#pls brain work with me

[jester-w-n0n4m3]

I wanna draw that slasher au of sun and moon so badly but I don't wanna mess it up cuz my art style is thousands of miles far from the creator of the au artstyle @/wyervan and I don't wanna do the sillies or my potential oc idk I haven't decided fully dirty 😭😭

[drgnflyteabox]

Fem!reader x 141

Honestly might be able to to something with the gross stuff I saw at the hardware store I used to work at (except make it hot and 141)

Imagine you're a cashier, the only one with early morning availability so you're there at 5:45am for the 6am start. It's always the worst kinds of contractors there: rude, tired, dirty, leering gazes and sexist comments

You're pretty sick of it, but you get paid a bit more than minimum wage and you're done by 11am so, you take it with a cheery smile and fast service

The 141 contracting company starts spending at your store. So much, in fact, that your manager personally takes you aside to mention just how much they do - nearly a million a year - and how no matter what, your job is to be nice and please them

Well, you can do that. You've dealt with crazy, awful old contractors screaming in your face about lumber prices at 6:30am more than once, heard them talking about your tit's or your ass right in front of you - you can handle it

Until the masked one comes in first and hes huge, dark hoodie and cargo pants hanging low on his hips. He hands you 3k in bills only there are bloodstains on them and he watches you closely the whole time you count them out

It's... not a first, but the look he gives you makes you shiver. Pale eyelashes, tall, intimidating

The second is nicer. Too nice, in fact. He charms you before you're even fully awake, and your shift goes by quickly thinking about that winning smile and the way he'd touched your fingers while he handed you a stack of bills... not to mention those soft brown eyes

The third is... intense, for 8am. He rolls on the balls of his feet, stares at you harder than the masked one. He offers to buy you a hot chocolate at the coffee shop next door and grins like you made a joke when you decline

Their boss is fucking dreamy. Even you have to admit it, trying not to look up at his mustached, frankly porno-esque face. He's huge, as tall as the others but thick, with a little pudge around his belly. He trudges in with thick workboots and a stained t shirt, pays for 24k worth of material with a lazy smile on his face like it's nothing

You might ask head cash to move you to the garden center after all...

[curlytsunamiart]

a confrontation between miquella and messmer in the shadow keep throne room

[hinamie]

domain expansion

[dr3amfyr-e]

brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. part two. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy. 

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature. 

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer. 

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure. 

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care. 

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited. 

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public. 

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet. 

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist. 

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement. 

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year. 

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys. 

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard. 

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour. 

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course. 

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers. 

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her. 

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold. 

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable. 

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos. 

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention. 

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement. 

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older. 

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception. 

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that. 

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend. 

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team. 

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club. 

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked. 

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind. 

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was. 

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though. 

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking. 

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature. 

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence. 

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies. 

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home. 

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase. 

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same. 

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned. 

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company. 

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him. 

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes. 

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative. 

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion. 

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule. 

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other. 

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England. 

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive. 

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.” 

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together. 

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber. 

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt. 

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen. 

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class. 

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy. 

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin. 

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home. 

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire. 

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very. 

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.” 

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself. 

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold. 

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back. 

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study. 

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair. 

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.” 

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?” 

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response. 

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.” 

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.” 

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze. 

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,” 

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes. 

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten. 

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal. 

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe. 

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating. 

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer. 

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth. 

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face. 

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat. 

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold. 

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours. 

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream. 

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth. 

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force. 

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his. 

You don’t talk about it afterwards. 

[naggingatlas]

watched my friend kass play pressure on stream today n doodled sebastian n then she colored him :) super nostalgic shit. add this one to my collection of butch women on t btw

[doctorwhommm]

we’re so back

[justalittleficsideblog]

Not so Rough!

Obey me boys x fem!reader

synopsis: after a rather hectic night, the boys misunderstand a situation between you and Mammon. oh well... right?

a/n: I have had this in my brain for like two weeks now lmao, just a funny situation i thought of!

ೋღ 🌺 ღೋ

You rolled out your shoulders as you stepped into the dining room, wincing as you stepped down towards the table. You observed the brothers setting their table, Beel anxiously waiting for food while his other half dozed off in the chair.

