#like a master pitcher

[ickyguts]

Hopps and Geshtu everybody

Geshsnooze belongs to @herebecritters

[sputnikodin]

ohhhh i forgot they're facing the sole knuckleballer in the big leagues tonight!!! super cool

[farihahqaisari]

the only thing i like about coriolanus snow is how petty he is. he's literally the human version of ‘you go low, i go lower’ wrapped in rose scents and expensive clothes.

a disaster at the opening ceremony? he poisoned the parade master but he also ate with him to avoid suspicion and got food poisoning himself even though he's literally the president and could've ordered for incitatus loomy's death and no one would've dared to question him.

and then haymitch drank the whole pitcher of milk in literally a minute just because snow asked for milk so then after the games, snow gave haymitch nothing but milk and bread.

old man was literally dying, coughing blood and all, but still gave haymitch dating advice and basically told him not to date a covey girl because his own situationship was a covey girl and she left him.

[natalianovnas]

༄ `. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — ⌗02

summary : raised in the heart of the countryside, you, Y/N Langford, has always known the rhythm of ranch life—early mornings on horseback, sun-drenched vineyards, and a quiet kind of freedom carved into the land passed down through generations. however, your father's recent colleague is interesting enough.

genre : country!au, wlw, countryside life.

warnings : smut, beefy!nat, top!nat, sub!reader, teasing, flirting, age-gap (r is 24 and nat is 32).

words count : 4.3k || masterlist

an : might seem boring in the begining but I promise, it's worth your while. smut is down below :)

𖦹 part one 𖦹 part two 𖦹 part three 𖦹 part four 𖦹 part five

HORSES & ROMANCE :

— The Begining Of Belonging

📍Langford Ranch House

Clare Valley, Southern Australia

The Langford house glowed like a storybook as the sun dipped behind the hills, warm light spilling from the windows and casting long, golden rays across the wraparound porch. It was a wide, two-story structure with a green tin roof and paint that had peeled in a few places, but that only added to its charm. The scent of rosemary, garlic, and warm bread drifted through the evening air.

Natasha stood at the edge of the gravel path, a little too aware of how quiet her boots sounded on the stones. She’d changed into clean jeans and a dark linen shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal her forearms. Her hair was pulled back—not tightly, but not entirely relaxed either.

The long table on the porch was already set. Dishes lined the middle—roasted vegetables from the garden, baked lasagna steaming in the center, bowls of salad tossed with lemon vinaigrette. There was a pitcher of red wine and glasses already half full.

“Come in, come in. Hope you’re hungry.”

“I am,” Natasha admitted. “It smells incredible.”

Georges was seated at the head, napkin over his knee, already halfway through a story about the time your cousin fell into the irrigation ditch trying to impress a girl. Across from him was your grandmother, Elise, eyes sharp but kind, wearing an apron and sipping ginger beer.

“Ah! Natasha,” She greeted. “There’s a seat right there by Y/N. Don’t be shy.”

And then there was you.

Seated sideways in a wooden chair, wine glass loose in hand. The artificial lights struck your profile, catching your cheekbone and the faint tan line at your collar.

Natasha offered a small, respectful smile and took the seat beside you.

You looked up as she stepped onto the porch, a faint smile on your lips. “Glad you made it,”

“I said I might,” Natasha replied, walking over and taking the seat. “Didn’t say I’d behave.”

You laughed softly. “Good. It’d be boring if you did.”

“Smells incredible,” she said to your grandmother.

“That’s because I cook with actual skill,” Elise declared. “Not like Georges—he burns toast.”

“Only once,” Your father protested.

Plates clinked. Elise set down a tray of garlic-stuffed roast chicken and roasted pumpkin slices, then waved off any offers to help. Georges poured the wine—dark red, earthy, bold—and slid Natasha a glass without question.

“Clare Valley Shiraz. One of ours,” he said proudly.

She took a sip, letting it settle on her tongue. “Smooth. But not soft.”

Georges grinned. “Like the women in this family.”

Dinner rolled on with the kind of ease only old families could master—jokes with no setup, teasing that didn’t sting, and silences that felt comfortable. Elise recounted a neighbor’s cow escaping again.

And Natasha? She watched. She listened. She responded when spoken to, asked just enough questions, and found herself slowly thawing. The porch felt lived-in, like people belonged here.

So did you.

Your laughter was real and heartwarming. You filled Natasha's plate without asking and nudged a breadbasket her way. Once or twice, your knee brushed hers under the table—not accidentally—but you didn’t make a show of it either.

Halfway through the meal, Elise nudged Natasha with a grin. “So. What brings you out here from the big world? Georges says it's work, but a little bird tells me it's a little more.”

Natasha smiled politely. “Needed some air. A little quiet. Time away.”

“Running from someone?” Your dad teased.

“Grams, tell your kid he’s got no filter,” You muttered behind the rim of your glass.

“Running toward something,” Natasha answered, cool and unbothered. She glanced at you. “Maybe.”

There was a brief hush. Then Georges gave a low whistle. “Well, damn. That’s poetic.”

You laughed under your breath. Natasha didn’t look away.

As the stars began to crowd the sky, and the last of the dishes were cleared, Elise brought out a dessert she called "apple slab"—warm pastry crust with cinnamon and vanilla ice cream melting into every corner. Natasha tried it. She closed her eyes briefly.

Georges leaned toward her halfway through. “Told you—better company than you expected, huh?”

She nodded. “You weren’t wrong.”

The conversation shifted to crops and winter prep, and then to you—specifically, the time you tried to tame a wild filly at sixteen.

“She broke her wrist but refused to go to the hospital,” your grandmother told Natasha with a shake of her head. “Said she didn’t need a doctor, just duct tape and whiskey.”

Natasha looked over at you, one brow lifted, not surprised but interested. “Really?”

You shrugged, grinning around a bite of bread. “I was stubborn.”

“Was?” Your dad muttered.

You kicked his boot under the table.

As the stars began to pierce through the fading sky, conversation softened. The wine was nearly gone. Crickets started up in the distance, and the vineyard glowed faintly beneath the last lavender light.

Your grandmother excused herself first, and Georges followed shortly after with a promise to check the fencing in the morning.

You stayed. Natasha did too.

There was quiet between you now, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just the gentle hush of nighttime settling over land that had worked all day.

You glanced sideways at her. “You survived Langford dinner.”

“Barely.” Her voice was dry, but her eyes held warmth. “You all talk like you’ve known each other for centuries.”

“We practically have.” You stretched your legs under the table. “That’s what happens when you grow up where everyone knows your middle name, what age you first rode a bike, and how many times you cried watching The Lion King.”

“Twice?”

You laughed. “Four. Don’t judge me.”

Natasha smirked, then leaned back in her chair, her arms loose over the sides. “It’s nice. The way your family is. The way you are here.”

You studied her then—the way she relaxed just slightly when she wasn’t looking.

“You’re welcome to come by again,” You said casually. “We don’t usually bite.”

She looked at you, serious now. “And if I stay too long?”

You tilted your head. “Then you might start feeling like you belong.”

For a moment, you both just looked at each other. The stars overhead blinked into the dark sky like promises, and somewhere in the distance, Alba let out a quiet, contented whinny.

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

6:12AM. A cool mist hugged the vineyards like a ghost clinging to memory, curling low around the vines and bleeding into the open pastures.

Dew clung to every blade of grass, and the air still carried the chill of night, crisp enough to cut through the fabric of Natasha’s hoodie.

She wasn’t usually awake this early—not without cause—but something about the quiet of the ranch had tugged her from sleep before the world stirred.

She hadn’t even meant to go walking. She’d only stepped outside the house for air. And then the horizon broke into a slow bloom of amber light, and she just kept moving, boots crunching softly along a gravel path that curved away from the vineyard and toward the back paddocks.

Then she heard it—

A sharp exhale, followed by the pounding of hooves.

It wasn’t Alba.

The redhead crept closer, careful not to announce herself. She moved through a break in the fence, stepping behind a wooden post and peering through the clearing ahead.

You were in the ring.

Not the manicured one near the barn where children learned to ride—but the rough, wide training corral on the edge of the property. It was worn in by years of sun and sweat. Just dirt, wind, tension and you.

The horse in the ring was beautiful and wild. A deep russet coat and black mane, flaring nostrils and rolling muscles as it snorted and pawed the dirt. Its eyes were wide with resistance, its back arched in refusal.

Natasha didn’t move. She watched.

You held the rope with just enough slack to give it trust. You didn’t force contact, just stepped slowly, deliberately, your boots quiet in the dust.

“There you go,” You whispered— warm, low, and calm. “Not here to hurt you.”

The horse didn’t believe you. Not yet.

It darted to the side, testing you. You turned with it, gentle but firm, keeping distance without surrendering authority.

Nat realized what she was watching wasn’t about breaking. It was about respect.

“You’re not a prisoner,” you murmured. “You’re just scared.”

There was something heavy in the way you said it—like you weren’t just talking to the animal.

The stallion stopped. Just for a second. His head tilted, ears flicking. That was enough for a first.

He took a single step forward. You didn’t move. Came another step before he then exhaled—a long, rattling breath that shook tension from his shoulders.

You dropped your gaze, lowering yourself slightly, shifting into a crouch. Still no pressure. Still no force.

And then, miraculously, impossibly, the horse approached.

Natasha found herself holding her own breath.

When the horse finally bumped his nose against your shoulder, your hand lifted—light, slow—and you rested it against his neck.

“Nice one, big guy,” You smiled. “You’re alright now.”

Only then did Natasha move. A quiet step back. She didn’t want to interrupt, didn’t want to break whatever sacred moment she’d just witnessed.

But you had already known she was there.

You turned your head, still stroking the horse, and caught her eyes through the rising light. There was no surprise in your expression. Just calm.

“You always spy on people before coffee?” You questioned with an expectant raised brow.

The Russian gave a faint smile, stepping forward now that she’d been caught. “Only when the show’s worth it.”

You chuckled, brushing your hair off your face. “That was Bramble. He’s a rescue. Nobody’s been able to get close to him for months.”

“He trusts you.”

“Not trust. Not yet. Just curiosity and a little relief.” You glanced back at the horse, who now stood beside you, tethered by choice instead of fear. “That’s a start.”

Natasha nodded, eyes still on you. “You’re good at this.”

“With horses?”

“At being patient with things that bolt.”

There was a silence between you that hummed with more than early morning wind.

You didn’t break it. You didn’t flirt or tease. You just looked at her—really looked—and gave the barest nod.

“Come by later,” you said, stepping toward the gate. “If you want.”

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

Natasha spent hours thinking about earlier's moment with you.

“Come by later,” — Not an invitation, but permission.

She came by around late afternoon. You were exactly where she expected to find you—behind the barn, near the tack shed, rinsing off a saddle with a garden hose. You spent time together — repainted rooster's fences because you had a design idea.

You snorted softly and tossed her a clean towel. “Make yourself useful.”

She caught it one-handed. “You always this bossy?”

“You always this agreeable?”

The redhead tilted her head in consideration. “Only when I’m interested.”

Your gaze flicked toward her then, unreadable for a beat too long. But whatever you were thinking, you didn’t say it.

Later on, you motioned toward the hay bales stacked under the old oak tree you used to play by when you were younger. “Come on. I’ve got ten minutes before I have to check the perimeter fence.”

She followed you there, the sun warming her back as you both sat. From here, the land seemed to stretch forever—golden and open, scattered with horses and silence.

You didn’t fill it with small talk. Neither did she. You both just sat. The peace of it settled slowly, like dust after a storm.

“You really love this place,” Natasha said after a while.

You nodded, still looking at the view. “It’s not just home. It’s... legacy. My father  probably told you already but his great-grandfather built the first stable. He and my mom added the vineyard. My sisters ran off, but I stayed. Someone had to.”

“That sounds like weight.”

“It is.” You glanced at her then. “But it’s the kind I can carry.”

She nodded, understanding more than she said.

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

The next few days passed in a slow, golden rhythm.

The Russian spent most of it unpacking, fixing the back gate, replacing floorboards in the living room or simply working with your dad.

She worked without a shirt most afternoons —the heat was relentless— and she noticed the way you passed by more often now. Always with an excuse. Returning a borrowed drill she hadn’t lent you. Asking if she needed help setting up a chicken coop she hadn’t even built yet. Always smiling. Always wearing shorts that made Natasha seriously consider whether peaceful living was all it was cracked up to be.

You were beautiful, that wasn't ignored by anyone but it was unnerving, how irresistible you could be. In some ways, she felt she wasn't supposed to look and think about you in the way she did but she just couldn't help herself.

She was only human after all. 

From your side, you didn't care. You felt attracted to her and you weren't going to lie to yourself. Your father never had a problem with whoever you dated, as long as you were happy he didn't mind it.

You and Nat were both adults, so if anyone had a serious say in whatever that was starting to bloom between the two of you— it was only Nat and

The sun was beginning to dip when the fair lights flickered to life, warm and golden, strung between trees like fireflies. The annual Cherry Hollow Harvest Fair sprawled across the town’s open field—tents pitched, hay bales arranged like benches, the smell of roasted corn, fried dough, and sweet cider wafting through the cool autumn air.

Kids ran barefoot over the grass, their laughter high and wild. Folk music drifted from a wooden stage where a band played fiddles and banjos. People from all around the county came for this night. It wasn’t just tradition—it was home.

And Natasha Romanoff? She wasn’t sure what she was doing here.

Georges had insisted. “It’s tradition,” he’d said, patting her shoulder like she was family now. “Everyone goes. You’ll like it.”

So she’d come. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a fitted olive-green shirt.

She spotted Georges near the cider stand, chatting with the mayor and three other men who looked like they'd been born wearing cowboy hats. He waved when he saw her, but didn't call her over. She appreciated that—he let her move at her own pace.

Then she saw you.

Across the fairground, in a sage green denim jumpsuit that stopped by your thighs, hugging them perfectly with the top buttons open to tease with your cleavage hair pulled up with a white clip that matched your boots.

You had a paper cup in one hand and your other resting casually on your hip as you spoke to a woman selling apple pies. You laughed at something, head tilted back slightly in that unguarded way Natasha was starting to recognize.

You were a different version of yourself here—looser, brighter.

And she liked it. Maybe too much.

You noticed her after a moment, your smile lingering as your eyes locked. Then you tilted your head subtly, like an invitation: Come over.

Natasha made her way through the crowd slowly, absorbing the details: children with sticky faces, old men playing horseshoes, the way the stars were beginning to bloom in the sky.

When she reached you, your gaze ran down her frame—not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that landed.

“You clean up alright,” You said, sipping from your cup. “Not bad for a city girl.”

“Not bad for someone who just learned what ‘cow patty bingo’ is,” Natasha replied, glancing over at the fenced square in the grass that was... exactly what it sounded like.

You laughed, fully this time, and offered her your drink. “Spiced cider. Try it.”

She hesitated just long enough to make it noticeable. Then took a sip.

You watched her the entire time.

“Sweet,” she said.

“Like the fair.”

“Is that what you are?” Natasha asked, eyes steady. “Sweet?”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Before either of you could push the moment further, a loud clang sounded near the mechanical bull arena and someone called your name. It was the ranch hand, Micah, gesturing toward the prize booth.

“I promised to judge the pie contest,” you said with a sigh. “Small-town royalty obligations.”

Natasha lifted a brow. “You’re a judge and a competitor?”

