#i've only seen the eggs once

[bob-artist]

Y'all, meet my new friend Jabba the Butt 🎉

And what does that make his lady friend?

Princess Leia Couple Eggs

[clonerightsagenda]

*giving myself a pep talk in the mirror* don't give the book a star just because it wasn't physically painful to read

[svtskneecaps]

so for context i sometimes get things people say stuck in my head, like when a song gets stuck but with random things people say (lmk if you can relate everyone i've mentioned this to hits me with "??? huh?")

roier has a voice where i tend to get things he says stuck in my head yknow. which is neat yknow i like his voice i don't mind him going WHAT THE FUCK?? with his whole chest in the back of my mind yknow like prior to qsmp i had seen a random clip of him chasing down rubius on some different server and saying his name a bunch and that got stuck in my head for a month or so and it's fun yknow it's neat

but right now there is a tiny roier in the back of my head saying "ven mijo ven!! ven bobby!!"

so yea i'm crying again lol

[thedarkmistress16]

Hey does cookie dough have EGG in them or are they the eggless snack cookie dough? Are they like uncooked or meant a to be dough?

prob an egg substitute of sorts for the public to safely consume like the cookie dough labeled containers you eat out of and are never meant to be baked. like how bacon bits are flavored/seasoned as bacon but are really mystery meat and not bacon. cuz bacon's expensive

that or a lot of us have treated our immune systems to salmonella so many times that our bodies are now used to it at this point.

[english-history-trip]

Ever see a depiction of St. George and the Dragon? It's pretty fair to say if you've seen one, you've seen them all: Georgie on a horse stabbing a flailing dragon creature, princess piously kneeling in the background, vague landscape alluding to the homeland of the artist's patron.

The most varied part is the dragons. No one had a real definition for the thing, it seemed. For your pleasure and entertainment, I have ranked some medieval depictions based on how impressive George's feat seems once you see the dragon.

Paolo Uccello, 1456

This is a terrifying beast. The hell is that. Uccello was one of the first experimenters with perspective, so the thing also looks surreal, like it's taking place on Mars, or a Windows 95 screensaver. I would not want to fight that, I would not want to be tied to that. (Sometimes the princess is tied to the dragon for some reason.) 10/10

Horse thoughts: Maybe if I look at the ground it will be gone when I look up

Unknown artist, c. 1505

This is a rare change of form for the dragon; it's the only one I've seen actually flying (or at least falling with style). It doesn't look particularly deterred by the spear through its throat, either. Also, George looks appropriately nervous. On the other hand, it hasn't got teeth, it seems to be fuzzy rather than having scaly armor, and George is bolstered by his army of Henry VII and his children, most of whom definitely didn't actually die in infancy. Still, wouldn't want to fight it, wouldn't want my pet sheep near it. (Sometimes the princess has a pet sheep for some reason.) 9/10

Horse thoughts: I am so glad I wore my mightiest feather helmet for this

Raphael, 1505

We are coming to Dragons With Problems. This guy looks about comparable in size to George, and does have wings, but doesn't seem to be using these things to his advantage (and has he only got one wing?) And how does he deal with the neck? He does have a comically small head, but holding it up with such a twisty neck seems complicated at best. But most egregiously, he is doing the shitty superheroine pose where he is somehow simultaneously showcasing his chest and his butt, with its unnecessarily defined butthole (more on this later) (regrettably). 8/10 bc it's Raphael

Horse thoughts: AM I THE BESTEST BOI? AM I DOING SUCH A GOOD JOB? WE R DRAGON SLAYING BUDDIEZ

The Beauchamp Hours, c. 1401

We had a spirited debate about this one at work. Again, the dragon has gotten smaller, and this one hasn't got even one wing. He's basically a crocodile. So the debate became: would you want to fight a crocodile if you had a horse and a pointy stick? Would the horse trample the animal, who can't get on its hind legs, or freak out and throw its rider? Would the pointy stick be enough to pierce the croc's thick hide? In this case, George seems to be controlling his horse and putting his pointy stick in the dragon's weak spot, so we can be impressed by his skill and strategy. However, his hat is dumb. 7/10

Horse thoughts: Dehhhh

Book of Hours, c. 1480

Here we have the same kind of croco-dragon, but George's focus on his strategy has gone out the window. He's flailing around, not even looking at his target, he's about to lose his pointy stick, he hasn't got a hand on the reins, and his sword seems to only be poking the invisible dragon over his shoulder. All he's got going for him is that his hat is slightly less dumb. 6/10

Horse thoughts: Yay, new friend! Come play with me, new fr- what is happening

Final dragons put behind this Read More for your safety:

Rogier van der Weyden, c. 1432

I'm thinking this guy is at least semi-aquatic. Webbed feet, wings that seem more like fins, bipedal but top-heavy, jaws that seem more for scooping than biting. Maybe she's crawled up here from the nearby body of water to lay her eggs, and this is all a big misunderstanding. Moreover, George's dagged sleeves seem entirely impractical for the situation. 5/10

Horse thoughts: i got my hed stuk in a jar and now it is this way forever

Unknown artist, c. 15th century

I hate this. I hate everything about it. Why has it got human eyes and teeth. Why is its nose melting. Why has it got a dick on its face and balls under its chin. The fin/wings are back but they look even more useless. Also, George is shifty as hell, schlumped over in his saddle with his bowler hat thing over his eyes. The baby dragon at the bottom eating some hapless would-be rescuer is kind of metal. 4/10 at least the thing is gonna die

Horse thoughts: I Have Smoked So Much Crack

Book of Hours, c. 1450

Remember what I said about the buttholes? First, sorry. Second, yeah, we're back to that. I'll admit this one is less about the danger from the dragon itself than the very specific choices the artist has made. They didn't need to do that. It's a lizard. They don't even have. And it's like they had an orifice budget and they skipped an exit wound for the spear to focus. Elsewhere. It's so detailed. And George had an even dumber hat. 2/10 take it away

Horse thoughts: I Have Smoked So Much Weed

Book of Hours, c. 1415

This is just bullying. There isn't even a princess. That is clearly an infant. Look at that smug look on George's face as he swings his sword that's bigger than the whole little guy. This is the equivalent of when DJT Jr. hunted those sleeping endangered sheep. 1/10

Horse thoughts: ....yikes

And this is the previous one, but now the baby dragon is cute. He's chubby. He's got toe beans. He's Puff the Magic Dragon. His eyes have already gone white, implying that George is just kicking its corpse around for funsies. What's the difference between the dragon and the lamb in the background? That the dragon is dead, like our innocence. This George is truly deserving of the dumbest hat of all. 0/10 plus one more butthole for the road

Horse thoughts: Perhaps it is we who are the buttholes.

[sourwulf]

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

༄  word count  —  2.3k

፨  characters  —  stiles stilinski

☓  tw  —  none

⊹  cw  —  smut & oral, losing of virginity

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

✎  masterlist

─

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

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

you sighed, glad it wasn't an intruder.

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

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

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

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

"root beer."

"nice."

"so what's up?"

"i was hoping you could help me study."

"as long as it's not math."

"honestly, i kinda wish it was."

"why? what is it?"

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

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

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

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

"alright, fine."

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

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

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

"make hormones and contain eggs."

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

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

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

"vulva."

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

he circled the right answer

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

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

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

"yeah, what is it?"

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

"come on, stiles."

"what?"

you were dumbfounded. everyone knows what the clit is.

"you've never even heard the word?"

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

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

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

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

"you've watched porn, though."

he shook his head. "nope."

somehow he continued to shock you more with every sentence.

"never?"

"never."

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

"never needed to."

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

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

"shoot."

"does every vagina look like this?"

"what do you mean?"

"like... are they all identical?"

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

"does yours look like this?"

your eyebrows dipped.

"did you really just ask me that?"

"i thought i was allowed to ask questions."

"yeah, general questions."

"that is a general question."

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

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

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

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

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

"i'm not showing you my vagina!"

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

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

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

"mm?"

"no touching. only looking."

he nodded.

"sounds fair to me."

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

"and no judging my lack of shaving."

he shrugged. "doesn't bother me."

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

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

"a little bit, yeah."

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

"yep. looks pretty similar to the drawing."

a few seconds of heavy silence went by.

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

he froze, looking up into your eyes.

"what?"

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

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

"exactly."

"but you said no touching."

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

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

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

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

he looked over at it. "labia."

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

"good."

"was that it?"

"mhm. good job."

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

"you remembered that one."

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

"that?"

"yep. right again."

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

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

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

"what do you like?"

"circles, usually."

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

"was that okay?"

you opened your eyes and looked down at him.

"that was good."

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

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

"really?"

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

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

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

"and what do you do with the tongue?"

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

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

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

"good, just like that, stiles."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"was that okay?" he asked innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he gulped hard, not moving.

"oh."

you stopped messing with his belt, furrowing your brow.

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

he shook his head.

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

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

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

"what's wrong?"

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

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

he nodded. "okay."

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

"no, i want to do this."

"okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when he looked at you again, he chuckled.

"what?" you asked.

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

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

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

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART II

You were a disgrace to House Targaryen, the product of an impulsive wedding between a lost prince and some Essosi whore. You had little social capital within the Red Keep and few prospects for marriage, but that was alright. You were perfectly happy to stay out of the game of thrones, wed some politically relevant lord of Alicent Hightower’s choosing, and die in peaceful obscurity. Unfortunately for you, Prince Aemond had other designs for your future.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. see part I for full story details. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

V. STRENGTH

Jacaerys was a child when he found out that he was a bastard and his mother was a whore.

Bastard. Whore. Even before he understood those words, he knew that he was different, somehow. That he was not enough. The lords and the ladies in the Red Keep always stared at him and Luke when they walked by, clinging to their mother’s skirts. They whispered whenever Ser Harwin Strong spent his afternoons with them in the training yard, putting wooden swords into their tiny little hands and teaching them how to swing. They covered their mouths to hide their laughter whenever his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon, took Jace out riding, steadying him on his pony. Pay them no mind, Jace, his father always said. They're only staring at you because you will someday be king.

So Jace closed his ears and focused only on Mother, Father, Ser Harwin, and Luke.

But the older he got, the harder it was to ignore the whispers. Bastard. Mongrel. Son of a whore. A wonder that his dragon egg even hatched. I've never seen any Velaryon who looked like that. He don't look like no Targaryen prince, methinks. Look at that hair. Look at those eyes. He can only be a bastard.

He can only be a Strong.

It wasn't all bad in his family, at least. Queen Alicent always looked at him with contempt, but his grandsire kept her from saying anything. Sometimes his uncle Aegon would bully him about it, but then he would leave Jace alone whenever he was teasing Aemond instead, so all Jace had to do was join him in making fun of the scrawny boy. And whenever Aegon and Aemond teamed up to point out Jace’s bastardy, you would stop both of them. You would gently scold Aemond and that would make him quiet, but with Aegon you would throw things instead. (Oops, you said once, after dropping the Seven-Pointed Star on Aegon’s foot. Sorry, my hand slipped. I'm afraid that book burns my heathen fingers.)

You always defended Jace like that.

Jace’s mother was a whore, and he later learned that yours was too. Maybe that's why you were so nice to Jace, even though the lords and ladies of the Red Keep scorned you worse than they ever did him. To Jace’s wonder though, you never seemed bothered by it.

It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jacaerys, you told him once. We’ve got dragons. We’re Targaryens. So long as we play our cards right, no one can ever touch us.

But what if my blood isn't enough? he would mumble. What if Vermax doesn't let me claim him? What if I cannot fly? He did not have silver hair and pale eyes, the features of a Valyrian king. Perhaps his bastardy and Andal blood made him less of a Targaryen. Could a mongrel tame a dragon? Could a bastard sit the throne?

Could a Strong ever take to the skies?

You smiled at him whenever he asked. You can do all of those things, Jace. I promise. I can't help you with most of them—but at the very least, I can help you learn to fly.

So he found himself on your dragon, seated behind you, his hands tight around your waist. I've never seen Wildfyre so happy to have someone ride him, you laughed. Not even me!

The dragon clicked and grumbled and turned his head to look at Jace, golden eyes approving. Then Wildfyre’s great wings started flapping, his roar thundering through the skies, and suddenly Jace found himself rising higher and higher, the muscles of the great creature rippling beneath him. King’s Landing was getting further away, shrinking; the clouds were getting closer, and Jace felt a chill as the cold damp of them soaked into his clothes. A freezing wind whipped through his hair, felt like ice to his bones, but he screamed and screamed with laughter, heart dancing as he clung to you.

Once you'd steered Wildfyre through the clouds, drifting into the warm twilight, you turned back and threw him a smile.

See? you yelled. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless on dragonback!

Fearless, you called him. He clung to this word: Fearless. I must be fearless. I must not fear my duty. I must not fear the succession. I must not fear the court.

In truth, though, Jace was afraid. He was afraid of being a bastard and he was afraid of losing the Throne, of ruining his mother’s claim. But you were so good at dispelling it all. You were so good at making him brave.

So when his family was sent to Dragonstone indefinitely, he nearly wanted to throw up—because it meant he could no longer see you. He sought you out soon after the decision was made, nearly running through all of Driftmark’s grounds before going to the Queen’s rooms, where he knew you would be.

He found you by Aemond’s bedside, talking to the injured child as he slept. Your fingers threaded through his silver hair; you whispered Valyrian into his ears, soothing and pretty and soft. Jace wished he could understand it, but his mother never spoke it around them. Ser Harwin, being an Andal, only knew the Common Tongue, and so that was the language that Jacaerys had inherited instead the language spoken by kings.

Jace begged to you in his lowly, mongrel tongue, ugly and stiff unlike the melody of Valyrian: “Come with us, please. I know you'll like Dragonstone. No one will stare at us there, no one will whisper. You'll be happier for it.”

He was not surprised when you said no. There was no way you would ever leave Aemond, but he asked anyway, again and again.

“I can't do this alone,” he kept saying. “I need your help. I don't know how to be strong like you. How to be fire and blood.”

You smiled at him. Stepped away from Aemond’s bedside, then took his hands in yours.

“You need not worry, Jace. Your mother will guide you.” Your fingers were so gentle on his. “You will grow into a fine prince, an heir befitting the Iron Throne. And when you do, you can come back to the Red Keep—and you can take me to Dragonstone then.”

Jace tried very hard not to cry. Ser Harwin had made a promise like this before he left his mother—that he would reunite with Jace someday, that he would stay by his side then. But he had never come back, had been taken by the fire at Harrenhal, and then Jace found himself mourning a man whom he was not allowed to grieve—because Jace was not allowed to be a bastard, and so Ser Harwin was not allowed to be his true father.

But he did grieve. He hated losing Ser Harwin, and he could not bear the thought of losing you too.

“You’re not lying?” Jace asked. “You're telling truth?”

He knew it was a childish thing to ask, but you seemed not to mind. You only threw your head back, laughed. “Yes, I'm telling truth! It is my dream to get away from the Red Keep someday, Jace.” You looked at him, almost amused. “I’m counting on you to save me from the Hightowers, my prince.”

And Jace could not help but think, as you departed for King’s Landing and he for Dragonstone, how much he longed to do that. How badly he wanted to take you away from the place that called you both the children of sin, from the people that called him a bastard and you a whore. He wished he could have sworn it as an oath, for then you would know how seriously he would take it.

I will become a fine prince someday, he vowed privately, watching your ship grow smaller and smaller, then finally as it was swallowed by the mist. I will become an heir befitting the throne. I am a Targaryen, made of fire and blood. I am a Targaryen, no matter who my father was.

He woke up everyday and repeated those words like a mantra. Tried not to think about the possibility of failure—tried not to wonder if the lords and ladies of the Realm would revolt should he ever sit upon the throne. If the throne itself would reject a bastard, its edges cutting into his mongrel flesh. It was a solace that he heard you every time he questioned himself: It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jace. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless in the sky. You have a dragon. You have a dragon. You have a dragon.

He had a dragon.

“I have you, Vermax,” he would murmur to the creature in his clumsy Valyrian, and Vermax would rumble at him, reassuring.

The years passed. You exchanged letters with Jace, kept in touch, but the distance felt like a yawning cavern between you still. The older he got, the less certain he became that you ever thought about him the way he thought about you. After all, he was a child when you left; you were nearly a woman grown. Thinking back on it, you had obviously treated him like a child too, holding his hands and trying to soothe his fears with empty words.

Grow up, Jace, he told himself, every time he received a raven and found your letter shorter than the last. Forget about it.

And he did, for a while. He focused on his studies, his swordplay, his duty to the Realm. Several name days passed, and suddenly he was a man grown. His mother was speaking to him of potential betrothals, of Starks and Tyrells and the noble daughters of other great houses. His stepfather was telling him to see the whores in Spicetown since he refused to disgrace any of the servants, and their silks and perfumes were dizzyingly fragrant as he bedded them. The serving maids of Dragonstone and all the distinguished ladies who visited laughed and smiled pretty around him, fawning over his status—for even if he was a mongrel bastard, he was still a Crown Prince.

Jace found himself utterly disinterested in all of it.

Curiously, in some of those moments, he would suddenly think about your letters—shorter and shorter, fewer and far between, but coming still. Hello, cousin. How fare your studies? I find myself the object of whispers once more; what an exciting life people think I must lead. Last month I was leading Ser Criston astray and making him break his oath of celibacy; this month I am carrying Prince Aemond’s child. I wonder whom I will seduce with my temptress ways next month. Perhaps it will be Septa Falyse, or the High Septon himself!

Jace could hear your laughter in your words: carefree, lighthearted, just as you always were when it came to your reputation. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking of all those rumours, of all those people speaking ill of you. Of knowing he could not return the favour of defending you as you once did him, now that the sea separated the two of you.

The whispers, though, were not something a Crown Prince should be worrying about, and you were not someone an Heir should be thinking about.

Grow up, Jace, he kept telling himself. Forget about it. Forget about it. Forget about it.

But when the day came that he finally had to return to the Red Keep—he could no longer forget.

As he boarded a ship to King’s Landing for the first time in years, he found himself remembering the words you once spoke to him when he was a child—the ones he clung to for years. They felt so fitting now that he’d learned of the Hightowers’ designs for you, of what the Hand intended to do.

You will be a fine prince someday, you'd said. Take me to Dragonstone then. Save me from the Hightowers, my prince. 

He would see you again, Jace thought. And if you so much as breathed the word, he would do everything that you asked of him all those years ago: steal you away from the Red Keep, protect you from the petty court that so often mistreated you, give you immunity from the family that spurned you both. Because now that he was a proper prince—a Targaryen, black hair be damned—that was something he could do.

He could save you from the Hightowers.

VI. JUDGEMENT, REVERSED

The coming of Princess Rhaenyra and her party was met without announcement, nor fanfare.

Were it not for Jacaerys’ letter to you, you would not have even known that they were going to be in King’s Landing. The tourney was coming up soon—less than a fortnight now—but their presence had nothing to do with it. Supposedly, Prince Daemon had some urgent business to discuss with the King and the rest of House Targaryen. Even Princess Rhaenys had joined them. What would be important enough for the Lady of Driftmark to leave her home was a mystery to you.

Until such matters made themselves clear, however, you would not worry over them. You were only thinking of meeting Jacaerys again. Although you'd received many messages from your first cousin over the years (his preferred raven now knew you well enough to squawk your name), letters were simply not the same as seeing one in person.

And of course it was impossible to see Jace in person. Queen Alicent became oddly bitter every time you requested leave to visit Dragonstone, and Wildfyre was always mysteriously chained up after such conversations. Aemond, as well, despised his half-siblings too much to meet with them during any of your visits to Spicetown, and he never let you go there yourself either.

You are a young woman, and it would be unsafe for you to venture out alone, Aemond always said. If you must go to Spicetown, I will accompany you and guard you from any… unsavoury characters that you may meet.

You had the sense that he was referring more to his nephews than any bandits or rapers, for it seemed not enough to him for guards from Dragonstone to be sent to accompany you.

You looked forward to seeing Jace again, unfettered by neither Aemond nor the Queen. You wondered what the awkward and insecure little prince was like nowadays, what sort of person he'd become. But as you had not heard any word of Rhaenyra’s arrival, you did not go to receive him at the gates—so you spent the day like you would any other. You broke your fast alone, neglected your needlework, neglected your prayers, and resentfully studied household stewardship. You loitered in the throne room, watching the Hand and the Queen settle various petitions. Today, it was mostly smallfolk worried about the price of food, a couple of petty land disputes between minor houses, and an interesting request from House Tyrell to legitimise a bastard—some knight who had served in the Dornish Marches. For some reason, Ser Criston kept looking at him with disdain.

Then, as a reward to yourself for your hard labour, you went down to the training yard in the late afternoon.

Your favourite pastime was watching Aemond practise his swordplay in the afternoons. You used to go for moral support, to encourage him whenever he was beaten—which he always was, because of his previously short and scrawny stature—but now it was always to encourage him whenever he clobbered his opponents, for he always did.

Ser Criston used to scold you for your attendance, saying that a young lady should busy herself with other activities. “You should be studying the Seven-Pointed Star right now, my lady,” he once said, probably at the behest of the Queen. “The violence of the training ground is not something that a woman should be witnessing so often in any case. Bloodshed is usually upsetting for the fairer sex.”

“I know not what you are talking about, Ser Criston,” you replied. You clapped Aemond’s shoulder then—drawing murmurs from onlookers, because hand-to-shoulder contact between cousins was scandalous if you were the one initiating it—and added, “there is nothing more important to me than witnessing Prince Aemond’s improvement on the battleground.”

Ser Criston gave you both questioning looks. “And why would it be so important to you, my lady?”

“Well,” you replied cheerfully, “Aemond and I have an agreement that if ever I am charged with murder, I will prove my innocence via trial by combat and he would be my champion.”

Ser Cole gave you an incredulous look. “Do you plan to commit murder, my lady?”

“No, Ser. It is merely a contingency in case someone should frame me for it. You never know what might happen with all the plotting and scheming in this Realm.”

You were actually speaking truth here: you and Aemond did come to this agreement soon after Prince Daemon Targaryen was taken to trial for the murder of his first wife, which he won by combat. You then went into an anxious spiral about what you should do if you hated your future husband and he was stupid enough to fall off a horse and die like Rhea Royce. Who would save you from a similar accusation?

Aemond immediately volunteered himself, perhaps too eagerly.

“You need not worry about me, Ser Cole,” you said upon seeing his perturbed face. “I wouldn't actually ever commit murder myself. You would know, since Aemond would prove my innocence.”

Aemond’s lip curled. “She would never be found guilty of any crime in the Realm with me as her champion,” he affirmed. “I think it is fair that the lady should be allowed to watch the sword representing her, is it not?”

Ser Criston could hardly deny a royal prince, so he merely sighed and picked up his morning star. “Whatever my prince wishes,” he relented. “Come—let’s give your lady a show.”

