#so i can suck on it like a chicken bone
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daftpatience · 5 months ago
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loop warmups in btwn work
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avocado-writing · 4 months ago
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Oh maybe dp+w poly with sick reader? Nothing too angsty but I love the idea of having those two as your nurses when you’re out of commission for a few days 😭
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You simply cannot stop shivering. It’s been racking your body like this for hours. It feels like your fucking skeleton is trying to escape, your teeth chattering in a way which would be almost comical if it didn’t fucking suck.
This morning you didn’t wake up feeling great, and your boys noticed. Logan can always smell when something is wrong, which Wade never tires of mocking him over (“what is it girl? Is there trouble at the old mill?” “Fuck off, Wilson.”) so when you had a slight temperature change, he was immediately at your side, rough hand on your forehead.
“You okay, bub?” voice quiet. Intimate. Concerned. You’d waved him away.
“Yeah, I’ll get some OJ and take it easy. Probably a seasonal thing, don’t even worry about it.”
Wade had cocked his head to the side. “If you’re not well, pookie, we can stay here. We can go and kill people any day. We only get one of you.”
But you knew they’d been trying to make a habit of sorting out local crime, proving they were good guys (you knew they were. They just needed to show it to themselves, it seemed) so you’d waved them off.
That had been a mistake. As soon as they walk in, stinking of blood and exhausted to the bone, a dual look of horror crosses their faces.
“Ah, fuck,” mutters Logan. He’s by your side at an instant, sliding his hands under your blanket in order to lift you into his lap. Fuck, he’s like a hot water bottle - you immediately snuggle into his chest to feel the warmth. “Baby, we shouldn’t have left you.”
Wade closes in, moving a finger side to side so that you follow it with your eyes. “Are you okay, sweetheart? How many handsome men do you see?”
“Two,” you chuckle, and Wade makes a show of tutting.
“Well you’re wrong there. Let’s be honest, only one of us is likely to win PEOPLE’s sexiest man alive award again, honey.”
You’re not sure what he means but he makes you smile, anyway.
“Wade, you’re handsome.”
“And you’re sick. I’m gonna go and get you some chicken soup, then we’re gonna sit here and watch that absolutely terrible show you like all night,” he announces, reaching over to give you a kiss on the forehead. “Haha, ew. Sweaty. I still love you though. Hold down the fort, peanut.” He reaches over to kiss Logan on the forehead too, who is remarkably accepting of it.
“Love you.” You hum as he peels off his suit and grabs some sweatpants, before moving your head to look up at Logan. “Love you too.”
Logan mutters it back, his lips buried into your crown, like he can will you better with the force of his affection.
Maybe, between them, they just might.
Taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear
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beefboyandbabygirl · 1 year ago
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Pup Code (18+)
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(SEQUEL TO GIRL CODE. Y/N IS NOT THE SAME PERSON)
pairing: college!mingyu x college!reader
genre: college au, smut (MDNI), fluff, crack
description: mingyu doesn't have crushes. he likes avril lavigne and sometimes he fucks pretty girls. but you seem to stir something in him that no one else can. without the trusty girl code, mingyu makes his own code to help you fall in love with him.
warnings: kindddaaa bad writing tihi, service top!mingyu, dom!mingyu, sub!reader ish, size kink (reader is mentioned several times to be smaller than mingyu and several key interactions are based on this fact), oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (dont do it guys...), praise (f. receiving), slight possessiveness?, mingu is soooo in love with y/n, he just wants to make her cum forever :( hes a total dork
quotes from my creative director (@joshibambi): "fuck realistic portrayals of sex with men. im very content with getting exposed to this", "men like this DONT exist",
wordcount: 5.7k
a/n: im back and i think ive regained my ability to write. thank u 2 @ryusha-rose for the amazing name for this fic, it ended up becoming a bigger part of the plot, so thank u sm to them tihihihi
This could not be happening.
Forever boring and bland, his friends had opted out of the party, and Mingyu stayed behind alone. Or not alone. He almost wished he were alone, because almost any company (even none!) was better than sitting across from the two idiots before him.
“Truth or dare, Mingyu!” Josh laughed smugly, and Jeonghan held his hand over his mouth, leaning into him. “Ohhhh, truth or dare!” 
Mingyu had been down this road before. There was no winning in this scenario, Josh and Jeonghan always attempting to pry embarrassing information from him. 
The party had settled down into a low hum. Most people were going home, either humping against another anonymous body as they stumbled out, or walking alone, jacket slung over their arm. There was no reason to stay, really, and torture himself with this circle of hell. Except, of course, for you.
“I don’t wanna do the chicken dance again, so I’m gonna go with truth,” Mingyu pursed his lips, determined to not act a fool in front of you.
He’d always been vaguely aware of you, but tonight had been his first time really sitting down with you. Contrary to your two best friends, you were cool and charming, and you didn’t seem like you wanted to embarrass him. This was already gaining you Mingyu-points, but he was absolutely taken aback by your humor and your smile and he, giddily, found himself liking you. 
Mingyu didn’t usually like people - not like he had always liked Avril Lavigne (there was a poster commemorating that crush in his dorm room) - so this felt big. He was nervous, hands clammy as they slid down his jeans. 
“Tell us about your first time,” Joshua asked innocently, mischief given away by how the older man cackled and slapped his arm. You watched in amusement, eyes flickering over to him, lashes coming over them in long, black lengths. He struggled to breathe when you held his eyes, so he sucked in a breath and looked at the floor, blushing. Damn it, he was already making a fool of himself.
“That’s so rude, Josh!” you said and threw a random chip at him. It hit him on the cheek and he groaned, face scrunching up in disgust. “Ask him something nicer.” 
“You’re so boring, Y/n.” 
Mingyu looked at you gratefully and you returned a warm smile to him.
“Yuck!” Jeonghan quacked from his seat between you and Josh. “You guys get a room! I can’t believe I let this stupid kids’ game take away from my boning.” 
“You’re so gross!” you groaned. 
“Josh was gonna hook me up with this girl from his class, dude,” Jeonghan continued complaining, forever going on about his ‘sexual conquests’. “Now I’m sitting with you dorks and you won’t even let us bully Mingyu.”
“Mingyu’s nice, you guys are just assholes,” you said, gesturing towards Mingyu with your beer. Mingyu was horrified.
Now was the time. Now was the moment to return the compliment; to say anything that might flatter you and defend you from the crooks that you apparently spent your time with. 
Now, this was a bit embarrassing for Mingyu. He had recently been adopted by a female friend group - some might even call him one of the girls, but alas! - so one would think he knew all about girls and how to approach them. The truth was, Mingyu was clueless. Beyond his daydreams of Avril Lavigne, and a few casual flings here and there, he had never actually been put in this situation. 
Mingyu thought about his girl-friends, thought about their advice and their critiques, and he knew. He knew it would frankly disappoint them if he came to them with no expertise, nothing learned from the countless girls’ nights. Therefore, he had to take matters into his own hands. 
“T-Thanks,” Mingu stuttered, lisping across the word. “Y-You’re also great.” 
Fuck, he was an idiot. 
You grinned at him and the sight of your beautiful smile, your shining skin and your gently falling hair was almost enough for him to miss how Josh and Jeonghan were lifting themselves off the floor in disgusted groans. 
“Alright, time to go. Shoo now, back to your dorms. Peasants.”  _____________________________
Mingyu didn’t need his girl-friends. 
He repeated this in his head for days, like a spiritual mantra, and maybe, he hoped, maybe he would start believing it. You and him had one mutual class and he counted down the days before he could swoop in and talk to you casually, flirtatiously, and seductively. 
With the absence of the very helpful girl code (it had certainly helped his friend, Jihoon, with his crush!) Mingyu discovered and consulted a new code. Mingyu code. 
He spent his days diligently writing down his own best advice. Some rules were more helpful than others.
“Mingyu code rule 3: always wash your hands after a shower,” he hummed to himself with a small, satisfied smile, while scrubbing his hands in the steamed up bathroom. 
“Mingyu code rule 12: go on bike rides frequently for a better jawline!” he panted, hunched over his bike, and pedalling through the nearby park in the beating sun. 
Now, Mingyu was mumbling all of his new-found rules to himself, books pressed into his chest, while he approached you in class. It was the middle of the day, and the class hadn’t started yet, people still filing in from the halls. Thankfully, you were sitting alone on your phone, both Jeonghan and Joshua nowhere to be seen. The universe was working with him.
But he was still sweaty and nervous and breathing unevenly when he finally reached you. Remember the code, he reminded himself, remember to be cool and calm.
“Hey...” he whispered, and then, louder: “Hey.” 
You looked up from your phone, smiling brightly when you saw him. For such a huge man, you realized he could look quite small. 
“Hey, Mingyu!” you said cheerfully, settling your phone down on the table before you. He shuffled to sit down next to you, jacket rustling against the wood. Your seat was near the back, so the hall felt great and wide, and a little bit like an audience to his fumbling. 
Rule 14, he remembered sneakily, always wear a jacket, so girls (Y/n) will marvel at your muscles when you take it off! 
Mingyu moved to take off his jacket, eyeing you as he did so, in what he certainly thought was a sultry and sexy look. You blinked back up at him, smiling.
Oh shit. 
Something was caught on- on something! Stuck with the jacket halfway down his arm, Mingyu began struggling and writhing in it, warmth spreading across his cheeks. You smiled at him fondly, biting back a chuckle. 
“Do you need help?” you asked. “No- No, I got it, uh-”
You moved to help anyway, tugging a corner of the jacket off the design of the chair, and he stared at you widely, because you were suddenly so close to him and so cool and calm and pretty, and your fingers danced along his skin. He breathed out a heavy sigh when it finally slid off his arms, furrowing his brows in embarrassment.
“You’re clumsy, huh?” you teased, settling back in your seat and Mingyu chuckled dryly. 
“You don’t know the half of it,” he murmured, and to his delight and surprise, you laughed. You had a loud laugh. It ripped itself from your throat and bounced off the walls of the classroom. He smiled proudly at how your face contorted in joy. 
“You’re funny, Gyu,” you said, stilling finally and he swore his heart galloped in his chest at the nickname. You were so pretty and so sweet, and he wanted to hug you so bad. He grinned, then looked around the room.
“Where are Joshua and Jeonghan?” 
“God knows,” you snorted. “I think they’re poisoning the water supply of some third world country, but I could be wrong.” 
It was Mingyu’s turn to laugh, and how couldn’t he? Because you were so smart and so gorgeous, and he truly didn’t understand how he was smitten by you so fast. There was something humbling about spending all his freetime scrolling through Instagram photos and giggling when you smiled prettily at the camera. 
Next step in Mingyu code was a little tip he’d borrowed from the countless renditions and repeats of the “Jihoon story”; a heartfelt confession.
Wait a minute. Was he skipping a few steps? Surely- Oh yeah, he definitely was. He couldn’t help but want to skip to cuddling, but going from step one to seven was maybe a bit of a stretch. Jogging his brain for his ultimate “confession for Y/n” gameplan, Mingyu didn’t even notice the lull in the conversation, while he stared at you with furrowed brows and a pout.
“So, uh,” you began awkwardly, and Mingyu finally snapped out of his daze. Shit, he was being a dork again. “You coming to the party on Friday?” 
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there. Jus’.. Love partying.”
There was no salvaging this.
“Alright,” you giggled, confused, and finally turned your eyes to the board when the professor began speaking.
Friday, he thought, gulping down the shame. Friday I make some serious moves. _____________________________
Mingyu was not making serious moves. In fact, he wasn’t making any moves at all.
He’d never felt more strange, standing on the edge of the dancefloor and bending his knees awkwardly to the rhythm of the music. His limbs were mile long stretches and they swung uselessly around him. He looked almost lost, but, of course, it was only Soonyoung’s house. 
“You okay, man?” Wonwoo, his roommate, padded up beside him, eyeing him warily through the lens of his glasses. “Are you on something?” 
“No, I’m not on something!” Mingyu huffed, stopping his frankly pathetic dance moves and looking directly at the man before him. “I just… You know that girl Josh and Jeonghan are always hanging out with?” 
Wonwoo nodded.
“I kind of.. Really.. Like her.”
“What?!” Wonwoo exclaimed, completely forgoing his drink to look at Mingyu in bewilderment. “You haven’t liked anyone since Avril Lavigne!” 
“I know! But this girl’s just really smart and cool and funny,” Mingyu smiled shyly, eyeing you where you sat with Josh and Jeonghan, as well as two girls he didn’t recognize  - oh, wait, no, Jeonghan and one of the girls were leaving together. Just you, Josh and the blonde then. Wait, no, now Josh was leaving with the blonde. Just you.
Wonwoo saw how Mingyu’s eyes brightened with opportunity and he smiled beneath the rim of his plastic cup.
“Wait! Wonwoo! You can wingman me!” Mingyu exclaimed suddenly, hoping the older man’s presence might ease the interaction. 
“What? No!” Wonwoo grimaced.
“Why not?”
“You don’t deserve my services, Mingyu! Not after what you did to me!” 
“We’ve talked about this, the Jihoon-story is a very sweet thing and you should be happy to have been a part of it-” 
“I’m talking about the other time. Or the other-other time!”
Mingyu slumped, a pout on his pink lips. Wonwoo softened, but stayed steadfast nonetheless.
“Listen, just go talk to her. I have a girl waiting for me upstairs, I just wanted to see if you were okay,” the older man said softly, patting his shoulder while a drink was clutched in his other hand, liquid dancing against the cup-walls when he wafted his hand.
“I would be more okay if you wing-manned me-” 
“Alright, that’s enough,” Wonwoo murmured, walking away towards the stairs. Mingyu sighed and looked over at you. You were chewing your lip, face lit by the screen of your phone. 
“Mingyu code rule 17: Confidence is key. Confidence is sexy,” Mingyu reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut and beginning to walk over to you. “You’re hot, Mingyu. You have big muscles and a pretty face.”
Mingyu could’ve almost convinced himself, but when he opened his eyes, legs mindlessly padding closer to you, you were so pretty and so intoxicating, he faltered completely. 
“H-Hi,” he stammered, brows immediately pulling up in disdain at himself. You looked up and smiled immediately, face shining bright. “Hi, Gyu! Come sit down with me!” 
He nodded dumbly, and squeezed in beside you. His muscly arms were pressed into himself and leaning on his thighs, and he tried to compose his features into something sexy and sultry, when he turned to look at you. You smiled in a sort of knowing way that had Mingyu dropping his face immediately. 
“You enjoying the party?” he rasped, turning to look out at the crowd. You pursed your lips and looked at it with him. “Not sure. It’s kind of boring and Josh and Jeonghan just left.” 
“Yeah, I saw,” he sighed, then widened his eyes. Oh God, he thought, what if you thought he was a total creep - a creepster - staring at you from across the room all creepily. “Not that I- I wasn’t- I just saw it, like, casually across the roo-” 
“Mingyu, do you want to take me out on a date?” 
Huh?
“Huh?” 
Mingyu didn’t know if he was hearing that right. The words had come so naturally and so casually from your mouth, and now you were staring at him with furrowed brows and pursed lips, and waiting expectantly for him to answer. 
“Do you want to take me out on a date?” you repeated, shrugging your shoulders, as if it were just the weather. Mingyu stared at you with whole, wide eyes, and swallowed hard. Clammy hands gripped his knees.
“Yeah,” he breathed, laughing awkwardly. His mouth was so dry and his heartbeat was almost painful in his chest, although the tensions were eased when smiled sympathetically. “I mean- if you want to-” 
“I want to go on a date with you too, Mingyu,” you reassured, smiling even wider when his lips mimicked your own. 
“Oh my God, okay, so, I was thinking Olive Garden-” Mingyu giggled, and his pure expression of joy was infectious, genuinely making your heart soar, as this huge, muscly man bounced on the couch cushions. He cut himself off halfway, narrowing his eyes. “Wait, wait, how did you know?” 