You gave her a wicked grin. “No one said I had to play fair.”

As you moved away, Natasha’s eyes followed you through the crowd. She wasn’t used to wanting moments to last longer. But with you, they always ended too fast.

She wandered a little after that—tried a caramel apple, watched kids dance barefoot under the fairy lights, even listened to Georges tell an elaborate story about winning the chili cook-off in '98.

But when the music shifted—slower now, softer—Natasha looked for you again.

She found you leaning against the fence near the bonfire, watching the flames. Your blouse glowed orange in the firelight, your face half-shadowed, thoughtful.

She came up beside you quietly.

“You come here every year?” she asked.

You nodded. “Every year since I was five. I’ve worked every booth. Played every game. First kiss was behind that pie stand.”

Natasha smiled faintly. “That sound like a good memory or a bad one?”

“Sticky,” you said. “She had frosting on her lips.”

That surprised a quiet laugh out of her. You turned toward her slightly, and for a beat, neither of you said a word.

Just firelight.

The smell of smoke.

The unspoken want hanging between you.

“You staying long?” you asked, voice lower.

“I might,” she said. “Haven’t decided.”

You nodded. “Well. This place grows on you. Just watch out—it makes it harder to leave.”

“I’m starting to see that.”

Someone called your name again.

You exhaled, almost reluctant. “I should—”

“I know.”

You hesitated. “Wanna walk me home later, maybe?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. She just looked at you, the corner of her mouth lifting.

“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

And just like that, something shifted.

Not loud. Not sudden.

But real.

The kind of shift you feel in your chest before your mind can catch up.

🍀 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 🍀

The fair had mostly dimmed by the time the music ended. Booths began to close, vendors packed up pies and preserves, and the chatter faded into the quiet hum of crickets and wind in the trees.

Natasha waited near the edge of the bonfire crowd, hands tucked into the pockets of her denim jacket, eyes scanning for you.

You emerged through the fading glow, brushing hay from your jeans, your cheeks still flushed from laughter and cider. The warmth of the evening was still on your skin, but the night was cooling fast, and you’d slipped into an old cream-colored cardigan that made you look even more like home.

“Ready?” You asked, eyes finding hers in the dark.

Natasha just nodded.

You didn’t speak at first, the two of you walking side by side down the gravel path that led out of town and back toward the ranch. There were no streetlights—just moonlight, stars, and the occasional crunch of gravel under your boots.

“I usually drive to the fair,” You said eventually. “But walking feels better tonight.”

The redhead glanced at you, head tilted and a faint smirk. “You always ask people to walk you home, or am I special?”

You smirked, playing her game from earlier. “Only to the ones I don’t want to leave too quickly.”

She let that sit for a moment. Then, softly: “I can see why you stayed here. This town, your family… it’s not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

Natasha shrugged. “Something quieter. Less alive.”

You smiled at that. “It’s a stubborn kind of place. It grows wild and deep. You can’t just skim the surface.”

Natasha hummed. “No. I guess not.”

You passed the vineyard fence. The moonlight painted rows of vines silver. In the distance, the faint outline of the ranch house stood against the night sky, warm light glowing from the porch.

“You tired?” You asked, voice barely above the breeze.

“Not really.”

You slowed. “Wanna come in?”

Natasha’s pause wasn’t long.

“I do.”

Inside, the house was quiet— Ace, your golden retriever is probably asleep. You kicked off your boots, set your keys in the bowl by the door. Natasha followed you into the kitchen where the smell of cinnamon still lingered from the pies you'd baked earlier to offer at the fair.

"Water?" You offered.

She nodded. You poured two glasses.

She didn't sit. Neither did you. You stood at the kitchen counter, sipping slowly, like the silence had something to say if you just let it stretch long enough.

And then, softly, she set her glass down.

"Why'd you really ask me to walk you home?"

Your answer was quiet, honest. "Because I wanted to be alone with you. Not in the barn. Not with my dad around. Just... here."

Natasha stepped closer. "Why?"

Eyes flicked to hers, holding steady. "Because I've been trying not to want this since the second I saw you."

"That makes two of us."

Her hand reached up slowly-giving you time to stop her-and brushed your cheek. You didn't pull back. You leaned in.

The first kiss wasn't slow. It wasn't hesitant. It was earned. Built on days of glances, tension, heat, and restraint. It came with a soft sound from your throat as her mouth met yours, full and open and hungry.

You stepped back against the counter as her hand slid to your waist, anchoring you.

You kissed her like you'd been holding back a storm. She kissed you like she was finally letting go of one.

When you broke apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together, you whispered, "This isn't a mistake, is it?"

Natasha's eyes searched yours. "Not even close."

You kissed again-this time slower, deeper, less urgent but more intentional. Her hands rested at your hips, yours slid beneath her jacket, fingers grazing warm cotton and skin.

Still kissing, you led her down the hallway with unspoken understanding. The bedroom door opened easily beneath your palm.

Inside - moonlight across the bed. A soft creak of floorboards. Breath and heartbeats. Clothes shed slowly. A laugh when her jacket snagged on your elbow.

Your mouths met again in the low light of your bedroom, this time with but the hush of the night. Your fingers finding the hem of her blouse and slipping underneath, grazing the warm skin of her toned stomach.

She let you lift it, arms rising wordlessly as you peeled the shirt over her head and dropped it aside. Her skin was soft beneath your hands-lean muscle, warm breath, and something tightly coiled beneath the surface. But it was her eyes that held you there-fixed on yours, careful, burning.

"Tell me if you want to stop," Uou whispered, even though every part of you ached to go further, eyes fixated on her body before returning to her eyes.

"I don't," She said, voice husky, fingers brushing down your spine. "Not tonight."

Her hands moved to the buttons of your jumpsuit, undoing them one by one with a kind of quiet focus. You watched her as she worked-how gentle she was, how deliberate. She wasn't trying to rush this. She wanted to feel it. All of it.

When her mouth touched your shoulder, your breath caught. Her lips traced a path from your collarbone down, tasting skin like she was learning you. And you let her, pressing closer, your hands tangling in her hair as she kissed lower.

The sheets are cool against your back as she hovered over you, her weight braced on one elbow, the other hand brushing lightly down your bare side.

She kissed you slowly-mouth warm, lips soft and deep, tongue teasing yours in a rhythm that had your heart pounding.

"You drive me insane, you know that?" She murmured against your lips.

"Good," You breathed, kissing her again. "I intend to keep it that way."

More clothes vanished in between kisses and laughter, until there was nothing but skin and need and the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.

Natasha trailed her fingers down your stomach, eyes watching your face for every flicker of response. When her touch found you, you gasped-hips arching, breath hitching as she moved with precise, devastating control.

She then kissed your neck, your chest, your ribs-like she wanted to memorize the taste of you.

And you let yourself fall apart under her hands.

But it wasn't just pleasure. It was the way she looked at you while she gave it. Like she wanted every inch of you while you took every inch of her large cock. Like you were worth knowing this way.

Your nails raked gently down her back as you moaned her name-quiet but desperate, breathy against her ear.

Everything you'd imagined. Everything you hadn't let yourself imagine.

The teasing was gone now. What remained was hunger, care, and a kind of reverence that made your breath catch.

You didn't rush. You didn't need to.

You had all night.

And maybe, just maybe-something after that.

When it was over, the two of you lay tangled in the sheets, your head resting against her shoulder, fingers lazily drawing circles on her skin.

But before you drifted off, she kissed your temple and whispered, "I don't know what this is yet. But I want more of it."

And that was enough-for tonight.

➪ next part.

[controld3vil]

𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞

pairing(s): young!rhaenyra targaryen x velaryon!reader (can be read either as romantic/platonic) synopsis: Rhaenyra always seemed to like her position as the only dragon rider in King's Landing. Besides her uncle who rarely visits, she flys with Syrax whenever she can as proof of her imperial lineage. When word comes that you claimed Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, Rhaenyra becomes strangely jealous of your newfound attention.

notes: this takes place closely timeline-wise to the first season. cw: reader experiences a near-death incident, slight angst

Rhaenyra always felt at ease after riding with her dragon, Syrax. She had a distinctive bond with Syrax that no one could replicate. No one could discourage the truth. Her ancestors rode dragons and conquered the Seven Kingdoms. And rightfully so, as she acknowledges its power on the world. They were fierce beasts, little in number, but ferocious and praised as Gods to the people. The Princess of Dragonstone understood that well when she climbed off of Syrax’s saddle. Her golden scales glisten gloriously from the sunshine. 

She gleams brighter than before. Switching into a rich blonde gown, Rhaenyra rushes to the Court Council. Hoping none of the Councilmen would be bothered by her disturbed presence, the princess fixates on flattening down her silvery hair with her fingers. Combining through her tangled locks, the princess enters, drawing attention to haste and bewildered looks. 

“I was visiting Mother,” The Realm’s Delight she was named, smiled at her father, the King when asked about her whereabouts. She knew he would be displeased by the fact that she was dragon riding incredibly early. But she told the truth wholly. Rhaenyra did visit her mother. 

“On dragonback?” Viserys asked after catching a whiff of his daughter’s distinctive scent. It smelled of smoke and sea, resembling the dragon’s nature and their fiery breath. His daughter returns with a cheeky smile when she goes about to collect the pitcher, full of wine. There was much pride in the princess of her ancestral lineage. It was clear as histories can be able to tell of Old Valyria. A dragon was considered a rare delicacy despite having an abundance around the world. King’s Landing, Dragonstone, and Driftmark. Yet people did not consider them to be flesh and blood. Surprisingly, most were wild and had never been bonded with a dragon rider.

“Haven’t you heard? There was a sighting of the wild dragon, Vermithor along the coastlines of The High Tide,” Coryls Velaryon spouts, in cautiousness and weary. His clenched fist was unmistakable to Rhaenyra as he leaned forward with agitation. “My men are terrified, Your Grace. Surely we can think of a way to return the dragon’s course to Dragonstone.”

The silvery-haired girl looks to her father, King Viserys who beams with fazed delight. He thinks in light of the Master of Ship’s concerns. A dragon flies as it pleases. It did not flee far from Dragonstone as her familial home was a mile away from Driftmark itself. Eventually, Vermithor would have to return to rest. “And I’m sure he will return to Dragonstone when he deems it appropriate.” 

The lighthearted remark sparked some casual laughter from the table. A few lords shamelessly coughed between their coats while Hand to the King, Otto Hightower could only contemplate silently how to move the conversation to something more time-consuming. Rhaenyra has witnessed enough Council meetings to know that her father is restless. He never wanted to stay in the room for far too long before becoming disinterested in every political matter. What a dull position, she thought, to be the King of the Seven Kingdoms, you must abide by everyone's opinion and request. 

Rhaenyra traces her thumb around the handle of the pitcher. It’s glass and gold melded together. Its purity reflects wonderfully when she’s shown it to the light. As she strides around every seat of the table, the princess notices the little nuances each lord has. The old and cold pin of the Hand on Otto’s chest. The chainmail rings around Maester Mellos. And the rustic bronze rings Lord Corlys carried on his right hand. She recognizes why they are so distinctive now. 

“Nyra!”

It was like a bell went off in her mind when the Princess of Dragonstone blinked again. Now the Council meeting was left in their final moments. The doors that connected the room to the passive hallways opened, and flooded with the lords, one by one exiting. Well-mannered and poised was she when Rhaenyra placed the pitcher back onto the tabletop. Greeted by her father with a brief smile, she heard the sound of sweet nectar. Did you expect she did not hear you?

“Princess,” Rhaenyra laughs, coming down the stairs. You appeared eager to be near her, as you wrapped your arms tightly around her waist. A warm ache grows in her chest as Dragonstone’s darling caresses your shoulders, pushing you aback to see your face. “My you are eager this morrow.”

Your cheeks were plastered in rosy plums. Pink and delicate. As you burst into unfathomable joy at her proximity, you couldn’t contain your giddy blubbering. “I missed you! Is it so wrong to miss you?” She’d imagined your energy and heart beating simultaneously in the rhythm of a hummingbird. You were such a lively spirit, it complimented well with her own. Can she say that? 

She peers at you, fondly. As you were the most precious being one could ask for. If she could, Rhaenyra would shield you from every inconvenience and proposal your way. Even when you would become of age and pursued by your parents, she still would protect you from anyone who deemed you accessible. She brought both of her hands around your small one. They were adorned with rose-colored jewelry. Each is a colored gemstone to match your House colors. Rhaenyra slowly traces the flesh of your palm, “Of course not, Princess! It’s- I haven‘t seen you in so long,”

Your name is hollered and echoed against the looming halls you both stood in. She was sure for a moment, you two would be alone. A pang of discomfort flourishes in her throat when Rhaenyra becomes mute to the person to grab your attention. You, however, were deemed unbothered by it all, and held onto her grip tighter, and firmly, radiating heat and sweat. 

“There you are,” Your father, Lord Corlys groans in relief. It was evitable to find you lost around the castle, King’s Landing was a vast place. However, for how long you have visited, Rhaenyra depicts you knew the structure of it all and simply faked being clueless around. She saw it once. When you vaguely asked a guard where the library was to distract him, knowing you would be off avoiding your lessons with the Septa. She wishes she could chuckle out loud for that memory. “Do not get yourself carried away with the Princess, we have important matters to discuss with the King.” Your father seemed adamant about separating you from Rhaenyra, she recognizes. Which offends her greatly. You were a good friend and cousin. But more importantly, you were the only person to enjoy her company and mischief. 

For the longest time, the eldest daughter of King Viserys was lonely, not having anyone to relate to with her ancestral blood. The ladies in waiting were shy and polite. They were not her forte, Rhaenyra disliked how courtship worked. The daughter of the Hand, Alicent Hightower was a pleasant fresh air and surprise. When she had arrived at King's Landing years ago, Rhaenyra was rather avoidant of her. Now, they were good friends, only ever to be in each other's presence. Daemon, her uncle, is rarely seen nowadays. His position to the City Watch had in truth bothered and encouraged him to wreak more havoc with the townsfolk. She dismisses everyone clearly, anyone closest to her Targaryen bloodline is old or distant. 

But you, and your siblings, Laenor and Laena were much needed in the capitol. Your brother and sister visit rarely, they listen to your father and mother. On the other hand, you weren’t as uptight. As the youngest member of the Velaryon family, you had fewer expected duties compared to her and Alicent. Rhaenyra envied it truly, forever longing for your freedom. 

“Yes father,” You mope, an obvious frown on your lips when you depart from Rhaenyra’s side to your father. He stares at you with amused eyes, much contrast when he turns to her direction with a cold glare. It brings a chill down her spine as she quickly bows her head at the Master of Ships. She meant no offense. You did not notice the demeaning tension between your father and cousin. Because childishly, you excitedly tugged on Rhaenyra’s golden sleeves. “We’ll meet again soon, alright?” 

God, she can only smile at you. You were so sweet, endearing, and innocent. All traits she could find in any other lady. But you were much lively, more genuine than the girls she watched by the courtyard. They were pretentious and fickle. Alicent was also sweet and innocent. Innocent in the ways of adventure and courage. She was attached to duty and for that, Rhaenyra could not blame her. But for how much it mattered to her, she believed it to be an outrage. Out of everyone, you were just right.