The knight had not since protested your presence on the training grounds. Ser Criston hardly even glanced at you today as you approached, weaving through the sparse crowd of knights, squires, and spectators while he and Aemond began their warmups. You were searching for a spot that would serve as the best view of their match, and it was pure accident that your gaze happened to land on an unfamiliar form among the hustle and bustle.

It was not the clothes that struck you—for they were plain, a nondescript black cloak over an equally dark tunic—but his face. Dark curls framing finely carved, fair features. An aquiline nose, a pair of delicate lips curled into an interested smile as he spoke to some companion you could not see. He looked like a Northman, possibly a Stark or an exceptionally beautiful Blackwood. You wondered if he was one of your potential suitors.

Naturally, you had to go introduce yourself. Purely to show your hospitality as a lady of House Targaryen, of course.

“Excuse me,” you said, in the clearest and prettiest voice you could manage. “Pardon me for the interruption, Ser, but I don't believe we’ve ever met.”

The stranger turned to you, his expression quizzical, but reflecting pleasant surprise. As soon as he laid eyes on you, his brows lifted—and a brief silence passed as you took in each other’s appearances.

You were only certain once you saw the three-headed dragon brooch on his cloak.

“Cousin?” the two of you asked simultaneously.

“Seven hells, Jace, I didn't recognise you at all!” you blurted out. You then glanced at his companion for the first time. Sure enough, it was his little brother—still young, but certainly not the small child you remember. “Luke! Gods, you've grown up too! I had no idea you’d arrived!”

Jacaerys made an irritated expression that was comically familiar despite his comically unfamiliar face. “The reception to our arrival was… subdued. Not etiquette to the standard that I would have expected of the Red Keep.”

“Ah. A folly of the Queen, I'm sure.” You smiled at them both. “Forget about her. I'll give you a proper welcome after this match—take you around the old haunts and whatnot. Wildfyre will want to say hi, too.”

“Match?” Jacaerys asked, but he was quickly answered by the violent clang of steel against steel.

Jace’s noble countenance dissipated as he moved into the crowd, beckoning Luke to follow. An excited grin spread across his face as he watched the two figures sparring furiously—as if he were again a child, spectating as Ser Harwin or the other knights of the Kingsguard fought with one another. Ser Criston and Prince Aemond were in another league altogether, of course—perhaps not in skill, but in savagery. They moved viciously and lethally, not bothering to hold back. The swing of Criston's morning star carried brutal weight, but Aemond was himself a lithe weapon, his body honed for the sole purpose of killing. You were unsurprised when his blade ended up pressed against Ser Criston’s throat.

“You'll be sure to win the tourney next week, my Prince,” said Ser Criston, but Aemond did not smile.

“I don't give a shit about tourneys,” he said, and you had to hold back a snort. Perhaps not when he was younger, but he absolutely did give a shit about tourneys nowadays. Not the pageantry or the petty social trappings, of course—but the reputation. Prince Aemond would be loath to seem craven or weak before the knights of the realm, and so he had no choice but to sign up for every tourney in King's Landing and crush every opponent he met.

Your amusement wore off when you noticed Jace and Luke beside you—how tense they'd gotten, how Luke was inching behind Jace. You could not blame them. Aemond had never forgiven Luke for taking his eye, no matter how many times you counselled him to lay it aside lest his rage drive him to madness. It chilled you how he spoke of Lucerys when reminded of it.

Even now, you discerned a subtle anger in Aemond’s body—tightly controlled, but there nevertheless—as he approached.

“Nephews,” he said, “have you come to train?”

Not even a greeting, you thought. Well, he does take after his mother in some ways.

“I'm afraid we’re only here to visit today,” Jace said, and you were surprised at the clean but sharp edge to his words. You did not know he could sound so much like a prince. “We must first attend to urgent matters before we’ll have any time for leisure.”

“I wasn't aware that the Crown Prince would consider swordplay a leisurely activity,” Aemond remarked. “Those princes who are truly of fire and blood, at the very least, do not.”

Fucking hell. Not even two minutes and the bastardy talk had already started. There was fury in Jacaerys’ eyes, and you stepped in before Aemond could fuel it.

“Jacaerys must be one of the few men of fire and blood who are also capable of diplomacy,” you said dryly, “as I know you are, Aemond, when you wish it.”

Aemond gave you a careful look, seeming more amused than anything else. “I wish it when my lady does.”

You smiled, placated. “I always like diplomacy. Hospitality, too. I'll be showing Jacaerys and Lucerys around before our family meets tonight—you are free to join if you wish.”

From the way the two brothers tensed, it was obvious that Aemond was absolutely not free to join. Your cousin had the grace to decline: “Thank you for the invitation, my lady, but I will give you the space to host them. You are better suited for it than me.” He glanced at Jacaerys, and said, “Do make sure you return her to me before it gets too late. I would worry about my cousin if she were out after curfew.”

Jace gave him a look that was as curious as yours.

“You need not worry. You know I would not let any harm come to our cousin.”

Aemond hummed, giving you a meaningful glance that you completely did not understand. “I’ll look for you at dinner.”

“I’ll be… sure to find you?” you replied with uncertainty, still reeling from his words. Return her to me. Aemond left before you could ask him his intent behind the phrase—because he always spoke with intent.

Jacaerys, himself, also seemed confused. “I didn't know my uncle was courting you,” he said, and you gave him a startled, bug-eyed look.

“He isn't,” you said quickly. “Queen Alicent would sooner die than let me besmirch the reputation and honour of her son.”

The elder prince frowned. “He was certainly acting like it, getting all possessive.”

“I suppose Aemond never liked it whenever we spent time with you,” Lucerys observed, looking somewhat anxious.

“He didn’t,” you now remembered. “Don't feel too bad, Luke. He was always like that even before he lost his eye to you.” Aemond loved to monopolise your time as a child and grew sullen whenever someone else had your attention—as if you were being wrongfully taken away from him and would never be returned. Sometimes you felt like a toy being fought over, tearing at the seams. “I guess he never grew out of it.”

“Childish of him,” Jace observed, watching his uncle’s back as he readied himself for another match. “Makes me inclined to take up all of your time tonight.”

You snorted. “That’s childish of you, too. Come on, let's go—at least catch up with me before you and your uncle maim each other.”

“I wouldn't do that to him,” Jace protested.

“I know. It was only a jest,” you reassured him. But an uneasy pit grew in your stomach as you thought of the way Aemond carried himself just now—how none of that lethal violence left his body as he approached his nephews.

It struck you then that you weren't so sure if the reverse was true.

VI. THE SUN

When you were alone with Jacaerys, his presence felt oddly familiar.

It was unusual, given that the prince was so different now. He had grown, and you had expected things to be strange and stiff between the two of you, but the conversation came easily once Luke departed. Jace’s laugh was the same as you remembered. His smile was the same. He rode on dragonback with you, his arms firm around your waist and his front pressed tightly against your back, and—

—that didn't feel the same, actually. You tried not to think about how he felt against you, how he had obviously grown lean and hard with muscle. It made your stomach flutter in a way that felt suspiciously similar to your reaction to first seeing Cregan Stark at court. You concentrated on the memory of the awkward, insecure boy with whom you had grown up, whom you could have never fathomed attraction to. Jace was the heir to the throne—you absolutely could not consider him desirable.

Also, if your stomach kept twisting like that, you would surely steer your dragon wrong and make all three of you crash.

Wildfyre, at least, did not see him any differently; he allowed Jace to ride him without complaint, and once you all landed outside the Kingswood, he kept clicking and prodding at your cousin with his massive snout, making the prince chuckle.

“I think he missed me,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. You were his favourite.” You glared at your dragon. “Traitor,” you groused in Valyrian, and Wildfyre snorted in response. You sighed. “Look at that attitude!”

“I think he's quite lovely,” Jacaerys said, voice smug. Wildfire crooned, as if in agreement, and snaked his long neck around Jace’s back, rubbing against him like a cat. You gave them both a dirty look.

“Sometimes I think you claimed him behind my back,” you complained, even though you could feel the bond between yourself and Wildfyre, warm and alive like a shared heartbeat. It had been present since the day you were born, as if it had formed while you were still in the womb. Still, there was a period of time before your official claim where Wildfyre adored Jace so much that you were convinced he would abandon you.

“You know that's not true. He's like a puppy around you.” Jace patted Wildfyre’s snout fondly, and the great old lizard chuffed like a dog. You saw the resemblance. “Vermax hatched in my cradle and he’s not nearly so affectionate with me.”

“Vermax is a sweetheart.”

“To you.” The corner of Jacaerys’ mouth lifted. “Remember how he nearly roasted Aegon the one time? And he never let Aemond near him, either.”

“Dragons are influenced by the feelings of their riders,” you pointed out dryly. “Vermax only detested them because you did.”

“Perhaps.” Jace scratched Wildfyre, fingers scraping against glimmering, emerald scales. The spoiled creature rumbled in a way that nearly sounded like a purr. “Are you saying that you’re as fond of me as Wildfyre is, then?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were glad that the two of you were alone and outside of the city. If anyone overheard you, or glimpsed your reaction, your reputation would have just been shattered forever. Worse yet, Jacaerys’ amused smile looked terribly handsome to you at that moment. You could not help but think, Well, I wouldn’t mind being pet by you either.

“I suppose your company is tolerable,” you said lamely.

Jace, of course, was not at all fooled. He turned to Wildfyre and said, in what you guessed was meant to be the Valyrian language, “We both know better, don't we?”

Wildfyre clicked in agreement, but your own reaction was not nearly so kind.

“My god, Jace,” you said, wincing. “Was that supposed to be Valyrian?”

He grimaced. “Was it that bad?”

“Terrible. What on earth is your mother teaching you? She's so fluent.”

“She never spoke Valyrian around us when we were children,” he explained, “so I never picked it up. Mostly, I learn from the maesters.”

“The maesters?” you repeated, appalled. You slipped into your native tongue, the timbre indignant: “No wonder you speak so poorly. You can't learn properly from maesters. You need to learn from someone who lives and breathes in the language!”

“There aren't many people in Westeros who do,” Jace replied in the Common Tongue. The two of you began to volley: Jacaerys in the language of Westeros, and you in the language of the old Freehold.

“Move back to the Red Keep. I'll teach you.”

“You’ve tried already. You were a poor tutor, remember?”

“You were a poor student.”

“That doesn’t change your own abilities. Could you even explain any basic grammar to me right now?”

“...you don't need to know grammar to talk.”

“No, but you need it to learn.”

“If I talk at you enough, you’ll pick it up eventually.” You gave him a mournful look, then tested his ear for your mother tongue: “However you do it, you should make more of an effort, Jace. You are a Targaryen, and a dragonlord besides. Valyrian is the language of your forefathers. How can you not know it?”

Jacaerys went quiet. “You know I have always tried,” he said, “to live up to my heritage as best as I can. I have neither Targaryen nor Velaryon features. People look at me and they see an Andal…”—he hesitated—“that is, they see a Strong. I have to show them I am more than that.”

Guilt gnawed at you. “Then I'll help you,” you said gently, in the Common Tongue this time. “Though truthfully, neither the language you speak nor the colour of your hair changes your blood.”

“Only you and Mother have ever thought so.” He looked away. “Apparently people used to think that my dragon egg wouldn't even hatch.”

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Yet it did, and every unbonded dragon responds to you. Vermax and Wildfyre can both attest to your claim and heritage.” You gave him a reassuring look. “Anyway, cheer up. You have more talent at the language than Aegon, silver hair be damned. His Valyrian is shit awful.”

Jace laughed. “Is it really so bad?”

“You’ll see during the meeting tonight. Aemond and I will force some Valyrian out of him—look forward to it.”

His smile faded. “I need to talk to you about that. The meeting, I mean.”

You made a face. “You know I don't want to speak of politics right now, Jacaerys. I'd rather talk about literally anything else, in fact.”

“It would be unwise to do so.”

“I live every day trying to be wise in matters of the court. Please let me be unrepentantly a fool for once.”

Jace gave you a sorry look. “Could I spend the rest of the day in leisure with you, I would. But it would be a disservice to you not to tell you, cousin. It is why I asked for time alone with you in the first place.”

“You wound me, Jace. I thought you asked it for you missed me.”

“Cousin.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s hear it.”

He breathed deeply. “There will be an announcement, one that involves you. In truth, the Hand said to keep the matter quiet until we could meet as a group, but I didn't think it was right, and neither did my mother. The Hightowers are trying to hide from you what Prince Daemon discovered.”

You gave him a curious look.

“What did he discover, then?”

VII. DEATH

The world felt so distant.

The Targaryens were seated around the Small Council table. King Viserys was absent, his mind addled with milk of poppy, so the Hand sat in his seat while his daughter stood at his side. As if in interrogation, you were at the other end of the table—the object of everyone’s scrutiny—clad in a neutral blue.

It was a powerplay. Jacaerys had predicted that the Hightowers would do it, and he tried to help you prepare. You had planned together what you should say, but the Stranger had stolen your words, your focus, your wits. Otto Hightower spoke and his voice sounded far away, as if your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your heavy breath and pounding heartbeat drowned out all other noise, thrumming alongside your bond with Wildfyre. It was singing with a pain to match your own, for the feelings of a dragon are always influenced by their rider—and he, too, had loved your father.

Otto kept speaking. You did not know why he was even here, really, nor Queen Alicent. Princess Rhaenys sat to your left without Lord Corlys, because this was a Targaryen matter—a grief shared only by those of fire and blood. The Hightowers were outsiders.

“...we must allow ourselves time to grieve your father,” the Hand said, “but the matter of his inheritance should be quickly settled.”

“What?” you asked, voice faint. This is what Jace said would happen, you thought. I should not be surprised.

But here you were—speechless, stupid.

The Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra bristled. Prince Daemon, who sat on your right, openly scoffed. Helaena looked down, and even Aegon had the grace to keep his eyes on the table. He was feckless, a lecher, and he always quarrelled with you—but he was not cruel. He was not cut from the same cloth as his grandsire.

Even he disapproved.

Jacaerys was next to you, standing tall like a sentinel. Aemond watched from across the room, near his mother, in a shade of green so dull that it was nearly black—but green nevertheless.

Why was he not beside you instead?

“Please,” you managed to say, voice quiet. “I would like to hear the news from Prince Daemon himself.”

“As you should. This was not news that should have been delivered by a Hightower.” The Rogue Prince did not bother to hide his derision. “I was treating with the lords in Pentos, and they brought to my attention news of your father’s ship—the one that disappeared when he sailed for Lys. It came to light recently that pirates and sellswords accosted it. They sacked the ship, sank it. Then they took your father for ransom, but apparently he died not too long after from his wounds. Here is the proof.”

And sure enough, he laid before you what was unmistakably your father’s sword. It had been presented to him by the Lyseni while he was being hosted by the First Magister: a weapon from the former Valyrian colonies of Essos. Your mother had been by his side when he received it. In Westeros, she had been considered a common whore, but in Lys, she had been his beloved concubine—yes, a former bed slave, but respected nevertheless. She had thrived in the Lysene court.

You took the blade into your hands, unsheathed it halfway. It was pure Valyrian steel: ancient ore folded many times over, otherworldly hues rippling in daylight. Unlike the Valyrian swords kept by the Westerosi houses, this one had a name carved into it by a Qohori smith: Siglitanor. A word borrowed from Lysene Valyrian, a name chosen by your mother. The letters were as red as the Qartheen jewels encrusted into the guard, which was fashioned with Volantene elegance.

It was, through and through, a sword of Essosi antiquity.

For nearly ten years, you imagined that your father was somewhere in Lys, carrying this sword and speaking its language every morning, every night. Avy jorrāelan. Avy raqan. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. He would whisper these words into your mother’s ear in a courtyard somewhere, their plates filled with persimmons and mangoes and peace. He went to Lys and loved her too much to return. Yes, he abandoned you, but it was to take care of your mother, who deserved nothing less.

And now—now, this sunlit vision was turning to dust before you.

“Your Pentoshi friends—who told them this news?”

“Myrish sellswords who drank too much and bragged of their exploits. The Pentoshi thought I would like to know of their crimes against the Iron Throne and brought them before me. They're being held on Dragonstone now.” Daemon, for a moment, seemed reflective, and the sharp edge of his words softened slightly. “Your father was a skilled diplomat. It was his work that kept the Triarchy in line for so long. He died, and they soon after turned on us—and everyone else in the Narrow Sea. Pentos felt the loss of him as much as we did.”

“Yes, your father was quite the man,” the Hand agreed. “He was also skilled with his coin. He amassed great wealth in the Iron Bank, all profit from the Narrow Sea and the Free Cities. The Iron Bank was never forthcoming with information until now—they thought him alive and kept this from us—”

The coin is mine, Jacaerys coached you to say. It is my inheritance. I will go to Braavos myself and oversee the wealth. By the laws of the Realm, a daughter should inherit her father’s lands and wealth in the absence of a son.

“What happened to my mother?” you whispered instead, still staring at the sword. It shared its name with the mythical blade forged by Azor Ahai, tempered by the blood of his lover. Your mother had been a fervent follower of the Red Temple; when your father asked her to name the sword, she chose to honour her faith.

Would R’hllor really have let her die?

“Yes, your mother,” Lord Hightower said. “Your mother is gone, of course—the Iron Bank was willing to make the assumption after seeing the sword and the prisoners. And as such, yours is the only name that they have listed in ownership of your father’s coin—”

“We may speak of the Iron Bank in a moment,” you said bluntly, interrupting him. “What happened to my mother?”

Queen Alicent breathed in deeply. She clearly meant to chide you for your tone, but Prince Daemon answered before she could, himself unbothered.

“The sellswords mentioned that a woman was present,” Prince Daemon relayed. “She was saved by one of the guards, and the two of them were never caught. The sellswords did not chase them for ransom—they thought her a common whore.”

Then a whore is not such a bad thing to be, you wanted to laugh. Though you had never thought so anyway, because if your mother was a whore, then surely a whore was something to be cherished and pampered. You had always imagined her in a beautiful manse across the sea, hanging on your father’s arm. The two of them were supposed to be laughing in the sun as they drank Myrish wine and wondered how you were doing. They were supposed to be making plans to return to King’s Landing someday, to see you when they received news of your betrothal. You wrote to them everyday when you were a child, asking them what sort of man who they'd like to see you marry. You sealed the letters and asked the sailors passing through Blackwater Bay to take them to your parents in Lys. I don’t know where they are, you admitted to the seamen, but it can't be hard to find a Targaryen prince. The sailors would agree, pat your head, and give you a persimmon or a mango or an orange. You did this day after day after day—because surely your mother would reply to your letters eventually.

Surely, your mother would never forget you.

“Is she alive?” you asked.

“Perhaps. Likely not. The Narrow Sea was a brutal place before I conquered it.”

“But if she survived, where would she have gone?”

“The ship was overtaken at Bloodstone, so likely Tyrosh.”

“Not King’s Landing?”

Daemon gave you a long look. “I will warn you against any wishful thinking, girl.”

It wasn't a wish, you wanted to say. It was a promise. Your mother loved you. She wept when she was forced to leave. Someday I'll come back, she said in Lysene Valyrian, kissing you on the brow. When your grandsire is long dead, I will return and see you again��R’hllor will assure it. And until then, He will protect you.

Your father was supposed to love your mother enough to stay with her. Your mother was supposed to love you enough to someday return. But now your father was a skeleton on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost at sea.

And you—you were all alone.

“I grieve for your loss, my lady,” the Hand said. “But we must turn to the matter of the Iron Bank. That coin was grown from the wealth of the Crown, and as such, it belongs to the Crown.”

“You really have no shame,” Daemon sneered, but the Hand did not flinch.

“The animals of the Reach are plagued with sickness this year. Food has risen in price, and the smallfolk are suffering. Time is of the essence. If the Crown could find the coin to alleviate their burden…”

“The Crown has its own coffers,” you said quietly. The Hand paused, as if surprised by your resistance.

“The coffers are not limitless.”

“The coffers should be managed well enough for hard years.” Your eyes burned hot, but they still met Otto Hightower with hard steel. “If the Master of Coin has misstepped in his stewardship of the Crown’s wealth, I see no reason why I should pay for it.”

“It would not be your wealth being paid. It is wealth belonging to the Iron Throne. Everything from the coin in Braavos to the sword in your hands—”

You could not help it: a laugh escaped you. “You mean to take even my father’s sword from me?”

“It is an heirloom belonging to House Targaryen, so it should be inherited by a man of House Targaryen. Dark Sister was passed to Prince Daemon and not to Princess Rhaenys, was it not? A lady has no use for a sword.”

“An heirloom?” You could not help it—you rose to your feet and held up the blade, and it shone true in the light of the sun. Helaena and Luke visibly recoiled at the bare steel, while Jace watched you carefully. “You think this is one of the swords brought over before the Doom? You think a Mormont or a Stokeworth would have a sword like this? Tell me, Lord Hand—can you read the name engraved here?”

“There is no need, my lady, for you to lose your temper—”

“It says Siglitanor. Do you know what it means? Can you even pronounce it?”

“The name has no bearing on its owner. You are fixating on irrelevant matters, my lady. I caution you not to be so irrational. The issue at hand is the inheritance of the sword, not its name.”

“The name bears relevance to the inheritance, Lord Hand,” you ground out. “It means Lightbringer, named after the sword wielded by the Lord of Light, R’hllor.” Alicent shifted visibly at the mention of your heathen god, her brow knotting, and pressure mounted in your throat, your heart. “No Westerosi heirloom bears the name of this sword, nor its craftsmanship—you may check with the maesters yourself. The sword was a gift bestowed upon my father by the Gonfalioniere of Lys. In his absence, it belongs to my mother, and in her absence, it belongs to me.” You laughed. “You wish to gut me of everything my father left to us, with no respect to our history or our rights.”

“Your father misunderstood your rights, as do you. He represented the Iron Throne in every excursion to the Free Cities, so all wealth and treasures he acquired should be returned to the Iron Throne. And let me remind you, young lady—when the law is misunderstood or transgressed, there are consequences for the criminal.”

You stared at him, incredulous—for while the Hightowers have never loved you, they have never openly threatened you.

The words hung heavy in the air, oppressive to all. Aegon was practically withering; Jace, tenser than you'd ever seen. Aemond appeared unbothered, his expression precise in its neutrality, and this cut deeper than any words from Otto Hightower ever could.

No one dared speak until the Queen cleared her throat.

“Father,” Alicent interjected, watching you carefully. “I do not think it wise to act rashly. The lady is our kin, and we should allow her some grace. Perhaps this is best solved through a formal petition. Let us give the girl a chance to grieve, then present her case to the Throne—if she will even want to make one afterward.”

“And who will oversee the petition?” you asked carefully, trying to control your voice.

Alicent delicately replied, “I will see to it that you are given a fair trial.”

“A difficult task,” you parried, “given that the Hand has overseen most petitions in the past half year while the King has been abed with illness.”

The Hand finally showed his displeasure, his tone severe when he said, “The Queen, in her grace, is offering you a means to avoid punishment for the theft of Crown wealth. It would do you well to show some gratitude.”