“How did I know what?” you frowned.
“That I like you?” 
Your immediate reaction was to snort. This only confused Mingyu further, so you elected to respond truthfully: “Mingyu, you always look at me so longingly, seriously-”
“That- those were sexy faces!” he pouted. 
“No, they were longing and tender. Like pull-apart meat. And then sometimes you do the- the Zoolander face-” 
“I’ve never done the Zoolander face in my life!” 
“And all your moves are so obvious, Gyu,” you watched how he slumped at those comments, a little, pitiful pout on his lips, all deflated like a puppy. You reached a hand over to caress his arm, warm and hard with muscle under your fingertips. Mingyu immediately leaned into your touch, pout being replaced with a small goofy smile. “It was very endearing, though. You’re very cute.” 
“I was going for sexy,” Mingyu said, mood lifted at your compliment, but still a little pouty.
“Then go sexy on our date,” you squeezed his bicep in your hand and he perked up. “Now that you know I like you too.” 
Hearing those words, that admission, Mingyu smiled to himself. 
Mingyu Code; he truly was genius. _____________________________
“So no Olive Garden?” you quipped, standing outside of a more upscale restaurant - candlelit and warm and Italian. Mingyu shook his head. He’d thought Olive Garden would woo any girl, but after triumphantly boasting to his girl-friends (mothers), that he’d gotten a date with a girl he liked, he’d been nothing but scolded by the restaurant choice (“A girl wants to feel pampered! Olive Garden is for post-6-month-relationships!” Yeri had squawked). 
“Not until in six months,” Mingyu said, shrugging when you lifted a brow in question. Cars were bustling past where you were standing on the sidewalk. Grass sprouted from the cracks in the cement and people idled past where the two of you were facing each other, your head craning up to his. “Wanna go inside?” he asked.
Mingyu had become more at ease, following your admission. You liked him too, he tried to remember, whenever the butterflies batting around his curving ribcage became too much. And it was becoming too much now, with how your lips spread in a smile and you nodded at him.
You walked in, hand in hand. The tables were fine, polished wood and there was a slightly-stained, white tablecloth draped over the rounded surface of the table. Sneakily, Mingyu nudged some salt and pepper shakers over the yellow splotches on the fabric, hoping you wouldn’t notice, and that you’d feel pampered. You were busy looking at the menu. 
Mingyu asked about everything - not because of Girl Code or Mingyu Code or whatever other bullshit way to woo a woman. No, he asked because he was sincerely and utterly interested in you, what made you you, what habits you got from your childhood, what made you choose your major, how you knew Josh and Jeonghan. You were so beautiful in the light of the restaurant, but more importantly, you were the most infatuating individual Mingyu had ever laid his eyes on. Maybe even more so than Avril Lavigne. 
You got to talking about Mingyu Code. 
“Well, it was because of my friends. They have Girl Code, right?” 
“Yeah, that’s God’s rules,” you hummed, sipping on a soda. 
“Mhm, and my friend followed Girl Code and he got with this girl he really liked.” 
“Mhm.” 
“But I decided to make Mingyu Code. Which is about being sexy and charming.” 
“You were none of those things,” you teased, but Mingyu had gained confidence and he leaned back in his seat with a smirk, stretching out his arms, as if gesturing to the restaurant. 
“Well, I beg to differ. You’re here now, aren’t you?” 
“I suppose I am,” you smiled, admitting defeat. “Although I don’t think you were following Mingyu Code.” 
“Yes, I was, I made it. I’m the founder of that shit,” Mingyu grimaced.
“Well, if Mingyu Code is about being sexy, then you definitely accidentally followed some other code.”
“Wha-”
“Puppy code. You’re like a big, clumsy puppy. Yeah,” you nodded to yourself, satisfied with your new name for Mingyu’s terrible, horrible guide to wooing you. “Pup Code.” 
“Why does everyone call me that?” Mingyu whined, crossing his arms and pouting. Your plates were empty and streaks of cream sauce sludged up the sides of the porcelain. 
“You give off major himbo vibes,” you said.
“I’m smart, though,” Mingyu huffed. You smiled fondly at his bratty expression. 
“I know you are.” 
Mingyu caught your eye and caught the sincerity in them, and it made his whole body ache and flutter. You liked him too, it was clear and not something Mingyu had to tell himself, it was right there, right behind your retina, twinkling at him. 
“Do you wanna..?” Mingyu trailed off, pointing his thumb to the door. You pursed your lips.
“What if I wanna take it slow?” You asked, and it was almost adorable how Mingyu’s eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently and seriously. 
“That’s okay! We can- we can totally do that,” he said decidedly, as if it weren’t a bother at all (because it wasn’t). 
“Okay,” you nodded, letting go of your now finished drink. “But if I want you to take me to your room right now and fuck me?”
Mingyu whipped his head to yours, the way a door bursts open. You saw him swallow, throat dry and heavy, and biting his lip.
“That- That would be okay, too,” Mingyu said shakily, blushing furiously. Images flashed his mind of you in less-than-sacred scenarios, and he squeezed his eyes shut to ward them away. 
“Okay, then let’s go,” you shrugged nonchalantly. 
“To my room?” He almost couldn’t believe it.
“Yes.” 
“Okay, fuck, let me just pay.”
Mingyu didn’t think he’d ever paid and left a restaurant so fast, and he was enamored with you enough to completely skip the step where he contemplated whether or not the staff secretly hated him. You and him walked hand in hand, as he practically dragged you through the street back to the dorms, his long legs working faster and more efficiently than your own. You half wanted to complain at the brutal pace, but you couldn’t lie. You needed him just as much as he needed you. And he knew that too. 
Thankfully the restaurant wasn’t too far from the dorms, and Mingyu had frantically texted Wonwoo to “get out or he’d be squirted with semen” (a threat that Wonwoo didn’t need to hear twice!), so after ten minutes and some sore legs on your part, Mingyu and you scrambled into his room.
Mingyu liked the privacy, you realized, because it wasn’t until the door was closed, and you both were sealed away in the Mingyu-zone, that he finally walked up to you, hands finding your waist with a confidence you didn’t think possible for him.
“Can I kiss you now?” he whispered, somewhat out of breath from the climb up the stairs. You smiled at him. “I’d be mad if you didn’t.” 
And then he pounced. His plush lips were soft and well-moisturized, and his annoying, perfect nose brushed against yours; in fact his whole stupidly gorgeous face was pressed into yours, as your lips thrummed together, and you were conjoined into one being by the lips. 
His hands ran up and down your sides, finally taking hold firmly, only to pull you into his lap when he settled on the edge of his bed. You straddled his lap, as your lips danced, his tongue peeking out to enter your mouth. You moaned gratefully. Involuntarily, your hips rolled into his, and the jolt reverberated all the way up to his lips where he cried out and panted against your mouth. 
“You’re so pretty,” he said in between heated kisses. 
“So are you,” you said. He pulled away and smiled up at you, and he was truly worthy of the puppy-title, because his grin was so goofy and his eyes twinkled and he was so warm against you, it almost hurt. 
Carefully, he pressed a kiss to the valley of your breasts over your t-shirt, looking up at you with wide, brown eyes. “Can I eat you out?” 
The way he said it like he was completely and totally enamored with you (he was), like it was in this very moment of sitting on his lip and running your hands up his huge arms, that he was falling in love with you (it was), almost made you bashful. Your smile, usually cheeky and teasing, came small and shy. 
“Yeah, I-I wouldn’t mind that at all,” you responded, cursing at yourself for letting your confidence falter. However joy spread on Mingyu’s face like the ever-expanding universe spreads into endless empty space, because for once the tables were turned, and you were right underneath his hands, and he was flustering you. 
It had him pushing you onto his bed, head falling into the depths of his pillow, and working at your skirt to shimmy it down your legs. You lifted your hips in help and soon enough that and your shirt was discarded on the floor. Mingyu, with his black tee and his big arms and his sweetest-hottest face on Earth, settled between your legs with a dumb grin. 
“I can’t believe-” he cut himself off with a satisfied sigh, staring at your pussy. You were pushing yourself up by your arms, looking at the man-child between your legs just staring at your core as if it were his most prized possession. “I-I can’t believe I get to have you like this. I can’t believe you’re mine.”
Mingyu’s face fell (it was almost comical), and his eyes snapped up to yours. “Wait, are you mine? You are mine, right?” 
You giggled fondly. “Yeah, I’m yours, Mingyu.” 
Mingyu’s grin returned immediately and he nodded happily, eyes turning back to your pussy. 
“It’s so pretty,” he sighed, fangs poking out where his smile ended. One finger ran through your folds, wet from the making out and all the heated stares from lovedumb Mingyu. You whined a little at the pressure when his finger reached your clit. He was so close you could feel him panting against it. 
“Mingyu, please, stop staring at it, and do something,” you cried and Mingyu pursed his lips and nodded. “Right, yeah, sorry.” 
And then he dived in. 
His nose pressed into your clit as soon as he pushed his head in, tongue stuck out to lick at your folds. Your hands flew to his hair, a desperate moan leaving you. It was a little embarrassing how loud he was, huffing and puffing at your pussy, but you couldn’t complain when his tongue traced up from your hole to your clit, lips wrapping around it. 
“A-Aah, M-Mingyu-” you cried and pushed his head further into your core, while your hips canted off the mattress. The press of his nose was amazing, and his breaths danced across your nerves. “S-Shit, that feels so good.” 
Mingyu was totally lost in you though. Your taste on his tongue, your soft thighs underneath his hands where he pushed you apart, your moans, and the desperation in your movements. The fact that you were so catty and witty, but with a few flicks of his tongue, your facade fell and you became a whiny, desperate mess, begging for him. And he loved to give it to you. He loved that you felt good, he loved being the one to make you feel good. Lapping and panting into your pussy, Mingyu started to think he didn’t ever need to leave. You could just feel good forever! The logic was flawless.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you cried and you came on his tongue, cum seeping out of your sopping pussy. Mingyu, strong and tan and shiny Mingyu, didn’t stop though. Too enchanted by your soft moans and your nail in his roots, and your juices on his lips, he kept at it, tongue-fucking you to slurp up the cum. 
“M-Mingyu-” you whimpered softly, and his only response was a grunt, and one hand sliding off your thighs to prod at your entrance. “M-Mingyu, I-I already came!” you cried, more insistent. 
“You can cum again,” he mumbled gruffly, two fingers pushing into you. The feeling was so intense your voice became strangled and your chest pushed off his bed.
“Just say if you wanna stop, then I’ll stop,” his tone was almost challenging, as he pulled his face away from your dripping pussy and his fingers stilled inside you to give you a chance to answer. You looked down at him, panting, as he waited expectantly. Your ‘stop’ didn’t come. 
“That’s what I thought,” Mingyu grinned again, and God, this time it was sexy; not endearing, not awkward, not clumsy. It was so incredibly hot and he dived right back to your pussy, tongue swaddling your folds and fingers beginning to pump in and out. 
Your clit grinded against his face, slick smearing all over him, but he didn’t seem to care one bit, your cum on his cheek and two fingers working inside you, curling into your g-spot. “Cum again,” he gasped in between sucking on your clit with pointed lips. “Cum again, I wanna hear it again. You sounded so pretty, please, cum again. On my fingers now.” 
And he was rambling for sure, but it was working for you, because for the second time that night, a knot tightened in your belly and the string were pulled tighter and tighter with each lick and suck, and eventually it snapped, and your whole body spasmed and your pussy pulsated around his thick fingers. 
This time, he did stop. You closed your eyes and heaved for air, lying completely still in the sheets of his bed and panting for air. Mingyu smiled cheekily, pulling his fingers out of your sensitive pussy and licking them clean. As if it was nothing. As if it was juice from a popsicle, his tongue peaked out and he sucked your essence off of them, groaning at its taste. 
“Can you go on again? You taste so good,” he hummed, eyeing your fucked-out state. Your cheeks were flushed and strands of hair stuck to your sweaty face. You shook your head. “No, no, I want your cock now.” 
“Anything for you,” Mingyu agreed, shuffling to take his clothes off while you regrouped. 
It was not long before he was climbing over your body, so fucking huge and covering your entire form in his own, muscles flexing when he lowered himself onto you. As if by nature, Mingyu, tan and glistening in the bedside lamp, grabbed you by under your knees and pushed them to your chest, pressing them into you. 
“Wanna fuck you like this,” he pressed a kiss to one of the knees that was now folded over you. “Can I fuck you like this?” 
“Please!” you sobbed, because the position, and his strong hands holding you there, and your own slick covering his face had your pussy dripping onto his bed, and you could practically feel the heavy presence of his dick, even if it wasn’t touching you yet. 
Mingyu tilted his head as he looked down at you. You were so easy to admire. It was so easy for him to fall into every little jerk and breath and crevice of your face, and you looked so beautiful underneath him, Mingyu started to think he wanted nothing more for the rest of his life than to make you feel this good. 
“Okay,” he whispered, and only then did you notice how he stared at you, because there was something very tender in his voice. Adoration poured directly from his heart and into you.
Before you could get lost in his warm eyes, he moved one hand down to steer his dick into you. You cried out when you felt it pressing against your slit, cried even more when it started pressing into you. 
You had suspected Mingyu might be big, but nothing could’ve prepared you for each inch that seemed to endlessly plunge into your heat. Stretching you out like a rubber band, Mingyu finally bottomed out in you, his hard pelvis resting against your mound. 
“Shit, Gyu, y-you’re so fucking big,” you gasped, and then opened your eyes to see him smirking proudly. It made you giggle. He hummed giddily, looking down at your stomach. 
“You’re just so fucking small,” he said then, pressing one hand to your stomach, and then groaning when he could feel his dick inside you. “Shit.” 
At that, Mingyu started pounding into you. His pace was fucking relentlessly, something seemingly awakened in him at the bulging in your stomach. “Shit, shit, shit, my tiny, pretty baby, fuck, you’re so fucking gorgeous.” 
The praise had you reeling into him, it had you crying out and gripping onto his shoulders for dear life, while he worked up a sweat pistoning in and out of your pussy. You moans were shaken from the impact of his dick in your pussy. “Shit, so fucking tight, can hardly fucking take me.” 
“G-Gyu, f-fuck-” 
“But you’ll take it, hm? Fuck, I wanna make you cum so much more, jus’ have you in my room, making you cum over n’ over again. Shit.” 
You had not pegged Mingyu as a dirty talker, and you weren’t even sure if he was aware of what he was doing. Something about having his dick inside you, warm walls just pulled one dirty slew of words out after another. He’d never fucked a girl like this, never felt compelled to tell her exactly what she was doing to him. Not like with you.
You were so gorgeous to him, the way your chest bounced, and your eyes were screwed shut and how your mouth was opened in continuous, strained moans. It was how your hair bunched up on his pillow, and how your skin felt against his, and how you clenched at every word he spewed, while grinded into you like you were the only other person in the world. 
“F-fuck, my pretty fucking baby, you’re mine, right? Say it and I’ll make you cum forever, jus’-” he groaned, as your pussy clenched down on him extra tight. His pace fell and his hands on your knees dug into the skin. “Jus’ say you’re mine, please, Y/n.” 
“I-I’m yours, Gyu!” you cried out, his pace speeding up again and another orgasm bubbled in your stomach, and you pussy clenched embarrassingly hard for embarrassingly long. “Only yours, fuck.” 
“That’s right. Cum again, let- let me hear it one more time, yeah?” 
You came. Again. Clenching down so hard, and face twisting in pleasure, cum spilled out of you and coated his dick, still inside you.
Your third orgasm was a melodious song, and you moaned to it so loudly, you knew people three halls over would be wondering what was going on. But you could care less, letting his presence, his smell, his being above you drag more bursts of pleasure out of your body. 
Your breathing calmed down again, your soul traveling down from a sky-high mountain, and you started to feel it all again. Your orgasm had been so blinding, you had lost all of your senses but the blinding white explosion in your stomach, and now sighed heavily, pushing yourself up a little.