The next time you met Rhaenyra was unconventional. Somehow you managed to convince your father to journey beside him to King’s Landing once more to meet the King’s family. Corlys hardly shrugged, putting little effort to stop you from climbing aboard the Sea Snake. Under unfathomable moments, you were condemned to sail to the capitol to tell the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms the great news. The last islanders left behind were your mother, Rhaenys, and sister, Laena who waved at you, earnestly, honing her fond smile as your figure grew smaller and smaller. Your mother, the Queen who Never Was, stood warmly with her arms crossed, with a look of pride on her face. 

Yes, your mother was ecstatic about what you had accomplished. No other dragon rider besides The Old King, Jaehaerys could claim the beast, the Bronze Fury. Many attempted, and many failed. However, because of your efforts, create a sense of joy and relief in your mother’s eyes. Never would she imagine her youngest child to claim one of the largest dragons alive. Vermithor was an untamable beast with a feisty personality. Perhaps it takes likeness to your spirit and simply bonded. She would have to ask you again to recall how you did it. 

The walls of the grand castle were empty and welcoming. You felt adrenaline scorch through your veins when you climbed up the stairs of the grand hall. The exterior was glorious. You could holler and scream and it would echo throughout all the corridors like a never-ending chamber. You held a skittish smile, as you made your way up, placing one hand on the rails for support. You could hear your father’s voice echo behind. Careful, you mustn’t fall, my love!

Even if you dropped to the ground, you would immediately pull yourself up and climb the stairs again. It was how desperate you were to meet Rhaenyra. You desperately wanted to tell her! 

Across the royal chambers, Rhaenyra was lounging outside notably. She sat under the Weirwood tree at leisure with Alicent beside her with a book in hand. She read aloud one of its stories, a romantic tale of a Dornish princess. But the dragon princess barely paid mind to what the Hand’s daughter was reading, she was more in tune with the moving sky. The baby blue ocean from above and the fluffy clouds that looked like soft cushions. The Realm’s Delight longed to ride with Syrax, despite only returning from her morning ride. If she could live in the sky forever, Rhaenyra would want to. 

She spotted a few of the Kingsguards that patrolled stop in front of someone. It looked as though they were permitting passage but seconds later, she saw them nod in unison simultaneously. They cleared the path and there you were. Striding in happy and irregular steps with your flowy dress of blue seashells and gemstones. She is reminded each time of your wealth and beauty. Cool-toned colors were your style as there was no other pigment you dressed in confidently and proudly, Sometimes she wonders how you would look in crimson red and black. 

“Princess!” Alicent was the first to speak on your behavior. It was not every day to see you all of a sudden in King's Landing. After Lord Corlys’s many disagreements with the Council. he chose to be absent from court. This irritated King Viserys and the rest of the Council, knowing without their Master of Ships, their collaboration would be deemed incomplete. Nevertheless, your appearance would confirm that your father had once again returned to the capitol. “I didn’t expect to see you here!” The brown-haired princess gleams, shutting the book entirely, and rising to meet you in a short embrace. 

Your giddiness is affectionate. It makes Rhaenyra feel light and blissful of your unannounced arrival. “It is good to see you, my Lady!” You’re teasing, tightly wrapping your arms around Alicent before releasing with sweet laughter. Alicent snickers, as the highlights of her dimples flush in soft pales of the color rose. 

“I told you, Alicent is fine!” 

“I know!” The two of you seemed to be in your world whenever your visits happened. You would appear, and Alicent bursts excitement and jitteriness. Rhaenyra finds it amusing to watch it unfold. But for not witnessing your presence for so long, she rather feels a little hurt and apprehensive of your attachment to the Hand’s daughter. If your mere attendance brought such delight, then your words brought an abundance of warmth and tenderness. “Nyra!”

Finally, the Princess of Dragonstone looks up, feeling slightly closed off from your welcome. Yet when she lays her velvet eyes on you, she can’t help but feel you are forgiven. Your expression was gentle and serene. “Princess,” Your name feels light off her lips as it always did. You playfully roll your eyes before releasing your grip on Alicent to hold onto Rhaenyra’s hands. They were inviting and delicate. 

“I missed you,” You whine, dramatically, dragging out the last part as though you haven’t seen each other in months. When really, it has been less than a month. The most you have visited were a full three days, staying overnight in the guest's bedrooms. It was when your father had an important mission to relay with the lords he chose to stay longer. You, on the other hand, wanted a sleepover. And by now, you should have a bedroom, personalized for whenever you wish to come to visit. You have on many occasions to irk your father and mother’s minds.

“The last time we spoke you were whisked away by your father,” She scoffs lightly which earns a questionable raised brow from Alicent. Your expression does not falter at her offense. “even though you said we would meet again.” Petty and stubborn were the words you describe Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was rather protective and loyal to the people closest to her. You importantly, she greatly values you. And weeks ago, you promised her, however, things took a turn with your father and you had to abide. 

“And we have,” You grin, lovingly, holding her hands up to your chest. It was a subtle sign of an apology and care. You carried your promise, even if it had taken weeks to fulfill because of interpersonal matters. But you are here now, in front of her, your energetic personality never failing. “I have great news.” 

The silvery-haired princess seemed to take your understated gesture sincerely as she closed the gap between you two. Curiosity caught her gaze as her lavender orbs did not move away from your own. “Well, what is it?” Suddenly you’re aware you’ve kept a tight grip on Rhaenyra as she allowed you to trap both her hands. The close intimacy is acknowledged by you when you try not to break away your gaze from hers. Alicent seemed visibly bothered by it but you are not facing her to know. 

The wind whistles in anticipation, and the Weirwood tree heaves and blows the dead leaves off of its branches. The luscious green fields dance back and forth in little tiny unison. The scent of dirt and fresh mint is present. As you inhale deeply before revealing, “I claimed a dragon.” 

A moment of silence before a heaved gasp came from the Hightower princess. 

“Congratulations!” 

You can feel the butterflies float up to your chest when you see both of the girl's expressions in a state of happiness and revelation. You give an animated smile, “Thank you!”

“Are you joking?” You can see on Rhaenyra’s face, she is still in shock which morphs into pleasure and ecstasy. 

You shake your head enthusiastically, and repeatedly, shaking both you and the Princess in a hop. “No!”

“Oh thank the gods!” Your cousin blurts, embracing you in a well-deserved embrace. Her arms coil around your back with a squeeze. The encouragement both Rhaenyra and Alicent had given you was something you cherished dearly. For the longest time, you blame yourself for not being able to claim a dragon. No egg would hatch or a wild dragon would approach you. You studied and performed all the ways to encounter them. Yet none had prevailed and up until recently, you felt exasperated on the idea of bonding with a dragon. You were extremely jealous of Laenor and Rhaenyra for their impeccable bond. You and Laena longed for it for your entire lives, it made you moody and neglectful. 

Therefore their support had kept you least tolerable. Your mother and father were understanding and patient with your fits. Even King Viserys and Queen Aemma sometimes consoled you that one day you would claim a dragon. Whichever dragon you did not care for, you knew your companion was out there. 

“Which dragon did you claim?” The brunette girl comes to your side, eager and curious to know what of your new beast. 

“Yes, which one did you claim?” Your silver-haired cousin urges, shaking your hands back and forth. 

You felt like a bubble waiting to pop with excitement. You wanted all the streams and ribbons the castle could offer to be released for your accomplishment. You took a deep breath before letting out a slow exhale to calm your beating heart. “Vermithor.” 

In an instant, Rhaenyra’s face falls. “Vermithor.” 

“Yes, Vermithor!” You were blinded by the enthusiasm Alicent portrayed with her hands, clapping and squealing in awe at you. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Vermithor!” The Hand’s daughter takes your left hand and swirls her thumbs around your knuckles. “I’m so happy for you!” Again the call of your name is murmured frankly and in reverence. “One of the largest dragons alive in the world and you had claimed it!” 

Satisfaction filled your chest. Nothing could compare to the prideful looks your friends and family had for you on this day. It truly was something to celebrate something this spectacular. Not since Jaehaerys, your great grandfather rode the dragon. Your mother would surely want you to ride Vermithor immediately as he was still considered wild. But if Jaehaerys managed to tame the beast, you knew you could. 

She could not explain it. Rhaenyra had always thought highly of you. She would disparage you out of anything. You were too pure for her frustration. What is she angry about? The princess could not explain. But whenever she passed the corridors of the Keep or the chambers of her mother’s ladies in waiting, she would hear the praise and compliments for your achievement. My, haven't you heard? The youngest daughter of Corlys Velaryon claimed Vermithor! The dragon King Jaehaerys rode! It must be fate. 

To what end was it fated? Dragons chose their riders. It was unclear how the bonds between rider and dragon existed but it was something genuine. So it shouldn’t confuse her when she sees you when on Driftmark, practicing to fly with the Bronze Fury. You struggled the first few times. She recalls those moments well, laughing and teasing you to no end of the amount of times you fell into the mud. Mounting on a dragon was a gradual adjustment. As she stared into the view of the ocean shore and deep gray-blue waters, you and your dragon were by the shorelines, attempting to be in sync with one another. A few feet from you was Rhaenys. As commanding and benevolent she was to you and not to her. 

Rhaenys Targaryen was quick-witted. She never had a great relationship with the Queen who Never Was. But in contrast, she was soft to you and held untainted remorse for her youngest child. Meleys was beside her rider, cooing and staring at you and Vermithor in inquiry. Much similar to her companion, Rhaenys said something Rhaenyra could not understand before watching you shake your head in disbelief. Vermithor was a grueling and deadly creature. The fact that you were young did not change its attention. It croaks and cranes its neck down for you to climb on its upper back. 

A saddle was neatly strapped on the beast. It must take ages to put on. Vermithor was known for his savage behavior. Yet if you were present with him, she deems he would have been docile to take care of. 

“Why are you pouting?” 

It was the late evening on Driftmark when she proposed a walk with you along the beach line. It was the many hobbies you both enjoyed in your homeland. Salt and sea were everywhere as opposed to her home, King’s Landing filled with endless brick walls and dust. The island is peaceful and serene when there are no fishing ships in the water. Rhaenyra can never be tired of the view and the sea salt air Driftmark supplies. It’s refreshing and so calm. 

“I’m not pouting.” The Princess of Dragonstone argues, her off tone marks it remarkable that her fickle state of mind. She should know better. You know her well, more than most of her maids and sometimes father. 

“You are,” The corners of your lips curve as you kick a few clumps of sand off the ground. “I’ve noticed since coming here, you’ve been…distant.” A personality all of your siblings share is your tenderness. Laena had a graceful heart and Laenor a compassionate one. Yours was resilient. You held onto things for far too long and you’re incredibly devoted to the people you love. You become easily attached to things, people, and the attention. Can she blame you? For a long time, you felt ridiculed and ashamed for your lack of a dragon. Your sadness must be more out of sympathy than Laena’s. By the time your sister claimed Vhagar, you were left as an outcast. 

The Realm’s Delights huffs, crossing her arms behind her back. “Seasick I suppose,” In truth, she never was seasick. Rhaenyra had traveled to Driftmark many times to be immune to the sickness. She knew it was a weak lie, one you would catch easily. But she did not like being confronted on whatever was on your mind. 

“Nonsense,” You jest, before stomping both your feet firmly into the brown sugar sand. Your stance makes the princess stop. “I know you dislike Vermithor.” 

She looks at you, astonished. “What?” 

You push further into the dirt until your heels are engulfed. “I can see it, Rhaenyra. You do not like him.”  Your assumption makes her head spin. Because in what world would she have any disregard against a dragon? Rhaenyra adored all dragons the same. They were a part of her family’s legacy. But she figures you must’ve seen her sometimes glare in the direction of your dragon to believe she had no love for the Bronze Fury. 

The silver-haired girl shakes her head. “No, it’s not that.” She did not want to explain this to you. Feeling ashamed and embarrassed at her feelings, Rhaenyra deems you unfit to hear such nonsense. “It’s more childish than that.”

Your head quirks sideways. You looked confused as your eyebrows rose as well. She can feel the winds pick up as the tides come toward you both. Its cold water brushes past your feet but you ignore it completely. “How so?” 

Must she explain at such a time? “I must admit, for the past few days, I’ve been feeling remorseful.” She quipped, finding the freezing chill of the sea comforting for this kind of conversation. “I’m sure you’ve seen me grow bitter, even resentful towards you and Vermithor. For that I apologize but- it’s a small feeling.” 

“You feel resentful towards me and Verm?” She can see your eyes flicker, as you contemplate and allow your mind to take in her words. Your loose hair is down, you’re gorgeous. Even in your night clothes and were of the absence of jewelry and pretty colors. 

“Was,” She reaffirms, unable to look you in the eye. Rhaenyra feels ashamed for feeling this way. She does not want to hurt your feelings. “The attention, the people, they spoke of you for days about what you have done, claiming King Jaehaerys dragon. All everyone wanted to do was talk about you and how you proved yourself to become the greatest rider.” The more she rambles, the hot tears flood her vision. She does not seem weak to you. She was spilling her truth to you, she had to let it out. 

You held a calm expression. “But I’m not the greatest rider,” Yes, you were not. Your bond was still young. You still struggled with communicating with Vermithor sometimes daily. How can you be considered the greatest even when you struggled to mount your dragon? 

“That is what the people say,” Accidently your cousin snaps but quickly regains her composure. She looks at her feet and the sand below. It was as if she pleaded for forgiveness. There is nothing to forgive, you’re angry. You’d say but she continues. “I was sick and tired of it all. Even my father spoke highly of you and it offended me. Why do I feel this way? I should be happy for you!” The mist around you clouds the floor. It’s sombrous and cool to touch. Everything Rhaenyra had held back was gone and it felt somewhat cathartic. She knows you must’ve felt hurt by her words, she was harsh.

She was afraid to touch you. But you did not care, gripping her forearm suddenly. Rhaenyra’s gaze finally breaks and stares at you, wide-eyed. Her tear-filled eyes shattered your heart, fully aware of her fragile condition. “I don’t blame you for what you feel, Rhaenyra. I too felt the same way when Laena claimed Vhagar, do you remember it? I was restless, unable to sleep at night - why couldn't I do what she had done.” The Princess of Dragonstone does not pull away from your grasp but simply gazes at your quivering lips. “I grew to be resentful of my sister. My heart grew dark and left people in danger. I regret feeling this way towards her now because of it. Do you understand?” 

The expression on your face said it all as she observed. The strained look flashed before you as you recounted the painful memories. In the days after Laena’s bond, you were cruel and cold. You spoke less to your family, ashamed and poisoned by jealousy. You would snap at the sailors more often and drive them into more dangerous scenarios to spite them. Your pettiness was revolting to watch, your father, Corlys growing instantly tired of your immature tantrums for something you could not control. He would cry out to you about how ignorant your actions were and then dismiss your privileges to sailing his ships. All while your mother felt she could do nothing to stop you in your frustration. She watched from a distance as her husband criticized you openly for your infuriating flaws, making it known to all you had gone too far. 

Slow but surely, when you stepped closer to her gave you the courage to tell her what needed to be heard. “I cannot change what you feel, but if you wish for me to leave, then please tell me.” You huffed in pain as your cold fingers traced along her arm and then moved to her hands. In some ways like this, you were fragile like porcelain. Sometimes Rhaenyra forgot you were younger than her. And now she felt like the childish one. 

“No, I—” She gulps, her fear evident. She didn't want to lose you as well. “Please don’t go.”

