special with Joey Drew as the host. You took a closer look at the projector, impressed by its ability to still run after all these years. But then, you noticed ink starting to drip down the projector. The ink formed into a puddle and then grew into a body, attaching to the projector. It lifted it off the stand and was now a walking ink being with the projector as its head. The creature turned to you and let out a terrifying shriek, then started to charge at you. You dodged it and ran out of the room, the projector being chasing you.

-Now-

You ran and ran as fast as you could but you could hear that projector being catching up to you. Soon, to your horror, you hit a dead end. You turned to see your demise coming closer and closer. You put your arms up in a defensive position and shut your eyes tight, waiting for a swift death. But then there was a loud sound and then, silence. You slowly opened your eyes and saw the projector on the ground, separated from the demon's body. You put your arms down and almost jumped when you saw who killed it.

It was a 7 foot tall, malformed figure with skin made of black ink that almost looked like tar, appearing to have a fit human torso, legs, and arms, but with a very small waist. His head looked like Bendy's, but it looked like someone dumped ink on his head, making him look melted. It covered his eyes, so you couldn't see them, if he even had any. His horns were curved and almost looked like a crescent moon, almost. His smile matched Bendy's, but it was much wider. His left hand had 4 fingers and was wearing a white, ink-stained glove, while the other hand had 5 fingers and wore nothing. While you couldn't help but blush as you looked at him, you noticed that he wasn't trying to attack you. He was just...standing there, looking at you.

He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on you. His presence felt unnerving and sinister as he slowly approached you, a faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth. You started to relax as your fear started to dissipate. When you saw its smile, you couldn’t help but feel a blush appear on your cheeks. The Ink Demon's smile widened as he continued to approach you, his steps slow and deliberate. His gaze, intense and penetrating, never left your face. He then knelt in front of you, his head in front of your chest, which brought a lump to your throat for some reason. Maybe it was the invasion of personal space.

You felt a bit of unease in your stomach due to his gaze, but you figured he was safe, since he saved you from that projector thing. You cautiously reached your hand out and you gently put your hand on his cheek. As your fingers made contact with the Ink Demon's face, his inky skin felt cool and smooth to the touch. The ink didn’t stick to your fingers, much to your surprise. He remained still for a moment before slowly tilting his head slightly, resting his head in your hand, a low purr in his throat. It seemed that he found comfort in your touch.

You reached your other hand to touch his other cheek and you couldn’t help but smile warmly, realizing he wasn’t like the other monsters in this building, and that your assumption of him being safe was right. The Ink Demon's expression seemed to glimmer with a mix of curiosity and something akin to affection as you held his head in your hands. You felt as he slowly placed his large hands around you, like he was holding a doll. The Ink Demon's grip on you was surprisingly gentle, his ink-covered hands enveloping you with an almost protective hold. He was handling you like you were made of glass and if he moved wrong or squeezed you too tight, you’d shatter to pieces.

His gaze remain fixed on your face, his expression filled with a strange sense of connection. You couldn’t deny that you felt that connection too, along with a warm feeling in your chest. You thought about how sweet this demon was being, that maybe this was its true nature. You then thought about how it must’ve been so long since he’s seen anyone here that wasn’t a monster out for blood, and how lonely he must’ve been. After that thought, you felt a sense of compassion for this creature and you leaned forward and laid a soft kiss on his head.

The Ink Demon seemed surprised by the action, because it backed up a bit. You felt like you did something wrong, so you said, “I-I’m sorry. Was that too much..? I..I...” That’s when the Ink Demon slowly shook his head, his face softening as he continued to hold you. He reached up with one hand and gently touched the spot where you kissed him, a small smile forming on his face. Something told you that he really liked that. After that, he lifted you up and took you to another room.

The next thing you knew, you were in a room with a makeshift bed in the middle of the room. Must’ve been where the Ink Demon slept, you figured. As he placed you on the mattress and stood in front of you, you wondered why he brought you here, until you thought more on it.

Why else would someone bring you to their room? Because they want you to stay.

You look at the Ink Demon and ask, “You..want me to stay with you, don’t you?” The Ink Demon's smile widened slightly, and he nodded in response to your question. He released his grip on you but took your hand and gently held it, as if urging you to stay. Well, it wasn’t like there was anything for you outside of the building. You had no one waiting for you, no one to be worried about you if you disappeared. Plus, it’s not like there was a possible exit to this place anyways. So you looked at the demon and smiled, saying, “Alright. I’ll stay with you.” The Ink Demon's eyes lit up with a mixture of gratitude and excitement, then he nuzzled the top of your head and licked your cheek.