To your surprise, Mingyu’s hold on your knees didn’t let up, and it took you a moment to realize that his dick was still extremely hard inside you. He hadn’t cum yet.
“Want you to cum again,” Mingyu smiled sheepishly, adjusting his position to be able to pound into you again. You looked at him incredulously, and he chuckled a little, shrugging. “Just say if you want to stop.”
“Safe word is ‘pup’.” 
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holylulusworld · 6 months ago
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My annoying sexy neighbor
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Title: My annoying sexy neighbor
Written for @buckybarnesbingo (Round 6)
Card: B004
Square Filled: C3: free space - Neighbor AU
Ship/Main Pairing: Neighbor!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader
Rating: Explicit
Major Tags/Triggers/Warnings: voyeurism, daydreaming, objectification of Bucky Barnes and his metal arm, a lil fingering, light/implied smut (unprotected)
Summary: Summer is extra hot this year.
Word Count: 1,3k+
Written for week 4 of @buckybarnesevents: Free Week
Prompt filled for: 2023 @buckybarnesbingo (expired): B2: “Get off my lawn”
Prompt filled for: @sebastianstanbingo: Square 2: “I bet all our neighbors can hear you.”
Prompt filled for: Navy and Roo’s slumber party presents bingo @the-slumberparty (expired): crush
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You hate him. You can’t even describe how much you hate him.
James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky to his friends. The worst neighbor ever.
It’s his fault you hate him.
Not because he’s a bad neighbor. No. He’s friendly, a little cocky maybe, but very helpful. If you’d have to describe his character, you’d say he’s a kind guy with a good sense of humor. Bucky offers to mow your lawn, help you with your trashcan, or fix your fence.
You hate him because he slowly makes your resolve crumble to never fall for a man again. Especially not the hot kind of man. You know, the kind of man wanting you to fling your panties across the room and suck him off without even knowing his name.
He makes your life so much harder. Before he moved in across the street, you came home from work and had time to relax. Sometimes you indulged in watching the rerun of old shows.
Now you must race home to not miss him working out, bringing out the trashcan, or mowing the lawn. Whatever Bucky does, he does it shirtless. You get lucky if he wears more than the shortest shorts you ever saw on a man.
If only you could say “Get off my lawn” and forget about him. But you have this stupid crush on your sexy neighbor.
Just like today. You raced home, almost running your trashcan over when parking your car because he was mowing his lawn while shaking his ass.
That bastard dared to wave at you and call you a pretty doll! How dare that man to tease you with his perfect abs on full display!
Sweat was running down his chest, and he did the worst thing possible.
Bucky killed the engine of his mower, jogged toward you, and emptied a bottle of water over his head. Water ran down his body and you had no other choice but to watch it wander down to his shorts. Fucking tight shorts… The fabric left little to nothing to your imagination. “That” was on full display, and you could tell, it was big.
“Hey, doll,” the fucker grinned as your eyes were glued to his artificial arm. A beautiful piece of technology. He once told you it was custom-made, and that he can feel everything, even though, it’s not made of skin, flesh, and bones. “How was work?”
“Boring and…hot,” you swallowed thickly. Your throat was suddenly too dry, and your panties soaked.
“Hot?” He laughed at your predicament. Bucky didn’t miss the way your eyes roamed his body. He had hoped that today was the day you finally broke. “If you are hot,” he stepped closer to run his metal index finger over your cheek, “you can come over and cool off in my pool. I just cleaned it.”
“I-I,” you would kill to swim, but being around Bucky in only your swimsuit was something you tried to avoid. He invited you over more than once to cool off.
“We can order food,” he smirked at you, already grabbing your hand. “Come on, doll. Don’t make me beg. I don’t want to swim alone. We can have a pool party.”
You considered his words. For a second you wanted to chicken out and come up with an excuse. “I promise to wear swim shorts.”
“Okay,” you finally said, defeated by your neediness. “Let me get the trashcan inside and have a shower. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Let me handle the trashcan,” he flashed you a smile. “I’ll be waiting for you after I took care of it and put the mower away. I can mow the rest of my lawn tomorrow.”
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You took your time and checked your appearance in the mirror more than once. It wasn’t in your plans to draw too much attention toward you. So, you wore a light summer dress over your swimsuit and hastily made a salad to have an excuse to visit Bucky. The ladies in the neighborhood love to gossip.
“Doll,” before you got the chance to knock Bucky opened the front door. He glanced at the salad but said nothing. “No food before swimming.”
“It’s for…uh…later,” you stammered, still unsure if it was a good idea to come to Bucky’s place. “If we get hungry after swimming.”
“I will order food, doll,” he purred and shamelessly wrapped his metal arm around your shoulders. You shuddered at the sensation of the cool metal against your heated skin. “You’ll get all you desire.”
Bucky had no clue that your heartbeat quickened, and you felt like your legs were about to give in as he guided you through his house. “Oh gosh! I forgot a towel,” you tried to talk yourself out of this bad idea.
“Doll, I got more than enough towels,” he pecked your cheek. “I got all you’ll need before, during, and after your swim.” Bucky flashed you this irresistible smirk again. “How about you get comfortable, and I put the salad in the fridge and change into my swim shorts.”
“Sure,” you almost whined when he dropped his metal arm from around your shoulders to leave your side. He threw a look over his shoulder to look at you right when you turned around yourself to glance at his wide back and ass.
“Go ahead, Y/N. Get comfortable,” he chuckled and walked a little faster to reach the kitchen and change clothing. Bucky couldn’t wait to get in the pool with you.
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You looked down at your body to check on your swimsuit. Just like Bucky suggested, you got into the water to cool off. Or maybe to hide that you soaked your swimsuit.
“I see you already got comfortable,” Bucky winked at you before he jumped into the pool, splashing water in your face. You shrieked and giggled because he grabbed you by your waist to press you against the pool wall. He smirked when you shuddered in his embrace. “Let’s get you even more comfortable.”
His lips claimed yours before you could ask him if you saw right. You moved your hand between your bodies to feel him up. “Doll, you’re naughty,” he purred against your lips.
“You are the naughty one, wearing no swim shorts, Mr. Barnes,” you smirked while stroking his cock. “You invited me for a swim and come here, wearing nothing but a smirk.”
“Baby, tell me you’re not wet and we can swim or,” he kissed you again, greedily shoving his tongue inside your mouth. “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to do this to you?”
“No,” you dropped your hand from his cock to wrap your arms around his neck. “Do you know how long I wanted to do this to you?” You slung your legs around his waistline to slowly grind against him.
“Fuck…baby…”
“Louder!” You rubbed yourself against his aching cock, making your sexy neighbor groan loudly. “Louder!!”
“Fuck! I wanna fuck you!” He wildly jerked his hips.
“I bet all our neighbors can hear you,” you teased, all the while rolling your hips. “What about you show me how much you want to fuck me?”
He hastily shoved your swimsuit aside, exposing your cunt to his greedy fingers. “You know that you’re mine from now on. None of the other lonely guys can have you.”
Bucky worked your swollen bud with skilled fingers. Of course, the bastard knew how to make you even more desperate for his cock.
“Bucky,” you whined and whimpered. “Please.”
He silenced your moans with his lips, sealing your fate while replacing his fingers with something better. Bucky slipped inside, ignoring that you groaned against his lips because of the wide stretch.
You held onto him and slung your legs tighter around his waistline for dear life.
“I bet all our neighbors can hear you,” he groaned against your lips. “How about we give them a good reason to talk about us from tomorrow on?”
Part 2
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Tags in reblog.
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hemipenal-system · 1 year ago
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aww, what’s the matter? why are you crying?
you’re scared? what of, morsel?
me? why are you scared of me? you asked me to hold you in my mouth until we got somewhere warmer, and my mouth is plenty warm…
don’t worry about me, morsel… i’m your friend, i would never eat you… at least not permanently.
hey, hey, no, don’t worry! i said i wouldn't hurt you and i meant it!
come out? i'm sorry, morsel, i can't let you out yet! it's so cold out here you'd practically freeze to death if i let you out! besides, all that saliva you're soaked with now... it'd just make you colder. i think it's best if i just hold on to you for now.
besides, i think you're enjoying this more than you want to admit to me.
oh, come on. you think i can't feel how you squirm when i curl my tongue along your back? how you grab onto my teeth desperately when i curl it over you and scrape the rough side against your bare legs?
you know, my tongue was designed with a purpose. every part of a creature as beautiful as me is. those hard keratin spikes you enjoy so much? they’re meant to grind against bigger creatures than you, shearing flesh from bone and slathering what’s left in enzyme-loaded saliva that begins to melt you down to bone shadows even before you’re swallowed…
oh, no, not for you. you’re very small, small enough i could swallow you whole. you’d like it more that way, wouldn’t you? alive and conscious for the whole thing?
yes, morsel, i know why you were so eager to climb into my mouth- and i know it’s not fear of heights like you claimed. we may be a mile above the ground with only my wings and internal fire to sustain us, but my blood runs through me everywhere and my claws would have been more than warm enough to keep you safe from the biting cold at this altitude.
don’t worry, this is what you’re supposed to want. you’re from a prey species. sure, we have peace treaties now and you have enough weapons to fend us off now, but for millennia that’s how it went! you ran, you got pinned down, you struggled, and then we tore you limb from limb, reveling in the blood and adrenaline of a meal well hunted…
you don’t have to be embarrassed, morsel! you’re allowed to want me to devour you! i know you find me attractive – in the same way a mouse finds a cat attractive, of course. you’ve always had an affinity for dragons. i’ve seen how you look at the other riders who’re more… open about what they do with their mounts. you can tell me those things, you know.
i told you, i’m not going to let you out! it’s not safe for you at this height or temperature!
yes, obviously i've thought about doing this to you. never seriously, but... enough. humans make wonderful prey... your gentle struggling because you're intelligent enough to trust us and know we won't really hurt you even if we draw a bit of blood... it's very different than tearing the horns off a deer and swallowing it whole, you know.
i've eaten your kind before, you know. i wasn't always so... docile. your nomad convoys made such wonderful buffets: chicken, beef, pork, human – and you always had such wonderful fruits and spices in those little covered wagons of yours! i enjoyed cracking them open like nuts, devouring everything inside.
no, you're not nutritious at all. your meat is really stringy. the terrified shaking and pleading is tantalizing, though...
what do you mean, "what are you doing?" all this talk about food is making me hungry. i'm just savoring your taste is all. you're like one of those hard candies you humans buy from the market to suck on, except warm and salty and savory and-
i could swallow you. it'd be so easy.
no, no, not digest you. stop writhing like that – or continue if you want. it feels nice. i'd just swallow you and hold you in my first stomach for a while. think of it as a warm, damp, dark hug from me. no pain, no flesh itching and melting off, just a gentle squeeze.
hold still, morsel. i need to reposition you a bit is all. that's right, legs like that, arms go that way - yes, exactly! now don't move.
yes, i know it's a bit tight. my prey is a bit more chewed, usually. stop complaining about it or i'll pull you back up and bite you into small pieces so you'll fit better. is that what you want?
there. is that comfortable? i can adjust a bit if you want. hey, no, stop squirming. you're not going to die. that is not stomach acid. if you don't stop panicking i'm going to have to squeeze to hold you still.
i told you. i'm very much stronger than you. stop trying to push out. you're going to sit in there whether you like it or not, morsel.
stop calling you that? why should i? you're literally in my stomach. are you not food, at least for the moment?
don't even tempt me. i am hungry.
just go to sleep or something. we're going to be in the air for a while. if you stop wiggling around in there i'll let you out when i land. i know how soothing it is to be in there. i was a hatchling once too, you know.
i can literally feel you relaxing as my crop massages you. you're yawning. don't even lie to me.
good night, morsel...
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thegnomelord · 1 year ago
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Got an idea for prompt #20. Ghost, Price and male reader for monster au with reader wanting to try giving up control for once
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Sure thing mate! I kinda got ahead of myself lol. Play the game HERE.
Prompt: Trusting enough to give up control
CW: NSFW, Dom dragon Price, Switch wraith Ghost, Sub male mage Reader, Monster au, collars, blowjobs, Dom/Sub, praise kink.
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You don't have a right to feel apprehensive; you suggested this after all, but your fingers tremble as you trace the leather inscribed with anti-magic runes. The collar should feel comfortable around your neck, you know because you touched the leather a thousand times before even humoring the idea of putting it on... but the idea of being without magic — completely defenseless — arouses and scares the shit out of you.
A blackened hand grips your jaw almost too tenderly, tilting your head up so you meet Simon's gaze. "Havin' second thoughts?" He presses closer to you until he's bullied his way between your legs with his knees spreading your own, boxers retaining all of your modesties for now.
You give a small sound, neither confirming nor denying. It earns you a weak slap to the inner thigh from Price's tail, his chest and your back fitting together like puzzle pieces. "There's no shame in backing out." He purrs, sharp talons gently massaging the sting out of your thigh while his tail curls around your shin. "But we need you to be vocal lad-" He takes the collar from your hand, "-do you want this?"
"Get on with it." You snap before you can chicken out, breathing in to calm your nerves. "...please."
The last word has Price rewarding you by groping your cock. "Good boy," Simon looks at him for permission, his lips sealing over yours to swallow your groan as soon as it's given. Your teeth click together, his kisses always so aggressive and demanding that you almost forget about the collar until you feel the cold buckle against your skin.
The effect is immediate; an unpleasant jolt rushes down your spine to flood every vertebrae with a bone gnawing cold, a heavy fog settling over a portion of your mind. The leather puts resistance on your throat as you breathe as if to mock you for your choice, reminding of how weak you are, how useless-
Price places a gentle kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling your skin and claws carding through your hair. "Color?"
Simon's hands grope your sides, the collar turning even the wraith's freezing hands blessedly warm. "Go on, use that pretty mind for us." He orders in a gruffer voice, his lips still close to yours.
"Green," You suck in a small breathe, goosebumps spreading across your skin. "Just cold."
Simon presses even closer to you, burning lips taking your breath away so he can nibble on your lip. "Can't have that, can we Captain?" He smirks, ignoring you to look at Price. "'specially when our boy's being so docile."
"'s that so?" You notice how Price keeps a possessive hand over your throat, one finger hooked underneath the collar. "D'you think you've earned a reward?" He asks, his other hand tracing down your front to play with the band of your boxers.
"Please." The word escapes your throat before your mind can even finish processing the question.
"Good boy," Prices loves the way you shiver, loves the sight of you so open and vulnerable just for them; he catches Simon licking his lips. "Go on then Simon," His hand slides beneath your boxers to push the band down until your cock springs out. "'m sure you're hungry." Just seeing your rock hard cock throb when he swipes his roughly scared thumb across the head has Price's own dick go hard.
"I'm not the only one." Simon rumbles and bites your collarbone, leaving a trail of dark hickeys and teeth imprints across your front until he's face to face with your aching cock. "Fuck, such an adorable thing." He growls against the meat of your thigh, biting you there just so he can see a drop of pre-cum bead atop your cock head. "Should keep a collar 'round your neck all the time so you can be pretty and pliant for us."
"Simon-" The width of his shoulders and Price's tail around your shin keeps you from closing your legs, embarrassment making your cheeks burn hot. "-you fucker," You growl and attempt to grab his hair so you can get his mouth where you need it.
You yelp when Price slaps your cock with his tail, pain and pleasure flaring up your spine. "None of that." Price growls, keeping a hand on your collar and pinning your hands to your stomach with the other. "Play nice-" His eyes shift to Simon's. "-both of you."
"Yes sir." Simon relents, grabbing a hold of your cock your eyes close as he licks from your base to the tip of your cock. A little squeeze of Price's hand has your eyes snapping open just in time to see Simon's monstrously long tongue loll out of his mouth, wrapping and stroking your shaft as he suckles your head, drool and your pre-cum staining his chin.