Your eye-opening conversation marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. Connecting with the Bronze Fury required some time to adapt to both yourself and those around you. As the newest rider, you felt the world embracing you. However, what you cherished most was the experience of riding. You hailed from Old Valyria, with the blood of the Dragon in your veins. Riding with Vermithor became a daily routine, a privilege you savored. It was the most incredible gift you could have received.

Rhaenyra slowly became accepting of it as well. You can tell by the way her lips curl when you mount off of your dragon, that she was proud of you. You were a dragon rider! Now, you and she could soar through the skies for eternity if you wished. It was a dream come true, and you were overjoyed that she had forgiven you.

When you were above the skies, it was breathtaking. No view from below could compare to the ones over the clouds. You admit now why you found Rhaenyra’s obsession with flying to be so addicting. It was. When you’re up there, it feels as though nothing matters but you and the pale blue heavens. Vermithor would always groan in his grumpy way to show affection. He enjoyed riding above, you’ve felt his calm heartbeat and knew he too felt as relaxed as you did. When Rhaenyra joined you, which was a regular occurrence, you two would race. Up and down the clouds, like both of you danced in between the midst.

She looked dashing in her rider’s uniform. Black leather, plastered to resemble dragon scales alongside matching gloves. You resembled a familiar approach, having bronze leather strapped all over to stimulate Vermithor’s charming scales. You reminisced that he even once nudged at you from behind as a sign of appreciation for it.

Vermithor, the ruthless wid dragon growing soft because of you. You always had your chance to mention it to him before riding as a reminder of your sincere relationship. As a rider and dragon, the two of you bonded over adventure and tricks. You loved exploring the faraway lands to only encourage the Bronze Fury more driven to fly. 

But there were also moments when you were reminded of how reckless you could be with him. On the morning of your uncle’s name day, you convinced Rhaenyra to fly out to the Estermount Sea, close to the Triarchy of Essos. At first, the princess urged you of the danger, the Triarchy were pirates who paraded in raiding others for fun. Additionally, they had been targets of your father’s ships, disrupting trade. Yet you dismissed her pleas and pursued with an eager grin. 

The first few moments entering the sea territory were quiet. Both of you were mindful of the harsh waves there and how foggy it was similar to the Stormlands. But Rhaenyra persisted with her worries when you wanted to challenge her to dive down close to the sea. 

“We shouldn’t be here!” Her lilac eyes were defined with anxiousness as the princess held her dragon’s reins tightly. However you were indifferent, all too casual in uncharted areas. 

“We’re fine! We’re high enough in the sky!” you shout, a broad grin stretching across your face as you gaze at the small islands of Essos below. They look both foreign and beautiful. You’ve never ventured this far from home before.

But that was the last moment of calm you experienced. Suddenly, a harpoon appeared out of nowhere, narrowly missing you and Vermithor by the shoulder. The weapon moved with such speed and force that you had no time to process what was happening. Rhaenyra saw it clearly—she watched as the massive arrow zipped past you, inches away from your body, before plunging into the sea below. Someone had attempted to attack you. The worst followed: the harpoon's impact sent you and Vermithor into a chaotic frenzy. You leaped as your dragon swerved violently, causing you to be thrown from your saddle. For a moment, your body was there, and then it wasn’t.

The princess screamed in desperation, urgently commanding Syrax to dive into the water in an attempt to catch your falling body. Your dragon was beside hers, plummeting and speeding towards the sea floor as you descended. With a whoosh, Vermithor swooped in at the last moment, grabbing you from a fatal plunge. His claws, though sharp, gripped you with surprising gentleness, and you stared in terror as he held you safely.

The memory was deeply distressing. Your hair was now disheveled and tangled from the fall. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving your skin glistening and drenched. Rhaenyra could only sob with relief, feeling utterly exhausted and wishing it were all just a nightmare. Yet it was all too real. She felt Syrax’s comforting purr in response to her discomfort. Her father and yours would have been shouting endlessly about this.

Despite everything, all she could remember was the devastated look on your face.

It was madness. Jacaerys would tell her, her son parading around her room as they waited for all of the Targaryen bastards to arrive. Here she was, Rhaenyra Targaryen, in Dragonstone, pursuing the inevitable. The idea of recruiting Dragon Seeds was bizarre but what choice did she have? There was no one left in her family who could claim one. Distant Houses with the blood of Valyria were risky. She had to sacrifice one of her knights to do it. Perhaps this was the only way to win the war. 

Years without your presence brought Rhaenyra sorrow and time to reflect on herself. It had been long since she was gifted to speak your name so openly. Everyone knew of her relationship with you. The princess cherished you deeply and with your absence, left the Realm soulfully longing. Rhaenys despises her because of it. She wondered if part of the princess's resentment was directly tied towards you or the fact she was given the title of heir or both. Yet after Alicent’s son had taken her throne, Rhaenys stood by her side, as did her husband. 

Meeting all of the Targaryen bastards was daunting at first. Rhaenyra knew many infidelities were common for any lord to allow their seed to spread. To witness so many of them in a room made her all the more encouraged to believe her plan would succeed. It must, it should. She could feel all of their eyes focus entirely on her like a beacon of hope. They believed what they were doing was right to protect the realm. And for that, she will use it to attain. 

The Dragonpit had never felt so cold or so secure. It was secluded within a murky cave, miles tall and wide. It’s humid, water drips everywhere as the Black Queen strides down onto the platform where the dragon would be summoned. Forty or so Dragon Seeds followed her, paranoid and trembling about what was to come. She would have to believe in the gods, Rhaenyra sighed. If there is a strategy better than this, she would take it. But Alicent’s son had taken something from her by force and for that, she could not comply. 

“Come forward, Vermithor.” Her accent revealed her fluency in the High Vayrlian language. Rhaenyra readied herself for the beast. Seconds of silence loomed over all those in the Dragonpit like a neverending time bomb. The wait was excruciating yet the inevitable was daunting to witness. Out of the shadows comes a growl, which causes a few of the Dragon seeds to slightly panic. But the Queen knew better. And Vermithor as well.

He looms, towering over the cockpit like a living nightmare. His crooked teeth glowed an intimidating appearance for all, and the simmer of his bronze scales shined. “Obey! Stay calm, Vermithor!” Commanded by Rhaenyra as she stares up at the beast, unafraid. She holds an imposing scowl before witnessing the Bronze Fury lower his snout. The Black Queen reaches out of her hand, cautiously and slowly. 

Her hand makes contact with his snout and calmly Rhaenyra recognizes the sense of calm Vermithor had with her whenever you were around. It felt as though he resembled your presence and familiarity. This intuition puts a warm smile on her face. 

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine having a spa day with Shanks

You: [trying to sneak to the spa and resort on the island without the crew noticing]

Shanks: [notices and follows in secret]

You: [makes it to the resort doors and does a happy dance because you were successful at eluding the crew ]

Shanks: so this is where you were sneaking off to.

You: eek! How long were you following me?

Shanks: since you left the Red Force. Why did you feel the need to sneak off to come here, no one would be mad at you for coming here. In fact, most of the boys would also enjoy it.

You: That's the problem, they'd want to come with.

Shanks: [cocks an eyebrow at you] and why is that a problem?

You: because they'd get too rambunctious and inevitably get me kicked out with the rest of them.

Shanks: that's not true.

You: Do you remember the resort on Flower Island? Or the Hot springs at Ash Island?? Oh, they set fire to the Butterfly Haven resort on Flutterwind Island.

Shanks: .... okay they do usually get us kicked out of places, and that fire was an accident

You: That's beside the point.

Shanks: well, what is your point?

You: if they come along, I won't be able to enjoy my spa day. All I want is one day without dealing with over a dozen loud men and getting spoiled by resort workers.

Shanks: they can't go one day without causing trouble, that's true... Fine, I won't tell them, but on one condition.

You: oh lord, what?

Shanks: I get to come with you.

You: counter condition, if the crew does find us, you send them away.

Shanks: deal

An hour later

Shanks: [a few mojitos deep and has cucumbers over his eyes] This is great, we should do this more often.

You: it won't do much good if you're drunk the entire time.

Shanks: Drunk? I haven't had a drop of liquor since last night.

You: You're literally drinking right now.

Shanks: I am?

Spa worker: [nods]

Shanks: really? I couldn't tell, I couldn't taste it at all. Y'all must use the good shit.

You: he usually drinks what's basically paint thinner.

Shanks: [mumbles] Paint thinner doesn't usually have that much water in it. [Turns to the spa worker] Can I get a pitcher of this stuff?

Spa worker: [sighs, but nods]

You: and can I get another slice of cake?

Shanks: you want more cake? [gets up and twerks at you] I've got plenty of cake for you right here, love.

You: [smacks his ass with the menu] Sit down you drunk fool.

Spa worker: would you like the strawberry shortcake or chocolate dreams cake?

You: ...[looks at shanks] both?

Shanks: [nods his head]

You: both [hands her the menu]

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[fawninthesnow]

𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: Part 1

𐙚 Emperor Geta x Fem! Emperor Caracalla x Fem! 𐙚 18+

Summary: As one of Caracalla's concubines, you find yourself in a bind when you grab his brother's attention.

Warnings/contains: fem dom (kinda), sub male, concubines, smoking, alcohol consumption, obsession, idealization, not proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 0.6k

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The air is filled with a pleasant stillness, broken only by the faint murmur of voices. People cluster in small groups, their chats blending into a soothing hum in the lounging room. Courtesans lay over the emperors and their guests; women laughed, and men gossiped over art they did not understand.

You lay your back over Emperor’s Caracalla’s lap. He spoke with a servant, listing out sweets; however, getting distracted every few moments by the pet monkey in his hair. From across the plush furniture, Emperor Geta waved his fingers your way.

It was best to smile and wave back but not engage *too* much. Caracalla, known for growing jealous of his brother easily, would not like that. However, you were never that fond of the childish man. You sat up, your long hair covering your breasts, and you waved to him. Geta smiled and sent over a pitcher of wine to you; to which, the other concubines on him grumbled. The few had to share their wine, and even then, it was never a full *pitcher*.

After the servant placed the pitcher onto the table, and poured you a cup, she whispered, “Enjoy.” You smiled at him again, and Geta smirked.

“W- what?” Caracalla looked between the two of you. Geta tended to his women, and you went back to sipping on your wine. He bitterly bit his lip; he knew what he saw! Yet another one of his Courtesans preferred Geta over him! Why were they so attracted to him? Why *weren’t* they attracted to him instead?! “Go put more wood in the fire.” Caracalla nudged your shoulder.

“That is alright.” Geta said to his brother, instead, calling over a guard. Caracalla snarled.

“No…it is fine. I will do it, my emperor.” Caracalla, although rather twitchy from being agitated, was pleasantly surprised when you stood from the piles of pillows and warm sheets. Your nude body caught the eyes of everyone who had them before you wrapped a shawl around your hips.

Maybe it was because of his greed, but as you bent over the fire, keeping your hair from it as you added wood, Geta knew he wanted you. Not in an idealistic manner but a firm, rock-hard need. This craving would not be satisfied until Caracalla left you alone.

From there, you kneeled by the Shisha pipe. Geta watched, his elbows on his knees as you inhaled before blowing smoke from your open mouth. Lost in your gaze, hair and curvy body, he began to sweat. It was uncomfortable. Maybe it was because you made him feel so small, so pathetic sometimes. He wondered if the wine gesture was even enough to get you to stand near him. Not unlike a schoolboy approaching his crush, he pulled at his collar and tried again.

When you sat beside his brother, he sent over a box of imported sweets. He tried to distract himself, but it was impossible. “Oh, my. Thank you, Caracalla.” You hugged the emperor.

“W-watch out for Dundas please…” He tiled his head for a moment, wondering why you were thanking him. The sweets. “O-oh, yes…uhm, you are welcome.”  Whenever he muttered, you knew he was lying but you did not address it, instead; you chose to pet the monkey on her arm.

Geta rolled his eyes and sighed. Caracalla was not even attracted to you! Not like he should be. Every time, Caracalla chose the most gorgeous women just to lie in bed beside!

“What is the matter?” One of Geta’s Courtesans asked, rubbing his thigh.

“Get off of me!” He grumbled, leaving the room.

“He- hehe, Brother is mad. You made him angry.” He pointed an accusing finger to the Courtesan. “He will have your head, haha!” The woman trembled, looking away from Caracalla. “Oh, I am only joking! Do people not tell jokes anymore?! Hahaha!”

PART 2

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Eddie fanfic is nearly done. Might post it today! <3 Love you!

[jayaury]

Marrying the Maid

More archive short stories. Get more on my P*treon. Enjoy! https://www.patreon.com/JayAury

---

Baron Lukas Instaf fell into his office chair with an audible groan.

Yes.

His office.

He had to keep reminding himself of that fact. To think, he would inherit the barony at a mere twenty years of age. It was quite a bit of pressure, he had to admit.

He found himself looking back at the imposing portrait hanging over the mantle of the fireplace. His father’s picture was of a grim, sullen man with dark hair and a face of hard, disapproving lines.

Lukas had inherited the man’s hair, if not his rough features. He was slimmer than his stocky father. Many said handsomer, and certainly younger. He flexed his hands on the arms of the chair uneasily and scanned the study. He didn’t much care for the decor. But that had always been his problem, as his father had frequently berated him. He was indecisive. Weak.

Well, Lukas had best start getting decisive. For this was his home now.

Well, mostly.

The door swung open with a bang. “Good morning master!”

He sat up sharply as a familiar figure bounced into the room. Clarissa, the family’s maid of two years, was a forceful personality in the house. She filled every room she stepped foot in with her presence and somewhat unconventional character. Lukas had no idea why his father had kept the boisterous redhead.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had a good idea. Two of them, actually. Clarissa was bustier than some holstaurs. In fact, there were rumours that she was one of those bovine maidens, but had filed down her horns. Lukas wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but he did know that she did attend that new cow goddess church that was making waves. And she was unbelievably brash and forceful for a servant. Not to mention teasing. He’d often been at the receiving end of her attentions, leaving him flustered and annoyed.

And she was wearing scent again, he noticed with a sigh. Honestly, it seemed like every day she wore a new kind of perfume. The current one was jasmine, and was shockingly potent. Well, at least it was better than the rosemary she used to wear around his father. In fact, it was almost… pleasant.

“Clarissa!” he sighed, forcing himself not to stare at the maid’s impressive bust. “You-”

“Here with your tea!” she said, sliding the tray into place before him with a wink of her long lashes. “Starting off the morning well, as the big, strong baron should!”

“Clarissa, really. You can’t just-”

“Not to worry, my baron! There’s plenty of cream. I know how much you like it,” she added, picking up a pitcher and pouring a generous helping into his cup. “And you’ll need it today! Because we have quite a bit of work to do.”

In the midst of tidying his papers, Lukas paused. “We do?”

“Of course, my lord! Now that you are baron, we must decide on your betrothed.”

“M-my what!”

“And I have them right here!” Clarissa chimed, lifting a folder out from some hidden recess of her scandalously short skirt (it had to be custom. No other maid in the estate had such a revealingly tight uniform). “Shall we take a look, my baron?”

“Wh… Hold on now, I can’t just-”

“My baron!” Clarissa cried in mock horror. “Surely you realize the importance in choosing your bride? The barony cannot be left without a mistress. Not only for the hard work running the estate, but also the vital work of carrying on the family line! Which means we must choose the most ample, breedable, lovely wife for you.”