“Late night at the restaurant, love?” Asmo cooed, his head tilted to the side as he gave you a once over.

You nodded, every muscle groaning in protest as you slid into the chair. You flinched as you felt your legs relax, wearily stretching them out. You sucked in a breath through your teeth as you felt one of your calves ripple.

Your back felt sore too, thanks to someone’s greedy fingers after your late shift.

“Mammon didn’t go easy on me afterwards either,” you rolled your eyes, catching a glimpse of said offender striding into the room. He was looking better than you were, damn demon blood.

“Hey! You said you wanted it deep, not my fault,” he scoffed, sliding down onto his chair across from you.

You heard a cough. Satan cleared his throat, pushing aside his tea that was in front of him.

“Yes! Deep not so rough. My body feels like it’s been brutalized.” You yawned, attempting to stretch out your back as you swung your hands over your head.

A clang from the kitchen snapped you out of your daze. Levi sure was clumsy on kitchen duty today.

Asmo was smiling in your direction, his head resting on his newly manicured nails.

“Darling, was my brother here harsh on your delicate frame after your grueling shift?” he pouted. You now noticed Belphie was wide awake, him and Beel gaping towards you.

You ran a hand through your hair. “Ugh, yes. I was already tense and sore from being on my feet all night. But he,” you pointed an accusatory finger. “—insisted on “helping me out” even though I said no—”

You made air quotations while sticking your tongue out at him.

“Mammon!” you jumped as Satan boomed out near you.

“I cannot believe this, to think you would take advantage of her!” he seethed, fingers gripping the table as he stood.

“Woah! Hey! I wasn’t takin’ advantage of anyone!” Mammon yelped, hands thrown up in defense. “I just thought I could help ‘er relax, is all!”

Asmo snorted into his drink, “Not much relaxing you could be doing.”

“What did you say?”

You noticed the brothers were bickering to each other, making pointed comments towards Mammon more than anything. The kitchen had gone oddly quiet…. When was breakfast coming? You were starving.

“Listen love,” Asmo purred, grasping your hand in his. “I would be much gentler to you than this brute.”

“Hey! Who’re you calling a brute?!”

“Well… you did have a hard time letting me go,” you shot a pointed look towards Mammon, rubbing a sore spot on your shoulder absentmindedly.

“It’s not my fault you kept squirming!” he huffed, kicking his legs up onto the table.

“Well yeah! It freakin’ hurt!” you tossed back at him.

“enough.”

You could’ve sworn the room dropped several degrees with the way everyone shivered. Goosebumps rose across your arms as you took a figurative glance towards the eldest.

His aura was damning, ominous fingertips tap tap tapping across the table.

“Mammon,” his eyes cut to yours. “MC.”

His eyes were slits, wings splayed widely as he leaned backwards into his chair, “I cannot control you as much as I would like. But please do refrain from discussing your intimate interactions at the dinner table.”

You froze.

Wait…. WHAT?

“Intimate…. Lucifer, what in the fresh hell are you talking about?”

Even Mammon looked puzzled, eyes searching his brothers for an answer. Belphie sighed, rolling his head back as he murmured something to Beel, who looked slightly alarmed when his eyes shot up to meet your own.

Satan now was sitting back down, a blank stare towards the table was his only response.

Lucifer himself pinched his nose, irritation rising.

“oh… my god.” The realization of what you and Mammon had been arguing back and forth about finally surfaced. They didn’t think you really meant… that right??

You buried your face into your hands, face flaming in embarrassment. “We didn’t do… that. My shoulders and feet were killing me from carrying those damn heavy trays and walking around so much. Mammon felt bad so he offered to rub out the knots in my shoulders and feet.”

He shrugged, “But you were so tense! I really had to work out your muscle—”

Asmo let out a cackle, incredibly amused by everyone’s astonished faces.

“So that’s how it is,” Beel chirped, returning to snacking on some sort of devildom fruit in front of him.

Seriously, what was taking the food so long…?

Lucifer let out an extended sigh, looking almost. What, relieved?

Now it was Mammon’s turn to catch up, realizing the situation while everyone was staring at him in amusement.

“N-no! o-of course it wasn’t anything like that…” he sunk deeper into his chair, head tilted down in embarrassment.