You tried desperately to suppress the strangled noise in your throat. Someone touched your shoulder. You glanced to your side; Jacaerys was looking at you, his dark eyes as calm as stone and earth, and you breathed deeply, the knot in your chest untangling some.

“Of course,” you finally replied. “Thank you, my Queen, for giving me the chance to defend myself from these accusations. I shall accept your proposal.”

Alicent nodded. “We find ourselves right now in grief and high passions as we mourn the loss of your father, but we will need time and prudence as we settle this dilemma he left.”

You nearly laughed. Grief is your excuse? you wanted to spit, for it was clear to you—and likely most people in the room—what was going on.

Only Prince Daemon had the nerve to voice it.

“Do you need time to settle this dilemma,” he asked, “or time to regroup? Clearly, you thought the girl would yield to your demands today while you blindsided her with grief. It appears you now need a new strategy.”

The Queen’s jaw ticked. “Good-brother, you misunderstand me. Inheritance law is complex and often at odds with compassion. It would be cruel to wrest away her father’s belongings from her”—Alicent glanced at your sword—“but at the same time, the laws of the Realm must be respected.”

“Fuck the law,” Prince Daemon snapped. “My idiot cousin got himself killed at sea and his sword was acquired by force. It belonged to the sellswords for years before I acquired it by way of gift. It now belongs to me”—you gave him a watery, furious look, but it soon dissipated, replaced by surprise—“and it is now my decision that it should belong to my cousin’s daughter.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending. Mollified. Daemon spoke then in Pentoshi Valyrian—not so different from Lysene Valyrian, but inscrutable to speakers of the Dead Valyrian taught in Westeros: “Viserys and I grew up alongside your father. We knew him well. He would have wanted Lightbringer to go to you—not these vultures.”

Daemon switched back into the Common Tongue as he took his leave, pale eyes cold on Otto Hightower.

“I will see you again during my niece’s petition, Lord Hand.”

VIII. KING OF CUPS, REVERSED

You did not go to dinner that night.

After the meeting in the Small Council room, you could not wait to get away from your family—Targaryens, Velaryons, Hightowers, and all. You kept yourself poised as you excused yourself, but you broke into a run as soon as you were out of sight, your father’s sword grasped tightly in your hand.

You knew it was a childish thing to do, to run away to Blackwater Bay and cry your eyes out. It was nearly as childish as the way you had just spiralled and crashed and burned in front of the Hightowers in that room, living up to every judgement placed upon you. A heathen who worshipped the wrong kind of god. A perpetual foreigner. The pathetic daughter of a lost whore and a dead prince—someone of such little social consequence that the Hand saw you as easy prey for your coin.

In the back of your mind, there was a growing list of things you meant to do to fix it all. You needed to ask Prince Daemon what rhetoric Otto Hightower was likely to bring up during the petition, for no one had politically jousted with that man more than he. You needed to steal all the ledgers of your father’s ventures in the Free Cities before Tyland Lannister could think of having them confiscated. Perhaps you should even appeal to Princess Rhaenyra for her aid, since her husband was going to be supporting your petition.

Most importantly, you had to think of how to maintain your standing with Queen Alicent while fighting for your inheritance. It would not do to win your petition now only to be met later with harm.

It was a long, intimidating list. You knew you should go back to the Red Keep and attend to it. But now the sun was getting low, a violent blood orange in a dimming sky, and you were still weeping bitterly on the rocky shore. You thought of all the passing ships you'd watched from this spot, all the persimmons and mangoes you cradled in your hands as you hoped your letters would reach your parents. Telling yourself that one day your father would return, and your mother not too long after.

You didn't even know why you were still in this fucking castle if your parents would never come back.

Prince Aegon found you like this: wailing into your arms, cussing out the Seven, cussing out the Iron Throne, cussing out Otto Hightower, shivering because the light was low and now you were getting cold.

“Hello, dear cousin,” he greeted, slurring. He made his way toward you, stumbling through the rising tide before stepping onto the rock you were seated upon. He reeked so badly of Arbor wine that you stopped crying just to wrinkle your nose.

“Gods,” you said, revolted, as he sat down beside you and threw an arm around your shoulders. The last thing you needed was his grimy hands on your ass, which seemed to be their favourite spot to rest. “Get away from me, Aegon. I'm in no mood to humour you today.”

Aegon was so drunk that he yielded instantly when you pushed him: he yelped and tumbled onto his side, landing in a puddle of seawater and weeds. You would feel bad for him if you, too, weren't covered in the stuff—the tide had grown high and now your feet were soaked in it.

“I came to comfort you, and this is how you thank me?” Aegon whined.

“Since when have I ever wanted your comfort?”

“Since you are now in need of it,” Aegon said. He pointed at you. “You are in a miserable state.”

“Thank you for your astute observation, my prince.”

“Don't be so cold. Let me console you. Or if you won't let me console you, at least join me in my cups”—he held out a wineskin, which you suspected was nearly empty anyway—“and we can toast your father.”

“Keep my father’s name out of your fucking mouth,” you spat. “Is this your way of taunting me, Aegon? Rubbing salt in the wound that your grandsire and mother just left?”

“Gods, no. You think I wanted any of that to happen? You were not the only person who ran away as soon as that meeting ended, cousin.” Aegon uprighted himself, his knees knocking against yours. You did not push him away this time. “My grandsire—he’s not a very kind man, is he? And as for Mother… well, you know how she is. You are not the first person to be on the receiving end of either of their… machinations.”

“Are you trying to console me? Because it feels more like I’m meant to be consoling you.”

“I would not be opposed if you did,” he wheedled.

“Well, I'm not going to. Go away, Aegon.” You squinted at him. “How did you even know where to find me?”

“My dear brother was worried about your absence at dinner, and only grew more fretful when the Strong bastards said they had not seen you either. He was nearly in tears, sniffling pretty like the Maiden, when he begged me to help him find you.”

Despite yourself, you guffawed at the image that Aegon had just conjured up.

“He said you'd either be feeling sorry for yourself in the dragonpit or you'd be feeling sorry for yourself by Blackwater Bay. I did not feel like wading through dragon dung, so I chose to look here while Aemond combs the tunnels.”

“Well, you've found me. Now you may go.”

“How am I to leave such a sorrowful, beautiful maiden alone?”

“Quite easily, actually. I may throw you into the sea if you don't.”

“No matter—I will swim back to you.”

“With the state you're in? Ser, you will drown, and I will be accused of murder.”

Aegon shrugged, opening his wineskin and taking a deep draught. “That's all well and fine. I'll be free then of the Red Keep, and you would walk away scot-free. You would not be found guilty—simply request a trial by combat, and my brother would be your champion. He will surely slay any foe who challenges you.”

You gave him a curious look. “Aemond told you of our private joke?”

“Err, no? I just think it’s quite obvious the man would kill for you.” Aegon gave you a confused look. “My brother makes jokes?”

“Yes,” you replied, but then you thought more about it. “No. It’s more like I make japes, and he smiles stiffly, and at times he humours me.”

“Ah, that sounds more like him.” Aegon took another swig of wine. “He’s always been a mirthless lad. I've no doubt you will be solely responsible for any joy in your union when it is formalised. Speaking of which, why has my mother not yet announced a wedding feast for the two of you? Surely she cannot mean to let you give birth to a bastard. She may not love you, but she would not disgrace you either.”

You put your face into your hands. “I cannot do this today, Aegon. Leave me. You may report back to your brother and let him know that I'm feeling sorry for myself out here.”

“No, my lady, I told you—I cannot simply leave.”

You gritted your teeth. “Why not?”

Aegon flailed wildly, wine swishing in his hand. “What if you walk into the sea while I'm gone? I would never recover from it. No, cousin, I will keep you safe until my brother emerges from the dung pit.”

“How chivalrous of you. I will not be drowning myself any time soon, though—I must first face your grandsire in that petition.” You quieted at the thought. Aegon’s buffoonery had distracted you for a fleeting moment, but now you were thinking once more of all the dread and the grief and the fury. “Seven hells. Give me that.”

Aegon smiled at you as you snatched the wineskin from him.

“See, my lady? There is nothing that a drink cannot fix.”

You snorted. “Will it fix this inheritance business for me?”

“I mean for it to fix mine.” Aegon began to pick the seaweed out from his breeches. “Perhaps if I drink myself blind often enough, my mother will disinherit me. Then Rhaenyra and her bastards can sit themselves on that blasted chair and I'll be able to live in peace.”

You were so wrung out that, for once, you could not find it in yourself to dance around the topic of high treason. “The Hightowers will never let you get away from the Iron Throne,” you said plainly. “They’ll never be secure unless you are suffering in that chair. Or your brother, if I should first drown you.”

“Please, cousin. Don't make me beg.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. Aegon did not bother to hold back his own amusement, giggling openly.

“You know,” Aegon said, after his chuckles died down, “it may not be an option for me, but you could do it.”

You raised a brow. “What? Throw myself into the sea?”

“No, no! No drowning on my watch!” Aegon threw a piece of seaweed at you in reprimand, which you dodged. “I mean to say—you can run. Fly away on dragonback. Go to Braavos and get all your coin. Exile yourself in Lys and spend the rest of your life in decadence. God knows”—he groaned, sounding wistful—“it is what I would do.”

You considered his words. You had always stayed here for your father, and for your lack of coin and supporters. But your father was now dead, and you had so much coin that you had no need for supporters. “I suppose I could.”

“You'd need to go now,” Aegon said. “I would not tell a soul. Not even my brother.”

“Why help me?” you asked him, suspicious. The two of you had never been all that friendly. Close, perhaps, in the way that non-stop quarrelling would make two siblings close—but not friendly.

Aegon shrugged, as if unsure himself.

“Perhaps the day will come when I will wish to go to Lys and enjoy all the beautiful women there, far from the throne,” he slurred, “and when I do, I shall call on my dearest cousin to host me.”

“Surely, brother, you would not disgrace your sister-wife like that,” a third voice interjected. You and Aegon nearly jumped, seawater splashing around your feet. When you turned around, you saw Aemond—smelling strongly of brimstone and smoke, but not dung, you were glad to notice. He did not seem nearly so happy, giving you a long, severe look. “You were not at dinner.”

It all came back, then—the green tunic, the place next to his mother, his unreadable expression as he watched your humiliation in that council room. The memory robbed you of all your mirth.

“My apologies, Prince Aemond,” you said bitterly. “I lost my appetite when I learned of my father’s death and your grandsire’s machinations to steal his wealth.”

Aemond did not reply immediately. Aegon loudly cleared his throat, then somehow got onto his feet. He swayed from the wine and stumbled in the darkness of nightfall, but managed to walk away nevertheless.

“Well, now that you have each other’s company,” he announced, “I shall take my leave. Take care not to let our cousin walk into the sea, brother. It would break my heart.”

“You tried to walk into the sea?” Aemond asked sharply, and you sighed, tired.

“No, Aemond. It was only a jape. A bad one.”

“Hm. My brother does have a poor sense of humour.”

Aemond offered you a hand, and you studied it warily. When you did not take it, he finally said, “I did not know what my mother and grandsire planned to do in that meeting. The news of your father’s death was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.” A pause. “Though I would wager you had warning and counsel from the blacks.”

“Jace warned me because he cares about me. I did not receive help from Rhaenyra's faction—do you really think I would care to involve myself in petty spats over the throne?”

Aemond hummed. “I know my nephew has great love for you, but it was not him to whom I was referring.”

A blinding, hot flash of anger rendered you speechless for a moment—how dare Aemond drag succession politics into this? But the rage quickly passed, giving way to clarity. For it must have been a great sum that your father had in the Iron Bank, if Otto Hightower desired it. And if it was great enough for him to seek, then it was also great enough for Princess Rhaenyra to do the same.

Aemond watched as you pondered this, your eyes dropping to your soaking, seaweed-ridden feet.

“Fine. You're right. But why didn't you come to my side once you realised what was happening?” you asked quietly. “During that meeting, I mean.”

“It would not have helped you.”

Yes, it would have, you wanted to cry, I'd have felt better for it. But Aemond was too smart and too serious to entertain such childish notions: you knew he was speaking in purely strategic terms.

“No,” you admitted, “but it would not have hurt, either.”

“Alicent cares greatly about the appearance of unity among our family. Were I to break it, she would cease to trust me, and it would be that much harder for me to help you.”

“And how would you help me?”

“What would you want to be helped with?”

You looked up at him balefully. The money, the inheritance laws, the petition—there was no way that Aemond could do anything about any of it, not without alienating his mother. You had half a mind to ask him to throw you into the sea after all, but based on his earlier reaction, he would likely lock you up in your room if you made such a jape.

With nothing else in mind, you simply said, “I don't want to give up this sword.”

He arched his brow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Well—no.” You brought a hand to your temple. “It’s more complicated than that. I do want to give up this sword, eventually. But to someone worthy of it.”

You stared at Lightbringer, trying to imagine it in someone else’s hands. Hands that did not belong to your father, but someone who loved you as much as he.

Laughable, as the Hightowers would never let you marry for love.

“Here is what I think, Aemond,” you started. “If this petition works out in my favour, all of my suitors will suddenly be from houses allied with your mother’s faction. I will be made to marry a lord who is in Otto Hightower’s pocket, and he will inherit my father’s sword—and all of that coin in Braavos, too.”

Aemond considered it. “It is fair speculation. You do know how my grandsire thinks.”

“Well, I was raised by his daughter.” When Aemond did not argue with you, you bleakly asked him, “What should I do, then? When I am married to a man who intends only to steal from me, on behalf of the Hand?”

“You could always pray for your lord husband to fall off his horse. I would make sure to prove your innocence after the tragedy.”

You stared at him, as gobsmacked as Aegon was earlier. “Aemond, did you just tell a joke?”

“Would it bring you any comfort if I said no?”

You made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob. When Aemond offered you his hand again, you took it—standing with his help, shivering as your body was exposed to the night wind. A cloak smelling of smoke and ash was placed on your shoulders, and you gratefully accepted it.

“You no longer wish to marry,” he guessed, watching you fumble with his mantle.

“I wish to marry someone of my choosing.” You found that no words in the Common Tongue could quite capture your anguish, so you relied on your Valyrian: “I did not mind the idea of being used by your family, so long as I could live safely. But I cannot bear the thought of anyone using what once belonged to my father. It is”—your voice broke, but you did not cry—“all I have left of him and my mother.”

“I understand,” Aemond replied, his Valyrian soft, lacking its usual cunning edge. “Focus on your petition for now. Worry not about your betrothal. I will handle it.”

You closed your eyes. You had no idea what he could do, but you trusted him. Aemond was brutally efficient in matters of court and power; you could rely on him.

“Alright,” you said. “I shall count on you.”

The nighttime breeze swept your body again; you shivered, still wrestling with the cloak. Aemond evidently tired of watching you struggle; he brought up his hands and straightened the mantle out for you.

“Are you really thinking of leaving?” he murmured. You blinked, not understanding. “You and my brother—you spoke of leaving for the Free Cities.”

You gave Aemond a long look. His expression was inscrutable, but certainly not happy. There are few people in this world who would worry about me, he had said not long ago. And you had told him, not long after: Just know that you can always write to me, no matter how far away I am.

If you left for Lys, that would no longer be true. You imagined Aemond alone at court, dealing with whatever designs his mother and grandsire had, with only his drunk brother and strange sister for allies—and you, an entire sea away, missing every letter the sailors were meant to give you.

“I could not,” you confessed. “Even if I tried, I think I would eventually have no choice but to return to you.”

He hummed. “Good. I fear I would not have been as kind as my brother in conspiring for your escape. You might have found yourself in trouble with me.”

“Another jest from you?” you remarked. “What a strange day this has been.”

Aemond’s mouth curled, but he did not reply. He merely fastened his cloak of ash around you until it was tight around your neck. And for a moment, in the strange and unreliable light of the moon, his smile looked almost unsettling.

END PART II

notes: oh god this chapter was so long now that I'm looking at it posted as one piece (versus ao3 where I split it up). you are truly my ride or die if you read all that. but anyway, below are some notes to help clarify parts of this chapter in case you are confused-

clarifying ages:

There's 2-3 year gap between the reader and Aemond/Jace

Jace in the first scene is initially 10, and you are 13 (text refers to you as “nearly a woman” since it was ye olde times, but you were really both kids)

In the present day, the characters are all in their late teens/early 20s.

timeline and other notes:

This chapter (and story overall) diverged slightly from show canon; Corlys Velaryon has not yet gotten injured so the Driftmark succession petition has not happened. This is still the blacks’ return to court for the first time in years though, hence why some of the events played out similarly to that episode.

Jace feels a little more mature in this chapter than he did in the end of S1 (he is closer to how he behaves in S2), and that is because of two things: (1) he is aged up slightly so he is naturally more mature; (2) I thought he was hotter in S2 and wanted to write about that version of him instead lol

[graveyardcuddles]

Breakfast in Bed

A/N: just a dadstarion drabble. feeding as a love language. mdni.

word count: ~ 3000

tags/warnings: sfw, shameless fluff, soft spawn astarion, baby fic, mentions of reader being pregnant in past tense, breastfeeding, soft blood-drinking (? lol), tav reader, mom reader, soft vampire romance, hints of angst, just lots of sweetness, playing fast and loose with dnd lore about dhampirs and vampires.

You're enjoying a rare deep sleep when a small yet powerful sound jolts you into a state of semi-consciousness with alarming urgency. You can barely register your own body around you, attempting to roll and shift. Suddenly, you feel a familiar cool hand touch your shoulder. "Shhh, it's alright, love. I've got her."

Astarion. He must have sensed your panic at your daughter's cries before he even had the chance to grab her himself. You sigh in relief as he quickly moves to soothe her.

"Gods below, whatever could be making that absolutely hideous sound? Has a little gremishka gotten into our home?" He says with a heavy dose of sarcasm as he pads over to her cot.

Untangling yourself from the bedding, you open your eyes just in time to see Astarion gently lifting your tiny daughter out of her bassinet.

"Darling, waking up your mother so early?" He tuts. "And here I was hoping to make this a peaceful morning."

Despite his mock scolding, his expression betrays the softness of his eyes, wide with adoration. His lips curl upwards in a carefree way that you've never quite seen from him with anyone else. A secret smile that only she can pull from him. She scruches her little legs, and he places a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his hand covering almost her entire back. He coos to her as her cries taper out into little whines. Nestling her close to his chest, Astarion tucks her tiny head under his chin. Rocks her gently while shushing her until she goes quiet.

You watch as her tiny scrunched body relaxes as she calms in his hold. So enchanted you are by the two of them that it takes a moment for you to notice the aroma of food coming from behind you. You turn around and see a small tray on your nightstand with a bowl of porridge, two hard-boiled eggs, toast, and some blackberries.

Once again, you find yourself struck by how much he's changed in the years since the Nautaloid. He never used to cook for you before, and you never resented him for it. You couldn't expect him to be enthusiastic about cooking when he couldn't even taste what he made for you.

All of that changed after the news of your impending little one broke. He had quietly taken to practicing a few basic meals for you. They often lacked the amount of seasoning you normally preferred, but with your overly tender stomach, the bland meals ended up being a blessing on days you could barely keep things down.

As you eat your breakfast, you watch the two of them. Somehow, he's always had a remarkable talent for calming her. Something else you never imagined. You used to tease him about it frequently: "Oh sure, I go through all the hard work only for you to be the favorite, then?" He had simply smirked, barely able to contain his triumphant aura.

He's talking to her now; always talking with her about anything: one tangent will lead to another story and then another. He carries on conversation with her as he would any adult, despite the fact she can't even babble yet.

Even before she was born, he would speak to her in the womb. He knew your heartbeat would be a source of comfort for her when she was born, just as it was for him. She would recognize you from it, know you. He lacked the ability to provide that same comfort but hoped his voice would make up for his lack of heartbeat.

In truth, you were awed every day by how naturally Astarion had taken to caring for her, and how much she in turned seemed to take such comfort from him. You remembered how he refused to believe it at first. How something so small and innocent and precious could possibly come from him, an undead creature. Him, with his red eyes and fangs and cold skin. He had been so afraid of frightening her with his appearance at first. You had reassured him constantly, and he had seen his own likeness in the form of portraits over the years. But he could never be sure you weren't just placating him. Could never be sure those artists weren't simply flattering him.

The first time she opened her little eyes and peered up at him, Astarion let out a sigh of relief that her irises weren't a vampiric red. As her tiny eyes bore into his, he tried to discern what their true color was. You were half-delirious from exhaustion as you watched the two of them become acquainted. Barely thinking, you sleepily suggested to him that perhaps her eye color took after his original shade from before he was turned.

Astarion grew quiet and still for a long moment, something inside of him seemingly triggered by your words. A memory locked away long ago, lost to time. For the second time that same day, his body was hit with deep racking sobs. As he cried quietly into your shoulder, he clung to the little bundle in his arms, a part of himself thought long lost now given back to him.

He brings her to you now, settling down next to you in bed. You cuddle up next to your husband and baby. He's still too enthralled with her to pass her off to you, as he often is. He kisses her little hands and cheek. He smiles radiantly, far past his fears of scaring her. You're more than content to let him hold her as you eat.

She's calmed down now, her soft delicate features smoothed and her big bright eyes looking up at you both. Those captivating eyes are like faceted gemstones, a rare shade even amongst High Elves. Her skintone is similar to yours in color but with an unsettling washed-out, pale undertone that would be alarming on any other child who wasn't a dhampir. Branches of veins show through her semi-translucent skin. Her soft, silky miniature curls were the color of milkglass.

Your little one is deceptively fragile-looking, sickly even. It's easy to forget sometimes how powerful they could potentially be one day. Even at her tender young age of eight weeks, she's a formidable one. Eating and crying with equal fervor. Small and mighty. Just as opinionated as her father.

She wastes no time in letting you know both know she has needs that must be met. Rolling towards Astarion in his arms, she presses her tiny face into his chest. Her little mouth opens up as her face nudges around his shirt, seeking nourishment. You both giggle at her frustrated attempt.

"I think that's my cue, love." You place the tray back on the nightstand and gently take her from him to nestle her in your arms. Pulling down one strap of your nightgown, you begin feeding your babe in a peaceful ritual you had mastered weeks ago with her. Astarion settles in behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder. For a few minutes, he simply watches the two of you. When he takes note of your unfinished breakfast, he grabs a handful of blackberries from the tray and holds out for you to eat at your leisure as you cradle her.

It isn't lost on him, the way in which you were the first person to ever feed him. Truly feed and nourish his body, with the very blood from your own body nonetheless. Never in a million years did he ever think he would one day witness you feeding his child with that same body. An entirely brand new soul, somehow born of your union. Innocent, beautiful and alive. A part of Astarion was alive again, and he could hardly believe it even as he faced each new challenge head-on.

Since she was born, he would sometimes go without feeding for days at a time. Though the elk, deer and boars that populated the nearby woods provided ample prey for him, you knew he hated leaving you two behind even for a few hours of time that it typically took for him to hunt.