“B-breedable? Clarissa! That is-”

“Not to worry, my baron. I’m sure you can manage that. Why, any woman would consider herself lucky to be bent over your table as you thrust home, stuffing her full of your droit de seigneur.”

Lukas’s face burned as it always did whenever Clarissa got going like this. Not to say she was wrong, unfortunately. She was absolutely right. He did need to get married, but it still seemed so early to be shopping for a bride. “Clarissa, really. I-”

“Early to start, my baron! We must be. Once word gets out that Baron Instaf is not only single, but such an adorable, impressive, handsome piece of stud meat, why, we’ll be besieged by eligible young ladies looking to have you mount them like a prized mare! And whichever does will be lucky to have you. Take my word for it!”

“Clarissa! This is… that sort of talk is hardly-”

“You’re so right, my baron. Here I am, chattering away, and you haven’t even gotten a chance to look at the choices! Let’s take a look at the candidates, shall we?”

Lukas sighed, finally giving up. It was near impossible to stop Clarissa once she set her mind to something, though by gods he would soon. He’d have to talk to the head butler about firing her. She treated him far too casually. But for now, he supposed the best thing was just to get this business with the portraits over with.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s take a look…”

“How wise, my dear baron,” Clarissa chirped merrily as she opened the folder to the first page, propping it up just underneath her immense bosom.

Lukas cleared his throat, forcing himself to look at the portrait and not the impressive pair of breasts just above it. “And this is…”

“Mirria Mable. Daughter of a lord in the southern country. Quite the pick specimen. An attractive if air headed young thing. Pretty, but not terribly bright. And not nearly as endowed as me, hm?”

“Clarissa! That’s hardly appropriate,” Lukas said, though he had to admit it was true, and his eyes did quickly steal a glance at Clarissa’s chest as if just to make sure of that. Gods, the room felt suffocating in the perfume she wore. He should open a window, though the scent wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was a bit… soothing.

Clarissa giggled. “Very true, my baron. We cannot judge a woman less blessed than myself in that respect. Some of us were merely born with a generous bosom. Perfect to lay one’s head upon.”

Lukas rolled his eyes, but felt his cheeks warm at the thought. “I ah… Well, what about the others?”

“The others? Of course, my lord,” Clarissa said, turning the page, her chest bouncing as she did so.

The sight made Lukas realize quite suddenly his mouth was very dry. With haste, he picked up a teacup and took a sip. Mm. Normally he wasn’t a big fan of cream in his tea, but wherever Clarissa got hers, it was delicious.

“Now then,” Clarissa said. “Lady Blumen from the duchy of Clausen seems like a perfect match for you. Nearly as busty as I am, and I know how important that is for you, my baron.”

“Not that important…” he mumbled.

“Ho ho!” Clarissa laughed, the throaty mirth making her breasts bounce most distractingly in her tight top. “How droll you are, my baron! But I know how much you value an impressive pair of breasts. You can barely keep your eyes off mine!”

Lukas flushed again, realizing he had been staring at her chest. He hastily took another sip of tea. Gods, he was feeling a bit light headed. “I ah… What else is there about her?”

“Why, only that she is something of a black widow, my baron. A nasty piece of work. She delights in wedding rich men, then crushing them beneath her heel. Nitpicking them until they don’t dare breathe without her approval. And what a cruel thing, my baron! Why, she cannot understand true love. The love of a good husband willing to do anything for his darling wife. Adore you. Worship her! She’s only in it for the quick cash! No sense of adoring her new spouse like the good boy he is.”

“S-sorry. Good boy?” Lukas said.

Clarissa giggled, her long lashes fluttering again. “Oh yes, my baron. A husband must be assured what a good boy he is. What a good, obedient, lovey dovey dummy he is to his beloved wife. Otherwise, he might get the most silly ideas in his head.”

Lukas felt his cheeks redden at the degrading words, even if they weren’t addressed to him. And he found his eyes looking at Clarissa’s breasts again. Big and soft. The subtle heave as she breathed. Or rather, the not so subtle. Looked like she was as into the discussion as he was.

“Er, right. Sure,” Lukas said, taking another sip of tea, sinking back into his seat with a sigh. “So, not her.”

“Oh no, my baron. You deserve so much better. So much bustier! So much more loving and adoring. A sweet wife who would show you what a good boy you are. Who would let you adore her like the happy, dopey husband you were always meant to be.”

“Er, yes. Yes. But uh… Who is the next one?”

“Oh yes, my baron. That would be the Countess Francesca,” Clarissa said, turning the next page. “But she wouldn’t make an appropriate wife for you either my lord.”

“Hm?” Lukas said, taking another sip, barely paying attention as he watched Clarissa’s breasts bounce. “She wouldn’t? Why… why not?”

“Oh my baron! Why, she does not want children.”

“O-oh,” Lukas said as he took another long drink of his tea. “Yes, that might… might be a problem. Need an heir…”

“Oh no, my baron. Not just one.”

“S-sorry?”

Clarissa gave him a knowing look. “Why, my dear baron, your wife must bear you many children! A dozen at least. A dozen happy, lovely children. Your wife needs to be very eager to take your virile seed. Because I know, my dear baron, that you’re far too much a stud to be satisfied with just one child. That you would like nothing more than to breed your beloved wife at every opportunity. To make her breasts so big… so heavy… so creamy and soft that you can’t help but play with them and kiss them every night.”

Lukas stared at her breasts. Gods, he could imagine it. Imagine those breasts bouncing. Heaving. Wobbling and Clarissa positively glowing from… from…

But… but no. He… he needed to only think of… of his wife like that. Yes. Only his wife. His beloved wife, whoever… whoever it turned out to be.

“I uh…”

“Oh dear, my baron,” Clarissa sighed, closing the folder dramatically, crossing her arms beneath her jiggling bust. “This just won’t do! It seems like there isn’t a noble woman in the land who can satisfy all your needs. A woman so busty. So loving. So beautiful and fertile to satisfy your very high standards.”

“I… y-yes. No one…”

“Oh!” Clarissa suddenly said, brightening visibly. “But then, of course! How silly of me. I didn’t think of that at all! Why, you don’t need a noblewoman for your wife.”

“I… I don’t?” Lukas said, frowning a little, brow wrinkling in concentration. Didn’t he? He was under the impression that was important…

“Oh no, my beloved baron,” Clarissa cooed as she planted her hands on the table, climbing onto it and crawling towards him, pendulous breasts swaying teasingly, her eyes hot, molten with something that made Lukas’s pulse quicken and pound. “Not at all. Why, if the noble stock isn’t up to the standards, then we must simply find another who is. One who is capable of seeing the greatness in you. The handsomeness. The virile… powerful… studliness in you.”

Lukas found himself instinctively retreating, pressing into the back of his chair, watching his maid move towards him like a she-wolf on the hunt. “Wh-who?”

“Now that is the question, isn’t it, my baron,” Clarissa giggled, straightening so she was kneeling on the desk in front of him, her hands cupping her breasts, fondling and massaging them teasingly. “She’d have to know your domain inside and out. She’d have to have every servant in the house already under her thumb. She’d have to know the ways you love things done. She’d have to be so pretty… so clever… so very… very… busty that you just couldn’t say no to her. Every idea she had would just seem like the bestest idea ever. Oops! Did I say breastest?”

“D-did you?” Lukas said, fairly drooling as he watched her bounce and mold her breasts together.

“Maybe I should have, hmm?” Clarissa said. “Because I know how much my baron loves breasts. Big… bouncy… soft breasts. That’s why I know he’ll make the right choice. I know he’ll decide on exactly the right person to be his baroness. To be his loving wife. His devoted mistress. His gorgeous… bouncy… beautiful bride. But who, my baron? Who is busty and smart and beautiful enough for that.”

“Wh-who?” Lukas gasped.

“Think hard, my baron,” Clarissa crooned.

Lukas tried to. He really did. But his mind just didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Every thought he had swirled and squished and bounced and wobbled like Clarissa’s breasts. He whimpered, biting his lower lip, trembling with need as his maid continued to massage her breasts, her buttons straining against her ample tit flesh until… until…

“Mmmm,” Clarissa moaned, tearing open the front of her uniform, her ample, pale breasts spilling into the open. Bouncing with heavy softness. Nipples dark accents to their creamy slopes.

Lukas gasped, jolting like from a physical blow as her breasts bounced free.

“Whoops!” Clarissa giggled. “Did I do that?”

“Y-you… you…” Lukas stammered.

Clarissa’s smile widened. “Me, my lord?” she said coyly. “You want me to be your gorgeous baroness?”

Lukas blinked blankly, his sloshing thoughts struggling. “I…”

“Well, it is true, my lord,” Clarissa cooed, her leg extending, foot pressing against his chest and pushing him and his chair back with a squeak. “I am so very smart. So very beautiful. So very…” she breathed, sliding off the desk, into his lap, Lukas groaning as her weight settled on the hardness of his tenting cock. “Very…” Clarissa moaned as she leaned forward, her ample titflesh pressing against his face. “...Busty…”

Lukas shuddered, inhaling, breathing in the heady scent of Clarissa’s breasts and body. A scent so potent and strong it made his toes curl. Sweet. Heavy and wonderful. Something so real. So potent. The jasmine stuffing his nose. Suffocating his thoughts. And with… with just a faint hint of cream…

“Oh, but whatever would society say,” Clarissa groaned, her hips rocking, rubbing herself upon his thick cock, making Lukas moan and pant under her as his cock throbbed with need. As her breasts squished his face between them and Clarissa’s weight ground him under her. “They might say such terrible things…”

“Ohhhh,” Lukas groaned.

“You’re so right, my baron,” Clarissa giggled. “True love overcomes all odds. And oh, but you do love me, my baron. You do love my big… soft… breasts. And I love you. Loved you so much I tried all sorts of alraune perfumes before I found the one that just. Makes. You. Melt.”

“Mmmm,” Lukas moaned as he inhaled deeply.

“And you love my wonderful, clever mind, don’t you?” Clarissa cooed as she gave her breasts a bounce, swirling his thoughts again to a lather. “So smart to think of buying that holstaur cream for your tea. So clever to know how malleable it makes a good boy. How needy and aroused by big breasts it makes him. How adoring and dumb. How needy and horny and obedient.

“But there is something bigger than my breasts, my baron,” Clarissa moaned as she squeezed her tits around his head. “Oh yes! Believe it. And that is my warm, adoring heart. Perfectly made for my darling baron. Utterly devoted to him. Because I know, my beloved baron, how haaaaard it is for you to think with me around. How distracted you get from a big… soft… pair of breasts. How hard it is for you to rule. You’re not suited for it, my lord. You’re just suited to be a lovey dovey bimbo. A perfect, obedient stud to your darling wife. And oh, my baron, do you really want me? Do you really need me?”

Lukas whimpered beneath his maid, his mind whirling. Drunk on lust and love and heavenly cream and her body. His hands trembled as they touched her, stroking her hips and rump. Touching her back and causing Clarissa to lean forward and bounce teasingly atop him, his chair creaking.

“Oh my baron. If you begged me, then, well, maybe,” Clarissa giggled. “If you told me how much you loved me, how much you need me, then maybe I’d believe you. Maybe I could be convinced to make you my adoring husband. My sweet, brainless stud of a man who’d do anything his busty wife said. Shall we try, my baron?”

“Mmmm,” Lukas moaned into her breasts.

“Let’s,” Clarissa crooned.

Lukas gasped as her breasts came off his face. He blinked dully as he found Clarissa smiling down at him, gaze smoldering and smirk hot with desire.

“I…” Lukas said.

“I want you, my baron,” Clarissa breathed. “Don’t you want me too?”

The note of hot passion in her tone dashed any effort of resistance from him. Lukas’s mouth trembled and he nodded, the truth escaping him in a panting gasp.

“Y-yes,” he said. “W-want you.”

“Do you, my baron?” Clarissa cooed as her hips rose, her hands teased down his chest and to his crotch, Lukas gasping as her fingers played with his bulge, undoing his zipper. “Do you want to fuck your beautiful bride? Propose to her and fuck her and breed her glorious pussy?”

“Y-yes!” Lukas whimpered, his cock springing into the open, a shock of pure ecstasy surging through him as her fingers wrapped around his length. “C-Clarissa, I… I…”

“Oh my baron,” Clarissa giggled, leaning in closer, her molten eyes hot, her rouged lips soft, enunciating every word as he felt his cock guided under the tickling hem of her skirt, brush the smooth skin of her inner thigh, drawn towards the heat of her naked pussy. “Just say… I do.”

“I… I… d-dooooo!” Lukas groaned, head falling back as Clarissa’s body eased down, his cock swallowed in the warm tightness of her pussy. His face buried again under the buxom softness of her ample tits.

“Mmmmm!” Clarissa moaned, her hips rocking, riding her atop his cock with slow, passionate motions that sent throbbing ecstasy radiating through his body and manhood. “Ohhhh my baaaaron! Yes! Yes! I will! I’ll be your baroness! I’ll be your gorgeous wife! Your perfect lover! Your loving, breedable bride. Ah. Ah! Oh goddess yes! Fuck me! Fill me with your cock!”

Lukas groaned beneath her, his lips kissing and licking her breasts, lost in the creamy valley of her tits, trapped in the ecstasy of her figure and the seemingly endless ampleness of her bouncy breasts. His cock throbbed in her, squeezed by her adoring inner walls. Heat consumed him. Pleasure subsumed him.

It was so good. So perfect. He couldn’t break free. Couldn’t resist. The need to cum surged within him. Devoured him. Urged him towards the inevitability of climax. He panted, gasping, moaning under her.

“Yes!” Clarissa gasped. “Oh my baron! Oh my husband! Yes! Fuck me! Fill me! Stuff me full of your cum! Ohhhhh my baron! I neeeed it! Need your mnnn! Your cum! Ah. Yes. Yes! Cum in me, Lukas. Cum in your bride! Fuck me! Breed me! Now! Breed me… nooooow!”

Her voice rose, a crescendo of shameless pleasure, her inner walls tightening, flexing, squeezing his cock with the glory of her peak. As her breasts shuddered around his head, Lukas cried out, surrendering to her pleasure, his cock throbbing, his balls tightening.

And he came.

Blessed release seemed to burst within him. Sear him. Devour him. His cock surrendered to her, filling her in sharp bursts of heady pleasure.

Lukas moaned, lost in her breasts. Lost in the pleasure. Floating in a sea of creamy ecstasy and delight, his mind sinking under waves of soft, bouncy bliss.

Atop him, Clarissa cooed, giggling as she felt him sag, lost beneath her breasts. Her arms wrapped around her new husband’s head, pulling him deeper into her bosom as she looked about the study. Ugh. Such depressing decoration. She’d have to get it cleaned out. And the room would make such a lovely nursery too.

She giggled, admiring the dazed expression of her former master as she smothered him beneath her breasts. She couldn’t wait for the wedding. Especially since she promised that holstaur priestess and her alraune friend they could be her bridesmaids. After all, when one was looking for a husband, one needed a foot in the door. And she just knew her beloved betrothed had some friends in need of busty, brainwashing brides.

Clarissa hummed contentedly, lazily rocking her hips, feeling Lukas’s cock stir anew within her, ready for round two.

Mmm.

All too easy for a clever, busty girl like her…

[piplupfluffwritingstuff2]

Happy Spouse, Happy House- Part 2

Series Masterlist

This part is very long, so it's going under the cut!