You felt a stinging pain on your cheek, so you touched where he licked and there was blood. Turns out you got hurt as you ran away from that Projector Demon. You noticed you got a few scratches on your cheek and on the side of your neck and on your shoulder, all bleeding. “Shit...” you said to yourself. The Ink Demon tilted his head slightly, observing your injuries with a mix of curiosity and concern. Slowly, he went to your cheek again. The Ink Demon’s long, inky tongue snaked out from his mouth and delicately licked at the blood on your wounds. As you felt the stings, you noticed that even though he was terrifying and intimidating, he was still being so gentle with you. As he continued to clean your wounds, a low growl rumbled in his chest, almost as if he was trying to comfort you. You felt a blush form on your cheeks and when you heard his comforting purr, you felt touched that he cared about you enough to comfort you through the pain.

He then moved from your cheek to your neck and shoulder. You felt his hot breath on your neck, his tongue slowly caressing it as he cleaned up the blood. It sent a heat down to your very core and you could feel yourself getting hot from this. As he slid his tongue down to your shoulder wound, you accidentally let out a soft moan. In response, the Ink Demon’s purr deepened as he continued to lick your wounds. His tongue brushed against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His gaze stayed locked on you as he continued to lick you, seemingly lost in thought.

He went towards the spot between your shoulder and your neck and he growled again, but a bit louder this time. He then bit down gently on your skin, drawing a bit of blood. A small, almost unnoticeable amount of ink dripped from his teeth onto your skin, sinking into the bite as he marked you as his. You gasped softly as he bit you, but not out of pain. The ink seemed to numb any pain the bite would've caused and it actually intensified your heat. You couldn’t help but start to feel aroused from his bite, his tongue, his touch, his everything. The Ink Demon’s growling deepened as he continued to leave more marks on your shoulder, now with more purpose than before. He could sense your arousal, and it only served to fuel his own. He knew that you had to be his mate, there was no denying it. He wanted you oh so badly, his very being was screaming for him to devour you.

You couldn’t help but reach your hands out and touch him. You wanted to feel his skin, to know that what you were experiencing was real. The Ink Demon purred, reveling in the warmth of your touch. You gently touch his arm, trailing your fingers along his slick inky skin. You reached his hand and after feeling his palm and fingers, you gently intertwined your fingers with his, holding his hand. He smiled warmly and leaned down slightly, pressing his forehead against yours and allowing your intertwined fingers to rest between you. You blushed red and you felt a warm and tight feeling in your chest. Were you starting to fall for this gentle beast?

You started to trail your other hand down his chest and along his stomach, feeling how smooth his skin was. The Ink Demon inhaled deeply, his body shuddering slightly at your touch. He gazed at you, his cheeks flushed and his smile so warm and inviting. He reached out with his other hand, placing it on the small of your back and pulling you closer to him. You gasp softly at his touch, sending shivers down your spine. “Y..You can..t..touch me too...i..if you want,” you were able to say softly.

The Ink Demon pressed his lips against yours, the kiss gentle and slow. His hand moved up your back, tracing the curve of your spine and pulling you even closer to him. His other hand trails down your side, resting on your hip as he explored your body. You kissed him back, letting a moan escape into his mouth. The Ink Demon smiled, pulling away from your lips to kiss your cheek and neck. His hand moved down to your thigh, slowly tracing its contours as he pulled you even closer to him. You sighed softly as his fingers traced along your thigh, opening your legs slightly to let him touch even more of you. The Ink Demon's hand moved further up your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your dress and exploring the smooth skin beneath. He pressed his forehead against yours, letting out a purr and allowing himself to fully experience the sensations that were running through him. You felt your body heat up more as his hand slid up your dress, and you decided to just speed up the process for him. “H..Here...let me help you..”

You undid your dress and let it slide off of you, leaving you nude except for your panties. You heard a deep lust-filled purr in his throat once you were nude. He gently laid you onto the mattress, ready to prepare you for him. The Ink Demon moved his hand up to your breast, squeezing it gently and exploring the contours of your body with his fingertips as he kissed your neck and shoulder, licking the fresh bite mark and your wounds. He pressed his groin against yours, feeling the heat between your legs as he explored your body with his hands, mouth, and tongue. You moaned as you felt the heat from between his legs touch yours. You couldn't help but slowly rub your groin against his, so he felt as good as he was making you feel.

The Ink Demon smiled, admiring your desire for him. His hand moved up to your face, cupping your cheek as he leaned in to kiss your lips again. He pressed his groin against yours, feeling your warm, wet center against him as you both move against each other, your bodies intertwined and your breaths becoming heavier and faster. The Ink Demon moved his hips against yours, feeling your body shudder with pleasure as you came closer and closer to release. He slipped his hand down to your panties, feeling the wetness between your legs as he ripped them off, exposing you to him completely.