He was trying to hide it, but you could tell he was starving now. His face was a little more hollow than usual, eyes a bit more sunken, skin paler and colder. It was truly a testament to how much he adored your daughter that despite his sickly appearance, he still radiated with joy in her presence.

The blackberries run out. You tilt your head to look at him. "You should feed," eyes fixed on his. He blinks at you, obviously surprised at your suggestion. "Just a bit of my blood before you go hunting."

It takes more than a bit of willpower to stifle your giggle at his reaction. Astarion had never been one to hesitate accepting your blood.

"I- Darling, come now. You're sweet to offer, but we shouldn't. Not when you're already expending yourself," his arms snake around your waist, and his cool fingers knead into the softness of your belly comfortingly.

"Ha, trust me, this is nothing compared to feeding you while traveling and fighting for our lives in the wilderness," you assure him.

"Besides," you gesture at the jewelry around your neck. "That's what this is for."

The Amulet of Silvanus, which had already been more than useful to both of you during your time traveling, had come to have many more beneficial properties than you could have imagined at the time. It restored your blood levels, allowing Astarion to feed on you regularly. And even though he had abstained from feeding on your blood while you were with child, it had been found to also be useful in keeping your milk supply up, giving it a second use once your baby had arrived.

"It's alright," you insisted, eyes and voice soft. "I feel strong enough for this again, my love. Truly. And I trust you," your daughter continues to nurse peacefully, blissfully unaware of the conversation between her parents.

"At least let me take the edge off of your hunger, Astarion. I know you won't go too far. Besides," a smile forms on your face, unable to hold back your enthusiasm any longer. "You know I've missed it, too."

He stared at you for a moment before breaking into a smile that made your heart ache so much you swear it could have killed you.

"My love," he kisses you on the forehead, then on your lips, then both of your cheeks and your lips again. It's soft and reverent, gentle and loving.

"Always so good to me." He strokes your hair and kisses you some more before pulling away gently. His maroon eyes broke from your gaze and locked onto your little one.

"Are you sure about this, though?" There was a hint of hesitancy in his voice despite his previous enthusiasm. "I don't want to do anything that would hurt you around her," he whispered, conflict clear on his face. You considered his words carefully.

"Well..." You start with a hint of playfulness. "I don't know if you remember, dear husband, but this?" You gestured at your nursing infant. "Feeding her? It was painful at first. And we don't even know if she'll need blood one day. But if she does, I'll be providing it for you both." He looks guilty already, so before he could respond, you followed up. "But even so," you cup his cheek, gently forcing him to look you in the eye. "No matter what happens, she can't hurt me." His eyebrows raised, and he smirked at you with obvious skepticism.

"When we first found out about her, we vowed we would love her, no matter what. Even if her hunger drove her one day to drain innocent people dry." You gaze down on your little dhampir, your precious 'baby monster,' as she fed. "At the time, I was scared, but now... my love for her is so deep. I know nothing will ever change it. Nothing could ever possibly change it."

You look to him and see his eyes were round with wonder. "You don't have to if you're not comfortable, my heart. But just know you don't have to worry about hurting me. You could never hurt me, my love."

He sighed, looking at you with a sort of incredulous amusement that would normally be followed up with a statement about how nothing you say ever makes sense. Instead, he takes the hand that had been caressing his cheek and kisses it longingly.

"I'll never understand what I've done to deserve you, my dear," his nose runs along your inner wrist, savoring your scent.

"Hmm, besides helping me save the world? Well, making me laugh and being adorable definitely doesn't hurt."

"Our daughter is adorable. I am enigmatic and alluring, NOT adorable," he rolls his eyes dramatically.

"Hmm. Sorry love, but I'm afraid all evidence points to the contrary. Our daughter gets her looks from somewhere, and you know who she takes after." Astarion can't hold back his grin he looks down at her and strokes her silvery curls. The semblance between father and daughter was no small point of pride for him.

"Alright, my love. I know better than to argue with the mother of my child." He slips in behind both of you easily, pulling you up so your back is flushed to his chest, allowing yourself to lean back into him.

His arms come up under where both of yours are supporting your babe. He cradles the both of you protectively. "I've got you. I've got you both," he reassures. Your little girl continues to nurse peacefully, both parents holding her tight.

Astarion noses at the base of your neck and inhales deeply. Soft kisses pepper up and down your neck before his lips hold still in place, silently asking permission once more.

You tilt your head back against his shoulder in answer, giving him greater access. Taking a deep breath, you feel the familiar sting of his fangs breaking your skin. He was so gentle, sinking his teeth in fast enough so as not to make the sting linger, but also slow enough so as not to bruise the skin. His fangs work back and forth tenderly, taking great care to keep the bite bleeding while not opening the wound further.

You find yourself easily relaxing. "You're still gentler than she is most of the time," you joke.

His lips attach around the bite wound, gently latched just enough to keep them sealed around it. The flow of blood stayed slow and steady this way, trickling gently from you to him. In your arms, your little one is also feeding eagerly. For a moment, you can't help but giggle at how the sound of Astarion's suckling at your neck joins in with her own precious little eating noises. Her tiny ears wiggle adorably with each drink, and while he refuses to acknowledge it, you can feel Astarion's own ears make miniscule twitches when he feeds on you.

Sighing happily, you sink deeper in his embrace. You had truly missed being able to provide this for him. Time seems to slow down to a hazy crawl as you savor this moment. In the warmth of your bed, surrounded by your little family, you feel as though you could spend an eternity here. You wish you could. It wasn't easy to sacrifice so much. Give so much of yourself over to caring for your babe. But it was moments like this that had made your many sacrifices worth it.

Your undead love at your back and your tiny, half-undead infant in your arms. The feeling of his cool chest and her not-quite-warm-enough little form were somehow the most natural thing in the world. The steady beating of your heart sustaining the both of them. They were both supposed to be impossible, wrong, and profane to everything sacred and divine. And somehow, they were perfect. And you were lucky enough to have them both.

Though you're more than prepared to supplement your daughter's diet with blood the moment the need arises, you feel grateful in this moment that she's still satisfied with your milk. Melancholy borders on the edge of your warm and blissful feelings. Astarion has spoken often of how painful the blood hunger can be for him. You try to keep it to yourself, but guilt squeezes your heart when you think of her with those same hunger pains. Astarion has already sworn he will guide her through them, teach her to hunt on animals when she's strong enough. As you look upon your daughter, you can only hope to yourself that she and Astarion keep each other close, even if you one day leave them behind. There had been talks of ways the two of you could extend your lifespan, and you invested every hour you could spare into researching life-extending magic.

Yet if your endeavors failed or you died prematurely, after some time, perhaps decades, perhaps centuries in the future, you will be the one who leaves first. Astarion will remain unliving and physically unchanging, and while dhampirs were said to be more alive than undead, they were exceptionally long-lived creatures. Sources the two of you researched varied greatly, but all accounts agreed that dhampirs could outlive High Elves by centuries, possibly thousands of years if they renewed themselves with blood. Two ancient souls, undead and half-undead, largely unchanging in an ever changing world. Astarion and her would need each other.

Just as you begin to feel lightheaded, he pulls away, licking and kissing your bite to seal the wound and carefully collecting any stray strands of blood. "Easy," his arms are diligently wrapped around your babe, keeping her supported and snug. "Restore yourself, darling," he encouraged.

You nod sleepily and bring your hand up to touch the amulet. "Te Absolvo," with a soft flash of healing magic, your dizziness was instantly gone, the buzz in your head replaced with Astarion's sweet praises in your ear.

"Thank you, my love," he whispers. He presses a deep kiss into your neck, where your fresh bite mark heals. Your daughter has finished her meal now as well, and you pull your gown back up to tuck her closer to you. She snuggles up on your chest, and you stroke her back softly. She's fast asleep again already, her schedule leaning more and more each into the nocturnal with each passing day. Another early manifestion of her dhampirism.

Nocturnal sleep schedules, blood hunger, spider-climbing, shape-shifting. It didn't matter what new challenges the two of you might face with her. You trusted Astarion would be there for her. He would struggle. He would make mistakes, you know. But he has you both.

As you hum sleepily to your baby girl, Astarion nestles into your neck tenderly. He mumbles unto your skin quietly, just barely loud enough to be heard.

"You have given me everything. Thank you."

[ddejavvu]

hi! i loved loved LOVED ur bestfriend!james who doesn’t know any boundaries 🙏 can u make another one? maybe like sirius and remus catching them “platonically” kiss or something 😆 it can’t be surprising given that james hands was on inside her thighs??

thank uu!! love u lots

saw a headcanon once that james is an excited kisser and i've never seen him any other way since

--

Sirius and James are prolific gamblers. No matter what they're betting on, be it how many first years will stumble on the moving staircases in one week, or which corridor Ms. Norris will catch two fifth-years making out in tonight, they bet like addicts slumming around a glittering casino.

Today's bet was this: If Hagrid and the new Care of Magical Creatures Aid, a fairy brought in to offer insight into creatures' anatomy, don't notice that their respectively oversized and undersized silverware have been switched at the staff's table, Sirius wins. If they do, James wins.

Hagrid, absentminded and happy-to-be-there as he is, doesn't mention the tiny fork that he's been given, if he notices at all. But the fairy struggles to lift the rather large knife sat beside her place, and flutters beside Hagrid's hand, setting her own on his callused skin. She speaks in a low voice, soothing and sweet, and he's more than happy to switch with her when they realize what's happened. You're not sure what her end of the conversation contains, but Hagrid's voice is loud and proud as he theorizes about a particular group of Gryffindors and their penchant for pranks.

"Shit," Sirius grumbles, at the same time that James cheers, "Fuck yeah!"

One of his hands clenches into a fist at his side and he jerks it towards his side in a celebratory motion, but his excitement can't be contained in the simple gesture, and he rounds on you to get the rest of it out.

It's with a gleeful grin that he presses his curved lips straight onto yours, hands shooting out to clutch at your cheeks, preventing you from moving away. It's a habit he's got, neither good nor bad, that compels him to lay a smooch on whichever one of his friends is near when he's feeling extra excited. It's been you more times than you can count, and you let him smoosh his lips to yours at his secured victory.

You're barely able to laugh a broken, "James!" as he pulls away, still muffled by a mouthful of breakfast. Sirius and Remus are very vocal in discussing their repulsion at that particular fact, watching you chew and swallow with exaggerated grimaces.

"Mate, there was still food in there," Sirius hums, sounding wounded, "You can just take more eggs from the dish, there's no need to scavenge for hers."

"Oh, fuck off," James reaches for a strip of bacon on Sirius's plate, gleeful excitement at having won not yet faded, "I won. You owe me your sausages for the rest of the week."

"I've only got one sausage," Sirius laments, looking down past his plate into his lap, "But if it'll settle the score you can have a taste, mate."

"N'thanks," James snickers, barely concealing a look of his own disgust at the thought, "Moony might start resource guarding."

[luvvixu]

mind over matter pt. 4

synopsis: witness how your marriage was bound to fall apart with you on the front seat and your husband gojo had missed the show—now, he gotta figure out the story on his own.

content: arrange marriage au, angst, husband!gojo, mean!gojo, mention of blood, strong languages, some unsettling scenarios, emotional trauma, read at your own risk

a/n: ok, im such a bad author now huhu, i always broke my promises about updating the new chapter :((( should've just wrote in advance but i'm afraid i don't have that enough free time oqsjjanswjaj anyways, here's the anticipated chapter!! THANK YOU FOR Y'ALL PATIENCE <3 MWUHEHEHHEEHHE

previous / masterlist / next

the next day comes and you've got yourself some visitors. megumi, yuuji, nobara, maki, and inumaki was in your room and they were all seated around you as you talk.

panda and your two third years were not around at the moment because this is a non-sorcerer hospital and people would freak out to see a big ‘talking’ panda. during your two third years, they were out of town and were on a mission but they still text you to get well and even send you some fresh flowers.

“wait, i still can't believe that he's your husband.” nobara couldn't explain his shock at the revelation. out of all, she didn't think that her goofy teacher was someone's husband.

you chuckled at her reactions as you turned your gaze on megumi, who's still his mouth hanging. “megumi, i thought you're getting a hint?” you tease the boy. although it was true, you actually thought he already had an idea because you've known him for almost his entire life and even once lived with you as a kid.

“no…” was only his answer.

“so, gojo-sensei was the one you're talking about when you said that he was a busy man. most of his job requires being out of town. but he never fails to shower you with love and he is making sure that you two would still communicate despite his busy schedule?” your eyes widened when yuuji literally just said what you had said from before, word-by-word!

“i—i supposed he is.” everyone in the room sweat dropped at your answer.

what do you mean you supposed?!

“y/n-sensei, is it okay if we ask your baby?” maki chooses the gentlest approach because she heard that post-pregnancy can make the mother quite crikey, sensitive, and is prone to depression. but to her relief, you respond to her warmly.

“oh, the baby is being treated since they're premature. i really can't wait to meet them once i get better. but right now, shoko was the only one who had seen my baby.” you smiled softly at the thought of your baby.

“gojo-sensei still hadn't seen the baby?” maki’s eyes went wide.

you nodded. “yeah, he said we should go together so i must heal quickly for that to happen.”

the door suddenly opened and it revealed your husband with food in his hand. you smiled at the packages not because you're hungry, but because you had finally persuaded satoru to go out and leave you even for just a few minutes.

how did you do it? well, you just give him an earful after what he did yesterday night and he's like;

“i don't know how you did it but you should've just gone to the convenience store or the hospital canteen just for an oatmeal and eggs. and look, i'm not upset over the fact that you just had the ‘very easy to get’ food delivered on this doorstep. what concerns me is you seem not to trust me very well to handle myself— well in fact i've been doing it since i was a kid and blah, blah, blah, blah…” it was your turn to yap but a little longer than he did. you even probably bought up some of his minor mistakes like not taking out the trash on random sunday night.

and he was like, “i'm sorry. i won’t do it again ( •̯́ ^ •̯̀)”

“y'all done backstabbing me?” satoru teasingly smiled at you all.

“oh, we're just getting started. so why don't you take a seat and hear us out?” you patted the empty space of your bed beside you.

satoru playfully huffed and gave the foods to his students and let them distribute it themselves. sitting beside you, he gave you the separate plastic with food and helped you feed yourself. the two of you had your moment with you telling satoru to just let you be and stop feeding you like a kid, but satoru was like nuh uh—and it goes on and on.

meanwhile, the students watch you two with surprise in their eyes. they still couldn't digest the fact that you two had managed to hide your marriage for like five years or so. and out of all spouses out there, they couldn't believe their eyes that you married a guy that is a total opposite of you.

“i still cannot really believe that you're married and have a baddie wife.” nobara almost never tears her gaze towards you two.

“yeah, much more is that they look so in love!” yuuji agrees to what nobara said as his words made you two stop bickering instantly.

like a cold water being poured, you two were suddenly experiencing a reality check that this so-called in love was very far from the two of you actually is. coughing slightly to hide his awkwardness and nervousness, he just let himself chuckle. while you? you're an expert at this, you maintain a smiley expression and wordlessly (and also forcefully) agrees to what the boy said.

“oh my, do we?” putting a hand on your cheek, you smiled with your eyes closed. your act looks so legit but satoru has seen this multiple side—he knew this facade was all fake.

maki suddenly puts herself into attention by calling your name. “anyway y/n-sensei, i've noticed you two don't have a ring—” before she could even finish her sentence, you already beat her to it.

“that's because the two of us, mostly him, are constantly fighting curses and both involve using our hands when we use our techniques. it would be risky to wear it and we're scared that we might get it lost or damaged.” you explain meticulously.

you watch the students agree to your explanation, while satoru is looking at you with meaning. you stared back at him too, hoping that he would get your telepathic message.

“alright guys, your y/n-sensei needs to rest now. we'll just see you guys soon or you can all just drop by tomorrow after your training.” satoru called everyone's attention by clapping his hands then started to playfully shoo the students.

you watch them pack their things and wave you a happy goodbye, in which you return their enthusiasm as well. when they all left, you let out a sigh and started to gently lie your body on the bed. satoru, who was done cleaning just now, sit at the end of your bed and carefully massage your legs.

“did you have fun with them?” you just lazily hum at his question and proceed to rest your eyes.

“i…i'm surprised you managed to convince them about our marriage.” satoru continued quietly.

opening one of your eyes and looking at him, you said, “of course, i've been doing it to a lot of people for the past five years.”

that alone made him shut up.

satoru looked down to his hands, which were still busy massaging your legs. you've noticed that his eyes were casted down and his behavior was somewhat familiar to you, he's feeling something that is related to guilt and regret.

clicking your tongue, you're in no mood to deal with his behavior today. so to find a solution to this problem, you just put yourself to sleep and let all of this just go on without a single care.

it has been two days and you're getting better day by day. today was probably the bestest day so far because you're about to finally see your own baby!

“calm down, mama. do you want your stitches to open again?” shoko holds your knees to stop it from shaking anxiously as you were currently sitting just right outside the neonatal intensive care unit (nicu) where your baby was.

you understand that the doctors need to prepare the room first before you all come in, but you wished that they speed it up.

“but sho, i'm finally seeing my baby!” you squeal at your friend who just ruffles your hair and tells you to be patient—in which you definitely can't.

meanwhile, satoru, who was standing beside you while you and shoko were sitting together, has been eyeing you since this whole waiting. he understands that you're excited about seeing the baby because he is too, he is excited. but he couldn't help but to feel a sensation that you would rather share your excitement with others than him.

he knows that he sounds ridiculous and undeserving to say that in the first place after what he did to put you through, but he still couldn't help it and he wouldn't even dare to say it to you.

the door of the nicu just opened and it revealed the doctor who was wearing protective gear to keep bacterias and viruses from entering the room and harm the baby. before he lets you all in, he first instructs you all to change the same gear as him and then proceeds to give you all some explanation in which you actively listen and take notes.

and after that, he finally lets you go inside.

the moment your eyes traveled on a crib, you saw your child laying down there with some breathing apparatus that is connected to their little body. you could feel your eyes swell with hot tears as you inch yourself towards the bundle of joy who's their crib was also protected with glass and only small holes on both sides were there.

satoru and shoko watched you with pure warmth at your sight—it was a nice scene of mother's love. finally, a tear escapes your eyes the moment you get a whole view of your child.

“isn't he pretty?” shoko said beside you, someone who you didn't notice had come near you.

you gasp, “he? m-my baby is a boy?” your cries go even harder, but it was just pure happiness. you couldn't bring yourself to tear your gaze away from your child even though he looks fragile for being premature but you love him dearly.

“can i touch him?” you look at the doctor who assisted you earlier without caring that you might look like a crying mess. you're far more thrilled to be with your child than to be pretty at this moment.

the doctor smiled at you and he agreed. he pointed out the small hole on the side, telling you to stick your hands out to feel your baby. you do what he said with your shaky hands, and when your fingertips touch his warm skin—you feel like you could die from the burst of euphoria.

“my b-baby, my baby is n-now here!” you really can't hold your emotions back as you keep on passing your fingers through your baby's arm until it reaches his closed hands where you slightly and gently open it for him to grab index finger. and when he does, your smile becomes even wider.

“hi baby~ this is me, your mommy. it's so nice to finally see you.” you whispered softly, hoping that despite the glass, he could hear your words.

this is the bestest day of your life. your baby was here and that's all you need.

the scene continues to unfold with you still getting emotional and shoko was just watching you with a smile on her face. while satoru, the father of the child, the husband of the mother, was a little distant but he could still see the baby. he was all quiet and couldn't bring himself to utter a word but he's not speechless.

his eyes behind those glasses were trailed on the child, but most of his gazes were on you. satoru watches you become all smiley—this is probably the happiest smile he had seen on your lips for the past years of your marriage.

and he would absolutely never forgive himself if he breaks it—but he already did.

shoko notices his odd behavior and promptly leaves your side for a while (but you're busy having a baby talk with your baby to notice her leaving) to go talk to him.

“what? you're just gonna stand there and watch y/n?” yup. still the same as before, hostile towards the man. satoru let out a sigh and didn't give her attention. instead, he walked towards y/n and just focused on his family.

“you’re so tiny!” you continue to cooed at your son who keeps on moving slightly which is a good sign that your son is responsive and fighting. you also noticed that satoru was now right beside you and is looking at your son too with adoration tinted in his eyes.

“i don't think i could let myself be away from him anymore.” you said. your cheeks were now hurting from constant smiling but you don't mind.

satoru only looks at you briefly because his attention was now on his son, fully. “hello, it was nice finally meeting you.” his eyes trailed on his own flesh and blood with the most care of all.

on the other hand, you're not dumb to not notice that satoru was acting hesitant towards this scene and you knew what his reason was. you think that satoru thinks that he was undeserving to be here, and you're correct about his assumption.

but as a woman who grew up with an experience of being inside a shattered family, you absolutely would not want that to happen to your own child. and as much as you would also like to satoru be away at least for now because you're still that sensitive about what he had said during those conversations in the clinic and hallway, you respect his role as a father.

you'd give him a chance to prove his worth as a father to your child, but he's far worse to have a chance to prove his worth as a husband to you. if he messes this up real bad and without any proper explanation, this will be all over—satoru would no longer have you and your child as his own family.

“stick your hand on his hole, that way you could feel him.” you guided his hand towards the hole that you had said before and watched his hands turn shakey as he reached for the baby.

once satoru had finally experienced a skin-to-skin touch with his baby, he wanted to cry so badly but he didn't allow himself to, at least not yet. he felt like this was one of the best moments in his existence.

satoru would like to punch himself for questioning the baby for his plans as he seemingly thinks it would affect him. but just when he look and touch his baby, all of his recollection about the mixed emotions he felt when the baby is on the board has suddenly vanished and it was replaced with gratefulness and adoration for both of you.

it was like a full 360 degrees turn was done after the early birth of his first born. plus, he had seen you be ever so happy that you are with him. and deep inside him, satoru deniably hopes that this kid, this child, can at least help him save this marriage that was destined to fail and doomed.

because he now finally realizes that you're slowly wrapping him around your tiny fingers.

your tears had made him be a better person, your recent experience had made him behave. it almost cost you and your baby's wife just for him to realize the importance of your five years of marriage, and he's planning to tell you that soon.

“have you finally decided what name we should give him?” shoko asked you and she didn't fail to see your eyes sparkle at the mention of name.

ah yes, baby names.

that was something that a mother and father should decide together because it comes very crucial because the name that your baby will get is a symbol of you two's relationship. but the thing is, you and your husband hadn't talked about a single thing or just anything related to this matter.

that's probably why you're still embarrassed whenever you think about nanami accidentally seeing you open a website into one of the school's computers about unique baby names with its meaning.

you're four months pregnant at that time and you're spending your free time in a teacher's lounge. you're very invested in your mini research to the point that you didn't notice an old friend peeking at your screen. you actually only notice his presence when you're about to stretch but accidentally bump his torso, and to your surprise, he was there.

and then the rest becomes a story and history. nanami helped you pick baby names for both genders or even unisex until you came out with…

“kazuki. let's name him that.” a soft smile was decorated on your lips as you watched satoru, who's looking at you, plays with the hands of your son.