It had not all been a bad dream. Morning came, and Hero’s bedroom was utterly spotless. They groaned, putting their head in their hands. So it had really happened then. Worse, Hero could smell pancakes on a griddle and hear the sizzling of bacon. They climbed out of bed and went to get dressed. No way was Supervillain going to attack them in their pajamas. They reached for their hero suit, but it wasn’t in the closet. In its place, however, was a freshly ironed outfit, complete with a jacket and matching shoes. Hero stared, jaw agape at the designer clothes. They had never owned anything so fancy or expensive. How were they supposed to show up for work looking like some wealthy socialite instead of a little librarian!?

“Hero, breakfast’s ready!” Supervillain called.

Hero gulped, setting the hanger back on the closet rack. They guessed they were getting murdered in their pajamas today. They trudged down the hall, walking slowly as if being late would make Supervillain somehow disappear. They stepped into the kitchen and saw that an entire feast had been set out for them. It looked like a breakfast buffet at a five-star hotel. Different juices were out in pitchers along with fancy crystal glasses that Hero didn’t own. Milk- whole and chocolate- sat out as well, and there was bacon, eggs, pancakes, waffles, crepes, berries, sausage, ham, and toast. Tea and coffee had been set out in various blends and flavors.

“Uh…” Hero trailed off.

They didn’t have half of the groceries needed to make any of this, and they certainly didn’t have fancy dishes or napkins or cutlery.

Supervillain stepped behind them, putting their hands on Hero’s shoulders. They guided them to sit down and set a latte, complete with foam in the shape of a snowflake, in front of them.

“And don’t say you’re not hungry,” Supervillain said, booping them on the nose, “I didn’t make all this for you to eat one strawberry and rush off.”

Truth be told, Hero was hungry. They had eaten Supervillain’s dinner last night, but they must have slept for a lot longer than usual because they were already starving again. As a mater of fact… Hero’s alarm hadn’t gone off.

“I called your work and explained you’d be taking the day off,” Supervillain said, “they were very understanding. Lovely people you work with.”

Hero’s head snapped up to meet Supervillain’s eyes, their own growing wide and fearful.

“But- no, I don’t have the leave for that! I’ve been trying to save my sick days for-”

“Shh,” Supervillain soothed, sitting down opposite them, “they’ve extended your leave package. Like I said, very understanding people. They also updated your benefits package to include vision and dental insurance. Isn’t that nice?”

Hero continued to stare, their fear morphing into confusion. Supervillain had started eating some sausage and crepes.

“Go on, silly,” Supervillain said, “it isn’t poisoned, just like the bubble bath wasn’t poisoned. Shame, you could’ve used the soak.”

Hero finally tore their gaze away from the master criminal’s, letting it land on the food in front of them. Hero slowly filled their plate with a pancake and some bacon. Both were cooked to perfection, as Hero discovered upon eating them.

“Um,” Hero said, “did you do something with my suit?”

Supervillain chuckled.

“It’s in the wash,” they said, “I had to clean the boots by hand- you sure let a lot of grime pile up on them. I think I even saw some rubble from that apartment building you helped evacuate.”

That apartment fire. Hero shuddered. That had been a rough day. It was a relief to know Supervillain hadn’t gotten rid of their suit though.

“So… um…”

Hero trailed off. What were you supposed to say to a master criminal that had basically broken into your home to play House?

“How are you doing today?” Hero asked, wincing at the awkwardness of it all.

“I’m doing wonderful, darling, as I hope you are.”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m good. I’m great. Yeah…”

They continued eating for some time.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Hero said, getting up, “if I’m not going to work today I guess I should… go on patrol… or something…”

Supervillain quickly stood, blocking their way to the laundry room.

“No no no! You need to rest, Hero, you’ve been working way too hard,” they said, “that’s the whole reason I called. The circles under your eyes, the brain fog, the fatigue- you need a break, my love!”

“But I slept in today!” Hero pointed out.

“Please, dear, for me,” Supervillain said, “go out, do something fun. Have a shopping spree. Or stay in, read a book, something. But absolutely no working for you. If you try, I’ll know.”

“But-”

Supervillain ushered Hero back into their bedroom, shushing them as they did so. They handed them a credit card then closed Hero’s door.

“Don’t spend it all in one place, now!”

Hero looked down at it. It was a black and gold card- the kind only billionaires and platinum card holders had. This kind of card had no credit limit. They went back to the closet, where the outfit hung in front of them, inviting them to try it on.

This was a terrible idea. Hero thought as much as they put the outfit on. It fit remarkably well, almost like it was tailored for them. If Supervillain wasn’t trying to kill them… then what exactly were they trying to do?

Hero opened the door, and once again, Supervillain was gone without a trace. Hero went back to the kitchen, where the dishes had been cleared and the dishwasher filled.

Hero went to their front door. On the entryway table, a purse and wallet had been set out for them, along with… car keys? Hero picked them up, noticing the logo of the luxury car company. Outside the window, a top-of-the-line sportscar sat in the driveway, its sleek metal body glinting in the sun.

Hero stood frozen for a few moments, then grabbed the wallet and purse. Heck with it.

…

Hero sat down in the driver’s seat.

“Hello, Hero,” a robotic, feminine voice greeted them, “where would you like to go?”

“Uh, the mall, please?” Hero buckled their seatbelt, “…who are you?”

“My name is Echo,” the car said, “Supervillain arranged for me to take you to any desired destination. Allow me.”

The car’s engine roared to life, and Echo started to drive off. Hero nearly jumped out of their skin. They weren’t expecting the car to drive itself. As Echo put on Hero’s favorite playlist, Hero’s mind reeled with exactly what kind of situation they had gotten into.

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Master Tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm@memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @electrons2006 @just-a-space-rabbit @telltaletoad @bacillusinfection @noseyowes @whump-till-ya-jump @writinglittlepains @m4iloblu3

Series Tags: @laffy-taffy-creations, @thats-alittle-gay

[venusbyline]

The Blood of the Lamb (2/?)

previous chapter

— summary: During a few weeks, you thought that the idea of getting in one of your late father's cars and driving without any sensible planning to the distant farm where your uncles lived might be a good idea. You thought that their invitation for you to stay there for a while had been out of pure, genuine kindness. Then you chose to ignore any suspicious situation that could have prevented you from being there, almost on the verge of death and thrown in the middle of the forest.

— pairing: vampire!Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader x vampire!Aegon II Targaryen

— type: dark, smut, 1930s AU

— chapter's warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, human!reader, suspense/thriller chapter, eventual smut, accidental voyeurism, rape/non-con, rough vaginal sex, doggy style position, piss kink, sadism, degradation, blood and violence, dysfunctional family, mention of murders, characters deaths referenced, child death referenced, past domestic violence, implied depression, implied PTSD, minor Aemond Targaryen/random girl, sexism, dark content, 1930s AU/vampire AU. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— old slangs used: Remittance man (someone paid by his family to stay away), Clams (money), Cooze (pussy).

— author's notes¹: Hey 💕💕 I hope you guys like this chapter. I'm thinking sm about reader's future dynamics with Aemond and Aegon, and also the differences between these two dynamics. I don't have a favourite pair in my mind yet hahah but I think I'll like to write them.

— author's notes²: To help you not get so confused while reading... Jacaerys is 23, Lucerys is 20, the reader is 16, Joffrey is 12, Aegon III is 7 and Viserys II was 6 (obviously I didn't follow the same age difference as in the books). Daemon was their stepfather and Aegon III and Viserys II were his biological sons and reader's half-brothers.

— author's notes³: The Blood of the Lamb is a series involving vampirism, Targcest and sexual master/slave themes.

— author's notes⁴: Each chapter will contain its own trigger warnings.

❥ Aemond masterlist • Aegon II masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

"Yesterday, Uncle Aegon told me he wasn't surprised that Daemon was an aggressive man. He said it was common thing about veterans of The Great War."

The large kitchen had been completely silent for a few hours until it was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Jacaerys, dressed only in dark trousers and some white socks warming his feet, though that morning felt warm enough that wearing his typical white shirts would not be necessary.

You looked away from him as he approached a bit, dipping his index finger into the pitcher of milk you had heated for everyone as soon as you woke. He grimaced then, realizing it was not hot — at least not in the temperature he wanted and expected it to be.

Wiping his damp finger on the skin of your shoulder, Jacaerys stared at you again, waiting for you to respond with something. Anything.

When no answer came, he sighed, frustration clear in his tone. "You can't ignore me forever."

Reluctantly, you turned to face him with an empty expression, licking your own scarred lower lip due to the recent habit.

You considered responding directly to his last sentence, but chose to focus on what he said about Aegon's declaration first. "I don't know... Daddy also went to the war and he was a good person anyway."

Jacaerys let out a low scoff. "Funny you should say that, since he died when you were still a four-year-old annoying brat."

You said nothing. On one hand, he was right, after all. On the other hand, you did not want to get into that constant matter again. Persisting in bringing it up would be such a stupidity. Too stupid just like that damn gas stoves that took forever to reheat the milk like Jacaerys ordered you to do.

Perhaps Aegon and Aemond did not use it that often.

"Your older brothers still avoid me like I'm some kind of remittance man."

You stood in the middle of the guest room he had given you specifically days ago. Now, you were mentally preparing yourself to work up the courage to go to sleep. Although the farm was large enough for everyone to share separate bedrooms, the initial plan was for at least little Aegon to sleep with you in an attempt to help him with his new — but frequent — nightmares. However, when your own macabre dreams began to torment your sleep more than anyone expected, Jacaerys decided that his youngest brother should share a room with Joffrey and you share a separate room. All alone with your mind.

Like a injured little animal being separated from its own family so as not to pass its disease on to others.

"You alright, niece?"

Unlike Aemond, who spoke to no one but his older brother most of the time, Aegon stopped by your room several times over the past few nights, making sure you were truly comfortable in their dwelling.

And how could you not be? Your brothers would be safe there for a while. Having food, water, a place to sleep... And two familiar — and perhaps trustworthy — faces.

You should be grateful for the rest of your life.

And yet you could not help the growing nausea inside your stomach. "I am, uncle. Just feeling kind of sick, I guess..." you forced a soft smile at Aegon, interrupting him before he had a chance to question you further about it. "What did you say about my brothers?"

You mentally thanked Aegon for the physical distance he was putting between the two of you at that moment. He had been a good uncle during your childhood, but that had been years ago, and the discomfort you felt around most males made the distinction between rational caution and distrust pointless difficult to understand.

And the second feeling was exactly what sped up your heart. Aegon shortening that distance, keeping it to mere steps... "I said your brothers avoid me all the time, even when they're spending time here," his blue eyes darkened as they roamed over the dried blood on your lip, then dropped to the white nightgown you wore, too thin for the night breeze that blew in through the half-open windows. "Guess I should buy you new clothes tomorrow before my shitty work, doll."

With heated cheeks, you quickly shook your head, not wanting to be a burden to him and Aemond. "There's no need to waste your clams on me, uncle. I'm fine wearing my nightgown."

Before you could had time to react, Aegon's hand landed on the collar of your nightgown, his thumb tracing the cotton fabric. "I won't let my own niece get sick and die like a little lamb in the middle of nowhere. It's important that you stay healthy."

The nighttime noises sounded even louder on the farm than you could ever imagine. It was not only the sounds of the shrill cicadas or the breeze hitting the windows if you had not carefully closed them right.

The noises there were a thousand times more intense, caused not only by existences of insects but also by the existences of bats, crows... And, of course, the animals themselves at the barn.

You tried to convince yourself that this torment would end soon. You tried to convince yourself that being sleepless in the wee hours could be better than sleeping and having such dark dreams. You wanted your mind free of thoughts involving anything that sent a shiver down the spine: the murders your brothers had committed; the violent abuse committed by Daemon for so many years; the longing for your little brother Viserys; the end of the fraternal bond between you and your eldest brother; the memory of the birth that ended tragically beneath a garden beside your real house...

You tried to tell yourself that anything could be better than sleeping and dreaming of your own misfortune.

And that optimism lasted only a few minutes, dissipating already as you heard a door open in the kitchen.

"Uncle Aegon?" noticing that he was the first person you considered calling, you felt foolish for not calling one of your brothers first. So, as soon as you opened the bedroom door, you tried again with a different name. "Jace?"

You waited a few more minutes, standing in the hallway like you used to do when Daemon came home drunk. Sometimes standing there, waiting for Jacaerys to show up and save you from the worst of the beatings, shifting the focus of the fight to him, even if it meant waking up with a lot bruises the next day.

It was a noble act, a testament to how far an older brother would go to protect his sister.

You never imagined that accidentally pushing him to the limit of his fraternal love for you would make your lives a living hell.

If only you had not let Cregan take you home that night...

"Uncle Aemond? Is that you?" the soft call grew louder, almost frightened. You could not tell if you were becoming paranoid or not, though you heard footsteps outside the house loud and clear, right next to where the kitchen door had probably opened.

The path led to the barn, from where those animal sounds grew louder and louder.

No one but you left the guest rooms, as if they were so comfortable in their new beds that they could not even wake up without sunlight streaming through the cracks in the windows during the mornings.

If it were up to your own frustration, you would close the damn kitchen and scold each of your brothers, and even your uncles for not hearing your calls. Your concern for your little brother Aegon was stronger than your frustration, though.

The idea that he might also be unable to sleep after another nightmare about Viserys' accidental murder broke your heart. The boy was not a disobedient child most of the time and he would only do something like that if he were in a state of mental torment similar to yours — which you had no doubt.

"Aeg? It's me, angel! It's your sister!" your not-so-quiet calls echoed down the barn path, searching for any sign of your little brother and hoping to see that small creature with his messy, straight hair.

It had been a few minutes since you had left through the kitchen door, mentally cursing your ancestors for building a barn so far from the side entrance of the farm, especially from its main entrance as well.

In your racing mind, your thoughts oscillated between worry that your younger brother might be alone in that darkness and the middle of nowhere; relief at the sudden silence of the animals after you started walking nearby; and surprise at realizing that your uncles kept not one, but two goats in separate pens and facing the barn's huge entrance.

You were about to rush in and shout your brother's name again when you heard heavy breathing sounds from the back of the dimly lit spot.

Instead, your mouth snapped shut as you realized what those sounds were.

Not just breathing sounds. High-pitched, whimpering sounds even. Sounds of... skin slapping against skin.

"Fucking weak whore can't stop pissing on my cock..."

Oh, you knew very well who owned that voice. You knew very well who owned that low groan and whose dark chuckle echoed off the long wooden walls after a random slap sounded.

You did not recognize the owner of those feminine cries that echoed next. Despite that, you found yourself wondering who that young girl could be. The moonlight gave you a hazy but yet considerably good view of who she looked like. Dark hair covered her face, which was pressed against the floor by one of the man's hands. Her attractive hips and breasts bounced with every deep movement of the man on top of her...

Not any man, though.

Aemond Targaryen. Your uncle Aemond, his other heavy palm slapping the woman's buttocks so he could slap her core right away. "Your disgusting cooze is still dripping into me like a damn fountain," his pace sped up, eliciting more screams from the whimpering girl. Shs seemed to be trying to get up at all costs, mumbling words that would never be understandable if Aemond continued thrusting into her with such violence. Weak murmurs begging you to help her.

"You're enjoying the sight, aren't you, doll?"