"Good boys." Price rumbles as your head falls back on his shoulder, barely able to keep your eyes open as Simon sucks you like a trained whore, leaving fingerprint bruises while he holds your hips down from bucking. "Simon feels good, doesn't he?" You nod your head, hissing when Simon suddenly swallows you down to the base; Wraiths don't need to breathe and Simon takes full advantage of that fact by swallowing around you, hot throat spasming and long tongue stroking the sensitive veins along your cock.
"Go on sweetheart." Price nibbles on your ear as you shake and try not to cum quickly like a teenager but it's a loosing battle, Simon's hot mouth and the dark look he gives as he stares at you has you tumbling towards orgasm faster than anything else. "No need to hold on." He lets go off your hands to push Simon's head even further down on your cock, until your tip's pocking the back of his throat.
Price's permission is all it takes, the building heat in your stomach spilling over the sides as you cum, your hips uselessly bucking against Simon's hold as you cum down his throat. Simon doesn't even choke, throat constricting and milking you for all you have, continuing to suckle until you grow soft in his mouth.
You're barely lucid when Simon finally pulls off, cum and drool bridging his lips with the tip of your cock, your body completely boneless but still able to twitch as Simon licks the residual cum from your oversensitive dick.
"Good boy." Price praises and you can feel his own hard cock poke into your ass. "I think he can go again, don't you, Simon?"
Simon smirks and raises to give you a sloppy kiss, your brain too melted into mush to care about the taste of your cum on his tongue. "Oh-" Simon's hand sneaks down to stroke your soft cock back to harness, ignoring your pitiful whining. "-I think he can."
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harmonictechnicality · 1 year ago
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thinking about Steve digging into a KFC bucket around Eddie, who is about to snap in half at the sight of it. Just seeing Steve Harrington sink his teeth into a chicken thigh, sucking on a drumstick bone, swallowing the most ungodly-sized bites he’s ever seen. His eyes are fucking locked on Steve’s lips that are extra shiny from all the grease. Eddie can’t even touch his own damn food because his stomach is in knots from this weirdly erotic and carnivorous circus act.
Steve smears the grease off with the back of his hand, staring hard at Eddie. “What?”
“Huh?”
Dumb. Idiotic. Why is Eddie suddenly experiencing the same level of flusteredness as the varsity cheer squad around this guy? It’s just Steve. Steve eating meat…
Thick, juicy, noisy meat in Steve’s mouth. His mouth that looks so-
“Dude, try some.” Steve waves a half-eaten chicken wing in front of Eddie’s face. He’s smiling as he chews, looks honest to god tipsy from how much he’s enjoying this meal.
Eddie shrugs, pops his knuckles to keep his hands busy. “Not hungry.”
Which is a big, fat lie. He is hungry. Thoroughly starving to see Steve in angles that are banned from biblical literature.
“Christ on toast, Harrington, close your mouth. I can see your fucking tonsils from here.” And yeah, that’s a problem too. Eddie could draw the inside of Steve’s mouth from memory by now. Could make himself a handy little diagram on how stuffed it could be if he just-
“Can’t help it.” Steve interrupts. He tears another piece of meat off and chomps as he speaks. Says something that actually breaks the last bit of dignity in Eddie’s soul. “It’s finger lickin’ good.”
Right, yup. Okay. Eddie is all impulses after that. His gaze drops to Steve’s slick hands. His ears only able to process words at a caveman baseline:
‘Finger. Lick. Good.’
Yeah. That does sound pretty good to him. Really good, actually.
So Eddie reaches across the table and takes Steve by the wrist. He opens his mouth, swirls Steve’s index finger over his tongue, sucking on it for way too long. Makes a loud slurping sound as he returns Steve’s hand back to him. He’s pretty sure Steve gasped at the contact, but couldn’t exactly focus on anything other than the taste of salt and grease and skin.
As Eddie sits back down in his chair, he examines Steve’s face. Red everywhere. Up his ears, down his neck. He isn’t moving either - like Eddie’s little stunt just paused all the muscles in his body or something.
He should run. Avoid getting beat up by a guy who’s a former jock. Besides, Eddie Munson is somewhat famous on cowardly shit like running away. It wouldn’t exactly be unheard of for him.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Eddie dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Takes a deep breath in. Smiles sweetly over at Steve, sweet enough to feel playful. Edging on mean.
“Looks like it wasn’t false advertising after all.” Eddie tosses the used napkin at him. Isn’t trying to make Steve flinch, but it happens anyways. “Finger lickin’ good is an understatement.”
“Understatement?” Steve studies his finger, the one Eddie just used like a jolly rancher, then smiles wide:
“Should be mandatory with you, Munson.”
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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 9: We’re Friends When You’re On Your Knees]
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Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…
Chapter warnings: Y'all, you are not ready for this one. Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), murder, Aemond "there are other Targaryens" Targaryen having feelings again (good ones?? not good ones?? both?? who knows bestie, not me!), an unexpected family reunion, must be the season of the witch... 👀
Series title is a lyrics from: "7 Minutes In Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued" by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 8.4k.
Link to chapter list: HERE.
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You watch her from the shadows of the dungeons, rusted iron, phantom echoes of falling water, chilling drafts that come from nowhere and everywhere. She has not yet noticed you. She is beautiful, regal, arrogant, even as she sits gnawing on crusts of bread and the gristle of chicken bones, scraps that Lord Larys throws to her like she’s a pig nosing its way through a trough, an animal that is clever and yet condemned. And if she is livestock, then what are you? A creature of darkness, of nightfall, lethal and treacherous, a wolf or a bat or a spider. You step forward and into a ray of light that cuts across the stones like the path of a comet.
Baela gasps and drops the tibia she’d been working on, cracking it in two, sucking out the dead-blood marrow. Her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes catch on you. She is not afraid; you have never known Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter to be afraid of anything. She is fascinated.
“I’m sorry,” she says, crawling across the floor of her cell. She grips the metal bars and peers out at you, kneeling there like she’s praying. You suspect Baela has never prayed to anyone or anything. “I didn’t mean to almost burn you. I didn’t realize you were standing on the steps with him until after I’d given Moondancer the order. It all happened so quickly.”
You cannot appear to be angry. You have no reason to be angry if you are Aegon’s captive. “I take no offense. I wasn’t harmed.”
“No one had any idea the Usurper was here,” Baela says. Still her eyes are bright, entranced. “We believed Dragonstone to be vacant.”
Good. You give her a dismal smirk. “No. Not so vacant after all.”
“Are you with child yet?”
A bolt shoots down your spine like cold lightning. “What?”
“That’s what he’s trying to do, isn’t it?” Baela says. “He wants an heir from you. His wife is dead, his sons are dead. He couldn’t get his claws on me or Rhaena. But you can give him a Valyrian-blooded prince.”
Aegon has never mentioned having children with you. You don’t know if this means he doesn’t want them, or if he does not wish to place demands upon you, or if he is indifferent, or if he believes it to be impossible. “I have nothing to show for his efforts.”
“Has it been unspeakably awful?” And if Baela seeks to console, this is secondary to her personal interest; she is curious, she is absorbed. Her fingers close more tightly around the iron bars. “He’s a drunk, a degenerate. He’s vile. He’s deformed. Has he tortured you? Has he violated you in a hundred different ways? Does he tie you down, does he strike you, does he cut and bruise you?”
And this is the Blacks’ story, one they could never begin to suspect might be fiction: that you are a martyr, that Aegon is a monster. In place of an answer, you give Baela the treasures you have brought her. You pass them through the gaps between the bars: a bottle of ink, parchment, a quill with a point like a blade.
Baela takes these objects, amazed. “You can help me send a letter back to Harrenhal?”
“I don’t know if I will be able to get to the rookery. But I’ll try.”
“The Usurper allows you this much free rein?”
He trusts me. He loves me. He’s bedbound and in agony. “He’s rather distracted at the moment.”
“He’s dying, hopefully,” Baela says. She has already begun to write. And there’s a reptilian sort of coldness that is snaking deeper into you, constricting around your bones, gliding through the blood-slick chambers of your heart, too much a part of you to ever rip out. But now Baela’s face softens. She looks up dolefully. “Moondancer, she’s…she’s gone, isn’t she?”
You bow your head as if this is something tragic. “She did not survive Sunfyre’s attack.”
“Fucking beasts,” she seethes, resuming her writing. “When my father learns of this, he and Caraxes will come to rescue us. And he will burn the Usurper alive.” She finishes her letter, rolls up the parchment, and hands it back to you.
“How will Daemon know that you authored this and under no duress?”
“My signature,” Baela says, grinning. “I end all of my correspondence to him with Your ever-obedient daughter. It is a joke between us. If it was absent, he would notice. His suspicions would be aroused. That is how I would signal if I was ever forced to write to him against my will.”
There is dark satisfaction like a spell shimmering in your arteries, nerves, the void-black pupils of your eyes. You return her smile. “Perfect.”
“Don’t fear,” Baela tells you, and reaches through the rusted iron bars to clasp your hand. You fight the reflex to tear away from her, this woman who certainly maimed Aegon and might have killed him. You find yourself studying her, measuring her height and weight, calculating how much milk of the poppy it would take to end her life. “Cregan Stark is south of the Neck now. He will move heaven and earth to possess you, everyone knows that. Soon we will have Northmen marching through the Riverlands with Caraxes and Sheepstealer safeguarding them from above. And after the Riverlands they will be in the Reach, and then finally King’s Landing to stabilize the capital. The Usurper and Sunfyre cannot fight. Daeron is scarcely more than a boy. The Betrayers are avaricious, overconfident drunks. The Greens will be vanquished before winter.”
“And what about Vhagar?”
“Together, Caraxes and Sheepstealer can bring her down.” But there is doubt in Baela’s voice, yes, a vacillation that is rarely heard from her.
“I hope so,” you reply, one of countless lies.
You take Baela’s letter to the rookery, open it, examine it carefully for the subtleties of her handwriting: slopes and dots and lines. Then you get a fresh piece of parchment and painstakingly draft a very different message. Not a plea for help, but an assurance that all is well; not a summons to Dragonstone, but a confirmation that the castle was found to be unoccupied and is now held firmly by Baela and Moondancer.
And you end the letter before tying it to a leg of the raven trained to fly to Harrenhal:
Your ever-obedient daughter, Baela Targaryen
~~~~~~~~~~
“Please eat something, Your Grace. I beg you.” Lord Larys Strong’s face is creased with servile, attentive worry. On the plate before you is fresh, warm bread and a dish of salted butter. In your bowl is a crab soup thick with vegetables, the broth tomato-based and red like Autumn’s hair, like blood.
“I can’t.”
“Would you like me to bring you something else? I could have the chefs prepare roast chicken, or duck, or boar…”
“No.” You push the bowl of soup away. You and Larys are alone in the Great Hall, seated at the high table which presides over a silent, vacuous chamber. The room was built to resemble a dragon lying on its belly; the entranceway is its mouth, two massive doors edged with stone teeth. There are dragons everywhere, these talismans of Aegon’s house, these creatures that are monsters to some and saviors to others.
Larys studies you closely. His voice is tender. “Your Grace, please. Can I do anything for you?”
You consider him, an enigma that is useful and subtle and dogged in his loyalty. “What is it that binds you so faithfully to Alicent and her children, Lord Larys? House Strong was so favored by Rhaenyra. Her heirs were your blood, no matter how much she tried to deny it. You could have risen high in the Black Council. Make no mistake, I am very thankful for your service to the Greens. I am glad to count you among the greatest of our fortunes. But what inspired you to turn your coat?”
Larys smiles at you. He has eyes like rain, the wavy abundant brown hair of his spurned family. His hands rest on the handle of his cane. “Your eldest brother is an acclaimed swordsman.”
“Yes,” you agree, caught off-guard.
“And so was mine,” Larys says. “House Strong, is it any wonder what we valued most? My father loved Harwin. He was so fiercely proud of him. He was interested in him, he understood him. They would whisper to each other all through feasts, all through tourneys, conspiring, chortling, enmeshed in this synergy that left no air for anyone else to breathe.”
“And your father never understood you.” Just like Bartimos Celtigar overlooks Everett, a son gifted with books and quills instead of horses and swords. “Never even tried to.”
“It is a terrible thing to be in the midst of your family and yet feel alone.”
“It is,” you say, remembering the Blacks’ festivities in King’s Landing.
“Now Lyonel and Harwin Strong whisper to no one,” Larys says, his smile widening into a dark, victorious grin. “And I am the Master of Whisperers.”
You remember the words that Otto Hightower spoke to you as he waited for his execution in the dungeons of the Red Keep: These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask Larys softly. Becoming a sinner, a killer, a kinslayer.
“Never,” he replies. “Dowager Queen Alicent was the first person to ever truly listen to me. To make me feel worth something. Worth anything. To advance her interests in every way possible…that cannot be an injustice. It is the cleanest kind of loyalty. And I have no doubt my sacrifices will be repaid. If the Greens triumph, that is. When this war is over, Alicent’s son must sit the Iron Throne.”
“You mean Aegon.”
“Yes, of course.” But something mournful passes over Larys’ face like a shadow; he peers down at his hands to hide this from you.
He doubts Aegon will live. He foresees Aemond or Daeron inheriting the throne instead. You stand from the table, your chair squealing shrilly against the stone floor. “We should bring the king his supper,” you tell Larys. “He needs his strength.”
Aegon does not like you to be there when the maesters prod at him, scrub his wounds, rebandage his shattered legs. You were once his healer, yes, but now he believes you to be his wife. He does not want to be your patient. He does not want you to see him as a wounded man writhing in bed, as someone helpless, pathetic, weak, doomed.
The maesters are just finishing when you arrive with a tray of buttered bread and fresh soup, steam rising from the bowl of red like entrails that litter the earth once a battle has ended. The maesters are gathering up bloody strips of linen to be burned. Aegon is sobbing; his silver hair hangs in chaotic waves, both hands cover his face.
Your voice is hushed and heartbroken. “Aegon…”
“No, I’m okay,” he says, sniffling, mopping the tears from his cheeks with his bare palms. Then he reaches out to you. “Come here, come here, come here.”
You go to him, sliding the tray onto his bedside table until it clinks against the glass bottles there: rose oil, red wine, milk of the poppy. You climb onto the bed and Aegon’s arms circle around your waist, pulling you in closer as he buries his face in the warmth of your chest, your throat, covering you in hurried, imprecise kisses. Dimly, you wonder what he tastes when he breathes you in; you wonder what colors bloom in the sunless passages of his lungs.
“I missed you,” he murmurs. You can feel the dampness of his tears on your bare skin, the roughness of his scars.
“I was only gone for a few hours.”
“Too long,” he says. “Far too long. How’s Sunfyre?”
“He’s down on the beach, Your Grace,” Larys answers from the doorway where he has materialized like stars at dusk.
“Is he eating? Ambulatory? Wading in the water?”
“He’s…” Lord Larys hesitates. “He seems to be in a great deal of discomfort.” And yes, you know this to be true: Sunfyre the Golden’s wings hang in shreds, his wounds are inflamed with infection, and there is something wrong with him inside as well, a wheezing when he inhales, blood that seeps from his nostrils and his jaws. There’s nothing anybody can do for him. No one can touch him but Aegon, and Aegon can’t leave his bed.
Aegon says to Larys, low and sinister: “I want Baela dead. I want her burned.”
“She is far more valuable to you alive, Your Grace.”
“I am the king and I wish her to die.”
“Corlys Velaryon is her grandsire,” Larys implores. “If he discovers you executed Baela, he may recommit himself to Rhaenyra’s side. He may launch his own rebellion even after Rhaenyra is defeated. If you wish to win and keep the Iron Throne, I advise you to spare her.”
Aegon sighs and glares out the window that overlooks the Narrow Sea, his arms still linked around your waist. You begin to weave his braid for him. “Aegon,” you say gently. “We’ve brought you supper. Please eat it.”