“kazuki…that's a nice name, y/n.” satoru said happily. however, you can see his disappointment behind those words and you know why. you didn't even invite him to search for your baby's name because why would you?

“does it have any special meaning?” shoko asked you.

you nodded and said, “of course, kazuki means hope of peace—and i really need that.”

taglists: @mistymuii @kalopsia-flaneur @sherryuki-callmeyuki @aish777 @tttttttf @slyhersophia @rirk-ke @labelt-san @shinruo @testrella @sad-darksoul @kurookinnie @mountvesuvu @chwesuh-imnida @cole-silas @elernity @maddie-jayne @yozora7154 @kawaiivillainess98 @forourpoets @aishies-stuff @numblytemporary @souyasplushie @catarinemirandax @aerithsthingss @h1gh4ru @ssetsuka @jskodn @khoiyyu @the2ndl @vebbiewuzhere @kouyoumarryme @dreamyescapesfromreality @local-mr-frog @haesify @blkmystery @bleppt @leavem3al0n3 @arminloverlol @megumisthirdog @shirabane @sheismaryy @tragicgirl444 @vampsins @miizuzu @kurobo @anxious-chick @p1nkliquor @mshitachin @chxrv @lolsasuke @username23345 @netyxms @lvstru @roscpctals99 @buttermilktea11 @berenevenstarzetaestelar @jiupark @hotsauce247 @veryverysadauthor @skepticalleo @opentheyoor01 @slowlyshycomputer @babybarbs12 @thickemadame @yaninnaacu @foggypostshark

[part 5 will be just there right around the corner — ��luvvixu2024]

[trashfangirlsworld]

Hello! I've been inactive due to the current events in the mcyt community, but I've been keeping up with the qsmp admin situation and I thought I'd share some opinions because the amount of doomposting I've seen the last few weeks has been more than I've seen in any fandom in a while and I feel like it's reached the point where people really need to chill the fuck out because they're not thinking straight and actively not helping. Everything I'm gonna say is based on stuff I've seen on both tumblr and twitter.

they should not promote/release merch! : one of the things that baffles me the most tbh; how do you expect any employee to be payed then? Merch is so far the only big source of income for the server besides q's own cc salary or whatever income they get through the official qsmp channel on twitch and youtube (which I don't think is a lot). "I get that they said they have no funds, but still it doesn't feel right"... sorry but at this point I don't know what to tell you, do you expect them to pull money out of their asses? You can't demand that they stop making merch and then complain that they can't afford the twitter admins at the same time. If you don't feel comfortable buying anything from them it's fine obviously, but if your reason for it is that you're helping the admins then I have bad news for you. I have seen people propose that quackity sets up a patreon, and while I think it would be a good idea, I understand why he's not doing it, since with the merch he can at least give something back to the people that choose to support his project instead of people just giving him money for free, especially with what's happening now. Also with how much hate he's been receiving simply for the merch I can't imagine that a patreon would be recieved well.

we don't know if the money is going to the admins/ they should not use pomme's likeness! : the money is definitely going to go to the employees and admins because otherwise the server would not last. And as much as I understand people feeling protective over pomme's admin, quackity studios is very much allowed to sell merch of the character because it is not the likeness of the admin, it's a minecraft model made by the people that work there. Would you have rathered they skip her character entirely? Do you really think that would have been okay?. Also correct me if I'm wrong, but I've seen posts and tweets saying that pomme's admin has been confirmed to come back with the other eggs whenever it happens by pierre, who talked with her admin.

the admins of the update accounts got fired, it means they want to fire everyone, they aren't making things better! : it sucks that the updates accounts had to end and I feel bad for every twitter admin that clearly cared a lot about the project, but unfortunately it had to happen if there simply isn't enough money to pay them adequately like they deserved and ultimately the update accounts were not essential to keep the project going, so it makes sense that they were let go unfortunately. This is not gonna be the case for the egg admins because if they got fired (which they didn't), the server would basically end. Just because a cc does not know when they will be back does not mean it's not gonna happen. Just because tubbo randomly said that he's not sure if they will be back does not mean they were fired; tubbo is normally not a reliable source of information, even less so when he's been live nonstop for the past 20 days, which is prior to everything happening. If you genuinely didn't expect a reduction in non essential staff considering everything, then you have unreasonable expectations on how this stuff goes. As I write this, I'm seeing people saying that "they would understand this decision if q had set up a patreon to pay the admins", and once again I don't understand how people don't realize why quackity might not be keen on the idea of having his fans pay his own employees for his own project instead of, you know, doing it himself; and, again, do not fool yourself into thinking it would be recieved well. That being said, it's fair to criticize how everything was communicated to the admins, but I'll get to this in more detail later.

quackity should not have uninstalled social media, he's trying to avoid everything! : he's not avoiding anything, he's been off social media for a while now, which is why it took him that long to remove wilbur from the server. He has every right to not want to look at social media, as his focus should be on restructuring his server instead of doomscrolling on twitter because people think he needs to see how much people dislike him. The only people that he should talk to are those that have important information to tell him, like josè with the document. He explicitly said on stream where to contact him if you have helpful information and I'm sure that despite multiple well liked posts saying not to spam his email, people are definitely doing it anyway, which is probably gonna slow the whole thing down even more. I hope josè's document is able to be seen with pierre's help as well.

quackity studios is not communicating with their employees and leaving them in the dark and that's not okay : I agree with this. i think a huge chunk of doomposting lately has been due the lack of communication not with the audience, but with the admins, and they deserve to know what is happening behind the scenes more then us since this is about their current or future job.... that being said, I do kind of understand why they're being so secretive and shutting everyone out, and that's due to all the "leaks" that have been spread online. I understand the anger but I really wish some people would realize that discussing leaked bts lore stuff in ccs discord servers does not help the situation at all and instead makes it seem like they're only doing this to rile up the fandom against quackity studios by using the lore of people's fav characters.

At the end of the day, I think people just aren't used to dealing with a situation that does not have a clear cut solution and someone to clearly hate, so the result is this doomposting and the over aggressiveness toward anything related to the project. Personally, I haven't witnessed anything that made me lose faith in the qsmp like some people have been saying, as every change that we've seen so far coincides with what quackity said on stream a while ago. I only wish things were communicated properly to the admins clearly, as they're the ones most affected, so I hope that's resolved soon. Ultimately quackity is singlehandedly restructuring the server from basically zero, has had to fire people that were misusing money and power and, depending on what josè's document said, is probably gonna have to fire some more. This is not an easy process, nor a quick one, you're not gonna hear about sunshine and rainbows for a while and doomposting about everything you hear because you expected quick change is useless. Think before you speak, have a clear head and most importantly have empathy.

[goodnightmemes]

AGATHA ALL ALONG SENTENCE STARTERS

❛ You don't seem like yourself. ❜

❛ If you wanna be in control, you can be. ❜

❛ Is this really how you see yourself? ❜

❛ Do you remember why you hate me? ❜

❛ The things that you're roasting me for are the things that make me dangerous. ❜

❛ How long have I been here? ❜

❛ Call me "nosy," I'll cut out your tongue. ❜

❛ Can you put on some clothes? 'Cause you... 'Cause you're naked. ❜

❛ Do you remember pain? It kind of tickles, doesn't it? ❜

❛ Maybe I can't kill you, but I can make you wish you were dead. ❜

❛ I am not the only one that wants to see you dead. ❜

❛ Ugh! It really warms the heart. ❜

❛ You don't have a heart. ❜

❛ Be sure to tell the vengeance-seekers I said hi. ❜

❛ That's why I saved you from the spell you were under. ❜

❛ Wherever you are, a coven there shall be. ❜

❛ I feel really optimistic about this. ❜

❛ So you're a bit of a kook. Every witch has their process. ❜

❛ Witches like you are the reason people think we poison apples, and steal children, and eat babies. ❜

❛ Don't you miss the glory days? ❜

❛ The path you're currently on leads nowhere. ❜

❛ Hey! Where do you keep your jade eggs? I'm fresh out of marbles, and my pelvic floor is all over the place. ❜

❛ I haven't seen you since I made a really pointed effort to never run into you again.❜

❛ Historically, we as a group don't do well in courtrooms. ❜

❛ People like you are dangerous. ❜

❛ Are there any real witches in the house? ❜

❛ What a team of rejects. ❜

❛ This is just a really, really, really horrible party. ❜

❛ It's giving "middle-aged second chance at love" vibes and I'm here for it. ❜

❛ Okay, so a witch is really just another name for a bad girl, is that right? ❜

❛ I'm not saying that I wanna join the club or anything, but I would drink the blood of a virgin if it would smooth out some of these wrinkles. ❜

❛ So the hallucinations seem chill. ❜

❛ I can't protect you! ❜

❛ I do not wanna die here. This is not where I die. ❜

❛ They can take your power, but they can't take your knowledge. ❜

❛ I didn't think you had it in you. ❜

❛ We were supposed to look out for each other, but we didn't. That was our fatal mistake. ❜

❛ I wish we could go home. ❜

❛ People can't be replaced. ❜

❛ Are we in trouble? Like, more than we were ten minutes ago? ❜

❛ Honestly, I don't know how to feel. Do I hate her? Or do I want her phone number? ❜

❛ I'm feeling impatient. I'm feeling like I wanna cause some damage. ❜

❛ Once vengeance is loosed, you can't reel it back in. ❜

❛ The only way to end a curse is to face it. ❜

❛ Sad is better than angry. ❜

❛ You don't have to know a person's name to know who they are. ❜

❛ Are you really defending a noted serial killer, you creepy lurker? ❜

❛ The moral of the story, kids, is always finish what you started. Also, mercy is overrated. ❜

❛ Who better to commune with the dead than someone who's put so many in the grave? ❜

❛ I mean, or we could just slit her throat. ❜

❛ But we were getting along, weren't we? We were clicking. There was unity. ❜

❛ She's possessed! For real this time! ❜

❛ I hate ghosts. ❜

❛ Why do you hate me still?❜

❛ You were born evil. ❜

❛ Please take me with you. ❜

❛ She was protecting you. But you don't deserve it. ❜

❛ I couldn't... I couldn't control it. ❜

❛ Death comes for us all. ❜

❛ You're so much like your mother. ❜

❛ We love you more than we could ever hope to communicate in human words. ❜

❛ You don't need to be a psychic to see that you're a good egg. ❜

❛ Enjoy the now, baby. It's the only thing that's certain. ❜

❛ Nothing in my life has felt normal until I met you. ❜

❛ I want you to know the real me. ❜

❛ You're so adorably trusting. ❜

❛ Word to the wise, don't go sniffing around there. ❜

❛ You seriously don't know what kind of crazy that lady eats for breakfast. ❜

❛ I panicked, so I ran. ❜

❛ Could we, like, maybe not, with the physical violence? ❜

❛ Power doesn't interest me. ❜

❛ Yeah. Well, what you did was ehhh … but life goes on. Yours, anyway. ❜

❛ I mean, I've killed...uh...my share. But you don't see it holding me back. ❜

❛ Don't you dare feel guilty about your talent. You survived. ❜

❛ So you broke the rules. Big deal. That's what kept you alive. That's what makes you special. ❜

❛ I don't need you anymore. I don't know if I ever did. ❜

❛ If you really wanna finish this together, just know that I do not trust you. At all. ❜

❛ You'll get a nosebleed trying that hard to read my mind. ❜

❛ Hey, you want straight answers, ask a straight lady. ❜

❛ Tell me what more I should see, when I look at you. ❜

❛ You know, we really hated each other from the beginning. But now...I love you, guys. ❜

❛ I'm a forgotten woman. ❜

❛ Death comes for us all. It is what we all have in common. ❜

❛ I can see all the pieces falling into place. The gaps are filling in. ❜

❛ I'm telling you now because soon I'm not going to remember any of this. ❜

❛ I hope you'll join me. ❜

❛ I needed you. My coven. ❜

❛ What can I say? I like the bad boys. ❜

❛ I loved being a witch. ❜

❛ That's it? That's all the... That's all the time I get? ❜

❛ This can't be the end. It has to be the beginning. ❜

❛ I watch you. Just as closely as you watch everyone else. ❜

❛ No one in history has had special treatment like you. ❜

❛ You gave me nothing. You took. ❜

❛ Why do you let them believe those things about you, hmm? ❜

❛ What fresh horrors await us! ❜

❛ You seem relaxed. Usually at this point you're either complaining loudly or freaking out loudly. ❜

❛ It's nice. That feeling when your body knows it's safe. ❜

❛ Sometimes...boys die. ❜

❛ Congratulations, my love! I'm sorry I didn't have a ribbon for you to run through. ❜

❛ Why don't you want me? ❜

❛ Power looks good on you. ❜

❛ You do this and I will hate you forever. ❜

❛ Please let him live. Please, my love! ❜

❛ If you want to survive, get used to this feeling. ❜

❛ I cannot protect you from what's coming. ❜

❛ I saw you die. ❜

❛ And now, I'm a ghost. Can you dig it? ❜

❛ By the way, I did not sacrifice myself for you. I took a calculated risk. ❜

❛ You're making fun of me. This is just one of your tricks. ❜

❛ You have something of mine. I know you took it. ❜

❛ Why are you still here? Why won't you just die? ❜

❛ I'm sure he would forgive you for... whatever you did. ❜

❛ We could make a good team. You and me. ❜

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

"There's a theory that says you meet everyone in your life twice—once as strangers, and once when it matters. That first night at 'Pulse', with vodka cranberry on your tongue and his eyes burning into yours, was supposed to be the stranger part. No one warns you that six months later, he'll be standing in your new apartment's doorway, looking at you like he's seen a ghost. But that’s a problem for Future you."

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

pairing: fmu!jungkook x fmu!yn (cocky!jkxbratty!reader)

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

content: new york city setting, university setting, strangers to roommates (eventually), nightclub setting, hookup, one night stand, drunk hookup (buzzed/tipsy but consensual), explicit sexual content, oral sex (cunnilingus), protected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, rough sex, choking/breath play (light), hair pulling, marking/hickeys, size kink, manhandling, dirty talk, praise kink, bickering during sex, snarky banter, grinding, multiple positions, slight pain kink, slight degradation kink, praise kink if you squint, sexual tension, sexual chemistry, mild exhibitionism (making out in uber/club), slight voyeurism (being watched in club), mild dubious condom practices (that one scene), alcohol consumption, bite kink, aftercare (mild), spooning, scent kink, vanilla scented products, enemies to lovers (eventual), size difference (height), strength kink.

✧ author's note ✧

Hi my little demons! (｀∀´)Ψ Welcome to the prequel that started this absolute dumpster fire - AKA the night our emotionally constipated idiots first met.

Let's talk about how THIS happened, because honestly? I've rewritten this scene approximately 47 times (not exaggerating, my Google docs are a MESS). I initially wasn't even going to write it, but then my 3AM brain, fueled by what was probably my 8th espresso, decided we NEEDED to see these two disasters collide for the first time. And boy, did they collide. (￣ω￣;)

First things first: This is pure, unadulterated filth. I literally had to take several walks around my apartment complex while writing this because these two WOULD NOT BEHAVE. Like, I was trying to be somewhat respectable here, but they said "No♥️" and chose violence. So you know what? I just let them do their thing and documented it like the professional disaster that I am.

Now, let's talk about our girl for a second. Writing her at this specific point in her life was FASCINATING because you can really see all the pieces that made her who she is—the family pressure, the small-town suffocation, the desperate need for control while simultaneously wanting to lose it completely... She's such a beautifully complex mess and I love her for it. (Don't worry, she'll grow. Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.)

And Jungkook... Oh boy. There's SO MUCH about him that I've deliberately sprinkled throughout this chapter. Little details, subtle hints, tiny breadcrumbs that'll make sense later. I'm actually really proud of how many easter eggs I managed to hide in here - come back after future chapters and tell me if you caught them! (Though let's be real, you're probably not here for the literary analysis, you thirsty gremlins.)

The biggest challenge was honestly Emma. Like, how do you get the world's most protective best friend to leave her bestie alone in a club? I spent WEEKS trying to make this work in a way that felt authentic to her character. The sister crisis was my 3AM solution and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. Realistic character motivation is my kink, okay? (＾▽＾)

Speaking of realism—that's literally why this fic exists. I got so frustrated with how many unrealistic elements I kept seeing in stories that I went "Fine, I'll do it myself" and here we are, 35 pages of smut later???? Huh. You're welcome????

Side note: I have this whole thing narrated in audio (female voice only, because no male voice matches Jungkook’s, my beloved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but Tumblr said "file too big bestie" so... might drop it on ko-fi if enough people are interested. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of comments—PLEASE tell me your theories about all the little hints I've dropped about Jungkook's past. I'm dying to see what you guys pick up on! (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ

Until next time, you disaster pandas! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Kiki. 🍓

P.S. Any typos are between you and god because I've stared at this document for so long the words have lost all meaning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

⋆｡°✩ read more ✩°｡⋆

main story: fuck me up

read on ao3

read on wattpad

So here's the thing about nightclubs: you either love them or you hate them.

You? You're more of a 'hate them' kinda girl. The sweat, the noise, the people... not your scene. Not usually, anyway.

But usual went out the window the second Emma suggested this little adventure. Sweet, reliable Emma who you lost touch with after high school but who immediately became your secret accomplice when you reached out about transferring to NYU. Who's been your underground informant for months now—sneaking you tips about the English department, virtually walking you through the campus layout via late-night FaceTime sessions, and helping you plot out the perfect transfer application your parents know nothing about.

Emma, who didn't even blink when you showed up at her door with a weekend bag and a story for your parents about "visiting your responsible friend in the city." (They bought it immediately because, well, it's Emma. Their golden standard of What A Good Influence Should Be.) You'd spent the whole day doing exactly what you came for—touring NYU's campus, sitting in on a couple of English classes Emma snuck you into, and gathering all the transfer information you could get your hands on.

"You can't just transfer here and not know what the nightlife is like," she'd insisted, already rummaging through her closet for something that wasn't your campus tour outfit. "That's like... buying a car without test driving it."

Which, okay, terrible analogy, but you get her point. You've spent months planning this transfer—going over NYU's transfer requirements, crafting the perfect escape from your suffocating small-town university, calculating exactly how to tell your parents once it's too late for them to stop you. The campus visit was supposed to be just that—visiting your responsible friend Emma for a weekend while secretly checking out NYU.

Emma, bless her overprotective heart, had taken one look at your face after that final tour—that specific blend of desperate hope and terrified excitement—and decided you needed to see the whole picture. "The real college experience," as she put it, already pulling out her phone to text her club promoter friend.

"Location sharing on?" she'd asked for the fifth time before you left her apartment, double-checking your phone settings like some kind of Gen-Z mother hen. As if you hadn’t spent the last three months planning this transfer with military-grade precision.

"Yes, mom," you'd rolled your eyes, but something warm had settled in your chest at her fussing. It's... nice, having someone in on the secret. Someone who gets it.

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

"Just checking!" She'd grinned, already knowing she was being ridiculous but doing it anyway. "One more thing..."

And that's how you ended up with a literal tracking app on your phone, an emergency SOS button setup, and Emma's solemn promise to "never leave your side, scout's honor." (She was never actually a scout, but whatever.)

Parents really think you're just visiting your studious, sensible friend Emma for a nice, quiet weekend in the city. Having some wholesome catching-up time. Maybe seeing some museums.

Ha. If only they knew you're actually scouting out your future escape route.

If only you knew.

Because let's be real, this isn't exactly in your wheelhouse. But Emma's right there, keeping her scout's honor promise, bouncing between the bar and dance floor like some kind of safety-conscious terror. And maybe it's the way she keeps checking in with subtle thumbs-up signals, or maybe it's just knowing someone's actually got your back in this whole secret college plan thing, but you're... kind of having fun?

Which is how you find yourself here, in this pulsing, thrumming mass of bodies and sound. 'Pulse', the club's called. Fitting, considering how you can feel the bass thumping in your veins, the strobe flashing like lightning in your skull. It's... a lot. But not in a bad way?

Yeah, definitely not bad, you decide as you scan the room. Leather booths, gleaming bar top, and a dance floor packed with the kind of gorgeous twenty-somethings that make you feel simultaneously inadequate and oddly triumphant. Like 'yeah, I might not be that, but at least I'm here.'

And honestly, it's pretty nice here. Clean, classy even. Good lighting over the bar, vigilant security, and Emma vouches for the place. She's your safety net tonight, because God knows you'd never try this solo. But Emma... Emma knows everyone. Gets you both in with a wink and a wave, like some kind of VIP.

The girl's got pull and she's not afraid to use it. You envy that a bit, that confidence. Wish you could borrow just a dash of it, to fortify your nerves as you perch on this barstool, spine too straight and fingers too tight around your glass. But it's fine, it's good, you're good. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways—even if it’s not entirely the truth.

It's just one night. One chance. One small rebellion before you go back home and drown yourself in expectations and demands. Hardly even counts as rebellion, really, in the grand scheme. Not like you're planning on getting blackout drunk and ending up in jail or anything. Just… dipping your toe. Sampling the other side. Just for a night.

What's the worst that could happen?

Famous last words. Or in this case, famous last thought, as you take a too-big sip of your drink and nearly choke on watery vodka cranberry. Good thing no one's paying attention.

Well, except for one guy, apparently. And he's...

Oh. Oh damn.

He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you almost forget how to swallow, even as you scoff internally. Guys who look like that? They're usually bad news. Cringe edgy boys. Like the ones you see on TikTok. The jaw, the eyes, the whole brooding bad-boy package. Not your type. Not even a little.

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

And he's watching you. Not in a creepy way, but… intense. Interested. And wow, okay, maybe there's something to be said for the whole 'still waters' vibe he's giving off, because that gaze is doing things to you. Things you're not entirely sure you're ready for.

But then again... isn't that the whole point? To try something new? To be someone new, just for a night? The girl who holds the stare of a beautiful stranger. The girl who lets the charge build, heart kicking up and skin tingling. The girl who—

"Shit, shit, shit." Emma's suddenly at your elbow, phone clutched to her chest, face twisted with genuine distress. "My sister just called. She's having some kind of breakdown about—god, I don't even know, her boyfriend? Something about him showing up at her dorm? She's hysterical, I can barely understand her—"

You watch Emma's face cycle through about twelve different emotions in three seconds. She keeps glancing between you and her phone, clearly torn. "I should go check on her. But I can't just leave you here alone. Fuck. Maybe we should both—"

"Em, I'm fine," you try to reassure her, even as your stomach sinks a little. Great. Just when things were getting interesting with dark eyes over there. "I can just get an Uber—"

"No, no, wait." Emma's scanning the club like she's looking for something specific. Her face lights up suddenly as she spots someone by the weights machine in the club's weird gym corner. Because apparently some clubs have those now. "Oh thank god—hey!!"