Once your panties were gone, you felt something touch your pussy. You look down and you saw something growing from his groin, which formed into a large cock, matching his skin. The Ink Demon smirked as he grabbed your thighs and rubbed his cock on your pussy for a bit, until he slipped his hand between your bodies, guiding his cock inside of you, gripping both your thighs and slowly pushing himself deep inside. You couldn’t help but let out a moan as he stretched your walls so deliciously. He leaned forward, grabbed your jaw, and kissed your lips, his tongue exploring your mouth as he feels your body writhe beneath him. He started doing long and deep thrusts, your bodies entwined and your breath coming in short, gasping breaths as you both feel the pleasure building within you both.

You had never felt this sort of ecstasy before in your life, not even with any other partner. This thing was reaching depths you never knew were possible, sensitive spots you didn’t even know you had. “Ahh..! S..So..good..!!” you couldn’t help but let out of your lips once he broke the kiss. The Ink Demon's hand moved down to your ass, squeezing it gently as he thrusted into you, feeling your body shudder with pleasure. He kissed your neck and shoulder, his tongue exploring the contours of your skin as you both come closer and closer to release. He could feel his cock throb inside of you, the pleasure building within him as he moved faster and faster, feeling her body writhe beneath him.

He changed position slightly as he lost himself in the pleasure, grabbing your wrists and putting them above your head, your legs a bit in the air as he leaned towards you more and thrusted harder into you. You moaned at each thrust, trying not to cry out loud. The Ink Demon let his tongue out and licked up your belly and breasts as he fucked you so well. Ink dripped from his tongue, leaving trails on your body, like you were his canvas for his lust-filled creation.

He kissed your lips once again, feeling your tongue explore his mouth as you both came closer and closer to release. Finally, he felt your body convulse beneath him, your pussy clenching around his cock as you came, your moans filling the air as you cry out in ecstasy. He follows soon after, letting out a primal roar and feeling his cock throb as he filled you full with his hot, sticky seed. You felt like you were in another realm than you were as the pleasure from your release flowed throughout your body and you arched your back. All that existed was your full womb, the cock inside you, your body, and pleasure. You could feel his seed fill your belly so much that the sensation caused a second orgasm to rock your body.

Once you come back to reality, you both stay like that for a moment, your bodies intertwined and covered in each others’ cum as you both caught your breath, before the Ink Demon collapsed onto the bed, laying next to you and pulling you close. The Ink Demon kissed your cheek, feeling your smile as you both lay there, your hearts pounding in your chests. You hugged him close, your head resting on his chest. He then leaned to your ear and whispered in a deep, gravelly voice, “I love you.” While you were a bit surprised he could actually talk, you felt warmth flood your heart and you smile, kissing his cheek before saying, “I love you too.” The Ink Demon smiled, feeling his heart swell with warmth as he hugged you tightly. He rested his chin on top of your head, closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of your warm body pressed against his. You both lay there, holding each other close, until eventually, you both fall asleep, your bodies still intertwined.