“I’m afraid I’m too nauseated by my own inadequacy. Perhaps later.”
“You want to be well again. And you will be. But you have to eat.”
“I really don’t think I can.”
“Aegon, please.”
“Well…” He glances over at the bowl of soup and then gives you a mischievous smirk. “I suppose nothing tastes better than a crab, does it? Particularly when it is served in bed.”
“Or on the floor of a library.” You smile and kiss him: his pale face, his trembling lips. You finish his tiny braid like a silver chain and tuck it behind his ear. Then you pour him a cup of milk of the poppy, just one pearl-white splash, just enough to sand the serrated edges off his anguish.
“No.” He stops you, a hand on your wrist. “I don’t want to be useless again. I don’t want to be swimming in dreams. I want to be here with you.”
You shake your head. There are tears stinging in your eyes. “But you’re in pain.”
He grins, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ve been in pain my whole life, Angel.”
And he manages to force down half the soup and two brimming goblets of wine before he sinks beneath the sea of his consciousness, while outside waves crack open against the rocks and Sunfyre leaks viscous threads the color of crimson, roses, flames.  
~~~~~~~~~~
“You sent that raven a week ago,” Baela tells you when you bring her your offering, your clandestine kindness: apple cake, black tea. “More than enough time has passed for it to be received at Harrenhal and acted upon.”
You fill a porcelain cup with tea from the kettle and give it to her through the iron bars of her cell. “Perhaps the raven went astray.”
Baela ponders this as she alternates between unladylike chomps on a wedge of apple cake and slurps from the cup. “Maybe my father has been away from the castle. Maybe he’s out on the battlefield with the Stark men.”
Or maybe he believes you and Moondancer to be perfectly well and presiding unopposed over Dragonstone, and therefore not in need of his attention. What a welcome delusion to live under. I’m sure he’d rather be fucking Nettles anyway. You take the empty cup when Baela has drained it and refill it with tea. Baela accepts the nearly overflowing cup gratefully. She has had nothing to drink since she was taken captive except muddy rainwater that pools in one corner of each cell, guided by stone gutters that run along the outside of the castle. The tea is cloudy with cream and laced with sugar; still, her nose wrinkles a bit when she swallows it down.
“Bitter,” she notes distractedly.
“It’s made from leaves grown here on Dragonstone. Formidable, but not very sweet.”
Baela cackles; it echoes through the dungeon. This is the same voice that commanded Moondancer to brutalize Sunfyre, to send Aegon plummeting to the sand. Are her eyes already losing their viperish sharpness, is her heartbeat slowing? “Just like me!” She finishes her cup of tea and eagerly holds it out to you through the bars. You pour it full of the earth-colored brew once again.
You ask her as she licks apple cake crumbs from her fingers: “Why is Cregan Stark so determined to wed me?”
“He wants you. He considers you worthy of him.”
“But he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t really know who I am.”
Baela shrugs indifferently. “None of us love anyone because of who they are. We love them because of who they make us believe we are.” She sips her tea and blinks groggily. “In any case, he will be your honorable savior, and you will be his illustrious damsel, and when the traitor dragons are dead he will spirit you away to Winterfell to bear his wolf pups. It’s not so bad a fate, I think. Not for someone like you. You aren’t ill-suited to matrimony. You are docile enough. A caretaker, a healer. You seem like the sort of woman who would be content with just one man.”
Yes. If he was Aegon. As you watch her kneeling on the stone floor of her cell, Baela sways and almost nods off, seemingly unaware that she is doing it.
“Burning might be too swift a death for the Usurper,” Baela says, smiling dazedly. “Cregan should have some of the Boltons flay him. They can all take turns wearing his hideous scars.”
“Yes. Skins shed, skins regrown, some of us change them over and over again.”
Baela stares at you inanely. She is beyond comprehension. Then she collapses to the stone floor, the porcelain tea cup spilling from her grasp and breaking into jagged white shards.
You take the key to the cell off the hook out in the corridor and unlock the door of iron bars. You step inside, still holding the tea kettle in one hand. You set the kettle down and drag Baela until she is propped upright against a wall. Her pulse is slow, but still present; she moans feebly as you position her. But it is all for a good cause; you must ensure she drinks the rest of the tea, the witches’ brew of leaves and cream and sugar and a fatal dose of milk of the poppy. Outside you hear a deep, prehistoric rumble as Vhagar flies over Dragonstone and scouts for a landing spot large enough to host her. Aemond is back again.
You angle the spout of the tea kettle between Baela’s paling lips and ply her with a small amount, less than a mouthful, then you rub her throat in just the right place to trigger her reflex to swallow. You know this trick well; you have used it on grievously wounded soldiers. You used it on Aegon after he was burned. You repeat the steps until the kettle is empty. Then you lay Baela flat again and watch her chest rise and fall slower, slower, slower until it stops. But still, you leave nothing to chance. You nick Baela’s wrist with a paring knife from the castle kitchens, until now tucked away in a pocket of your gown, emerald green silk to match the side of this war that you are pledged to. Her blood, unpropelled by the rhythm of a heart, dribbles sluggishly rather than spurts. She’s gone; she’s with her mother and Luke and Jace and the young sickly Viserys and Rhaenys, Otto and Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor and Autumn’s silver-haired son that she never had the chance to name. You wonder if the struggle goes on in the afterlife. Perhaps presently Otto and Baela are scratching and yowling at each other in a castle made of clouds.
Upstairs, Aemond is already in Aegon’s bedchamber. They are speaking in whispers when you enter, and you catch only pieces of the exchange: capital, Cregan, marriage, Daemon, crown. Larys stands in the corner of the room, his hands laced atop the handle of his cane. He gives you a reverent bow in greeting. He might not be so pleased to see you once he learns what you’ve done.
Aegon stops talking abruptly when he spots you and gestures for Aemond to go quiet as well, a commanding sweep of his hand. Aemond follows his brother’s gaze to the doorway. His lone blue eye climbs up and down you like a man on the rungs of a ladder. His hair is in one thick braid from his flight; stray white-blond strands that have been ripped free hang in disarray around his stoic, unreadable face. Aemond does not bow to you and never will. He only leers, a silver-haired wolf, a hawk with unhollow bones.
“Hello, Angel,” Aegon says, beaming or at least attempting to. He is frail and pallid and too thin and dripping sweat. There are indigo rings around his eyes like bruises. His legs are swollen, grotesque mountain ranges beneath the blankets. You rush to him and sit on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead for fever and combing your fingers fondly through his hair.
Aemond sighs irritably. “Anyway, I’d like to torture her.”
“My prince…” Larys urges.
Aegon holds up a palm. “Now now, Lord Larys, let’s hear his proposal. Exactly how much do you intend to torture Baela?”
“Quite a bit,” Aemond says.
“To death?” Aegon asks hopefully.
“I don’t see why not.”
“My prince!” Larys says again. “Please, consider the possible ramifications, she is a prisoner of substantial strategic value, if your mother was here she would caution—”
“I’m afraid that Baela can no longer be interrogated,” you confess, and they all turn to you. There is a long, laden pause.
“And why is that?” Aemond says.
“Because she is dead of poisoning.”
“What?!”
“In her cell. Her body is there now. Feed her to Vhagar or Sunfyre, throw her in the sea, do whatever you wish with her. But she has paid her debt for the harm she inflicted upon us.”
Slowly, a grin splits across Aemond’s face. Larys shakes off his shock and resigns himself to it. But Aegon is neither proud nor reconciled. “You did that?” he says softly.
“You wanted Baela dead.”
“Yes, I did. But you don’t take life,” Aegon says, remembering what you once told him in King’s Landing. His oceanic eyes are stunned and fearful; not because Baela is was murdered, but because you were the one to end her. Because until now he was still able to tell himself that you could somehow escape this war unscarred, unruined. “You preserve it.”
“I preserve yours,” you reply. And when you offer him milk of the poppy—with no fear, for you know precisely how much it takes to kill a man—Aegon refuses it again, taking his suffering pure and sharp like the glass of a mirror.
~~~~~~~~~~
“What will happen to him?” Aemond asks you. You’re sitting on the stone staircase together under overcast midday skies, sipping wine and watching Sunfyre amble lethargically up and down the beach. You aren’t sure what’s made him so restless: his own dire injuries, Aegon in torment within the castle walls, something else entirely, some premonition that only beasts of ancient magic know. At last, Sunfyre seems to have exhausted himself and crumples onto the sand.
“I think Aegon will walk again. Eventually.”
“But he won’t be able to fight.”
You shake your head. “No.”
“Fuck,” Aemond hisses caustically, glowering out over the ocean.
You look at Aemond, needing to ask but terrified of the answer. “Can you win without him?”
“Can we win, you mean?” He smiles faintly, then sobers again. “I think so. Just before I left the Riverlands to come here, I received reports that Daemon had sent his lowborn little child bride away with Sheepstealer. He is trying to protect her from Rhaenyra’s assassins. My bitch of a half-sister has thus done us a remarkable favor. If Daemon is alone, I have no doubt that Vhagar can slay Caraxes. They say Daemon has fled Harrenhal. He’s hiding from me. I will find him, and I will burn him. I will end this war.”
“You need to be with Criston when his army faces the Northmen.”
“Of course,” Aemond says; but something in his face worries you.
There is a high-pitched shriek overhead, a glimmering flash of vivid gemstone blue. You startle and Aemond’s hand juts out, grabs you by the forearm, yanks you closer to him; then he relaxes when he recognizes who it is.
Aemond sighs loudly. “Why the fuck can’t he stay where he’s supposed to be?!” Then he stands, helps you to your feet while he’s at it, and heads down to the shoreline to meet Daeron and Tessarion.
The Blue Queen circles the beach several times, Daeron peering down as if struggling to understand something, his long white-blond hair whipping in the wind. At last Tessarion lands, her claws sinking into the wet sand, ocean froth bubbling around legs. Her long, swanlike neck stretches out towards Sunfyre, soft inquisitive squeals emanating from her jaws. Daeron leaps down from the saddle and strides to where Sunfyre is sprawled helplessly on the beach.
Alicent’s youngest child is clad in mint green—including a cape that billows out behind him in the seaside breeze—and glinting gold accents everywhere, buckles on his boots and the clasp of his cape and even a freckling of studs in his ears. He props both hands on his waist as he scrutinizes the crippled dragon. “Well, you’re not Moondancer.”
“He ripped Moondancer’s throat out,” Aemond says. “And then he ate her.”
Daeron whistles and gazes at Sunfyre admiringly. “I heard that Baela and Moondancer had taken possession of Dragonstone. I came to murder them. But now I see my services are unnecessary.”
“Baela is dead.” Then Aemond adds, nodding to you: “Here is the executioner.”
Daeron considers you, then laughs and assails you with a spirited embrace that nearly knocks you off your feet. “Welcome to the family, Lady Celtigar.”
“She’s the queen now.”
“Is she?” Daeron asks, eyebrows raised. “I was not under the impression that our brother was in any particular hurry to marry again.”
“His priorities seem to have shifted,” Aemond says.
“Can I see him?” Daeron looks around the beach and then up at the castle, shielding his eyes from the greyscale daylight. “Is he not outside with you? What is he doing in there? Not reciting prayers and composing poetry, I’d imagine.”
In Aegon’s bedchamber, Daeron cannot conceal his shock, his dismay; he gawks at the king like he is a three-legged dog, a blinded orphan. He stands thunderstruck at the end of the bed, taking in the vague yet horrifying outlines of Aegon’s shattered legs, the gauntness of his face, the fact that he is incapable of playing any meaningful role in the war for the foreseeable future. You sit on the bed beside Aegon, Aemond lurks by a window, Larys observes intently from a respectful distance, his eyes following every word as they flit through the air.
When Daeron recovers somewhat, he says: “I need to know what to do about Hammer and Ulf.”
“Why?” Aegon replies wearily. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Apparently, Mother once offered them the seats of House Costayne and House Merryweather as compensation for their efforts on behalf of the Greens, and they accepted. But now that’s suddenly not good enough. They’re asking me for the Riverlands and the Vale.”
Aegon turns to Aemond. “Is there anything left of the Riverlands these days? Should we find a new name for them? The Smolderlands, perhaps? The Everything-Is-Dead-Here-Now-Lands?”
“This is serious,” Aemond says flatly.
“I’m entirely serious.”
“Should I just tell them they can have whatever they want?” Daeron asks. “And then when the war is over and we’ve won…you know…pretend not to remember that conversation?”
“They can’t be given territory of any importance,” Aemond says. “They aren’t nobility.”
Daeron amends: “More relevantly, they are devoid of accountability and self-discipline. They drink all day and whore all night, and…oh, I mean no offense, Your Grace.”
“Fine,” Aegon says, preoccupied. There are fat beads of sweat on his bloodless face, glistening misery in his eyes. He gazes sorrowfully down at his left hand where he once wore his golden dragon ring before he lost it the same day he destroyed his legs. You pour him a cup of red wine and he drains it in seconds. You fill another.
“My point is that Hammer and Ulf are increasingly unreliable. I am only halfway convinced they could even show up for a battle before it was over. And yet we need them. Especially if Sunfyre cannot fight.”
“Agree to their requests,” Aemond says. “And if they survive the war, we will deal with them then. Rhaenyra’s faction is the greater enemy. We cannot risk the Dragonseeds racing back into her arms.”
“Lord Larys?” Aegon prompts dimly
“I could not agree more, Your Grace.”
“And on the subject of Rhaenyra,” Daeron continues. “Tessarion and I can take King’s Landing. Syrax is the only dragon in the city now, and Rhaenyra has never ridden her into combat.”
“No,” Aegon says. “We cannot risk setting the capital ablaze and turning the people against us. And Mother is there. Everett is there.”
“Everett?” Daeron looks around, baffled. “Who the fuck is Everett?”
“Angel’s brother. Not the firstborn son. The other one.” And as Aegon explains this, his chest is heaving and his eyes are glazed over. He tries to reposition himself in bed and has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood.
“Is there anything else?” you ask Daeron and Aemond, a warning in your face. He needs rest. He needs to sleep, to heal.
“No,” Aemond says. He paces towards the door and snatches Daeron’s cape as he passes by him, hauling him out into the hallway. You follow after them.
As soon as he is out of earshot of Aegon’s room, Daeron tells Aemond: “He doesn’t look good.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Aemond, I think you should prepare to—”
“He’ll be fine!” Aemond snaps.
“You don’t think I’m losing something too?” Daeron demands furiously. “You don’t think I want him to be well again? Of course I want that. But if wishing people to live made it possible, the world would be a very different place.”
“You are needed in the Reach,” Aemond says, and that’s all.
Daeron glares up at him, incredulous, defiant. “This will be over soon. I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”
Then he storms out of the castle, soars down the long stone staircase, meets Tessarion on the windswept beach and takes flight into the southwest where the earth is green but the nights are an inescapable, dreamless black.
~~~~~~~~~~
Aegon is weeping again; you hear him from the hallway. It is after nightfall, and the castle is illuminated only by firelight. Candles flicker; the hearth crackles and pops. In the shadows, Aegon lies with his dragonfire scars and his fractured legs and his useless hereditary magic, tears streaming down his face. You have a vision of what he will look like when he’s dead; you imagine the Stranger reaching up from underneath the bed to seize him with claws like a raven’s talons and drag him out of existence.
“I need it,” Aegon sobs when he sees you, grasping for the glass bottle of milk of the poppy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to need it, but I do.”
“I’m here, Aegon. It’s alright. Let me help.” You pour him a cup of the bitter remedy, a strange gleaming white like pearl, opal, moonstone. Then you tilt the cup against his lips. Aegon gulps down the milk of the poppy and then falls back into his sea of pillows.
He murmurs, eyes closed as you graze the backs of your fingers feather-lightly over his unmarred cheek: “I wanted to start over with you.”
“You’ll still get the chance.”