She waves frantically at some guy who's been doing bicep curls between taking selfies for his Instagram story. You vaguely recognize him from Emma's study group—one of those guys who probably knows the protein content of everything in his lunch and considers gym updates a legitimate form of social interaction.

"Perfect timing," Emma says as he approaches, already dabbing his face with a workout towel. She's rapid-fire texting, probably her sister. "You're still doing that safe walk program thing for the student union, right? The volunteer thing they made you do after that frat party incident?"

"Yeah bro, community service hours almost done," he confirms, then looks confused as Emma practically shoves her phone in his face, showing him what you assume is your location-sharing setup.

"Great. This is my best friend from high school. She's got location sharing on with me, SOS button setup, fully charged phone." Emma's talking so fast she's almost tripping over her words. "I have to go deal with my sister but I'll be back in an hour tops. Could you just... keep an eye out? Make sure no creeps bother her?"

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

"I know, I know, you can handle yourself," Emma cuts you off, already shouldering her bag. "But humor me? He’s actually great at this. Always walks girls home after study group. Total golden retriever energy."

You catch the way her eyes flick meaningfully toward where dark eyes is still watching from across the room. Like she's trying to say 'here's your safe but slightly dim option if you want it, but...'

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

Emma: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢!!! 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 Emma: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚢𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜... 👀 Emma: (𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 & 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎!!!)

"Hey there. Emma had to run, but she didn't want to leave you alone. Asked me to keep you company. That okay?"

The voice cuts through your spiral, and you blink up at the interloper. Brent? Brad? Some monosyllabic gym bro who's friends with Emma and apparently your new babysitter.

Great.

You paste on a smile, even as your attention flickers back to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a mouth that could probably do very interesting things, you bet your money on it. But no. Don’t get distracted. Eyes on Brett. He's safe, he's known. Boring as a beige wall, but that's better. Smarter.

"Yeah, of course," you say brightly. Too brightly. Even you can hear the false note, and you cringe. "Thanks for keeping me company."

Because that's why you're here. For safety, for company, for sampling the world, but through a protective barrier. Not for tall, dark, and dangerously appealing over there. Definitely not for him.

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

And like... okay? Thanks? But also, ugh. It's not that you're not flattered—you are, in that vaguely uncomfortable way that makes you want to simultaneously preen and roll your eyes into next week. Because yeah, duh, you know. You own mirrors. You're aware of your assets, thank you very much. But there's something so wonderfully, terribly basic about guys who lead with that.

Still. You give him another once-over, because fair's fair and also because like... why not? He's not bad. Actually pretty decent, if you're being honest (and you are, because what's the point of lying to yourself?). Broad shoulders, nice arms, that whole gym rat aesthetic that apparently some girls go crazy for.

Not that you're necessarily one of those girls. You've always preferred a more... balanced build. Something between "I can bench press you" and "I've never seen the inside of a gym." Like, yeah, muscles are nice and all, but you want to be able to actually cuddle without feeling like you're laying on a marble statue. Give you some softer edges any day. Something to sink into, you know?

But beggars can't be choosers and honestly? You're kind of tired of being a beggar. Or, well, not a beggar exactly, but definitely... selective. Too selective, maybe. Conservative. Careful. All those words that really mean "scared to actually live a little."

Not tonight though. Tonight you're in New York fucking City, three hundred miles from your parents' suffocating expectations and that small-town mindset that makes you want to scream into your pillow sometimes. Tonight you could be anyone.

So when you say, "Thank you, you're not bad yourself," it comes out smoother than expected. Almost flirty. And his laugh? Not terrible. Kind of nice actually, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're nice eyes too—warm brown, honest. Safe.

"Would you like to dance?"

The question hangs there, and you consider it. Really consider it. Because this—this whole thing—it's what you came for, isn't it? To try something new. To be someone new. Someone who says yes to dancing with attractive strangers in clubs that pulse with bass-heavy Usher remixes.

"You feeling confident?" you throw back, and okay, maybe that was a little sharp, a little too much of your usual self bleeding through. But he just smiles (no dimples, and why does that matter? Since when do you care about dimples?), and holds out his hand.

His fingers are cold when they wrap around yours. It's... not great. You've always hated cold hands, which is ironic considering yours are perpetually freezing. But you let him lead you onto the dance floor anyway, because what the hell. What the actual hell. You're here, you're young, you're... actually kind of buzzed now that you think about it. That vodka cran hitting different after all.

His hands hover at your hips, eyes asking permission, and you give him a look that you hope translates to "yes, but don't get crazy about it." Must work, because his palms settle, grip light but present. You rest your hands on his shoulders (nice shoulders, you'll give him that), and try to find the rhythm.

It's not terrible. Not amazing either, but definitely not terrible. He can move, keeps a decent beat, doesn't try to grind up on you like some horny teenager. His hands stay respectfully placed, thumbs making small circles that should probably feel more exciting than they do.

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

Maybe you need another drink. Maybe you need to stop overthinking every little thing and just... be. Maybe...

Maybe that's when it happens. Your eyes drift up, over his shoulder, like they're being pulled by some invisible thread. Like something in you just knows where to look. And there he is.

Dark eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable in the strobing lights.

One second. Two. Three.

An eternity compressed into the space between heartbeats. Your skin prickles, heat crawling up your spine that has nothing to do with the crowded dance floor or the alcohol in your system. The weight of his stare is palpable, laden with something unnamed but acutely felt. Something that turns your mouth to the Sahara and your pulse into a kickdrum.

Usher croons about falling in love while Pitbull drops his signature "dale" in the background, and isn't that just fucking hilarious? Because this—this moment, this look, this stranger—this isn't about love. This is about want. Raw and simple and completely uncomplicated by things like names or histories or futures.

This is about the way his jaw clenches slightly as he watches you dance with someone else. About how his fingers drum against his glass in perfect time with the beat. About the little scar on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.

Your dance partner's hands feel colder by the second.

It's not that his hands are bad, exactly. They're... nice hands. Big hands. The kind that wrap around your hips like they were made to be there, fingers long enough to span the distance between hipbone and hipbone. And yeah, okay, you have a thing for hands. Who doesn't? It's practically universal at this point—like liking bread or hating people who talk during movies. Just basic human nature.

But something's... off.

Your brain is doing that thing. That stupid, annoying, overthinking thing where it won't shut up long enough to let you enjoy anything. And god, you hate this. Hate how your mind rebels against perfectly good situations, like it's allergic to straightforward pleasure or something. Because objectively? This should be working. Hot guy, good music, decent amount of alcohol in your system. Your body's definitely on board—you can feel the low simmer of attraction, the way your skin warms under his touch. The basic chemistry is there.

But your mind? Your mind's like that one friend who shows up to parties just to list off everything that could possibly go wrong. His hands are cold. His laugh doesn't reach his eyes. No dimples. The way he said "pretty" like he was checking off a box on some "How to Pick Up Girls" checklist.

You sigh, already stepping back. Watch the confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked by what you're sure he thinks is an understanding smile.

"Everything alright?"

And like... no? Yes? Maybe? How do you even answer that when you're not sure what's wrong in the first place? When you're standing here on a dance floor that's vibrating with Usher's voice while your brain short-circuits over the temperature of some guy's hands?

"Yeah, I'm just..." You pause, teeth catching your bottom lip as you reconsider. Fuck it. Might as well go with the classics. "The vodka. Has me feeling buzzy, I think I'm not feeling too good."

It's a cop-out and you know it. But it's also an easy out, the kind that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings or make things weird. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Keep things smooth. Keep things nice. Even when you're lying through your teeth to some guy whose name you can't quite remember.

"Hey, that's okay." His smile stays steady, concerned even. "No hard feelings. You need a ride home?"

And that—that right there—that's actually kind of sweet. In another universe, maybe that offer would seal the deal. Nice guy, worried about your safety, probably has a stable job and calls his mother on Sundays. But in this universe? In this universe, your eyes are already drifting over his shoulder, drawn like a compass needle to true north.

You press your lips together, scanning the crowd like you're actually looking for someone. Like you haven’t known exactly where he is this whole time, haven’t felt his eyes raking you up and down non-stop.

"Actually I know someone just across the way, so honestly, zero worries."

The shock on his face would be comical if it weren’t so irksome. "You positive? Weren’t you visiting from out of town? Emma mentioned you were just in for the weekend."

And okay, what the actual fuck? Why does he need your whole life story? Yeah, sure, he's probably just being nice. Probably just wants to make sure you're not about to wander off and get murdered or something. But still. The irritation rises in your throat like bile, sharp and inexplicable.

"Doesn't mean I don't know anybody in New York," you say, and wow, okay, that came out with more edge than intended. Quick, fix it, smooth it over. You paste on a tight smile, the kind that probably looks more like a grimace but hey, at least you're trying. "See you around, Brent."

You're already moving as you say it, heels clicking against the floor with purpose. You think you hear him call after you—something about his name being Peter?—but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about cold hands and careful smiles and all the safe choices you should be making.

Because your feet know where they're going, even if your brain is screaming about bad decisions. Even if every rational part of you is throwing up warning signs and red flags. Even if—or maybe because—you can feel his eyes following your every move, heat spiraling up your spine with each step closer.

The bass drops, and your heart kicks up to match it.

Dale, indeed.

You don't need to look at him to know he's watching. You can tell. Can perceive it. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire. The kind of heat that makes you want to step closer even as your survival instincts scream danger, danger, danger.

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

You don't do this. Like, ever. There's a whole routine to these things, right? Guy sees girl, guy approaches girl, girl decides if she wants to deal with whatever fumbling attempt at flirtation follows. That's just... how it works. How it's always worked. Because guys? They're usually terrible at being approached. Their fragile little egos can't handle a girl making the first move. Plus, most of them aren't worth the effort anyway.

But.

But your feet are already moving. But your heart is already racing. But something about the way he's been watching you, like he could devour you whole and still be hungry—it makes you reckless. Makes you stupid. Makes you brave.

"Dance with me."

It comes out more command than question, your voice steadier than it has any right to be. He looks up at you from his seat, and fuck. Just... fuck. Because the way he tilts his head? The slow, deliberate motion of it? That should not be as hot as it is. That should be illegal in at least three states.

Then he smiles. Just one side of his mouth lifting, lazy and confident and—oh god. A dimple. One perfect little dimple that makes something in your chest squeeze tight.

"That's bold."

His voice is lower than you expected. Rougher. Like whiskey over gravel, and you want to drink it down until you're drunk on it. Want to find out what other sounds you can pull from that throat.

"You've been looking at me for 10 minutes." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, sharp and challenging. "You gonna come dance or not?"

He chuckles—actually chuckles, who even does that?—and holy shit, there's another one. Two dimples. Two perfect little dents in his cheeks that make heat pool low in your belly, thick and sweet like honey. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch them, to press thumbs to those tiny curves and feel him beam against your flesh.

When he stands, it's one fluid motion that makes it feel like someone replaced your esophagus with a cracked porcelain vase. Because he's tall. Not incredibly, super tall. But yes the kind of tall that means you'd have to stretch up on your toes to reach his mouth, that means his hands could probably span your whole waist, that means—

No. Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.

He follows you onto the dance floor, and you can feel the energy shift. Like the air itself is charging up, preparing itself for both of you. His friend—some guy with killer dance moves who's been holding down a corner of the floor all night—catches his eye and shoots him a look. Something passes between them, quick and meaningful, before Mystery Man's attention is back on you. All on you.

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

The bass pounds through your marrow as Usher's voice continues suffusing the air, talking about DJs and falling in love, and honestly. At this point you’re barely listening to the music itself, too focused on finding a more secluded spot.

Your pulse picks up speed. Can’t help it, really. Because this? This is definitely going to be worth breaking all your rules for.

You lead him to some darker corner of the club—might be by a column, might be an alcove, who fucking knows because your brain's too busy short-circuiting to care about architectural details right now. All you know is it's slightly away from the main crush of bodies, slightly more private, slightly more...

Oh.

His hands find your hips the second you turn to face him. No hesitation. No silent question. No careful hovering or polite uncertainty like what's-his-name earlier. Just warm, sure palms sliding over the curve of your hips like they belong there, like he's claiming territory, and—

And you should be annoyed. You should be fucking livid. Because excuse you? The audacity of this man to just assume he can touch you without so much as a "may I?" Some feminist you are, getting weak in the knees over this caveman behavior while poor Brett (Blake? Whatever) at least had the decency to ask permission with those puppy dog eyes of his.

But your brain? Your traitorous, horny, absolutely useless brain? It's sending signals straight between your legs because apparently that's what does it for you now. The confidence. The heat of his hands—and god, they're so warm, burning through the thin fabric of your dress like brands. They're not as broad as the other guy's, but his fingers are longer, elegant almost. Artist's hands, scattered with tiny tattoos that disappear under his sleeve, and that silver ring on his middle finger catching the light as his grip tightens just slightly...

(Middle finger. Not left-hand fourth. So not married then. Good. Last thing you need tonight is adding "homewrecker" to your expanding list of dubious habits.)

Your arms loop around his neck almost on autopilot, and then you're moving. With him. Against him. The bass is a living thing between you, and he matches your rhythm instantly, like your bodies already know the steps to this dance. Like you've done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lives.

His eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and dark as sin, and every hair on your neck stands at attention. Electricity crackles down your spine, sharp and sweet, as his thumbs press into your hipbones. Just enough pressure to guide you closer, until there's barely room for breath between you.

"Didn't catch your name earlier," he says, voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him over the music. His breath fans hot against your ear, and you suppress a shiver.

"Didn't throw it," you shoot back, because apparently your mouth is running on autopilot now too. Great. Just great.

But he laughs—a quick, rough sound that you feel more than hear—and his hands flex against your hips. "Feisty. I like that."

"Bet you say that to all the girls who proposition you at clubs."

"Nah." His head dips closer, nose brushing your temple. "Just the ones who stare at me for ten minutes first."

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

And okay, that's... fair actually. But you're not about to admit it. Instead, you roll your eyes, even as your fingers find the soft hair at his nape. "Does this usually work for you? This whole... whatever this is?"

"You tell me." His smile is audible in his voice, and you just know those dimples are making an appearance again. "You're the one who told me to dance."

"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, sitting there all alone."

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

"The dancer? Please, he was too busy killing it on the floor to keep you company."

His laugh vibrates through his chest into yours, and when did you get this close? When did your bodies start pressing together with every sway of the music? When did his thigh slip between yours, creating a friction that makes your breath catch?

"You been watching my friend too? Should I be jealous?"

The word sends an unexpected thrill through you, even though his tone is clearly teasing. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yeah," he says, and suddenly his voice isn't teasing at all. His grip tightens fractionally, pulling your hips more firmly against his. "Yeah, I would."

Goosebumps ripple across your arms, slow and inevitable, like lava carving its path through stone. His eyes burn into yours again, scorching hot, wild, and consuming—a downpour drowning a raging fire, leaving nothing but aftermath. What’s left in their wake is the kind of black that clings. Opaque. Dense. Like ash, settling over a forest stripped to its bare bones.

The sensible part of your brain—the part that usually keeps you from doing stupid, reckless things with beautiful strangers—is suspiciously quiet. Probably because all your blood is currently occupied elsewhere, namely with the way his hands are starting to trace slow patterns on your hips, the way his breath keeps ghosting over your neck, the way his body moves against yours like he's writing sin in cursive.

And maybe it's the vodka, or maybe it's how he's gazing at you like you're tranquility amidst his chaos, but you hear yourself say, "Buy me a drink first."

His smile is slow, dangerous. "That an order too?"

"Consider it a... suggestion."

"Mm." One hand slides to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer for just a moment. "I'm starting to like your suggestions."

Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too everything. "Starting to?"

"Give me time." His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and this time you can't suppress the shiver. "Night's still young."

He actually does buy you that drink, which is... something. You're not sure what exactly, but definitely something. The way he guides you to the bar with his hand still on your lower back, fingers splayed wide enough to make you notice the imprint of his warmth? Also something.

"Another vodka cran," you tell the bartender, because hey, if it ain't broke. Then you catch his raised eyebrow and can't help adding, "What? Were you expecting something more sophisticated?"

"Nah." That damn dimple makes another appearance. "Just trying to figure you out."

"Good luck with that."

When he pulls out his wallet to pay, you catch a glimpse of multiple cards fanned out in the leather fold. Credit cards, maybe? Must have money then—or at least good credit. Not that it matters, because this is a one-time thing. A never-gonna-see-you-again thing. A what-happens-in-New-York stays-in-New-York thing.

Your fingers find the cocktail napkin beneath your glass, absently creating sharp creases with your thumbnail. It's one of those fancy ones with the bar's logo embossed in gold—pretentious, like everything else about this place.

Still. You notice how he pauses, studying one card for a beat too long before selecting it. Like he's making sure of something. Weird, but whatever.

The napkin disappears into your clutch without conscious thought. A habit you'll question later but can't explain now. You're too buzzed to care about his personal finances or your own questionable souvenir-keeping tendencies.

"Whiskey neat," he orders, and you barely contain your snort. Of fucking course he drinks whiskey. Probably thinks he's Don Draper or something.

"Pretentious much?"

"Says the girl drinking what's basically juice with a splash of alcohol."

"At least I'm not trying to prove anything."

His laugh is rough, genuine. "Who says I'm trying to prove anything?"

"Please. Whiskey at a club? That's like wearing a suit to McDonald's."

"Maybe I just like whiskey." He takes a deliberate sip, throat working in a way that absolutely doesn't make your mouth water. "Maybe I like the burn."

There's something in his voice when he says that, something that feeds the banked flame in your belly. His eyes are on you again, alternating between your eyes and your mouth like he can't quite decide where to focus.

"That line score you points often?" you manage to ask, even as your voice betrays you, emerging breathier than intended.

"I wouldn't know." He's definitely closer now. When did that happen? Did he move, or did you? "Is it scoring points now?"

And god help you, but it is. It really fucking is. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your system properly, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you, but you find yourself swaying toward him. Drawn in like a moth to flame, even though you know you're probably going to get burned.

"You're kind of an asshole," you inform him, even as your free hand finds its way to his chest. His very firm chest, holy shit.

"Yeah?" His fingers trace up your spine, feather-light but deliberate. "Seem to like it though."

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

He's so near now you can smell him—something clean and vicious, like a tempest raging on the coast. His breath fans across your lips, whiskey-warm and promising. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that makes your skin buzz.

"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" you murmur, and that's it—that's all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking against rocks, hot and insistent and absolutely fucking flawless. His lips are softer than you expected but he kisses hard, like he's trying to devour you whole. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have. The hand on your neck tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and holy fuck.

You've been kissed before. You've been kissed a lot, actually. But this? This is something else entirely. This is lightning in a bottle, this is matches in gasoline, this is every hackneyed poetry metaphor about fire and flame and immolation except it actually makes sense now because your entire body is electric with it.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, vodka cranberry forgotten in your hand. He tastes like alcohol and dewdrops and something else you can't name but instantly crave more of. The noise he makes when you tug his hair—low and ravenous and almost startled—shoots straight between your legs.

Someone whistles nearby—probably his dancer friend—but you couldn't care less. Not when his other hand is sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer. Not when he's kissing you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his tongue. Not when everything in you is screaming more, closer, now.

You're definitely going to hell for this. But with the way he's kissing you?

Might be worth it.

His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing like you've run a marathon. Which is... embarrassing, actually. When was the last time a kiss left you this affected? What are you, some freshman at their first house party? Because this is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and your lips are tingling, and—

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

"Let's take this outside," you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds considering your internal chaos. Because yes. Outside. Away from the crowd and the music and all these people who aren't him.

"Your house?" The words are barely out of his mouth before you can finish your suggestion, and okay, that's kind of hot. The eagerness. The way his fingers flex against your hip like he's already imagining it.

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. At least you're not alone in this desperate teenage hormone bullshit. At least he's just as affected as you are.

But then reality crashes in like a bucket of ice water. Your house? What house? You're crashing at Emma's place and—oh god, Emma would actually murder you. Like, literal homicide. She's already doing you a solid by covering for you with your parents, and bringing back some random (incredibly hot) guy from a club? Yeah, that would definitely void the best-friend contract.

"Yours?" you counter, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He makes this sound—half hiss, half groan—that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Can't."

"What, mommy and daddy don't let you?" The snark is automatic, defense mechanism kicking in to mask your disappointment.

"Nah, but my friend might not like it."

"Mine either."

You stare at each other for a moment, eyes darting back and forth like you're both trying to solve the same puzzle. The absurdity of the situation hits you at the same time—two grown adults, hot and bothered in a club, cockblocked by their respective roommate situations—and suddenly you're both laughing.

His chuckle is deep, rumbling through his chest where you're still pressed against him, and it's... nice. Really nice. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples flash (and seriously, those things should come with a warning label), the way his thumb absently strokes your hip like he's forgotten he's doing it.

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

"I was gonna say unfortunate, but yeah. Stupid works too."

You're still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, still wound tight with want, still buzzing from that kiss. And now you're both laughing about it, which should probably kill the mood but somehow doesn't. Somehow makes it better, actually. More real. Less like some fantasy hookup and more like...

Nope. Not going there. This is still just a one-night thing. A one-night thing that's currently being cockblocked by your respective living situations, but still. Just one night.

"So what now?" he asks, and his voice has dropped back into that lower register that you really want to hate. "Because I really want to kiss you again."

"Just kiss?" The words slip out before you can stop them, teasing and suggestive and probably way too candid.

His grip tightens, just marginally. Just enough to make your breath catch. "Definitely not just kiss."

"Fuck," you breathe, because eloquence has left the building. Possibly the state.

"That's the idea, yeah." And how he says it—all gruff edges and sinful vow—makes embers spark low in your abdomen. "Just need to sort out the logistics."

Which brings you right back to your current predicament. No Emma's place, no his place, and you're pretty sure having sex in the club bathroom is both tacky and probably illegal. But the way he's looking at you, like he really, really wants to wreck you…

"We could..." you start, then pause. Because what? What brilliant solution are you about to offer here? Your practical brain is absolutely useless right now, short-circuited by the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue and the steady pressure of his hands on your body.

"Could what?" His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your train of thought derails completely.

"I have no idea," you admit, and his laugh is somehow both frustrated and fond.

"This is definitely stupid," he says, but he's still holding you close, still looking at your mouth like he's considering kissing you again anyway, roommate situations be damned.

"So stupid," you agree, already tilting your face up to meet him halfway.

You lick your lips, tasting geosmin and want and really awful decision-making skills.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. Emma can kill you tomorrow.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist—god, his hands are so warm—and you're already moving, already pulling up the Uber app with your free hand. Thank fuck for muscle memory because your brain is absolutely useless right now, too busy cataloging the way his pulse jumps under your fingers, the way he follows without hesitation.

"Where we goin'?" His voice is low and hoarse as he trails behind you, wrist a hostage to your grip.