You couldn’t help but giggle. What an interesting conversation to start of the morning.

Both yours and Beel’s stomach gurgled, indicating it was getting past time to be fed.

“I’ll go check on Levi,” you stood. “I’m surprised he wasn’t freaking out over this conversation.”

You walked towards the kitchen, pushing the door open further as you searched for a familiar blue-haired male.

“Levi—oh shit!!”

There, among the flour and pans, laid Levi. Passed out.

“Oh dear,” Asmo sighed as he leaned against the door frame. “The shock probably got him.”

You groaned, stepping over him to get breakfast started.

[dandelion-roots]

No matter what you do, you just can't shake him off, can you, Chūya?

[lyrics: Florence + the Machine | id in alt]

EDIT: I made a whole ass janky animatic to this song, enjoy!

[loopnoid]

beej and his motorcycle :-{)

[natelia-aldelliz]

1 : Soap never had any idea that woman wanted him carnally, he's not the most observant on that front (he never noticed Ghost flirting with him and thought his love was one-sided for the longest time, but tbf Ghost was also very discreet about it)

2 : He sewed the hat, eyepatch and hook himself, because he's the best uncle and then got distracted as he was wrapping it up, so now he's watching a tutorial on youtube about how to build a voice box. Honestly how hard could it be, he builds explosive devices as a hobby (listen, Price doesn't have to know)

3 : He is out to his family, but doesn't want his mum to know he has a boyfriend because he knows she'll insist on meeting him and welcoming him to the family and making a big deal out of this, and he knows that Ghost isn't ready for that.

4 : Christmas is obviously a very hard time for Ghost, but he is very very in love with Soap and some days still can't believe that it's mutual, but then his Johnny does something like that and his head gets quieter while he's melting a bit.

5 : For the people that didn't see my other post : the bird is a Caique parrot, and they're supposedly very energetic, a bit loud, medium sized, unintelligible, very friendly to what they consider their family, adventurous and danger prone, with an explosive personality and a hate of boredom, so basically the adhd bird.

[baeshijima]

ever since the 5.2 trailer this is all ive been able to think about

once again, the genshin pokemon au thoughts are running wild

excuse the mega long rant in tags bc i geeked out perhaps a lil too much abt pkmn au but ourghghg.... we do not talk abt how i spent at least an hour writing all this out....

[coyotecares]

i keep forgetting to post here ...,......... anyway, kamitetsu for a friend

[hermit-frog]

this fantastic post by Dre/diasdelfuego got me thinking (i stole your screencap, hope you don't mind)

the way that art piece is reaching its tentacles from the depths of the penthouse towards the light pink tree, that in return is stretching its branches towards the light/escape? (circle/well imagery again, kill me), and Louis just sits there, cornered (in the back of his mind), observing or ignoring the scene. as he does.

season two:

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday thursday

tagged by @tizniz @bidisasterevankinard @spotsandsocks @hoodie-buck @weewootruck thank you 💖 tagging y'all back for friday lol

(I was so sure it's still Wednesday and only checked after I prepared the post so fuck it, posting it now lol)

don't look at me, I started another bucktommy wip 🙈 istg these two inspire me like no other ship ever has lmao the problem is i can't finish anything bc I constantly have new ideas

this one is inspired by mgk's song "twin flame" bc it was stuck in my head and it makes me think about the invisible string theory, and I'm a little insane about them clearly haha - I have most of the dialogue outlined so now I just gotta write the fic around it and hopefully it'll be done soon and I can get back to all the other ones lol I feel like for each writing game i post a snippet of something totally different 🙈

___

He’s so focused on admiring every little feature of his boyfriend’s face, thinking about how much he loves him and wants to spend forever with him, he startles when suddenly Tommy turns his head, his blue eyes on Buck now, smiling softly.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, a hint of concern audible.

“Yeah.” Buck smiles, his hand on Tommy’s chest tracing small patterns on his pec over the fabric of his t-shirt. “All good.”

“You sure? I’ve felt you stare at me for like ten minutes straight.” Tommy raises an eyebrow.