“No,” he whimpers miserably. “I ruin everyone. Everyone I’m given, everyone I touch. Helaena, Jaehaerys, Maelor. We don’t even know where Jaehaera is, in Storm’s End, lost on the road, taken captive, dead. Otto, Autumn, Aemond, Mother, Sunfyre. And now I’m ruining you too.”
“You’re not,” you plead with him in a whisper. And not for the first time, you think: What do you require from me, Aegon? Wrath, compassion, healing, children? What can I do to give you hope again? Tell me and it’s yours. I’d do anything. I’d become anyone. “Aegon?” you begin, trying to ask him; but he is already unconscious. He’ll likely be out until sunrise.
You drink cup after cup of red wine and sit in the flame-lit shadows with him, in the quiet, in the liminal space between decisions, envisioned sins and prospective virtues. Then you leave the bedchamber like a ghost, a creak here and a tap there and no other trace. You wander down long, twisting corridors framed by dragons of iron and stone. And at the other end of the castle beyond a door you’ve never opened before is the lair of a very different breed of dragon: tall and lean and ambitious, his eyepatch removed and stowed away for the evening, his long silver hair hanging freely to his waist.
He is wearing cotton sleeping trousers but nothing else. He is seated at his writing desk and scrawling something onto parchment in black ink, a list or a diagram or a design for a new crown upon his ascension to the throne, you don’t know and you have no intention of asking. You have far too many things on your mind already. You feel nauseous and unsteady, you feel like you can’t possibly go through with this. You can’t imagine it. You can’t fathom what he would feel like, taste like.
Aemond steals a nonchalant glimpse of you, having no sense of your inner turmoil. “Can I assist you with something?”
“Yes,” you say simply, sipping your wine under the stone arch of the doorway.
He looks up at you again, his quill suddenly still in his hand. His two eyes are on you, one wide and river-blue, the other a soulless glittering sapphire in a tangle of ruined flesh. And now he understands. There are other Targaryens, he had said. “Take off your clothes. Sit down on the bed.”
You step inside his bedchamber and close the door behind you, setting your empty cup on the edge of his writing desk. You walk to his bed—dark green blankets, gold thread—and shed each piece of clothing you have on, a black gown and everything under it, not looking to see if Aemond is watching you, too anxious, trembling wildly. But you know his gaze is on you when you—standing naked and shivering in the firelight—begin to pull back the blankets and hear the sharp reprove in his voice.
“I did not tell you to hide yourself from me,” Aemond says. “Sit at the edge. Yes, there. Good.”
You perch on the bed and wait for him, your ankles linked, legs swinging restlessly, arms crossed over your chest. Aemond is staring at you from the opposite end of the room. You can’t look at him; you look elsewhere, at the tapestries of dragons hanging from the drafty stone walls, at the thick candles that drip white wax. And this won’t be like lying with a stranger, but it won’t be like lying with someone you want either, because you are profoundly uneasy and monstrously ashamed and perhaps even afraid.
Aemond is approaching now, firelight skating over his smooth, unsinged skin. He is undoing the tie at the waist of his trousers. He yanks them off, revealing himself to you. He is already hard, and he is massive, vast in length and width. The panic hits you like a breaking wave.
“Oh,” you gasp in alarm, unable to stop yourself. Then you explain so he won’t be offended: “I’m not going to be able to take you if I’m not ready.” You rest a hand on your bare thigh, slip it between your legs, begin to stroke yourself the way Aegon does, trying to relax, trying to think of him…
“No,” Aemond says, moving your hand aside. “Let me.”
Obediently, you rest your palms just behind you on the mattress, open your thighs for him, inhale sharpy as Aemond’s long, artful fingers touch you somewhere only one other man ever has. And you’re a traitor, the worst kind of traitor, because it’s working: you can feel yourself opening for him, hungering for him, coating his hand in slick warm wetness.
Aemond isn’t looking at your face. His eye is fixed on the place where his fingers are circling, where he is now pushing two inside of you, and while it happens abruptly and roughly enough to startle you it is not quite painful, or maybe it is, just the tiniest bit, but the pleasure eclipses the pain, the pleasure is a current you are powerless to swim against.
“You can tell me to stop,” Aemond says as he strokes you from the inside with his fingers buried to the knuckles, his breathing labored. “I don’t want you to. But if you tell me to stop, I’ll listen. Okay?”
You nod, and instead of an answer you give him a moan, stifled but unmistakable, dark treasonous forbidden ecstasy. And this snaps something in Aemond, it unleashes a part of him he’d been keeping tied up like an untrustworthy animal, one that could maul or maim or kill. He drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, drags you to him until his lips and tongue are on you with dizzyingly blissful pressure. You fall back onto the bed, one hand twisting into the blankets, the other in his waterfall of unruly silver hair, pushing him even harder against you as he licks ravenously. Aemond doesn’t seem to mind; with each roll of your hips and bitten-back plea his enthusiasm blooms, hums and triumphant chuckles spilling from his mouth as he swallows down the proof of your desire. It’s starting, that swift climb towards a high like nothing else on earth, something Aegon once taught you was possible. You are a betrayer, but with the very best of intentions; you are making a sacrifice, but it feels so much like a gift.
“Aemond, I’m ready,” you pant, your fingers hopelessly knotted in his hair. “You can do it now, you can…” And then you lose your words because instead of rising to his feet, Aemond stays right where he is, his tongue insatiable, his face drenched in your wetness.
He’s going to make me…I’m so close…
“Aemond, what are you waiting for…?”
His lips close around the spot where you are most sensitive and he sucks forcefully, and that feeling like a shuddering, irresistible unravelling strikes you harder and faster than it ever has before, so intense it is almost painful, sharp and commanding, not something he is doing with you but to you, and you know even in the golden haze of the climax that this is not about love but about power, pride, control, worthiness.
He doesn’t stop. He is licking you again, opening your folds with one hand, thrusting two fingers inside of you with the other. You are still feeling the pulsing, involuntary aftershocks of one high when the next begins building, building, building, and when you close your eyes all you can see are waves on the ocean in a storm, swelling to impossible heights and ungoverned by anything except the dubious mercy of nature.
“Aemond please,” you beg in a frayed whisper, bathed in sweat and guilt and frenzied lust. “I’m ready. Just do it, please…”
And then he wrenches you into another vortex and it takes everything in you not to scream, not to jolt awake the skeleton crew that tends to Dragonstone and its surreptitious guests. You are beyond complete thoughts, beyond sentences. You are boneless, your muscles have turned to mist and air, you are entirely under Aemond’s control and that’s where he has wanted you all along.
“Aemond, please, please, please…”
Unable to resist any longer, he stands—wiping the glistening, dripping sheen from his face with the back of one hand—and forces his cock inside you to the hilt. He does not slow down when he meets resistance, and you don’t tell him to. You moan in shock at the disorienting fullness, you cannot help it; it is a feeling on the knife’s edge between ripping agony and euphoric pleasure. It is something you would gratefully die of. He moves within you, deep and quick, his hands clasping your hips. Emotionally, you feel nothing but a razored, perilous, impersonal intensity; in your body, it is paradise.
Again? Again…?!
“Are you going to come for me one more time, Angel?” Aemond taunts you as he thrusts; and that’s Aegon’s name for you that he’s using, and it’s wrong, and Aemond knows that, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to break the spell he’s got you under, you can’t tell him to stop, you don’t have the will to, and if this is about power then you know who’s won out of the three of you, you know who has steel in his bones and lightning cracking in his veins.
It’s different this time, pleasure rising like the tide in your whole body, a peak that is not concentrated so clearly between your legs but everywhere: fingertips, spine, belly, heart.
“Come for me, Angel. I know you can do it.” And then for the first time Aemond leans in close to you, his pristine scarless chest pressed to yours, his lips traveling from your throat to the curve of your jaw, his tongue darting into your mouth before you can turn away, and he tastes like pure, mineral lust, and maybe that’s not just because of what he’s done to you, maybe that’s all he is all the way down, hunger that is never satisfied, a need to consume like fire burns flesh.
You whimper, a desperate vulnerable sound, a pleading for him to finish what he’s started and give you this one last high, just one more, just one, please, please, you’ll do anything.
“I’m better than him, aren’t I?” Aemond demands as he fucks you, and there’s no other word for it. This isn’t making love, this isn’t a meeting of souls, it is using someone else’s body to patch up all your hollows, all the pinprick voids you’ve been walking around with for years, losing yourself one blooddrop at a time until you pass by a mirror one day and think who the hell is that? “I know how to take care of you. I know what you want. I can do things Aegon never could. I’ll make you come again. I’ll give you a prince.”
And he coaxes it out of you like the memory of a dream, more like an ether than something you could name: a shimmering elation all over, a cry you can only muffle by biting down on Aemond’s neck as he pounds into you, and then he at last he surrenders what you came here for, but only after all the rest of it. He fills you with himself, so much of it that you can feel it pouring out onto the blankets, immense flooding wet warmth that gives you no satisfaction whatsoever.
I’m a traitor, you think, and for all the times you’ve changed your skin this is the very worst of them. I shouldn’t have done this. I wish I hadn’t done this.
Aemond lifts himself off of you and rolls onto his back, panting alongside you as you both stare up at the ceiling, drenched in each other’s salt and knowing things that were once so unthinkable. Aemond is gazing over at you. His clear blue eye is tracing your lips, your breasts, your hips, your folds that are soaked with his sweat and seed. You don’t want him watching you. You feel sick knowing he’s watching you. You get up from the bed and begin putting on your gown.
Aemond says: “We should probably try again tomorrow.”
You shake your head. “I can’t,” you reply quietly.
He sits up on the bed, his lone eye narrowed and suspicious. His hair is damp and now flows over his shoulders in disheveled silvery waves. “What?”
“I can’t do this again. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“So that’s it,” Aemond flings. “Just this once and never again. Never again in our whole goddamn lives.”
“It feels like betraying him. It is betraying him.”
“And what if he can’t father any more children?!”
“Then I’ll be barren.”
Aemond glares, petulant, affronted. “I thought you wanted to help this family.”
“You didn’t do this for your family. You did it for you.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’m a fucking monster.” He tears off the bed, tugs on his trousers, ties the knot with swift furious hands.
“Aemond, I didn’t say that, I don’t think—”
“You’ve done enough,” he seethes, pawing through a chest of clothing. He finds a shirt and pulls it on, gathers up his things, rages to the bedchamber door. He whips it open and disappears into the nightscape corridor.
“Aemond!” you call after him in a fierce whisper, as loudly as you dare to. “Aemond, where are you going?!”
“To take Harrenhal,” he pitches over his shoulder. And then he’s gone, and maybe it’s your fault, and maybe it isn’t, but either way you are wholly convinced that it is.
You bathe in one of the massive tubs heated by the lava that runs deep beneath the rocky earth of the island, scouring away every trace of Aemond, lathering yourself with soap scented with pine, rinsing, lathering again. Still, you can feel the way he moved inside you with such battering, rapturous force. Still, you miss him, you miss being able to talk to him and look to him and trust that he will protect Aegon in every way he can, for no matter how much envy Aemond is built of you believe his love for his king is stronger.
You return to Aegon’s bed, always so careful now not to jostle his legs, his shattered bones that are only just beginning to mend. You are petrified that he will know somehow—that he will see it on your face, smell it sweating from your pores—but Aegon has nothing for you but seeking hands and contented, drowsy sighs.
“Where’d you go?” he mumbles, still half-asleep, drawing you in closer. “I missed you. I keep dreaming that everyone’s gone. I watch you walk through the doorway and I’m left here in bed all alone.”
“Aegon?”
“Yes, wife.”
“Do you need children with me to be happy?”
He waits a long time before he answers. When at last he does, he chooses each word carefully. “I have never felt a calling to be a father. I’ve never been any good at it. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Maelor…they were mine, but they also weren’t, and I can’t explain it. I felt nothing for them except a vague sort of sympathy that they had the misfortune of being born to me. Now, did a lot of that have to do with my relationship with Helaena? Probably. And do I think things would be different if I had children with you? Yes, I believe they would be, to some extent at least. But I don’t need children to be happy. I just need you.”
You say with tears in your eyes and your voice splintering: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”
He is mystified. “For what?”
“For not being a better person for you. For not being able to cure or protect you. For not being able to end the war.”
“Angel, nobody can,” Aegon says, fingers snarled in your hair, lips to your forehead. Then he smiles; you can feel the warm, playful curl of it against your skin. “Well, except Aemond, of course.”
~~~~~~~~~~
She is there to greet him when he arrives. She creeps out of the shadows like a spider, long limbs and volcanic-glass eyes, whispers like wind in brittle fall leaves and flesh that will never refuse him. She wears black, not for one night like you did but always; she has long dark hair that she never cuts or braids or ties back. Sometimes there are raven feathers in it, sometimes herbs or powders from spells, sometimes twigs and petals, sometimes blood. It all washes out in the cold cryptic currents of the Gods Eye. Once Daemon Targaryen was here, but he did not have a wound in the shape that she could fill, could walk into like a doorway and stitch herself into the velvet-gore lining of his lungs, his liver, his heart. But now Daemon is gone. And Harrenhal has a new king to reign over the city of bones and ashes.
She meets him under the starlight that trickles in through the ruins of Harrenhal, less a castle than an architectural graveyard, less a place of beginnings than of calamitous ends. Her fingernails trace his scar and she tells him it is the mark of a hero. She touches her lips to his sapphire eye and tells him it reminds her of a god. And thus the doorway opens, and Alys drifts through it, silent and resistless like smoke, like a plague.
Perpetual Resurrection, Aemond thinks. He knows they are the words of House Celtigar. He has studied the mottos of every noble house in Westeros; but none speak to him more than these.
She touches him and he sees everything he could be. He tastes her lips and drinks down the smooth intoxicating fire that burns the boy he once was away.
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paranormalactivity5 · 1 year ago
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✮If you film me while I suck it you can be a superstar!✮
Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Famous!Fem!reader
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*This takes place in 1990 simply because cameras were smaller*
A/N: ok second ficc!!! I kinda don't like this tho but it got me out of writers' block soooooo. Also, love the writers' block after one fic. I welcome feedback and constructive criticism!
WARNINGS: P in V, oral sex (f receiving), one thigh slap, chocking, lmk if anything else but I don't think so
word count: 1.2k
You were sitting there staring at yourself in the mirror occasionally taking a nervous peek at the not yet recording camera set on the table next to you, waiting for Eddie to get home. It was Valentine's Day and you finally had the day off but just your luck, Eddie had press all day for Corroded Coffins' new album, you really couldn't be more proud of your boy but…really? Today? You had loved Valentine's Day even before getting into a relationship, just seeing people be happy and in love was nice, and now you were one of them but of course, Eddie's manager Brenda had to take that away, however, you still had some tricks up your sleeve.
Eddie had bought up the idea of possibly recording yourselves having sex, which you were apprehensive about considering your status but you were very intrigued by the idea…..you didn't tell him that though. You wanted to wait for the right moment to bring it back up and this was it. You were dressed up in a light tan sheer little two piece that was littered with little red hearts, it fit you fucking perfectly. He was going to lose his mind.
The second you heard his car pull up in the driveway you threw on your regular fluffy black robe with little comic skulls on it and put the chicken pot pie you had prepared earlier in the oven, you only put it in now because you knew you would be occupied for awhile. You greeted him at the door saying your hellos, and a quick peck on the lips “mmmhp is that chicken pot pie?” he asked smiling “yup, just put it in the oven”. He tells you about his day and all the interviews he did but all you can think about is how hot he looks in those black jeans, that black tee shirt, and leather jacket. He turns around to hang his jacket up and you quickly drop your robe, exposing yourself. He turns back to face you and you swear you can see his Brian short circuit, he does that every time he sees you like this but just as he also does every time he rapidly gatherers himself and a smirk appears on his face. “Well damn baby…” he always speaks so smoothly “I mean I knew you would probably do something but shit, I wasn't expecting this” You can already see him beginning to harden in his jeans which in turn makes heat pool in your stomach.