If it were not for that, you would have stood there in complete shock, watching everything and not even considering leaving. You would have watched every second of their aggressive sex, like an innocent child witnessing two animals mating for the first time.

If it were not for that particular nickname, you would not have darted your wide eyes to him or noticed the amount of blood dripping from the girl's cunt when Aemond pulled his thick cock out of her. You would not have looked up at your uncle in a mixture of disgust and confusion at whatever he was doing to that poor girl. You would not have taken several steps back and away, seeing his smirking at the expense of your fear.

And you definitely would not have screamed loudly. after you tripped over an injured lamb on the ground full of hay, the little animal bleating in pain.

[elvisbdoll]

“Happy Birthday, daddy!”

Summary: On Elvis’s birthday, January 8, 1976, his wife and their kids, Elias (9) and Melody (8), surprise him with breakfast in bed. They bring pancakes, bacon, and eggs, along with a handmade card and flowers.

Pairing: Late70s!Elvisxblack!OC

Tw: nothing really, just fluff

A/N: I know I’m a little late, but I have been working like a mad woman… so! I hope you guys enjoy and Happy birthday to Elvis! He’ll be forever 42 for me 🥹🩷

Graceland, January 8, 1976

The sun crept through the curtains in the master bedroom of Graceland, casting faint golden rays across the room. Everything was still—the soft hum of the heater the only sound breaking the silence. Elvis lay sprawled on the massive bed, the white linens tangled around him, his dark lashes brushing his cheeks. His face was relaxed, his breathing deep and steady, a rare sight for a man who often wrestled with restless nights.

In the hallway just outside the door, you stood with a tray in hand. A stack of golden pancakes sat next to crispy bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs. A small vase of flowers rested beside the plate, along with a steaming pot of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice. On top of the tray, a handmade card fluttered slightly, secured under the weight of the vase.

Beside you, your two children—8-year-old Melody and 9-year-old Elias—waited, their eyes gleaming with excitement.

“You think Daddy’s awake?” Elias whispered, holding a small bouquet of flowers he had picked from the greenhouse earlier that morning.

“I don’t know,” you said softly, your tone full of warmth as you looked down at them. “But we’re about to find out. Now remember, we have to be quiet. Daddy doesn’t get much sleep, and we don’t want to wake him too quickly.”

Melody nodded enthusiastically, clutching the corner of your robe with her small hand. Her curls bounced as she whispered, “Can I carry the juice?”

“Not this time, baby girl,” you replied with a smile. “How about you hold the card instead?”

Melody took the card, grinning ear to ear as she admired the crayon drawings she and Elias had worked on the night before. It depicted the four of you standing together in front of Graceland, hearts and music notes swirling around the words “Happy Birthday, Daddy!”

Elias adjusted the collar of his little button-down shirt, a serious expression crossing his face. “What if he’s too tired to eat?”

You crouched down to his level, brushing a hand over his neatly combed hair. “If he’s too tired, we’ll let him rest, but I promise he’ll be happy just to see y’all. This isn’t about the food—it’s about showing him how much you love him.”

——————————-

The three of you tiptoed into the bedroom, moving slowly to avoid the creak of the old wooden floors. Elvis was lying on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow and the other draped over the bedspread. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and his dark hair was tousled in that charmingly messy way that only he could pull off.

Melody gasped softly, her hands flying to her mouth. “He looks like a prince!” she whispered, her voice full of awe.

Elias rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but smile. “He’s not a prince, Mel. He’s a king. The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

“Shhh!” you reminded them, setting the tray down carefully on the nightstand.

The three of you stood for a moment, watching him sleep. It wasn’t often that you got to see Elvis like this—peaceful, unburdened by the pressures of fame or the demands of his career. You felt a swell of gratitude in your chest, knowing that these quiet moments were what he treasured most.

Melody climbed onto the edge of the bed, her small frame barely making a dent in the mattress. She tucked her knees under her chin and whispered, “Can we wake him now?”

You shook your head, reaching out to gently pull her back. “Not yet, baby. Let’s give him a little more time.”

Elias leaned against you, his voice barely audible. “Does he always look this tired?”

Your heart ached at the question. You wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. “He’s just been working hard, sweetheart. But that’s why today is so special—we get to remind him to rest and enjoy himself.”

As if on cue, Elvis stirred, his hand reaching up to scratch at his head. His lashes fluttered open, and his bleary blue eyes scanned the room. It took him a moment to focus, but when he saw the three of you standing there, a slow smile spread across his face.

“Well, now,” he drawled, his voice husky with sleep. “What’s all this?”

“Happy birthday, Daddy!” Melody cried, throwing herself into his arms.

Elvis caught her with a chuckle, sitting up against the headboard. His movements were slow and careful, but his eyes were bright as he looked at her. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, little bit?”

Elias stepped forward, holding out the bouquet and the card. “We made you breakfast, and Mel and I made this for you.”

Elvis took the flowers first, inhaling their scent before setting them on the nightstand. He then opened the card, his grin widening as he took in the colorful drawings. “Now, this here,” he said, holding the card up, “is the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

Melody beamed, practically bouncing with excitement. “Do you like the hearts? I drew those!”

“I love ‘em,” Elvis said, pulling her into a hug. “You’ve got a real talent, darlin’. Maybe you’ll grow up to be an artist.”

Elias climbed onto the bed next, settling on Elvis’s other side. “I helped with the music notes,” he said, a touch of pride in his voice.

“And you did a fine job,” Elvis replied, ruffling Elias’s hair. “You’ve got an eye for detail, son.”

You watched the three of them, your heart swelling with love. This was what mattered most to Elvis—not the sold-out shows or the gold records, but the simple, quiet moments with his family.

Elvis turned his gaze to you, his smile softening. “Come here, mama,” he said, holding out an arm.

You sat down beside him, leaning into his embrace as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Y’all really outdid yourselves,” he murmured. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’m sure glad I’ve got y’all.”

Melody tugged on his sleeve, her face scrunched in concentration. “Daddy, do you like pancakes?”

Elvis laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room. “Do I like pancakes? Baby girl, I love pancakes.”

Elias smirked. “Good, ‘cause we made a whole stack.”

“You did?” Elvis raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing. “Well, I reckon I better try some, then.”

You handed him the tray, and the four of you shared breakfast in bed. Elvis made a show of savoring every bite, praising the kids for their “culinary expertise” and cracking jokes that had them doubled over with laughter.

After breakfast, you all spent the morning lounging in the bedroom, talking and laughing. The kids took turns showing Elvis their latest drawings and telling him stories about school, while he listened intently, his eyes crinkling with affection.

As the day went on, you couldn’t help but reflect on how far the two of you had come. Being with Elvis wasn’t always easy—the long hours, the constant travel, and the ever-present spotlight were challenges you had to navigate together. But moments like this reminded you why it was all worth it.

Elvis looked over at you, his gaze soft and full of love. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “For all of this. For them. For you.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “You don’t have to thank me, baby. This is what family does. We take care of each other.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of your little family, you knew that this birthday would be one Elvis would never forget.

TAG LIST: @jhoneybees @kxnnxy

[goldenarmyofficial]

Pre-game analysis - Midnight Showdown: The Gold Army vs. The Phantom Aces

🖊️ By Christopher Fowler – Senior Sports Analyst

⚡ The Unstoppable vs. The Unbeaten – Who Breaks First?

For years, the Phantom Aces have been an enigma—a team that does not lose.

No official records. No home stadium. No known history of defeat.

Every opponent who steps onto their field leaves changed. Some claim they play against shadows, others whisper about mirages, about plays that shouldn't be possible.

But now?

They face the Gold Army.

A team that never backs down.

A team built to win.

A team that thrives under pressure and has spent weeks preparing for war.

This isn’t just a game.

This is a battle for dominance, for history, for reality itself.

And by the time the final inning comes?

Only one of these legacies will remain.

⚔️ Gold Army – Strength, Power, and Absolute Confidence

Gold’s Key Strengths

🔥 Raw Power & Speed: A brutal mix of explosive athleticism and relentless drive.

🏆 Unshakable Mentality: The Aces thrive on mind games. But Gold does not doubt. Gold does not break.

⚡ Tactical Versatility: From Mack’s fearless instinct-based plays to Xavier’s surgical precision on the mound, Gold brings a diverse, adaptable game.

🧢 A New Captain Rises: With Herc mysteriously absent, Brody (#11) steps up to take the Captain role. He’s an imposing force at first base, bringing raw strength and leadership when Gold needs it most.

Gold Players to Watch

Brandon #58 – The Unbreakable Catcher (Catcher)

The rock behind home plate. Brandon has been studying Vincent Moreau, watching tape, learning his patterns. If anyone can break the Phantom Catcher’s influence, it’s him.

Mack #70 – The Instinctive Monster (Shortstop)

Once a precision-based player, **Master Percival rewired Maximus into Mack—**a cocky, reckless, instinct-driven beast. His blindfold training has pushed his reflexes to inhuman levels. If there’s one player who can disrupt the Aces' eerie rhythm, it’s him.

Brock #46 – The Relentless Defender (Second Base)

Brock isn’t just quick—he’s relentless. His ability to chase down impossible plays and shut down runners makes him a crucial counter to the Aces’ unpredictable movement.

Dylan #20 – The Speed Demon (Right Field)

Fast. Smart. Everywhere at once. Dylan’s ability to cover massive ground will be key in countering Nate Voss’s outfield tricks. He won’t let the Aces steal free bases without a fight.

Xavier "Poker Face" #39 – The Unreadable Pitcher (Starting Pitcher)

Unlike the Aces’ Isaiah Crowe, whose pitches seem like illusions, Xavier brings absolute control. His pitches are razor-sharp, unreadable, and unnervingly precise. He doesn't overpower—he dissects. He's called "Poker Face" because even the most seasoned players have difficulty reading him.

🃏 The Phantom Aces – The Unbeaten Mystique

The Team That Shouldn’t Exist

No wasted movements. No hesitation. They move like one entity.

Their opponents don’t just lose—they start to doubt themselves. They start to see things. They second-guess every step.

Some claim their shadows shift. Some say their plays feel pre-determined.

Are they just that good?

Or is something else at play?

Phantom Aces Players to Watch

Maddox Kane #00 – The Phantom Captain (Shortstop / Captain)

If you lock eyes with Maddox Kane, your game is already lost.

Tall. Lean. Unshakable. He sees everything before it happens—always in position, always one step ahead. His presence alone disrupts opponents' confidence.

Vincent Moreau #13 – The Unbeatable Catcher (Catcher)

No one steals on Moreau. No one second-guesses him. He doesn’t need to speak—just his presence behind home plate rattles even the best hitters.

Isaiah Crowe #21 – The Phantom Pitcher (Starting Pitcher)

Crowe’s throws shouldn’t be possible. No one can track his windup. His form shifts mid-game. It’s like he throws reflections of other pitchers’ best pitches.

Silas Reed #17 – The Silent First Baseman (First Base)

No sound. No wasted movement. If you’re running to first, he’s already there. Some say he doesn’t even blink.

Nate Voss #9 – The Doppelgänger Outfielder (Outfield)

Hit a ball deep into center field? Somehow, Nate is already there. He moves like he exists in two places at once.

🚨 Mysterious Disappearance: Where is Herc?

One massive question hangs over the Gold Army:

Herc is missing.

The powerhouse of the team vanished before the final preparations.

No one saw him leave. No one heard anything. One moment he was there. The next, gone.

Did the Phantom Aces get inside his head?

Did he leave on his own?

Or is he still somewhere in Specter Stadium—watching?

⚖️ The Matchup – Breaking the Curse or Falling Victim?

The Aces have never lost.

Gold has never backed down.

One of those things is about to change.

The Midnight Challenge is set. The rosters are locked.

🏆 Official Roster Announcement – The Lineup for Both Teams

Gold Army Roster

🔹 Starting Lineup (Batting Order)

1️⃣ Mack (#70) @polo-drone-070 – Shortstop 🏃‍♂️💥 Explosive athleticism, instinct-based play, fearless energy

2️⃣ Daniel (#16) @danielgold-16– Center Field 🌪️🧤 Fastest outfielder, elite coverage, reliable catching

3️⃣ Isaac (#45) @isaac-gold-45– Designated Hitter ⚾🔥 Consistent contact hitter, precision batting (For Starting Pitcher Xavier #39)

4️⃣ Brandon (#58) @brandongold58– Catcher 🧱🎯 Tactical catcher, strategic playmaker, defensive backbone

5️⃣ Tariq (#89) @tariqgold89– First Base 💪🛡️ Towering presence, powerful bat, unshakable defense

6️⃣ Trevor (#52) @polo-drone-125– Third Base 🔥⚡ Aggressive plays, high-energy competitor, reactive defense

7️⃣ Alex (#64) @polo-drone-151– Second Base 🏆👀 Smart plays, quick reflexes, consistent fielding

8️⃣ Tamerlan (#73) @eddy-gold-73– Left Field 🎯🚀 Strong arm, tactical awareness, defensive powerhouse

9️⃣ Dylan (#20) @dylangold20– Right Field 🚄🧤 Reliable outfielder, excellent field coverage, clutch performer

🔹 Pitching Staff

⚾ Xavier "Poker Face" (#39) @polo-drone-039– Starting Pitcher 🎯🔥 A surgical pitcher, mixing controlled precision with devastating breaking balls. His cold, calculating mindset keeps hitters guessing and opponents locked in frustration.

⚾ Roman (#68) @roman-golden-68– Relief Pitcher ⚡🛡️ A tactical thrower with an adaptable mindset, perfect for mid-game adjustments.

⚾ Herc (#9) @goldenherc9– Backup Pitcher (MIA?!) 💥💪 If he returns, his raw power pitching can turn the game in Gold’s favor.

🔹 Bench / Substitutes

🔸 Ares (#10) @goldengod-ares10– Power hitter, momentum shifter

🔸 Brody (#11) @brodygold– Assisting Coach Chet in tactical planning

🔸 Herc (#9) – Pitcher / Designated Hitter (MISSING – if returns, a game-changer)

🔸 Leander (#88) @leander-gold-88– Versatile player, reliable under pressure

🔸 Trey (#52) @hero21us– Field coverage specialist, adaptable baserunner

🔸 Brock (#46) @brockgold– Solid infielder, tough defensive asset

🔸 Briar (#50) @polo-drone-050– Base-running ace, elite speedster

🔸 Ross (#79) – Utility fielder, dependable in late-game scenarios

🔹 Gold Army Leadership & Spirit

👑 Coach Chet – Master strategist, ensuring Gold plays with precision and discipline.

🦾 Brody (#11) – Team captain, assisting with on-field tactics and rallying the squad.

⚔️ Grayden @polo-drone-084 – The Golden Knight – Gold Army’s head mascot, leading cheers and pumping up the crowd.

Phantom Aces Roster

🔹 Starting Lineup (Batting Order)

1️⃣ Nate "Doppelgänger" Voss (#9) – Center Field 👀⚡ Always under the ball before it lands—sometimes in two places at once.

2️⃣ Isaiah "Mirror" Crowe (#21) – Pitcher 🎭🔥 Copies the opponent’s best pitch—only better.

3️⃣ Maddox "Phantom Captain" Kane (#00) – Shortstop 🧠🎯 Sees the game like he wrote the script.