"To my friend's place," you mutter, trying to type Emma's address without typos.

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

You don’t mention you’re not heading home alone. She’ll find out herself.

The dude, for his part, just hums in response, like he's fine with whatever as long as it means getting somewhere private. Which, fair. You're kind of operating on the same wavelength here.

You make it to the coat check line first, because priorities. You’re not leaving your jacket behind. And it is moving at a glacial pace, because of course it is. The universe clearly wants to test your self-control by forcing you to stand here, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.

The way his fingers keep "accidentally" brushing your thigh has you seriously considering saying fuck it and just leaving your jacket behind.

"Could just come back for it tomorrow," he murmurs, like he's reading your mind. His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you barely sigh in response. Bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"It's January in New York. I'm not getting hypothermia just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes."

"Could keep you warm."

And okay, that line should be cringeworthy. That's the kind of shit that would usually make you roll your eyes so hard they'd get stuck. But he has a way with words—or maybe it’s just his fucking voice—and somehow you like it.

"Next," the coat check girl calls, mercifully saving you from having to respond. You practically lunge forward, fumbling with your ticket. Better than letting him feel how that stupid line affected you.

He reaches past you to hand over his own ticket, arm bracketing you against the counter. And really? Really? This is some romance novel bullshit right here. Who does he think he is, Christian Grey? You should be annoyed. You should definitely not be noticing how good he smells, or how the position highlights just how much bigger he is than you, or—

"Here you go!" The coat check girl's voice is way too cheerful for—you check your phone—3:46 AM. She hands over your coats with a knowing smile that makes your face heat. Great. Just great. Even the coat check girl can tell you're about to make terrible life choices.

He helps you into your jacket because apparently he's decided to be a gentleman now, after spending the last hour making you question your life choices with his mouth. His hands linger on your shoulders just a fraction too long, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

"Ready?" he asks, voice still pitched low enough to make your skin tingle. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and let him guide you toward the exit with his hand on your lower back.

The coat check girl calls out "Have fun!" as you leave, and you seriously consider moving to a different city. Maybe a different country. Somewhere people don't immediately clock your questionable decision-making skills.

The Uber arrives embarrassingly fast—some higher power must be looking out for horny idiots tonight—and you both slide into the backseat. You start on opposite sides because you're trying to be decent human beings, trying to remember that your poor driver doesn't deserve a free show.

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

And suddenly his mouth is on yours again, hot and demanding, and okay, yeah, sorry Mr. Uber driver but this is happening. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just so, and you're definitely making some kind of noise in the back of your throat but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about anything except the way his tongue slides against yours, the way his other hand grips your thigh.

Fifteen minutes. That's all it is from the club to Emma's place. Fifteen minutes that somehow feel like both seconds and eternity, lost in a haze of wandering hands and stolen kisses and trying (failing) to keep things PG-13. You're vaguely aware of streets passing, of turns and stops, of the driver pointedly turning up the radio.

And then your attention shifts. His teeth graze your bottom lip, fingers slowly sliding on your inner thigh. Hisses when your nails find his scalp. Heat. Want. Need. Building higher with each passing minute until you're practically vibrating out of your skin.

By some miracle (or possibly divine intervention), you make it to Emma’s building. You stumble out of the Uber, giving the driver your most apologetic smile-grimace combo. He just shakes his head, probably adding you to his mental list of "drunk hookups I never want to see again."

But then he's pressing you against the building's front door, mouth hot on your neck, and you really can't bring yourself to care about your Uber rating right now. Not when his hands are everywhere, not when he's making these little sounds against your skin that go straight between your legs.

It takes three tries to get the key in the lock—partly because it's 4 AM and you're tipsy, mostly because he won't stop kissing you long enough to focus. When you finally get the door open, you nearly fall through it, saved only by his arm around your waist.

"Smooth," he murmurs against your lips, laughing softly.

"Shut up," you breathe back, already pulling him in for another kiss. His back hits the closing door with a thud that's definitely too loud for 4 AM, but you're past caring. Past thinking about anything except the way his hands feel sliding up your sides, the way he tastes, the way he's eating you up with his eyes.

Emma's definitely going to murder you tomorrow. But with the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way he's kissing you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin?

What-fucking-ever.

He pushes off the door like a man on a mission, and suddenly you're airborne—your legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct. And okay, that's hot. The way he lifts you like you weigh nothing, the solid press of his body against yours, the little growl he makes when your hips roll against his.

"Room?" His voice is wrecked already, breath hot against your mouth between kisses that make your head spin.

You gesture vaguely toward Emma's guest room, too busy mapping the muscles of his shoulders to form actual words. He exhales sharply against your lips, already moving. Your jackets become casualties somewhere in the hallway, dropped with fumbling hands and zero grace because yeah, the vodka's definitely hitting now. Everything's warm and hazy and electric, your skin buzzing everywhere he touches.

Then you're falling backward onto the bed, and holy fuck. The way he's looking down at you—like he's been lost in the desert and you're a fucking oasis—it makes your breath catch in your throat. Makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs press together in anticipation.

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

You've seen attractive guys before. You've seen gym bros and athletes and the whole spectrum of male bodies. But this? This is like someone took Michelangelo's David and decided to make him real but better. He's all lean muscle and smooth skin, but with just enough softness to make him touchable. Human. Perfect.

And his chest—god, his chest. It's not the rock-hard wall of muscle you'd expect from someone who looks like that. Instead, there's this ideal balance of firm and soft, creating the most magnificent set of man tiddies you've ever laid eyes on. The kind you could actually cuddle up to without feeling like you're resting on concrete. The kind that would make a flawless pillow after—

Your lusty brain stops working as he leans down, pressing his hips deliberately against yours as his mouth finds your neck. His tongue traces patterns on your skin that make you arch up against him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck," he breathes against your throat, nosing along your pulse point. "You smell so good. Like vanilla and..." He inhales deeply, making your skin erupt in goosebumps. "Like something sweet I wanna taste."

Your hands slide up his back, feeling the play of muscles under warm skin. He's perfectly balanced above you, using just enough of his weight to make you feel deliciously pinned without crushing you. You fucking love it. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Maybe it's just how attractive he is, or the heat of his mouth on your neck, or the press of his body against yours or the way he keeps making these little sounds like he can't help himself.

He's kissing you again before your vodka-soaked brain can process anything beyond rudimentary want, primal need. It's all heat and tongue and teeth, messy and perfect in the way only drunken hookups can be. One of his hands slides up your neck, fingers spreading across your throat. Not squeezing, just...resting.

It's fucking electric.

Your hands map the expanse of his back, nails dragging lightly in a way that makes him groan into your mouth. He's all smooth skin and sinewy muscle, hot to the touch and absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to feel this good. To make you feel this good, just by existing.

He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight enough to make him hiss. Which is hot. Way too hot, because that noise? It immediately spirals straight between your thighs.

And fuck, how he grinds down against you in response. It's obscenely filthy, the perfect pressure in just the right spot to make you want to moan aloud. To be shameless.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, and you feel it more than hear it. Feel the heat of his breath, the barely restrained want in the way he's touching you. "You feel so fucking good."

Your hips roll up to meet his in a way that's purely instinctual. Because yeah, he feels good too. Better than good. You feel the maddening length of him grinding against you through his jeans; his hand around your neck and—god, you want to claw his back, to wrap your legs around his waist and just take.

The hand on your neck flexes just slightly, thumb brushing your jawline and you think you die just a little because hello? You like that. You really, really fucking like that. New kink unlocked, it seems.

"Want you," he murmurs, voice low and rough with arousal. "Want you so fucking bad, you have no idea."

And oh, you do. You really, really do. Because wanting him is all you can think about right now. All you can focus on beyond the thrumming of your heart, the aching throb between your thighs. You want his hands, his mouth, his—

"Off," you manage, tugging at his jeans with clumsy fingers. "These need to come off like, yesterday."

His chuckle vibrates through his chest into yours. "So fucking bossy."

But he's already leaning back, already working on his fly as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. And Jesus Christ, the way he looks right now—shirtless and disheveled, dark hair falling into darker eyes, lips red from your kisses—it's unfair. Unreal.

So fucking hot you think you might actually die if he doesn't touch you again in the next ten seconds.

His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud and holy fuck—the sight of him in just black boxer briefs should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. Like, someone call the police because this? This is absolutely criminal. The way the fabric clings to his thighs, the obvious bulge that makes your mouth water—

But then he's on you again, and thinking becomes a foreign concept.

His hands find the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up with an urgency that makes heat pool between your legs. You arch up to help him, already anticipating the slide of fabric over skin, but—

Oh.

The second the dress clears your elbows, he presses down. Uses the fabric to pin your arms above your head, effectively trapping you against the mattress. And that's... that's...

Fuck.

His mouth is suddenly on your breast, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. No hesitation, no teasing—just the wet slide of his tongue over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and holy shit.

Thank god you wore this dress. Thank every fucking deity that you chose the tight red one that doesn’t need a bra, because the feeling of his mouth directly on your skin is absolutely devastating.

A moan tears from your throat—embarrassingly loud in the quiet room—as his teeth graze sensitive flesh. His responding groan vibrates through your chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your back arches instinctively, pressing more firmly into his mouth as his tongue swirls around your peaked nipple.

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

His fingers spread wide, applying the slightest pressure. Testing. Exploring. Like he's curious about your reaction, about the way he feels your heartbeat flutter faster in response.

You can't help the soft sound that escapes you—somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His grip tightens fractionally in response, and your cunt clenches around nothing. Because fuck, that shouldn't be as hot as it is. The way he's controlling your breath, the way he's holding you down, the way his mouth is absolutely ruining you one suck at a time...

"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. His thumb strokes along your jugular, feeling the way your breath hitches. "Wonder what other sounds I can get that pretty throat to make."

You'd have a snappy comeback for that. You know you would. But then he's switching to your other breast, teeth scraping just right, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. All you can focus on is the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pressure of his hand on your throat, the way he's using his other hand to keep you pinned against the bed.

And maybe it's the situation, or maybe it's just him, but you've never been this turned on in your life. Never been this wet, this desperate, this needy. It should be embarrassing really—the way you're practically writhing beneath him, the way every little touch sends electricity sparking through your veins.

But with the way he's groaning against your skin, the way his hips keep grinding against yours like he needs it? Maybe you're not the only one that’s losing sanity here.

His teeth catch your nipple just as his fingers flex against your throat, and the combination pulls a sound from you that you didn’t even know you could make. High and breathy and absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck," he breathes, hot against your wet skin. "The sounds you make..."

His thumb brushes over your throat again, slower this time, before gliding up. Along the underside of your jaw. Pausing at your bottom lip. He applies the slightest pressure, watching as your mouth falls open on instinct. You're not sure whether you breathe or whimper, but it makes his gaze go impossibly darker, makes his hips roll against yours in response.

And then his thumb is there, pressing against your tongue, and—goddamn him—you're sucking without a second thought. The groan he lets out is a shattered thing, low and guttural, as though he's just as wrecked as you.

For three glorious seconds, he just... freezes. Like his brain's temporarily offline, like you've actually managed to short-circuit whatever smooth operator routine he had going.

And okay, maybe that gives you enough time to yank the dress out the rest of the way, tossing it off your bent elbows in a way that you hope was sexier than it felt. He doesn’t seem to notice—too busy looking at you like he's forgotten how he got here. Or how to breathe.

Either way, it's a little distracting.

But then he's moving, yanking his hand back like you've scorched him. And before you can even process the loss, he's sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses that make your skin come alive.

Your tipsy brain tries to catch up with what's unfolding—manages to register the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth marking a path down your stomach, the way his hands are suddenly gripping your thighs and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He pulls you to the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing, kneeling between your spread legs like he belongs there. And how he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth hovering just inches from where you're absolutely drenched through your panties...

You prop yourself up on your elbows because fuck if you're missing this show. The movement makes your head spin slightly—reminder that you are definitely not sober—but the sight of him between your thighs is worth any potential vertigo.

His breath fans hot against your core, and your hips twitch involuntarily. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, but before you can call him out on it, he's leaning in. Pressing his open mouth against you through the thin fabric of your underwear, and—

"Fuck."

The word tears from your throat unbidden because holy shit, this shouldn't feel this good already. It's barely anything—just the heat of his mouth, the slight pressure of his tongue through fabric—but your body's lighting up like a fucking supernova. Like every nerve ending is suddenly dialed to a hundred.

Your fingers find his hair without conscious thought, tangling in the dark strands as he works you through your panties. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightens in response, and fuck—that's definitely going to leave marks.

And okay, yeah. Maybe you're embarrassingly wet. Maybe you can feel it soaking through the fabric, making everything slick and messy. Maybe you should care about that, about being this affected this quickly.

But you don’t. Not really, with the way he's groaning against you like he's dying for it. Like he can't get enough. Yeah, dignity can take a backseat.

Besides, all thoughts of pride or shame fly right out the window when he finally, finally hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Your hips lift automatically, helping him slide them down your legs. They catch on your heels because of course you're still wearing your fuck-me pumps, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just lets the fabric dangle from one ankle as he dives back in, and—

"Holy shit."

His tongue drags up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, and your brain temporarily stops working. Like, full system shutdown. Windows XP error sound and everything. Because fuck—that shouldn't feel as mindbogglingly good as it does.

Then he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you make this absolutely mortifying noise—some choked little "guh" that would humiliate you if you were sober enough to care. His lip ring adds this extra edge of sensation that makes your thighs quake, cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.

He makes this sound against you—something between a hum and a growl (and okay, yeah, maybe 'growl' isn't the right word because what are you, fucking animals? But you're drunk and getting your pussy eaten properly for the first time in forever, so vocabulary can fuck right off). Whatever it is, it vibrates through you in a way that has your hips jerking up, seeking more.

Then he's doing these small, slow circles around your clit. So. Fucking. Slow. Like he wants to drive you crazy, wants you to fucking writhe against him. You try not to just grind up against his face. Because that would be desperate, right? That would be—

Damn.

The circles suddenly get faster, tighter, more intense. His tongue flicking over your clit with the kind of speed and precision that would put Fast & Furious to shame. And the sounds coming out of your mouth? Yeah, those aren't even words anymore. Just a stream of "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."

If Emma’s home—because it’s probably been an hour already—she’s probably getting one hell of a show through these paper-thin walls. But you know what? She fucking owes you. All those times you covered for her sneaking out to Bobby Martinez's house in high school? Yeah, consider this payback with interest.

He drags his tongue back down, gathering your wetness (and okay, yeah, you're basically flooding at this point but whatever), then slides back up. Adding texture to his movements like some kind of oral sex virtuoso. Because apparently this stranger knows exactly what he's doing with that mouth, and honestly? Good for you. You deserve this. You deserve to have your pussy eaten by someone who treats it like a goddamn art form.

So you lean back, let yourself enjoy it. Let him explore and taste and fuck—the way he's absolutely feasting on you like you're his last meal. His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he sucks it into his mouth, and the sound that rips from your throat probably violates noise ordinances in several states.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you are absolutely obscene. Like, pornographic-level obscene. All sucking and slurping and Jesus fucking Christ, you should not find that as hot as you do. But with your stiletto digging into his back (when did that happen?) and his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints...

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

Then his tongue drags down, down, down—and fuck, you can feel every ridge, every texture against your sensitive flesh. He reaches your entrance and just... circles it. Like he's mapping you out. Like he’s thinking about his next move.

Five blessed seconds where you can actually catch your breath. Where your brain starts to come back online and—

Fuck.

His tongue plunges into you without warning and your hand definitely just yanks out some of his hair but who fucking cares because his nose is nudging your clit while he tongue-fucks you and—and—

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

He adjusts his arms, somehow pulling you even closer to his face. As if you weren't already basically smothering him. As if he literally wants to drown in your cunt. And that thought shouldn't be as scorching hot as it is but holy shit.

A moan tears from your throat—loud enough that Emma's probably googling noise complaint laws right now. But you can feel it building, that telltale tightening, that electric tension spreading through your core. Your clit's throbbing in time with your racing pulse and—

And he doesn't change a thing.

Because this guy? This absolute genius between your legs? He knows better than to pull that amateur hour bullshit where they speed up right when you're close. No, he maintains the exact same rhythm, the exact same pressure that got you here. Like he's done this before. Like he actually pays attention to what works.

(And okay, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about his past experience right now but your brain's kind of shorting out so whatever.)

Your stiletto digs deeper into his shoulder—might actually be drawing blood at this point but he doesn't seem to care one iota. If anything, he groans against you like he's getting off on it. Like pain turns him on. And that's...that's definitely something to stash away for later.

Or never. Because this is a one-time thing. Right. Focus.

Except focusing is basically impossible when he's eating you out like it's his actual job. When the pressure's building and building and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your back arches off the bed like you're auditioning for America's Next Top Model: After Dark Edition. The orgasm hits you like a riptide, waves of pleasure so intense your vision actually whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, heel probably leaving permanent marks on his back, and you're definitely making sounds that would make a porn star blush but—

But holy shit.

His tongue flicks over your oversensitive clit one last time—the absolute bastard—and your whole body jerks as you whimper. Which, okay, definitely earned that one. Because holy fuck.

You slump back against the bed, bones liquified, as he prowls up your body. His hands plant on either side of your face and—wow, okay, up close he's even more unfairly beautiful. All sharp jawline and scorching eyes and lips that are literally glistening with...yeah.

"You taste exactly like you smell," he murmurs, and what kind of weird-ass compliment is that? Like, thanks? Good to know your pussy matches your perfume brand?

Except...it kind of works? Something tingles in your face and no. Absolutely not. You are not getting all swoony just because Hot Stranger is saying vaguely poetic shit during sex. This is just your horny lizard brain going 'hot man say words, neurons go brr.' That's all.

Then his mouth is on your neck and—yeah, okay, thinking is canceled anyway. His hands trace maddening patterns down your stomach, feather-light touches that make your muscles jump. And when he tugs his briefs down, his cock springs free and—

Oh.

Well then.

Your body apparently didn’t get the memo about the standard refractory period because hello, Round Two suddenly seems very appealing. It hasn’t even been five minutes since you came but here you are, already clenching around nothing like some kind of sex-starved teenager.

He leans back slightly, reaching for something and—ah. His jeans. More specifically, his wallet. From which he produces not one but multiple condoms, and honestly? We love a prepared king. Nothing hotter than a guy who practices safe sex without having to be asked.

(And yes, you're literally evaluating his sexual responsibility while naked and still tingling from one of the best orgasms of your life. Sue you.)

He grabs one condom and tosses the others somewhere on the bed. Then—because apparently he's auditioning for some porno-meets-action-movie hybrid—he puts the wrapper between his teeth. Locks eyes with you. Rips it open.

And okay, PSA time: Kids (not that any kids should be reading this, what the fuck brain?)—this is not how you open condoms. Use your fingers like a normal person, not your teeth like some kind of sexual menace. That's literally Condom Safety 101.

But then again, when a guy this stupid hot does literally anything, your brain just kind of... accepts it. Like yeah, sure, demolish that condom wrapper with your teeth while maintaining smoldering eye contact. That's normal. That's fine. You're fine.

He gives the condom a cursory check (okay, at least he's being thorough), pinches the tip between his fingers and you just... watch. Wait.

"You gonna fuck me tomorrow or...?" The words slip out before your self-censor can nab them, biting and teasing.

Bad choice.

His hand—his stupidly large, stupidly warm hand—wraps around your thigh and yanks you down the bed in one fluid motion. And why the fuck is that so hot? Why are you noticing how his fingers practically span your whole thigh? Why is the heat of his palm against your skin making your breath catch?

Your eyes flicker back to his cock and—oh. When did he even get the condom on? You must have missed that while you were having your crisis about his hands. But he's ready now, thick and hard and—

Fuck.

He pushes in with one swift motion and your body just... takes him. Like you're literally eager for it, still slick and open from his mouth. He makes this soft gasping sound like he's actually dying, like your cunt is some kind of religious experience.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, hips flush against yours. "So fucking slippery and warm, feels like silk—"

"That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly," you manage, even as your walls flutter around him. Because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit, even with a dick inside you.

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

And fuck—the way he says it, like a promise, like a threat. Your cunt clenches at the thought and he actually growls.

He pushes your thighs down against the mattress and—ow. Okay, that's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. Future You is probably already plotting Present You's murder, adding your name to some karmic hit list right next to Emma’s (who, let’s be real, is definitely contemplating homicide through these paper-thin walls right now).

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

Every coherent thought evaporates because he's burying himself so deep you swear he's trying to carve out a permanent place inside you. Like he wants your body to remember exactly how he feels, wants to leave an impression that'll last long after tonight.

You didn’t even get a proper look at his size earlier (too busy fizzing over his hands, his mouth, literally everything else), but holy shit. What you do know is he's thick—like, properly thick. Every inch of him pressed against your walls like he's trying to eliminate any space between you, like he's mapping out your insides for future reference.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and you actually feel him twitch inside you. "So fucking—"

"Less talking," you manage to gasp out, "more moving."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "As you wish."

He snaps his hips once—testing, exploring—and your breath hitches in your throat. Then again. And again. Quick thrust in, torturously slow pull out, and every single time has you gasping like some Victorian maiden with a too-tight corset.

"Like that?" He sounds way too smug for someone balls-deep in a stranger. "The way you squeeze me every time I—"

"You always this chatty during sex?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. "Or am I just special?"

Another snap of his hips that makes your eyes roll back. "Maybe I just like the sounds you make when I'm inside you."

And fuck—why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You're still so wet from earlier that you can hear it, can feel how smoothly he glides in and out, nice and easy.

"You're certainly—ah—confident," you manage between thrusts, because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit. "Compensating for something?"

His grip on your thighs tightens. "Want me to stop and let you check?"

"Don’t you fucking dare."

His pace quickens and—oh hello, is that a smirk he's biting back? It is. It absolutely fucking is. And your brain, your stupid, traitorous brain, finds that scorching. Because of course it does. You squint your eyes shut because you can’t deal with how cocky he looks right now, can’t process how that cockiness is actually doing it for you.

Congratulations, you've officially lost it. This is your villain origin story. Death by dick-induced insanity. They'll write case studies about you in Psychology Today: "Local Woman's Brain Melts Because Hot Stranger Has Good Dick Game." Your mother would be so proud.

But also? Also shut the fuck up, brain, because you're literally getting the best dick of your life right now so maybe save the self-reproach for later? Like, there's a time and place for your characteristic overthinking and this ain’t it.

He leans forward then, changing the angle as he chases your mouth, and holy fuck. Each thrust goes deeper, harder, faster—like he's trying to reach parts of you no one else has touched. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you're actually whimpering into his mouth like some kind of—

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

Since when do you whimper? What is this, some kind of Harlequin romance novel? Are you secretly the protagonist of a Fabio-covered paperback? Because you don’t whimper. You don’t make these soft, needy little sounds into strange men’s mouths. That’s not your brand. That’s not—

But then he rolls his hips in this way that makes you see actual fucking stars, and okay, you know what? Fuck your brand. Fuck everything. Because the way he's moving? The way he's filling you up like you're some kind of horny piñata? Yeah, that takes precedence over your identity crisis.