He walks over and pulls you into him, kissing passionately, only ever pulling apart for air. “Jump” the command from him is so simple but it makes you oh so excited. You do as he says wrapping your legs around his waist and his hands grip your ass, he always holds you so effortlessly, he really is one of those guys that is so much stronger than they look. He begins to walk into your bedroom, never breaking the kiss. Once he gently sets you down on the bed he pulls up to remove his shirt he leans down again but you put your hand on his chest to stop him. He looks confused when you walk over to the dresser, until you hand him the camera.
He looks like he could blow his load right then and there. “...Are you sure?” he asks “Yes.” you say breathless and quickly reattach your mouth to his. He lays you down and turns the camera on but confuses you when he hands you the camera. He lowers himself and starts laying kisses down your stomach and on your hip bones, your breath starts to quicken and you can feel your clit throbbing with need. He continues down, now sucking hickeys into your inner thighs. After what feels like forever he ghosts’ his lips over right where you need him, you can feel his long hair tickling your thighs. He looks au at you with nothing but want in his eyes “Record this baby. Record me making you cum on my tongue”.
He peels your sheer panties off you, the string of your wetness to your underwear could be considered pornographic. The feeling of the cold room was quickly replaced by his warm mouth. You let out a loud moan. the second his mouth is on you he goes to work. Licking around and sucking your on your clit. You use your hand to rub your tit through your bra but he quickly stops his 
actions and slaps you on your thigh causing you to let out a whine. “Keep the camera on me. Or I stop.” he says sternly but you know its killing him not to have his mouth on you right now. You place the camera back on him and he dives back in. You can feel the tension building in your abdomen. For the first time, you look down and you can see him grinding himself into the edge of the bed, and feel him groaning into you; the vibrations are what send you over the edge.
He continued his work on your pussy letting you ride out your orgasm. As soon as you come down from your high his mouth is on yours and he tugs his pants off and puts the camera on the side table where it can get the perfect view. He looks at you for permission, you breathlessly reply “Yes” looking up at him with so much want you can barely see straight. He lines himself up with your entrance. As he pushes in you both let out moans of relief. He quickly begins to build up his pace, You're both moaning so loud  “fuck. Fuck yes. Take it” he groans. he’s pounding into you so good it’s mind numbing.
He pulls the cups of your bra down “Lemme see those perfect tits babe” and begins palming your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers. “Oh my god Eddie” you moan out shakeily. He slides his hand up your body and around your throat just barely putting enough pressure on your pulse point to make your head spin. For the second time tonight, you feel the pressure build and you can tell he’s feeling the same from the way his thrusts are becoming more sloppy and his glorious abdominal muscles are tightening.
“Cum in me, please, Eddie cum in me” you beg him. He leans down to kiss you and his pelvis rubs against you triggering your orgasm, the feeling of you clenching around him triggers his own. You both ride out your highs moaning into each other's mouths. You now lay next to each other with him still inside you feeling the after shocks of your orgasms. “Oh my god….when was the last time I told you how much I love you?” he asks while chuckling sarcastically and you lightly slap him on the chest. Just in time for a nice dinner, after which you will probably show him some gratitude on your knees. 
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creative-caramel-coffee · 9 months ago
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Rich White Men Parties
Summary: Reader feels sick and Tony makes her go to the gala anyway. Pepper comes to your rescue.
TW: vomiting, swearing (once), fever, illness, not being believed, semi-nudity (consented)
Pairing: Pepper x Reader (platonic)
Words: 2k
A/n back at it with the marvel fics again!!!
You needed to show face. It was a fact, one tony had been reminding you of, all week. He knew you hated the gala, thats what you had skipped the last three of them. And now Tony had put his foot down.
On Tuesday he enlisted steve. The two of them had stated that if you skipped this gala, you would be benched from missions for a month
On Wednesday you had been feeling a little off. Chalking it up to a restless nights sleep you drank some more water and took a nap.
Thursday was when things started to go down hill. The water you drank had done nothing. Well … it made you need to pee more but that was it. You had a headache that would have probably taken down Thor.
By Thursday evening you felt like shit on a stick. Your head hurt, your eyes hurt, and your body ached all over. You had decided it was too much. Which was what led you to this point.
You were stood on the threshold of Tony’s lab, debating if this was worth it. You flipped the idea over in your mind like an omelette and decided to just bite the bullet.
You cleared your throat and stepped into the lab. However, that just made your throat hurt.
Tony’s eyes snapped up from his work bench. Peter was sat down on a stool nearby doing homework and his head lifted slowly to watch.
“Mr Stark?” You said timidly.
“Yes?” Tony responded seemingly already annoyed.
“I… I don’t think i can make it to the gala.” You began but he cut you off.
“I don’t wanna hear it L/n. You know the consequence, benched or gala.” He said and turned his eyes back to his work.
“But sir-“ you pressed, and he cut you off again which made you huff quietly.
“Parker? You don’t hear excuses, do you?” Tony asked peter childishly.
“Well sir-“ peter started.
“Never mind kid. Y/n the answers still no.” Tony said.
“Sir she doesn’t look so good.” Peter said taking in your sickly appearance.
“She can shape-shift Pete. If anyone can fake sickness, it’s her. Now finish your homework.” Tony said before turning back to face you.
The flush on your cheeks may have been from anger, embarrassment or the start of a fever, you didn’t know, but it was there.
“L/n, get yourself together. We all hate the media. Press conferences suck. Galas are a step up from that. You, as an avenger, have shown face the least of everyone. It’s impacting your funding, the teams funding. If you want to keep getting missions, you need to give SHEILD a reason to have you in the field more. And on top of training, you need people to like and respect you. Get yourself cleaned up and put your big girl pants on. You're coming to the gala tomorrow night or … like steve said your benched for a month.” Tony said before turning back to his project.
You knew it was over, with a pitying look from peter you nodded to the kid and slunk off down the hall.
You had spent the rest of your day wasting away in your bed. Nausea began to grow in your stomach and despite your body’s protest you forced down a meagre dinner of white rice and chicken.
You called in for an early night and hoped it would all be over tomorrow.
When you woke you felt like shit. Your eyes were tired and sore as you opened them. You dragged your gaze over to the bedside table and almost jumped out of your skin. It was three in the afternoon. You had maybe two and a half hours before the gala started.
Your bones ached, your skin ached, your eyes and your head ached. And more than anything you wanted nothing to do with the gala. But you couldn’t be benched for a whole month. But even now as you felt like hell had frozen over, did it begin seeming like a little less of an awful fate. It was better than throwing up on yourself in front of a room of rich white men in stuffy suits with models hanging off their arms and every word. God, you hated galas.
You pressed a palm to your eye in an attempt to dull the pounding ache in your skull. It did nothing to stave off the persistent form of torture.
You willed yourself to get up, taking at least three spoons to get out of bed.
You stumbled once you were on your feet, steadying yourself on the wall as the room spun and your stomach lurched violently into your chest.
You took carefully calculated wobbly steps to the bathroom before crashing to your knees and heaving. It was unpleasant to say the least. You spat out the foul taste and stood to flush the toilet. You brushed your teeth and inspected your reflection in the mirror. Lifting a finger to make sure that sick and tired looking person in the bathroom mirror really was you.
It was.
You checked the clock and decided to just start getting ready no matter how much you just at wanted to sleep despite having done nothing but sleep all day.
You grabbed the first dress you could find. A tight black number with a slit in the side that almost was something to write home about … almost.
It dipped low on your chest to show off your debt to god otherwise known as perfect boobs. It hugged in the middle to accentuate that snatched waistline and thighs.
You put it on and shivered. It was cold in the thin fabric, or maybe it was too warm. Who knew.
You sat down harshly at the vanity and put on a thick layer of makeup to cover the exhaustion and pale sweaty skin complete with deep purple eye-bags.
You slathered it on thick and fast before checking the time again. You swallowed back the growing pit of sickness in your stomach and began to tame your wild hair.
By the time you had slowly managed to look alive again it was past time for the gala to start.
You summoned your remaining strength to drag yourself up out of the chair. You looked in the mirror once more and fixed your long curly hair.
Sighing you tried to smile like you weren’t dying of a headache what was most likely the initial stages of the flu.
Deeming it good enough you stated out of gala.
When you entered the well-lit room of stuffy rich people your head wanted to split open. And you were ready to let it if it helped.
The music hurt your head, the lights hurt your eyes and the stuffy rich men hurt your soul which was fighting valiantly to leave your body.
You trudged over to a seat in the corner and sat down trying to hide from it all.
The avengers plus pepper were spread across the floor mingling. You watched them from your perch and brooded. Stupid tony and his stupid ego. He could fund the avengers single handedly and still run stark industries.
You fought to keep your head up as exhaustion rolled over you in waves of crushing fatigue.
You groaned quietly and turned to look out the window.
After a few minutes you felt the nausea returning. After a few more you knew there was no stopping the next onslaught of vomiting.
You stood and shivered, heading for the women’s bathrooms, knowing there was no time to find some real privacy.
You hurried across the floor and into the bathroom. You beelined for the largest stall, not bothering to lock it and sunk to your knees.
Your head hovered above the bowl as you gagged and tired to fight it off.
In your haste you had missed that one of the stalls was occupied. Now as you fought heart and soul to not empty your stomach into the toilet, someone was quickly washing their hands.
Then a small knock sounded on the bathroom stall.
“Are you ok in there?” A voice asked and in your fevered haze you failed to recognise its owner. You wanted to respond but you knew if you opened your mouth, it was all over.
As there was no response the door began to open as you turned around again in time to throw up.
Peppers gentle hands scooped your hair off your collar and up out of the way. She used her other hand to gently rub circles on your back.
“It’s ok Y/n/n. You’re alright. Get it out.” She hushed and when you were done you turned to face her with a weak smile.
“Thanks pep.” You rasped.
“Too much to drink?” She chuckled and you didn’t respond, instead spacing out looking at her high heeled shoes. “Y/n/n?” She prompted a frown marring her lips and a wrinkle in her brow. “Earth to Y/n.” She said and still without a response she brushed a curl from your eyes before quickly retracting her hand.
After a second, she replaced it, laid flat against your forehead.
“Oh honey.” She said looking sad. “You’re sick. You have a fever darling.” She cooed and you looked at her with tears on your waterline.
“I know.” You pouted trying not to cry. “Tony wouldn’t listen.” You sobbed.
“Oh sweetie. He’ll listen to me. You and I are going to head to bed, and I’ll look after you. You’re not well and need rest. Whatever Tony thinks, he has another thing coming. Now can you stand up?” She asked softly.
You nodded and slowly stood, swaying on your feet slightly as you did. Pepper put an arm around you and leaned over to flush the toilet.
Then she gently guided you out of the bathroom and over to the lift.
It was a slight blur but before you knew it you were sat on your bed as pepper gently used a cloth to wipe off your makeup.
“For someone who’s hands haven’t stopped shaking, you did a great job on the makeup.” She smiled and you nodded, too fevered to really register the compliment from the queen of galas herself. She looked at you sadly and headed to the bathroom.
She disposed of the washcloth and picked up a thermometer. Coming back to the bed she put the thermometer into your mouth and gently guided you out of your dress. Leaving you in a bra and panties. She slipped on a large T-shirt you slept in and braided your hair.
Then she took out the thermometer and frowned.
“Tonys a deadman.” She said and popped out two fever reducers for you.
She laid her hand on your forehead again to gauge if it was higher than before or not and clicked her tongue. “Defiantly getting these meds.” She said to herself and deposited them in your hands.
She helped you have some water and the medicine and tucked you into bed.
“I’m going to go change but I’ll be back later to check on you. Don’t worry honey, we’ll make sure you get well in no time. I’ll look after you.” She said and Jarvis turned down the lights as she sat down, promising to stay until you fell asleep and to be there when you woke up.
Pepper was like the mum you never had, and it was everything and all your little heart could handle or ever need.
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emeryhall · 3 months ago
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for @wolfstarmicrofic: prompt #22, Azkaban also for @r33sespieces: my #1 wolfstar cheerleader rating: M word count: 1460 (sorry!)
The North Sea feeds into the Thames, and Padfoot—aka Sirius Black—is too exhausted to do much besides, well, doggy paddle. Float, paddle, float, paddle. He passes the Tower of London and shivers at the thought of imprisonment, or perhaps just the bitter cold water that’s bled through his mangy fur and into his barely covered bones. Under London Bridge, which still hasn’t fallen, even after his twelve years of absence. He doesn’t clamber out of the river until he sees Big Ben. Then he locates a cluster of tourists and gives himself a good shake, flinging wet-dog-river-once-used-as-London’s-sewer-system water onto them, before transforming back into a skinny, tattoo-encrusted naked man who cocks an eyebrow at the oldest tourist who faints dead away. He snorts, flips the V to the rest of the crew, and sets off to find clothes. 
He lands in some muggle used clothing store where all the garments are organized by color, the reds being nearest the door, so he snags a couple of red items and yanks the trousers over his skinny hips before the other customers can get too hung up on his dick which is definitely hung if not up. Weirdly, the red jeans he’s grabbed button up the flies instead of zip, so he buttons away trying not to snag his pubes. He should steal some pants next. The top is apparently a red sweater vest. It’s not a good look, but he’s not in a position to be picky. 
“Hey! Mister! You gonna pay for those?” some minimum wage brat demands. 
Sirius considers. He’s got no money, no wand, no pants, no shoes, no friends (as far as he knows). What he does have is fucking dead-ass eyes and a brain full of nightmares and revenge fantasies. 
“How about, rather than pay for these, I promise not to pull off every single one of your fingers and feed them to your arsehole?” His voice comes out strange—scratchy, barely a whisper—which turns out to be more effective than a shout in this situation. 
The kid nearly pisses himself and Sirius walks out of the shop looking like a cherry lollipop. 
Next up is food. There are rats to be had everywhere, scurrying about the London streets, but he walks down Haymarket until it turns into Regent and finds a chippy. (He’s not in the mood for rats. Not just yet, that is.) He orders chips with cheese and a slice of pizza on top and tells the kid behind the counter that if you break a rat’s spine you can spatchcock it just like a chicken. Then he laughs because rats don’t have spines. He’s not sure if it’s the laugh that does it or the spine comment, but the kid doesn’t bother asking for money—just looks like he’s trying not to breathe through his nose, which, fair enough. Sirius smells like arse. 
He leans against the wall of a building in Soho and licks pizza grease off his fingers, licks down his arm where it dribbled, and pays no attention to the posh bloke in khaki trousers and a pocket tee standing next to him until the man holds a lighter to a fag, inhales, and says in a waft of delicious smoke, “What’s your sign?” 
“Go fuck yourself. But give me one of those ciggies first.” 
The man is not put off. Instead, he scans Sirius from his grungy bare feet to his tangled hair, taking in the button flies, sweater vest, and neck tats. Sirius tugs at a belt loop where his hip bones jut above the waistband. 
“How’d you like to make some money?” The man’s accent is sharp. American. 
“How’d you like to fuck yourself?” But Sirius considers. Money could be useful. He’s gotta get to Hogwarts, after all. 
“Ah, if only I were that flexible.” 
Sirius snorts. “I’m not a charity case.” 
“Never said you were. You’d have to earn it.” 
What’s this guy want? His dick sucked? Sirius could probably manage that. It’s been over a decade but the dementors couldn’t have sucked—ha!—that knowledge entirely out of him. Must be like riding a bike. 
“How much?” Sirius asks. 
The man eyes him. “I could make you rich.” 
“From blowjobs? No thanks. I just need to get to Hogwarts.” 
Now the man looks puzzled. “I’m talking about your dreams.” 
“My dreams?” 
“What are your wildest dreams?” 
Sirius is a simple man, or at least he’s become one, so he ticks his dreams off on his fingers. Doesn’t even require a whole hand. 
revenge
Remus
a cigarette
“That’s it?” 