‘I think I’m going to love this new life,’ you thought to yourself before letting sleep take you.

~~~♡♡♡~~~

[srue-on-fire]

Baby, I'm All In It

Pairing: Evan Buckley x Eddie Diaz Words: 1270 Rating: General Audiences Prompt: #7. "Come Back To Bed." Title: Backstreet Boys' OK prompt list 🩶 read on ao3

❤️‍🔥

The house was quiet, wrapped in that hush that came after midnight. Buck stirred, fingers brushing the cool sheets beside him. He blinked into the darkness, the hum of the ceiling fan above breaking the silence. Eddie’s side of the bed was empty.

Again.

Buck sat up slowly, letting the comforter fall to his lap. The clock on the nightstand read 3:17 AM. That made it the third time this week. And Buck didn’t need to guess where Eddie was —he already knew.

He padded down the hallway barefoot, the wooden floor cool against his skin. Sure enough, just past the soft glow slipping out from under Christopher’s door was Eddie. Sitting on the hardwood floor, legs drawn up, back against the wall, his gaze fixed inside the slightly ajar doorway to Chris’s room. 

Exactly where Buck had found him three nights ago. And two nights before that. Then, too, Eddie had been out here, like a silent sentinel. And Buck had crouched beside him, coaxed him to bed instead of the couch with a soft nudge and a quiet promise that everything was okay.

The spill of the nightlight from Christopher’s room gave Buck enough to see the weariness in his profile. The tight set of his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes.

“It’s okay, Buck,” Eddie said without turning his head. He didn't look surprised to see Buck. If anything, he looked like he’d been expecting him. “Go back to bed.”

Buck crouched down next to him, back against the wall, elbows on his knees, matching Eddie’s posture. “You say that like I’m the one who can’t sleep.”

Eddie didn’t reply. They sat like that for a while, the quiet broken only by the soft hum of night and the sound of Christopher’s fan spinning behind the door. 

Eventually, Eddie shifted, arms unfolding as he leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling.

“I used to sit like this when he was little,” he said softly. “After Shannon left. And when we moved to LA. After— tsunami. Just... needed to know he was still there. That he was okay.”

Buck's heart pulled. “You still do.”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah.”

Buck waited a beat. “Rough call today.”

Eddie looked away again. “Yeah.”

Four teens stuck in a collapsed parking garage, half-buried under rebar and concrete. All of them scared. All of them reminders. One of them had the same eyes, too. Buck knew exactly what was going through Eddie’s head, because he’d seen it all too clearly in his own reflection at the end of their shift.

“You did everything right,” Buck said gently.

Eddie didn’t respond to that. Just rubbed at his face with both hands like he could scrub the images out of his head. “He’s just a kid,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Buck followed his gaze toward the door, where Christopher is sleeping peacefully. “Yeah. He is.”

“He’s not ready for the world yet.”

Buck felt something tighten in his chest. “He’s got time.”

“Not enough of it.”

There it was —that creeping dread Buck had watched eat away at Eddie in small, silent ways since Christopher left. That sense of running out of time. That unspoken fear of what the future might demand of them next. Of an empty nest. 

“Eddie.”

He looked back at Buck, something heavy swimming in his eyes.

“You don’t have to keep watching over him all night. You already brought him home.”

“I can’t stop,” Eddie admitted. “Not when every time I close my eyes, I see an empty house. And now I see those kids stuck under the rubble. I saw Christopher there, Buck.”

Buck didn’t say me too. He didn’t have to. Eddie knew it anyway. 

Instead, he reached out, laid a hand over Eddie’s. “Come back to bed.”

Eddie’s gaze dropped to their joined hands. “I’m fine here.”

“You’re not. You’re exhausted. Your back’s going to hate you in the morning, and Christopher is safe. He’s asleep. And you—” Buck’s voice cracked a little, “—you don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

Eddie looked up then, eyes searching Buck’s face like he was trying to find something solid to hold onto.

Buck didn’t flinch. But God, was his heart thundering in his chest. He wasn’t saying the words but he meant it all the same and he knew Eddie got it. 

“Are you?” 

They sat in silence for a beat, their eyes drifting back towards Christopher. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the peace that came with childhood sleep. It was enough to remind them both why they did what they did. Why they fought so hard.

“He’s happy to be back,” Eddie murmured.

“So are you,” Buck replied, not as a question.

Eddie leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a slow sigh. “Yeah. It felt like… coming home.”

Buck turned to look at him. “You are home. This is your house.”

Eddie glanced at him. “Ours.”

Buck’s brows lifted a little.

“I never told you to find a new place,” Eddie added. “Don’t want you to.”

“Eddie…” Buck’s breath hitched. 

They hadn’t talked about it until now. When Eddie and Christopher returned to LA, they were focused on happiness, on reuniting with the family. The first thing Buck and Eddie was to set up Christopher’s room so he’d have a place to sleep. And then Eddie was busy getting reinstated and then Buck and Eddie were busy with… everything. 

They hadn’t talked about it. 

“I missed you,” Eddie said.

“In love with Eddie?”

Buck swallowed and looked down at his lap, his knuckles white. “I missed you too.”

Eddie reached out, fingers brushing against Buck’s wrist, easing his fists loose, turning to face him properly. “Then don’t leave.”

“Eddie,” Buck closed his eyes and swallowed again. 

“Am I asking for too much?” Eddie asked, slipping his fingers between Buck’s, voice baring all his vulnerability. “Am I reading this wrong?”

The only thing Buck could do was shake his head as wetness blurred his eyes. 

Eddie leaned forward to press his forehead against Buck’s temple as the man’s shoulders shook with relief and disbelief. 

“Buck—” he started and retracked. “Evan.”

Buck didn’t let himself think too much before turning his head and pressing their lips together. His hand squeezed Eddie’s when a hand came up to bury in his curls. 

The kiss was gentle and hard at the same time, a brush of lips as they breathed into it, breathed each other in. 

When they pulled apart, Eddie held him in place with a hand on his neck, their foreheads touching, eyes still closed, both of them panting a little. 

“I love you,” Eddie said. 

And a tear finally fell from Buck’s eyes. “I love you.”

They sat like that for a few more seconds, neither of them saying the word for what this was, what they were. But it hung in the air between them like gravity.

Buck stood first, holding out his hand.

Eddie took it, letting Buck pull him up. Their fingers stayed linked, Eddie gave a slight tug that pulled Buck just a little closer and pecked his lips chastely.

God, that felt so good to know they could do it whenever they wanted. 

Then Eddie glanced back at Christopher’s door. “He’ll be okay?”

Buck nodded. “He’s got you. And me. So yeah. He’ll be okay.”

Eddie met his gaze again, smiling faintly. “Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”

Buck bumped his shoulder gently as they turned. “You mean back to bed?”

Eddie chuckled, low and real. “Same thing.”

They were all finally home.

❤️‍🔥