4️⃣ Vincent "No Escape" Moreau (#13) – Catcher 🧱👁️ No pitch escapes him, no runner beats his tag.

5️⃣ Silas "Dead Quiet" Reed (#17) – First Base 🤫⚾ Moves without sound—already waiting for you at first.

6️⃣ Maddox Kane (again?) (#00) – Third Base 🌀👀 A second Kane stands at third. Real or illusion?

7️⃣ Caleb "Fogwalker" Hayes (#7) – Left Field 🌫️🏃‍♂️ One moment he's running down the ball—next, he's gone.

8️⃣ Julian "Moonlit" Graves (#22) – Right Field 🌙⚡ Moves before the ball is hit, eyes glowing in the dark.

9️⃣ Ezra "Vanishing Act" Quinn (#10) – Second Base 🚀🎭 Turns double plays before you even see him move.

🔹 Pitching Staff

⚾ Samuel "Eclipse" Harlow (#18) – Backup Pitcher 🕶️⚡ Throws into the void—batters swing at nothing.

🔹 Bench / Substitutes

🔸 Dominic "Revenant" Cole (#27) – Backup Catcher Never blinks, never flinches—has he always been here?

🔸 Jesse "Hollow" Briggs (#19) – Utility Infielder No mistakes, no errors—his glove swallows baseballs.

🔸 Dorian "Specter" Lowe (#29) – Backup Outfielder Glides like a shadow—sometimes, he just isn’t there.

🔹 Mascot

🦅Ace the Phantom Hawk – Its glowing eyes have already seen the final score.

🔔 First pitch: MIDNIGHT.

🏟️ Location: Specter Stadium.

Brace yourselves. The Midnight Challenge is about to begin.

[ikeukiss]

love actually — 𝐭𝐱𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

ALL WORKS IN THIS SERIES WILL BE 18+; MDNI OR YOU WILL BE BLOCKED.ᐟ ୨୧ synopsis: College is already complicated enough without romantic struggles being thrown into it all. But like all things, love is complex, and you're determined to get it. [TEASER HERE] ♫ playlist: i believe | jonas brothers, brand new | big time rush, cover me in roses | holden lawrence, too young | sabrina carpenter, on a night like tonight | niall horan, timeless | taylor swift, eyes | joan, blue spring | txt ˋ°•*⁀➷ apply for the taglist here.ᐟ ꄗ key: ☁︎ — fluff, ༄ — angst, ✗ — smut, ✦ — lexi’s favorites, tags masterlist will be updated with each chapter's release.ᐟ @hursheys Bless you for editing the synopses idk where I'd be without you ❤︎

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐃 — 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐲𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐧

As one of the star pitchers on the college baseball team, Yeonjun has mastered the art of concealing his feelings. He believes it's essential to keep both himself and his relationship hidden. However, if he wants you to remain by his side, he may need to allow his true emotions to surface. ࿔*:･ read here

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 — 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐛𝐢𝐧

Soobin has no choice but to agree to the love of his life's ridiculous plan for the school semester: make him her fake boyfriend to avoid being the nth wheel in her friend group. But this may be the perfect opportunity for him to show her how far he will go to turn pretend into reality. ࿔*:･ read here

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 — 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐛𝐞𝐨𝐦𝐠𝐲𝐮

Choi Beomgyu has sworn off love for good. He will not fall privy to another girl's charm, especially one that is head over heels for the concept of an eternal soulmate. He's got nothing to lose doing a end-of-term project with her...right? ࿔*:･ read here

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 — 𝐤𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧

Taehyun dreamed of the opportunity to reconnect with his long-lost dream girl. Now that she is on his campus and back in his life, will he be able to correct the mistakes he made in the past and finally find happiness? ࿔*:･ read here

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 — 𝐡𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐚𝐢

According to all of Kai's friends, exes are considered scorched earth. But how can he stop himself from wanting to try again, especially when you have circled back into his life by a random chance of luck and your perceived misfortune? ࿔*:･ read here

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request Nanami taking a bath with his lover after a tiring day? Man needs to be pampered

The warm water seemed to seep straight into his bones. Filling him up like an empty pitcher.

Nanami was sorely reminded, literally, these days on why he stopped being a jujutsu sorcerer for a while. Battles these days were getting harder. Stronger cursed spirits seemed to be popping up every day. New demons to fight. New tragedies to overcome. And he was getting older, no matter how much he wanted to deny it.

“Everything ok in there?” He perked up from his musing, close to falling asleep in the tub, when he heard [Y/N] poke their head in.

“Yes. Everything is fine.” They smile and come in. Seeming pleased with themselves, as they should.

When Nanami bought this apartment, he thought that the master bathroom was very nice and like any perspective homeowner had dreams of using the tub every night. Deep down he knew that wasn’t the case, and he was right. Who had the time? Who had the energy?

Luckily for him, [Y/N] was always looking out for him. Hearing how sore he had been, they set up a relaxing but also medicinal bath to help with his muscles. It did the trick. Now all it was missing was one thing.

[Y/N] came over to him to bring him a towel. And when they got within arms length, Nanami reached out and grabbed their arm. Pulling them down into the tub as well. The sound of water splashing out was drowned out by their laughter, in between kisses. “Nanami! My clothes are going to get wet!”

“So.” He told them. “Take them off.”

Now that he was fully relaxed, and not nearly as tired anymore, he had all the energy for other things. He’d started by showing them how thankful he was that they thought of and took care of him. Now it was his turn.

[loumandliker]

the thing with amadeo and riccardo, of course, is this:

you are a teenage boy, to the best of your knowledge, and you live with a man who is your lover, your father, your master, your savior. and the other boy, who was once you, in some way, in more ways than you’d expect, the warm crescent moon under the master’s blankets before you were the warm crescent moon under them. you were someone else before your master found you and when you become that thing again the other boy takes you by the hand and says pitcher, knife, linen, marble. around you the warm air and the cool breeze. do you feel it? you close your eyes and say pitcher, knife, linen, plaster of the ceiling falling in sheets, and he says no, amadeo, not the ceiling. but you are stubborn. you insist on the ceiling until he relents, says fine, ceiling. he used to keep your master warm. sold to him just as you were, okay, and now he plays the lute outside of the door while your father touches your body, while you arch into it, catch glimpses of a ceiling that won’t cave in. violins, organs, carved marble. he holds your hand when you walk together: don’t get lost, now. he has been touched in all the same places as you. hand on each of your cheeks: don’t get lost, now. remember the pitcher, the knife, the linen, the ceiling. a lover’s hands and mouth in the dark. the toy that feels all things, and a body that feels none of it. say goodnight, amadeo. you speak like the ancients, now. great statues of marble. remember the canal, your feet in it, the sound of his laughter. on the warm cobblestone he puts his head on your chest, your back to the courtyard stone. amadeo, he says, you are my dearest brother. or maybe he didn’t say it. sky-blue and sky-grey. you must listen, amadeo, you must always listen. your master tells you this, and then he whips riccardo until he bleeds, and he walks out of the room, collapses in the corridor. child-love, strong young man. you’re your father’s cupid, his angel, when he feels like it. when he doesn’t? blade on wood, fist on wood, your body on fire, okay, fine, and then the beating, and you realize, again and again and again that you can’t bear anything else. hand on your shoulders, and his brown eyes, and him saying amadeo, please, amadeo. you remember the pitcher and the knife, because you know what it’s like to bleed a lamb, a cow, a goat. you drink wine and eat duck or roasted pheasant. the ceiling in sheets or crumbling rock. don’t go away. stay in this room, always this room, keep yourself wherever you are. we should leave. who said that? not you and not him. pitcher, knife, linen, ceiling. crescent moon to crescent moon, his chest to your back in the afternoon sun. you don’t ask and he doesn’t tell. touch my cheek, he says, and you do, and then his jaw and his neck and his lips. shoulder, arm, wrist. you study these things. you used to do what i do now, you say, still shaking. with the painters. yes, he says: it’s simple. never speak of it. secret was one of the first words you learnt. when he taught you the words of the dining room he said nothing of the food. the lamb wants to hear nothing of the meat. he was doing you a favor. you touch his cheek. in your dreams you still do this: you look at the bare walls of your body and say pitcher, knife, linen, ceiling. when the day of celebrating the alive king of your dead master came they roasted a lamb for the palazzo boys. you and riccardo could smell the scent of the flesh from miles away. you came back for it. hungry things always return. hungry things never leave. the pitcher and the knife and the linen and the ceiling. your master saved both of you, and you ruined both him and yourself. clotted blood and acrid flesh. okay. dust falling from the ceiling plaster hundreds of years later. that was him, you think, that dust. you were hungry then and you are hungry now. thank you, you say to the empty room. thank you for haunting me. i hope it’s the thing that ruins me for good.

[oscquinn]

tell me about baseball because I know nothing but would like to learn!

FEVER PITCH pro baseball!lip headcanons

TAGS & WARNINGS: mature, 18+. sexual content but non explicit, drinking mention, emotional angst, pregnancy. but also fluff!! silly shenanigans, second chance romance, lip is stupid in love.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is my brain child omfg. tysm for sending this ask, honestly. i yapped!!! there was also more to this but i've been adding to it for days and its getting long for hcs so. lmk if anyone wants part 2 teehee

WC: 1.4k

when he was younger lip always played shortstop, his arm was powerful but not quite precise enough to pitch, but he never minded. pitchers have to remember too much, shortstop just falls into the rhythm; watching the pitch, listening to the crack of the bat, and tracking the ball as it rocketed through the field. the two of you met in college, lip played two seasons at university of chicago before transferring to a better athletic program. there was a mutual breakup before parting ways, but whenever he's in town you can't fight the urge to see each other.

he's picked up on the MLB draft straight out of college, after captaining the national championship team, and sent to an affilliate somewhere warm in the south, georgia or maybe louisiana. he calls you often to boast the climate, while you complain about the stress of your masters degree. over time the calls come less frequently, but each conversation feels like no time has passed at all.

it takes three years for lip to work his way up to the big leagues, where he joins the chicago cubs for his rookie season. now, lip plays centerfield. he's a quick runner, and his powerful arm sends balls to their respective bases at record speed. he's efficient, most teams don't stand a chance.

he doesn't know how to tell you he's coming home again, back to chicago. and back to you. you find out from your best friend, who overheard fiona talking about it at patsy's. you two along with fi & veronica find the money for tickets at centerfield, right where lip will be.

fiona whistles through her fingers the second she reaches her seat and waves down her brother, whose cheeks immediately turn bright pink. if a teammate pointed it out he'd surely brush it off as the chilled march wind, but you know him better than that. he greets the four of you nervously, opening up as he gets sight of the smiles you wear. no one cares he didn't tell, your joy at his homecoming tops any negative in your minds.

after the third inning a guest services rep brings the four of you a handful of meal and beverage vouchers, a gift from lip. later you'll learn he'd tried to have your seats upgraded but was denied, too low on the totem pole for that sort of request. so you pile your arms with hot dogs, pretzels, cheese fries, diet coke and fancy ipa brews.

the game flies by, you and fiona sit side by side and shout teases down to lip, watching his face light up. this is the first time you really see his talent, how he's developed as an athlete. he finally has somewhere to put all of that pent up energy he keeps inside, using it to jump up in the ivy wall for a catch, to react as quick as the ball and sprint in the same direction. when he catches the game-winning out, a fly ball straight to centerfield, he tosses it up into the stands. it sails directly to you, tipsy giggles spilling from your lips as you scrawl your phone number onto the white canvas before throwing it back down.

lip wants to fog up the windows of your honda right there in the parking lot but you have the presence of mind to drag him towards his own parked car while he trails sloppy kisses down your neck. the sex is amazing, it always is, but there’s something different in the way he holds you this time. you pretend not to notice it, until you have a reason to bring it up.

three weeks later, two pregnancy tests sit on the gallaghers bathroom counter. you'd only brought one along, but fiona dug another out of her bedside table drawer when you became anxious at the two pink lines. when the second test reads positive, v offers to call lip for you and you let her.

it's hours before he can get to you, even without a game there's still training, a players meeting, and dinner afterward with franchise sponsors. he's busy, you get it. fi gives you the spare key to his apartment—a studio unit in a high rise downtown, somewhere you couldn't imagine a gallagher living—and lip pays for a cab to take you there.

once you lay eyes on the space it becomes a little more believable that lip gallagher lives there. a box spring and mattress are stacked together in one corner, topped with the classic navy blue sheets and two pillows. he has a small couch (loveseat, more like) that you decide to wait on, favoring it over the bed. his tv sits on the floor against the wall, with the remote balanced precariously on top. flipping through channels is a nice, mind numbing activity to soothe you, and you fall asleep after landing on old sitcom reruns.

the sun has long set when lip comes in the door, eyeing your sleeping frame. he decides to let you sleep while he washes the grime of the day from his body. he kneels by you when he's clean and fresh, clothed in nothing but blue gingham boxers. "'ey kid, wake up," he mumbles, smoothing your hair away from your brow. when he sees you blink up at him he continues softly, "y'can live here with me, until the baby is born, m'kay? an' we can decide what we want to do." "about?" "about us."

you smile up at him, he offers you the bed and insists on taking the couch, not allowing himself too much of a good thing. he's already over the moon you want to keep the baby, his baby. he doesn't want to scare you away. he only makes it a week cramped up on that tiny couch. later in your relationship you have something funny to look back on, old photos of lip with his knees tucked up and one arm hanging awkwardly off the cushions.

when he can't stand the couch anymore he orders you a pregnancy pillow, and you order a bedframe, all on his card of course. you don't even need the pillow yet, most nights of your first trimester you're up and down, in and out of the bathroom. each time you come back to bed lip is on his stomach, arms curled around that damn pillow as he rests on it. he says it helps his sore muscles. whatever the reason is you don't really care, the toned expanse of his back makes a good pillow anyway.

you get into a habit of ordering furniture, decorations, and other home goods while lip is away. he doesn't mind, always makes sure you use his card, he wouldn't know what to do with all that money anyway. little by little the studio apartment starts to feel like home, and lip starts to feel more like a serious boyfriend than a hookup turned baby daddy, for lack of better wording.

before you know it the season is over, lip receives a large bonus after the cubs make the playoffs, and the two of you are kissing over a bottle of sparkling cider as you christen your new two-bedroom townhouse, complete with a downstairs office space and large backyard. october turns the leaves beautiful hues, and the calmness of this new neighborhood soothes your mind, your due date in december rapidly approaching.

between the new place, increased proximity during the off-season, and your pregnancy hormones, you find yourself bickering more and more with lip. it comes to a head one night when he shouts at you, and you feel the baby kick in response before you break down completely. the fight was about something small, insignificant. it had started with you talking about baby names. lip isn't sure how he let it spiral this way.

dutifully, with regret painted on his features, he kneels down beside your crumpled form on the bed. he takes your hand, muttering an apology and promising to make things work. then he says softly, "i like lucy. as a name for the baby?" you just stare at him, and he continues, "could be short for lucille. an' you liked olivia for a middle name, yeah?"

"lucille olivia gallagher. it's so pretty, lip, i love it." you smile in awe, reaching out to cup his cheek. "i love you," you say, and now it's lip's turn to stare. but a moment passes and he smiles, gathering your frame into his arms to pull you into his lap. "love you too, pretty girl."

by new years day you have a healthy baby girl in your arms, and a pretty diamond ring on your left hand.

© gallaghersgal, 2024. dividers © cafekitsune (x)