“Can’t I admire my hot pilot boyfriend for a minute?” Buck answers and adores the blush on Tommy’s cheeks, the sound of his laughter filling him with warmth and affection

___

no pressure tags for friday!: @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @bucks-daddy-issues @rogerzsteven @giddyupbuck @honestlydarkprincess @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @buddieswhvre @fortheloveofbuddie @daffi-990 @aroeddiediaz @thewolvesof1998 @exhuastedpigeon @underwaterninja13 @hippolotamus @your-catfish-friend @dangerpronebuddie @loveyouanyway @theotherbuckley @diazsdimples @kinard-buckley @evansboyfriend @bucked-it-up

[rodolfoparras]

I needed to share this thought/drabble??? about Price I just had. I just need him so much. (If this makes you uncomfortable I am so sorry!! And this is very much not a request!! More so me sharing my very nsfw thoughts about Price!! <33)

But old man Price right, he’s heard of your escapades. What you’re like in bed from soldiers who are a little loose lipped about their times with you. Knows how you like to top, and how you like to make sure your partners get their backs blown out and orgasm at least three times (if not more if they can handle it)

But he’s never bottomed, and is wondering what it feels like. While he’s not inexperienced with the process, he’s just never done it to himself. And he’s so curious and wants you so bad, but it’s not like he can come up to you and just ask! So with a bright red face, he goes online and orders a package.

When the package arrives, he’s all nervous and flustered. But he’s determined to know how it feels, and knows it’ll feel good. So he hops in the shower, cleans himself good, and dries himself off. Then there, on his bed, is his package with a dildo about your rumored size and a big thing of lube.

Then there he is, Old man Price riding it slowly, cheeks flushed and a small look of disbelief over how good it feels. Biting his bottom lip as small whines and whimpers build in his throat. Arms and chest resting against the headboard for balance, and him shuddering as he slowly moves up and down. Still getting used to the feeling RAHHHHHH

Again if this made you uncomfortable I am so sorry!! I apologize ten fold if it did!! Just let me know and I’ll apologize and never do it again!!

🐻‍❄️-

Polar bear anon if I could I would literally give you the world thank you so much for this thought

Bc hear me out sugar

Old man Price who’s only ever been a top because his partners have always preferred his size. He knew he was big, made his partners feel like they were being split open on his dick, and don’t get it wrong he loved making them feel that way but many times he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like taking a cock his size, always found himself carefully gauging his partners reaction wondering about the delicious burn they’d feel, watching the way their holes eagerly sucked him in, many time he wonder if he’d be just as eager if that were him, many times he’d finger himself to the thought of taking a dick the same size as his maybe even bigger, if he were lucky

Old man price having his room next to yours so he can obviously hear when you got someone there for the night, many times he can’t help but touch himself to the noises because at the end of the day he was a sad old man and this is the best he could get,cumming all over his fist and stomach pretending it was you fucking him into the mattress and immediately feeling guilty afterwards because it’s so wrong but he can’t get himself to stop.

Price knew it was fucked up getting a toy that’s rumored to be your size, , and for a while he keeps the toy in his closet unable to stomach the guilt eating at him but one night he hears you and whoever you brought for the night getting it on and he’s just laying there eyes squeezed shut cock hard and leaking between his thighs and he’s just thinking don’t do it John don’t do it John it’s wrong but he quickly finds himself falling back into the same old routine, reaching over his night stand where he keeps the lube bottle, swiftly pouring it onto his fingers before pushing two digits past his puckered rim

However this time around he can’t get himself to cum maybe because he knows that his fingers are nothing compared to your cock or maybe because he knows he’s got the toy bearing your size stashed deep in his closet,

he can’t even find it in himself to care as he walks over to get it, before quickly getting back in bed, pouring lube over the plastic before nudging the tip against his rim

and fuck it hurts, he didn’t even give himself time to prepare himself properly, too eager to just feel the thing inside him, whines and whimpers escaping his lips as he continues to take inch by inch, he doesn’t notice that the sounds from the other room have quieted down

But he cant even focus on anything else except for the fact that he’s starting to feel something, a lick of pleasure, a small jolt coursing through his body, but it’s not enough, nothing like he imagined,the toy is clumsy and barely hits his prostate and he almost sobs in frustration, fat tears trickling down his cheeks, fisting the sheets and wishing you’d been there to fuck him.