And speaking of crises—why does this feel so fucking good? Like, mathematically speaking, dick is dick. It's basic anatomy. Tab A into Slot B. So why does every thrust feel like he's rewriting the laws of physics? Why does your body respond to him like he's got some kind of sexual Midas touch?

The worst part? The absolute worst part? You can feel another orgasm building already. Which is ridiculous. Impossible. You literally came like ten minutes ago. This man hasn’t even finished once and here you are, ready to go again like some kind of horny Energizer bunny.

You need to have a serious conversation with your pussy about standards and expectations. Like, what happened to the refractory period? What happened to playing hard to get? Because this? This instant response to everything he does? This eager little flutter every time he hits that spot just right?

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

"You take my cock so fuckin' well," he groans against your neck, voice rough and slurred. "Like y'were made for it, so perfect—"

And okay, what kind of porn dialogue bullshit is that? Who actually says things like that during sex? More importantly, why is it working? Why does every filthy word from his mouth send electricity shooting straight to your cunt?

"Hnnngh—"

That's it. That's all you can manage because your brain-to-mouth filter is totally fried. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he hits that spot just right, and you're pretty sure you're leaving marks but whatever. Future Him problems.

"F-fuck, how you clench around me when I say shit like that," his words come out breathless, hitching. "Like hearing how good you feel? How tight and wet and fucking flawless—"

"Shut up." But it comes out more like a whine than a command, completely undermining any attempt at snark. Your walls flutter around him traitorously, and his responding groan vibrates through your whole body.

"Make me," he challenges, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust that has your eyes rolling back. "Or maybe you don't want me to? Maybe you secretly get off on—fuck—on hearing how amazing you are, how nobody's ever swallowed me this deep before—"

"Nghh—" Your brain's offline. Completely fucking offline. No thoughts, head empty, just the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you, the heat of his breath against your neck, the absolute filth falling from his lips.

"S'true though," he pants, pace growing erratic. "Never felt anything like this, like your—oh fuck—"

A moan tears from your throat—loud and wanton and utterly mortifying. But you can't help it, not when he's fucking you like he's trying to ruin you for anyone else, not when he keeps saying these things that make your insides turn to molten lava.

"That's it, lemme hear you," he encourages, and you want to punch him for how smug he sounds but you also want him to never stop. "Love the sounds you make when I'm deep in this pussy, when I—shit—"

His voice catches as you deliberately tighten around him, a small victory that makes you smirk despite how your body's on fire.

"Fuck, you're evil."

"You talk too much," you manage to get out between gasps, even as your hips chase his rhythm desperately. You're close—so fucking close—but not quite there.

He laughs against your neck, the sound dark and promising.

“Touch yourself for me."

When you don't immediately comply—because for some reason you still want to challenge him—he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

"Rub that pretty clit, show me how you like it."

The command in his voice shouldn't turn you on this much. "Make me," you challenge, because apparently your mouth has a death wish.

"Oh?"

His rhythm slows to something torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. "Do I need to show you where it is? Guide those lovely fingers myself?"

You're about to snark back when his hand slides between your bodies, and—oh. Oh.

"Found it," he says with infuriating smugness, circling your clit with practiced ease. Your whole body jerks at the contact, oversensitive and desperate. "Seems like I know exactly where it is. Don't I?"

"Fuck—" Your voice breaks as he applies just the right amount of pressure, the bastard. "You're so—nghh—"

"I'm so what?" He's grinning now, you can hear it in his voice even as you squeeze your eyes shut. "C'mon, tell me. Use your words."

"Insufferable," you grit out, but your body betrays you, arching into his touch. "Arrogant—ah—asshole—"

"Maybe." His fingers speed up, matching the pace of his thrusts, and holy shit you're going to die. "But I'm an arrogant asshole who's about to make you cum again, aren't I?"

He's right and you hate it. Hate how well he reads your body, hate how he found your clit without hesitation like he's got some kind of carnal GPS, hate how fucking good he is at this.

"That's it," he encourages as your breathing hitches, as your nails dig into his shoulders. "Let me feel you fall apart. Wanna feel this cunt clamp down on my cock when you—"

His hips stutter and you can feel him pulsing inside you, even through the condom. The way his whole body tenses, the broken sound he makes against your throat—it pushes you right over the edge. Yeah. Your second orgasm says hi; has you curling your toes against his back, tensing your thighs around him as if he would ever dream of leaving right now.

"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're not even sure which one of you is saying it anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you're having an out-of-body experience because Jesus Christ.

For a moment, there's just silence. Just breathing. Just the sound of your heart trying to recall its normal cadence. Then he chuckles against your cheek—a low, sated sound that you'll deny remembering tomorrow—and follows it with a quick nip that makes you jolt.

"Fuck, that was good," he breathes, still catching his breath.

"S'alright," you manage, even though your legs are literally jelly and your brain's still rebooting.

He pulls back just enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Just alright?"

"Fishing for compliments?" You raise your own eyebrow, trying to ignore how his hand is still absently stroking your hip. "That's kind of desperate."

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

He shifts then, carefully pulling out (and at least he's considerate about it, making sure not to hurt you), and starts dealing with the condom. But then he just... stands there. Looking lost. Condom in hand and this adorably bemused expression that makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.

No. Not adorable. Nothing about this guy is adorable. Hot? Yes. Skilled with his tongue? Abso-fucking-lutely. But not adorable. You refuse to find anything about him cute, especially not the way he's glancing around the room like a lost puppy trying to figure out where to—

You can't stifle the snort that escapes you. "Trash can's over there, genius." You gesture with your head toward the small bin by the dresser. "Try not to get lost on the way."

He rolls his eyes but moves across the room, and you definitely don't watch the play of muscles in his back as he walks. Or the way his ass looks in the dim light. Or how his hand rakes through his tousled hair as he leans down to dispose of the condom and—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Because here's the thing: you've had one-night stands before. You know how this goes. Quick fuck, awkward goodbye, never see each other again. That's the routine. That's the protocol. That's what smart, sensible people do.

But.

But you're already thinking about how his mouth felt between your legs. About how he filled you up just right. About how he seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, his hips, his—

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck being sensible and sane. Fuck playing it cool. You've got a hot guy with stellar dick game right here, right now. Might as well take advantage while you can.

Before your brain can talk you out of it, you're launching yourself off the bed. Your legs are still a bit wobbly (thanks, Mr. Two Orgasms), but you manage to catch him just as he turns around. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and demanding, as you push him against the wall.

His surprised grunt turns into a pleased hum against your lips, and his hands immediately find your hips like they belong there. Like this is exactly what he was hoping would happen.

Cocky bastard.

He spins you around so fast your head spins—or maybe that's just the lingering vodka. Either way, suddenly your back's hitting the wall and—oh. Okay. This is happening. Again. Because apparently your body doesn't give two shits about being thoroughly fucked already.

His mouth crashes back into yours, hungry and insistent, and it should be gross really—you can taste yourself on his tongue, everything's messy and uncoordinated and frantic. But instead it's just...hot. So fucking hot you feel like you're melting from the inside out.

Then his hands slide down to your thighs and he's lifting you like you weigh zilch (and seriously, what is it with this guy and manhandling? More importantly, why do you like it?). Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and how his cock twitches against your stomach—already getting hard again—should not make you feel this smug.

"Eager?" you manage to gasp between kisses, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit.

He bites your bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make you whimper (and fuck, there's that sound again, what is wrong with you tonight?). "I’m sorry? Weren’t you the one jumping me?”

"Just felt sorry for you." The words come out breathier than intended as his mouth finds that spot behind your ear. "Standing there looking all lost with your used condom—"

His growl cuts you off, vibrating through his chest into yours. One of his hands tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, and—fuck. The way he attacks your neck like he's trying to mark you up, like he wants everyone to know exactly what you've been doing...

Then his mouth finds yours again, swallowing whatever protest you might have made. And it's different this time—sloppier, needier. All clashing teeth and warring tongues and his hands everywhere at once. You're pressed so tightly between him and the wall you can feel every twitch of his muscles, every stuttered breath.

One of his hands slides up your thigh, fingertips trailing fire in their wake, and you're already embarrassingly slick again. Already aching for him like you didn't just have him inside you minutes ago. Your hips roll against him craving friction, and the sound he makes—half groan, half snarl—shoots straight between your legs.

"Condom," you gasp against his mouth. "Need a—"

"Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move away. Just keeps kissing you like he's suffocating and you're oxygen, like he can't bear to stop even for a heartbeat. "Yeah, just—fuck, you feel so good—"

Your brain's rapidly disintegrating, especially with the way he keeps grinding against you, the way his mouth keeps doing that to your neck. But you manage to remember: "Bed. Other condoms. On the bed."

He makes this sound of acknowledgment but still doesn't budge, just shifts his hips in a way that has his cock sliding against your clit and—jesus fuck.

"If you don't get a condom right now," you warn, voice embarrassingly unsteady, "I'm going to kill you."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "Such violence."

He practically teleports to the bed—like, Olympic-level sprinting for that condom. It'd be comical, the way he fumbles with the wrapper (apparently Mr. Smooth isn't so smooth when he's desperate), except you're too busy being embarrassingly turned on by his urgency.

You're about to suggest moving to the bed—because your legs are already shaking and wall sex seems ambitious after two orgasms—but—

Holy fuck.

He's got you up against the wall again in one fluid motion, hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up and—oh god. The sound that rips from your throat as he fills you in one swift thrust is utterly shameful. But the broken "fuck" that falls from his lips? How his whole body shudders as he bottoms out?

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

"Jesus fuck," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked. "You feel—shit, how do you feel even better than before?"

"Hush it," you gasp, even as your walls flutter around him. "And move."

He laughs, breathless and gritty. "Demanding little thing." But he's already moving, setting a pace that has your head lolling back. "God, you’re even wetter than before, taking me so well—”

"That your professional opinion?" Your attempt at snark falls flat when it comes out as more of a moan. "Done extensive research, have you?"

His hips snap up particularly hard at that. "Never—fuck—never felt anything like this."

And that should be a line. That should be the kind of bullshit guys say during hookups to stroke their own egos. Except the way he says it—all breathless wonder and raw honesty—makes something hot unfurl in your chest.

"Yeah?" It comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. Can’t really care when every thrust is melting honey down your spine. "Prove it."

He makes this sound—half growl, half moan—like he fucking loves your audacity. "Already made you come twice."

"Maybe I was faking."

"Sweetheart, nobody's that good an actress."

And honestly? Fair. But you're not about to admit that, not when he's already so smug about how well he plays your body. Instead, you drag him down for a kiss that's more teeth than finesse, swallowing his groans as his pace gets more erratic.

"F-fuck," he pants against your mouth. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna feel you—"

"Big talk for someone who—ah—hasn't delivered yet."

His responding thrust makes your back arch off the wall. "Jus’ wait."

His hips snap up harder at your challenge, making your head thump back against the wall. And fuck—the way he's moving now, all rough desperation and graceless rhythm. Everything's wet and messy and absolutely filthy, the sounds of skin on skin blending with your breathless moans.

"Still—ah—ah—waiting for that delivery," you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"Fuckin’—" His breathless laugh is menacing. "Always—fuck—gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”

You'd have a comeback for that, you really would, except he chooses that moment to shift his angle and—holy shit. Because now? Now his pubic bone grinds against your clit every time he moves, every time he thrusts deep inside you. And honestly? Fucking unfair that even his bones know where your clit is.

You can feel him twitching inside you, can tell he's close by the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck. And you're almost there too, just need a little more—

But then he's groaning, hips stuttering as he cums. His whole body tenses, pressing you flatter against the wall as he empties into the condom.

And okay, great for him, congratulations, but you were so fucking close.

You tap his back urgently. "Keep goin’."

"What?" He's still catching his breath, forehead pressed against your shoulder. "Gimme a second, ah—I just—"

"I was—right there," you whine (and yes, you're actually whining now, this is what you've been reduced to). "Don't you dare stop."

He lifts his head, looking at you incredulously. "I literally just filled the condom—"

"I don't give a fuck, just move."

And okay, yeah, PSA time number two: This is definitely not safe sex practice. The second a condom's full, it needs to be changed. That's like, Sex Ed 101. But also? Also your clit is throbbing and you were this close to coming and your horny lizard brain has completely taken over.

"Jesus," he breathes, but he's already starting to move again, shallow little thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "You're fucking insatiable."

"Like earlier," you gasp, grinding down against him. "With the… with your hipbone."

He laughs against your neck—a rough, breathless sound that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Gotcha."

And he does. Repositions himself, makes sure he’s got exactly the same position he had earlier. His hipbone comes in contact with your clit as he begins thrusting faster again, and fucking yeah, that’s what you needed.

"Fuck, the way you feel," he groans. "So slick and snug and—shit—"

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

Because you can't handle his voice right now, can't deal with how his words make the drowning sensation grow more and more intense by the second. You're so close you can taste it, right on the precipice, just need a little more—

Then he nips at your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point. And that's it. You're a goner. Again. For the third time tonight.

Your entire body locks up as bliss courses through, lapping at your core like waves at a shore. Your eyes instinctively close as you relish it in all its intensity, and you're pretty sure you make some kind of mortifying noise but whatever. Three orgasms in, dignity is a distant memory.

He slows his movements gradually, letting you ride it out, and you can feel him softening inside you. Your head drops to his shoulder because keeping it upright seems like way too much effort right now. The residual booze is hitting different after getting thoroughly wrecked—everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.

You vaguely register him checking the condom with his free hand—the other one still supporting your ass because apparently you're not ready to unwrap your legs from his waist yet. Your brain's moving in slow motion, heavy with alcohol and mist and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from really good sex.

"Hey." He taps your back lightly. "You falling asleep on me? Dick game that good?"

"Die," you mumble into his shoulder, not even bothering to lift your head. "Just... shut up and die."

You hear him chuckle, vaguely. It should be irritating. It isn't. You're too drained to care. Everything's warm and hazy and your limbs feel like they're crafted from lead.

You're only half-aware of him moving you to the bed, of sheets being pulled up, of a warm body pressing against your back. Your consciousness is already drifting, floating in that space between awake and asleep where nothing quite computes.

The last thing you register, right before slumber claims you completely, is his nose pressed against your neck and his drowsy murmur:

“Smell like vanilla now too."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[lionheartedmusings]

once again rotating the qsmp and it's depiction of parenthood in my head and yeno i just... it makes me so deeply emotional it's not even funny? i remember conversations about "mothers and fathers" being the true qsmp theme song and i will die on that hill forever.

the thing that i find so poignant about it is that this was (as far as we know) never meant to be the story they were going to tell — the eggs were meant to come and go, a chapter in a story that would be looked back on fondly but one that was firmly over. and yet, the love. oh, the love.

it's so rare in media that we get such a raw and slow perspective of parenthood from the parents' perspective, to see the bonds forming and solidifying from "a responsibility that scares me" to "i would tear the world apart for you" — going back to vods of the first day of the eggs is wild, because they're filled with novelty and interest, but then time passes and we see love blossom.

we see love through grief too, like fit's voice when ramon lost his first life, or bad's screams when dapper had his nightmare, or the grief that came with trump, juana, and tilin's deaths. the desperation and grief of parents is an uncomfortable thing to witness, but in a medium like the qsmp it allows people to explore stories that are sometimes too heavy or too dark to portray in a less "goofy" medium.

we watched people's focus shift to their children as they embraced parenthood, especially in the face of loss, and we saw them accept truths that aren't pretty: if the eggs are there to manipulate them, okay. if they're a way for the federation to control them? fine. it doesn't matter, they're their children. they won't let go of them, not even if they're ultimately a means to keep them subdued.

the only time we've seen these characters truly lose their shit and rebel properly was when the eggs went missing, and that says so much. they'll almost accept losing their autonomy, but they won't lose their children.

it's been almost a year of the eggs, and they're the center of everything. every event, every game, every day — eggs are always the focus, whether it be in a "we need to protect them" way or a "i wonder what they want to do today" way. it's all about those kids.

meanwhile, we get to see these people be scared shitless, not have answers, be lost and confused half the time and not knowing how to handle every situation — they try their best, but time and time again they fumble and say the wrong thing, and have to apologise and try to do better next time.

it's so fucking beautiful, man. we see a day-to-day experience of parenthood and family (government assigned, found, chosen) that shows and movies can't give us because they're not a daily, breathing, on-the-go medium where we get to follow this one (or multiple bc none of us have lives) character through just... life.

in having this opportunity, we're privy to one of the most honest, human, and poignant depictions of parenthood and maturing that i've ever seen. we get to live this journey with these characters, and i'd bet a lot of money that that's part of why we're all so deeply attached to the eggs too.

long story short, storytelling is so fucking awesome and sometimes the most beautiful stories happen by accident.

[justrustandstardust]

i've seen a lot of discourse about this juju stroll going around and i wanted to pitch in my two cents, because i think it's saying something different than what people are taking away at face value.

so everyone's being asked their type and they either answer immediately or refuse to answer— with the exception of gojo. he's distinct because when he's asked his type, he neither answers nor refuses; he waffles and says this:

this is VERY unlike him; he's always got something to say or a quippy remark at the ready. he's drawing out his answer, clearly wasting time. it's made even more clear that his answer is supposed to be perceived as different because everyone else either answers at length or not at all.

he then does something CRAZY and basically eggs on utahime to tell him his type. he's not providing an answer; he's waffling and then making utahime give him an answer to get out of answering in a straightforward way.

he continues to prompt her when she can't think of anything because he's that damn intent on not providing a real answer. "that girl who seemed nice" is generic enough and could apply to anyone, but the point i want to highlight here is that he says bangs. he draws out providing his answer and makes utahime provide one for him; the only concrete thing we know about gojo's type (the nice girl thing is intentionally generic and a nondescript, blasé non-answer) is that he's into bangs.

by process of elimination, not because she meets the criteria, utahime comes to the conclusion that the only person who fits "nice" with bangs is miwa. this is problematic for two reasons: one, miwa is seventeen and a student. gojo is a grown ass man and a teacher, there's no way he'd out his type as a student. two, as you'll see in the next pic, he never actually says miwa's name. he just agrees with utahime— he agrees with the answer he made her provide, selecting the choice that he pigeonholed her into making.

he's too enthusiastic about the sell here, especially because he's never once said miwa's name. he doesn't actually confirm it's miwa specifically, he only confirms that he agrees with utahime's choice in selecting the person that best fits his type. (once again: the choice that HE forced her to make).

so now we go back to the other part, the only concrete thing that gojo reveals about his type: bangs. sure, plenty of people have bangs in this series, but who's known for them? whose bangs are repeatedly mentioned by tertiary characters?

he's even referred to by his bangs; they're that notable and a key characteristic of his appearance.

we have a character known for his bangs. the only thing we know for real about gojo's type is that it's a person with bangs. and then we have this:

he’s also notably NICE; his character is specifically denoted by his manners and his open expression of care towards others. he’s not a girl but two major components of his character are that he’s openly nice and that he has bangs.

so there you have it. gojo's type is not miwa— that was merely an intentional misdirect. when you look deeper, this whole sequence confirms that, murderous cult leader or not, gojo's type hasn't changed in over a decade.

[enwoso]

STICK TO IT || alessia russo

not sure if i like this little blurb but oh well

masterlist

"and baby i've made a list, so no adding extra to the cart please!" alessia said in a serious tone as she undid her seat belt looking to you as you sat in the passenger seat.

"but what if you've forgotten something?" you questioned as alessia stopped in motion.

"i can assure you i haven't" she smiled getting and coming around to get your door for you before the two of you walked into the store, you getting tasked with pushing the shopping trolley around the store.

"we'll start here?" alessia looked back thinking she would find you trailing behind her as she had been pointing to the aisle with the deli and other prepared foods only to find you not stood there with the cart.

alessia scanning her eyes around only to find you pouting over the home decor, which was in the aisle across from where your girlfriend was.

"seriously"

you had spotted alessia looking in your direction so you held up a cute little house plant in your hands. "look how cute this is-" you said with a smile as alessia shook her head in a disapproving manner as she got closer to you. as she instead took the plant out of your hands and placed it gently back on the shelf with the other house plants.

"the list, love" your blonde girlfriend pointed to the sheet of paper in her hand which she had spent all of thirty minutes going through the pantry and fridge in your shared apartment to see what was actually needed in the weeks shopping.

"but i'm sure we could let the little plant slide" your tried hopeful your efforts may help to sway the blonde but it was no luck. alessia was already pulling the trolley away as the food shop began.

although with each step in the aisle you found something else to slip into the trolley hopeful your girlfriend wouldn't spot it however with each item alessia was starting to get more and more annoyed at your teasing.

as each time she would bend to look at the foods on the lower shelves you would be quick to slap her on the bum sending her a devilish smirk as she eyed you up.

or with each item you slipped into the trolley, she would point to the list as alessia had a strict routine of only getting what the two of you needed whereas you were more of a whatever takes your eye type of shopper.

or picking up random items of the shelves and handing them to alessia and giving her a cheesy pick up line with it.

"lessi! baby!" you called out, as the blonde was a few metres in front of you. alessia stopping and turning around as you stood still with a smirk motioning for the blonde to come back closer to you.

"what?”

"are you an egg?... because i'm cracking up over how amazing you are" you let out a laugh as alessia groaned at the words shaking her head before a small laugh came from her as she walked in front of you once again.

the two of you had strolled a few aisles down and were now in the fruit and vegetables aisles, alessia looking at the carrots as you tapped the blonde on the shoulder the same smirk on your face from before. the blonde knew what was about to happen.

"oh not again babe" alessia complained as she pinched her nose, you waving off her complaints as you pointed to the tomatoes.

"are you a tomato? because i love you from my head to-ma-toes" you smiled proudly with that one as the blonde straightened up a smile adamant on her face.

"c'mon! that one was good!"

"yeah it was cute i'll give you that!" alessia beamed at your silliness placing a quick kiss to your cheek before carrying on to try and find the best bag of carrots to get.

finally after longer than alessia had imagined the two of you were through the till and were heading out of the store. "i think we got more than was on the list" alessia commented holding up the list that had a lot less than the number of things represented in the many bags that filled the shopping trolley.

you hummed as you shrugged, "i seen you slipping things in" alessia tried to keep a serious face as you giggled at the fact you had tried so hard to be a slick as possible only for it not to work

“you need to stop being such a stress head” you reminded the blonde, forever telling her that she doesn’t need to have every single thing planned to the minute instead go with the flow.

“i know, i know” alessia mumbled as you placed the bags by the side of her car waiting for her to open the boot. leaning over to peck her on the lips.

“it’s okay, you can be my little stress head” you grinned before continuing as you passed the bags to alessia to place in the boot.

“and at least i still got my little plant” you shrugged innocently as alessia mouth hung open as you heard a small whisper come from under her breath.