“That’s it.” 
“Well, I can help you with all three.” 
“You can help me find Remus?” 
“When I���m done, Remus will come to you. I’m assuming Remus is a person.” 
“Remus is a person.” 
“And revenge?” 
“Revenge takes money. I’ve already promised you that.” 
“The cigarette?” 
“You smoke?” 
“Quit twelve years ago.” 
“You sure you want to start back up?” But the man pulls a fag from his pack and hands it to Sirius. Even lights it for him. “So, should I get you a contract?” 
“For what?” The first sip of cigarette burns his insides. Cleans him out. Phoenix rising from the ashes and all that. (The metaphor matches his outfit.) 
“Modeling.” 
Sirius laughs so hard he chokes (although that may be the cigarette). The laughter feels good. It’s been a long, long while. “Sorry, did you say modeling?” 
“I did.” 
“Modeling, like Jerry Hall.” 
“Mick Jagger’s wife? Well, yes. Or Cindy Crawford.” 
“Who?” 
The American raises an eyebrow. “Have you been living under a rock?” 
“On, under. Something like that.” 
“Cindy Crawford.” The man points with his cigarette at a newsagents on the corner—racks of glossy magazines on display. 
Sirius squints. “What am I looking at?” 
“Far right. Rolling Stone cover.” 
There’s a bird with big hair and bigger tits on a beach, pink leopard print fabric fwapping about her. 
“You want me to do that?” Sirius glances down. His stomach is so concave you could serve ice cream in it. 
Khaki trousers laughs and fluffs some of his greying hair. “Not at all. I want you to be the opposite of that. I want you to be the face of my new fragrance.” 
Sirius doesn’t even have to lift an arm to smell himself. “Not sure that’s a good idea, mate.” 
“Oh, it is. Your look is perfect. Skinny, strung out, haunted eyes, gender uncertain, those tattoos that look like they’ve been done with a ballpoint pen and knitting needle. We’ll wash your hair a bit but leave it the same length.” 
The man touches Sirius’s hair. His finger gets caught in a gnarl and he has to tug it out. 
“Problem is Mr.…” Sirius waits for the man to fill in the blank. 
“Klein.” 
“Problem is Mr. Klein.” 
“Call me Calvin.” 
“Problem is Mr. Calvin Klein, I’m a wanted criminal. Convicted felon. Just escaped prison. You put me on a magazine cover like that broad”—he gestures with his cigarette towards the newsagents and the bird with the big, smooshed tits—“and you’ll have the whole Wizengamot down on the both of us, and I can’t have that. I’ve got a rat to track down and—” Sirius makes a slitting motion across his throat. 
Mr. Calvin Klein considers him. “I take it you’ve been wronged.” 
“Completely.” 
“Convicted felon but innocent man?” 
“That’s right.” 
“You’re a real life The Fugitive.” 
“What’s that?” 
“Harrison Ford.” 
“Like Han Solo?” 
“Never mind. And I take it the rat’s a snitch?” 
“And not a golden one either, if you know what I mean.” 
Calvin clearly doesn’t know what Sirius means. 
“Then we’ll have to make you too big to fail.” 
“Sorry?” 
“There are two ways to avoid re-imprisonment. One: below the radar. Sneak about. Avoid detection. I imagine that’s what you’re aiming for, but trust me, dressed like that, you’ve already failed. Option two, and the one I’m proposing: I’m going to make you so famous they can’t arrest you. See Cindy Crawford over there? You can’t arrest Cindy. There would be public outrage if you jailed Cindy.” 
Sirius must look skeptical because Calvin goes for another analogy. “How about Brad Pitt? You can’t imprison Brad Pitt.” 
“Who?” 
“Patrick Swayze?” 
Sirius shakes his head. 
“Burt Reynolds?” 
“Smokey and the Bandit?” 
“There you go. Now imagine imprisoning Burt Reynolds.” 
Pffff. “Please. You can’t lock up that ’stache.” 
“Exactly. We’ll make this—” Calvin waves his hands all up and down Sirius’s ‘look’—“so known, there’ll be mob justice if anyone comes for you.” 
“You can do that?” 
“I’m Calvin Klein and this is 1993.” 
“Is it now?” Sirius ashes the cigarette onto his bare foot. Cracks his toes on the pavement. “Where do I sign?”
Hi, Reese! One day I want to gift you a full-length wolfstar, but in the meantime, have this ficlet as a thank you for always supporting my weird-ass wolfstar ideas ❤️
Was this story inspired by the thought that Sirius escaped Azkaban in the mid-90s looking like the epitome of heroin chic? Yes, it was.
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ghosts-bandwagon · 2 years ago
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ah lovey it's the anon who asked for the sh comfort, I forgot to say that I'd like it for the 141 + könig ( I might be a little bit drunk)
I’m assuming sh means sexual harassment? I’m an internet grandma and suck at acronyms I can’t keep up anymore 😭
tw: mention of sexual harassment, not detailed scenarios, comfort
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
God fucking help anyone who tries anything when the two of you are together
Say you two part ways for a little bit while doing groceries, you’re grabbing a few things when you spot someone moving closer from the corner of your eye
You assume it’s someone going for the same items you’re looking at, so you step aside to give them room but they decide to chat you up instead, you’re feeling nervous, eyes flicking to the end of the aisle to see if Simon is close by
You start backing away when he reaches forward to grab your arm, you yank yourself back as hard as you can, crashing into something warm as you stepped back
Simon’s nostrils are flaring, blood boiling as he so gently guides you away from the area, shoving the guy as hard as possible (which took no effort) knocking him back into the display
Simon walked you out, groceries long forgotten, and got you both in the car, the atmosphere was tense as he gripped the steering wheel before starting the car
“Si?”
“Did he hurt you?” He breathed heavily, sorely tempted to give in to the urge to cave his skull in, you shook your head with a trembling lip and he sighed. He wrapped his arms around you and held you, breathing in your scent, feeling your heartbeat
“Let’s just order something, yeah? Could get the orange chicken you like.” He suggested, hands rubbing up and down your back in a soothing motion,
“Yeah that sounds good.” Your voice trembled just a bit and he wanted to turn back around and break the motherfucker’s face, but he knows you need him here and now and he’s more than happy to oblige
John ‘Soap’ MacTavish:
Oh he doesn’t even hesitate to fuck the other guy up
You separated for just a moment to grab some more beer from the bartender and an unruly patron is getting a little too close
But you understand, there’s a football game on and everyone is high energy. You’re waiting for your drinks when unfamiliar hands start to grab your hips, you jerk away hard and look to your side to try to find Johnny
You don’t need to look for very long because he comes barreling into your field of view and decks the guy straight in the face, shouting profanities and curses at him, his accent thickened by his rage
He wraps his arm around your shoulder and tucks you against him as you both make your way out, he’s still a little hopped up on the adrenaline, eyes darting over his shoulder to see if the asshole is following
“Are you ok?” His voice is soft, concerned, eyes swimming with worry, you tuck yourself under his chin, his shirt balled in your fists as you buried yourself into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you and gently swayed you both back and forth,
“Let’s get home, aye?” He pressed his forehead against yours, kissing the tip of your nose, you nodded with a small smile, safe and warm in his arms
John Price:
It was date night, a rare occurrence and always such a special treat, you were all dressed up and John? God so ridiculously handsome, your eyes didn’t leave him for more than a second, you could eat him up
You got up to go to the bathroom, unaware that you were being followed, on your way out of the restroom you found yourself cornered by two men, immediately your heart was in your throat, barely registering the degrading things coming out of their disgusting mouths at your expense
“Gentlemen.” John’s voice boomed as he stood behind them, hands clapping their shoulders, gripping them hard, “Either you get the fuck away from us, or I’ll make you feel every individual bone in your face, have I made myself clear?”
It took them seconds to scramble away, and a fraction of a second for John to check up on you, eyes scanning you for any injuries,
“l-I’m fine, John, I’m ok.” He didn’t miss the way your voice shook, or the way your eyes darted to the entrance of the hallway
“Come on now, let’s get home.”
“But baby, our date.” You protested, heart still hammering in your chest,
“We can still have a date at home, we’ll just change our order to carry out, hm?” He suggested, you had to admit the idea was very appealing, he watched the gears turn in your head before you nodded in agreement,
“There we are, come on then.” He kissed the top of your head and tucked you against his chest, daring anyone to try anything again
Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick:
Game night babey!!! There’s a new adult arcade in town and you both couldn’t be more excited to try it out
He’s kicking your ass at skeeball but to be fair, you annihilated him at the motorcycle racing game, you were breathless with laughter when you noticed you were running low on drinks and snacks, you pecked him on the cheek before making your way to the bar
You’re on your way back with the tray of fries chips in your hand and two beers in the other when you were stopped by a group of guys
You politely declined their invitation to join, anxious to get back to Kyle, you spotted him in the corner of your eye and he saw the panic that flashed on your face, he immediately stopped what he was doing and started making his way over to you
You took two steps in his direction when one of them moved forward to block your path despite the others telling him to knock it off, he took the beers and food from your hands but he wouldn’t get much further because Kyle pulled you away from him, giving him a hard shove,
“Better get your mate in check ‘fore someone else does.” He spoke to the group behind him, glaring at them and tucking you against his chest and away from the offender. He turned you both away and started walking back to your spot,
“Are you alright? Do you want to go home?” He asked, hands on your shoulders, his touch grounding you,
“I-um I think I’m ok.” You stuttered, adrenaline wearing down,
“You sure? Could always have our own game night at home?” he gently rubbed your arms, trying to keep you focused on him
“Can we get pizza?”
“Whatever you need, babe.” He pulled you against him and gently pecked your lips,
“Just don’t get mad when I kick your ass at Smash Bros.” You teased with a shaky chuckle, he laughed and peppered your face with kisses,
“Oh you’re so on.”
König:
He doesn’t let you out of his sight for long, given that he’s quite protective of you
The card terminal at the gas pump wasn’t working so you went inside to pay and grab a few snacks, König was happy to wait in the car until he saw two men walk in behind you
He didn’t want to be paranoid but he wasn’t stupid either, so he walked out of the car and made his way into the station
He didn’t see you at the register, he saw you backed into a corner by the two men he saw earlier, your eyes wide with panic
It took him a fraction of a second to get to you, long legs eating up the distance with ease, he grabbed one of the men by the shoulder and pulled him away from you hard, sending the man falling onto his ass
He shoved the other guy away before grabbing you by your hand and bringing you to him, he marched to the cashier, slammed the money into the counter and went back to the car
He gently ushered you into the passenger seat and set up the gas to pump automatically, his hands were shaking, and he could only see red
He walked to your side of the car and stood protectively against the door, taking the time to calm himself down, once the gas was finished he climbed into the diver’s side, muttering curses in German before sighing deeply, “Are you alright, liebling? Did they hurt you?”
“I’m ok, Köni, just a little shaken.” You answered, voice trembling as you picked at your fingers. He brought you in for a kiss, forehead resting against yours,
“I’m sorry, liebling, I should’ve gone with you.” He sighed, his own heart hammering, mind imagining the worst, “Let’s get you some real snacks and I’ll spoil you rotten, ok?”
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pumpkinsy0 · 3 months ago
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can we please get some fluffy/cute papercut hcs?!? i feel like people have been asking/sending in too many things about other characters/shows and i need my fix back
ur right bro im sorry i need to get back into my papercut roots,,,i apologize,,,i know my place,,,
•curly would ONLY hold ponys hands if its so he can squeeze it w the force of fucking superman and ponys hand is just throbbing in pain
•pony calls darry superman,,,and curly calls tim batman,,,,and pony asked “wouldnt that make u robin” and he stopped laughin IMMEDIATELY, aint shit funny man shut up🙎🏽‍♀️
•when i say curly cant cook, i mean he CAN, but it probably wont look that appetizing, tried making ribs once and the way it was looking pony had to ask “whos ribs r those”, like a ‘what the fuck animal did that come from, it looks like it should be in the move the thing’
•these niggas SUCK at uno if they were a team together, they argue too much and would probably accidentally shown one of the cards they got😭
•pony did try teaching curly some gymnastics but curly nearly broke a bone doing it, he is NOT athletic enough to b doin it, he can do a backflip though (barely but still)
•curlys practiced braiding hair (for angela mainly) on pony, he wanted to prove he could do it☝🏽☝🏽
•there r these designs ppl in haiti paint on themselves for carnival and id like to think that curly tried doing it on ponys had w a pen in class, he was bored and pony likes the feeling
•curly kinda gets cuteness aggression???but not rlly??? he just likes pony a lot and sometimes roughhouses to get the feeling out, its just in his bones
•they also had a chicken contest to see who could inhale the most w a cigarette, was like a “who can catch cancer speedrun” atp, they dont even know who won, they took a deep inhale and chocked and dropped the cigarettes and couldnt tell whos was whos
•i think it would b cute if curly had a freckle on his lips and pony would look at it a lot and curly would joke “what u wanna kiss me or somethin🤨”
•sometimes pony “flirts” w curly right back when he drops a line on him and curly is always surprised cause he NEVER suspects it, but hes not complaining
•immmm ginna hc they move to brooklyn bc thats where i am and i demand them they stay close to me, but if they hear a few cars blasting music at night driving past one of them is thinking “shut the hell uppp” while the other is like “wow!!!!humans r rlly alive in this moment w me!!!”, it flip flops whos who
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amnesiamilk · 2 years ago
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Wolf Therian Tips!
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You have a divine taste in prey ! And I must say , your packmates must be proud of your agility ! Come over here and listen to my tips and activities for wolf therians!
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Eating and Food
Wolves are practically known for their carnivore based appetite , so well known that some people fear they might attack humans. I dont really recommend eating people since it’s kind of illegal and immoral but here’s some other options!
Eat a lot of meat , obviously balance your diet but go to the market and buy chicken . Chicken is a good choice because it usually has the bones still so you can get lots of gnawing and ripping out from it . Also be sure to wash and clean the bones if you’d like to keep them . No one likes a den that smells like rotting chicken .
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Activities and Behavior
Find a pack. There are thousands of online packs or mixed packs out there, but if you’d prefer a in-person pack then go searching for packs in your area. Also GO CAMPING. I recommend this to any canine therian because camping is just so good for canines. You can hear the wolves at night and play in the river , lots of amazing opportunities for quads . You can also howl at night, if you live in an area with lots of coyotes , most people won’t tell the difference and will leave you alone. Going on hikes is a great way to analyze habitats .
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Gear and Species Dysphoria
Bite species dysphoria in the tail . We know it sucks. Although you don’t need gear or quads to be a therian it may be helpful to have some form of tail .(please make sure your tail is not from a fur farm , buying fake ones are better than abuse) .If you cannot purchase a tail due to being a minor or other reasons , then you can make some very easily! On my coyote tips post, I linked a video for how to make a yarn tail. Check that out if you’d like . You can also make a tail through blankets and a belt . Simply attach the belt to your waist and feed a blanket through the buckle and knot it, move the tail to your back and enjoy your temporary tail! This is good if you are in a shift and need to aid your phantom limbs.
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homeofhousechickens · 6 months ago
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Not a shitty anon but someone who hopefully wants to get into owning chickens for meat and eggs one day. At what age do you tend to process your meat birds? Does the breed/size of the breed make a difference in that at all? Cause I've mainly been researching quail processing and some places say between 6-8 weeks, and that seems like a short time although they are small birbs.
When I raised freedom Rangers indoors I got them as young chicks in late August and culled them mid October. They were very hefty at that point since meat birds grow faster than normal chickens. One of them really needed to be processed as soon as possible as he was suffering from fatty liver disease which is very common in meat birds so I maybe could have culled him earlier or later in different circumstances.
The type of chicken you're raising does make a big difference. CornishX, for example need to be culled at a certain time (usually before 14 weeks), or their bodies can grow too much, putting a strain on their heart and bones. It's very difficult to raise a cornishX to adulthood, and it's almost impossible to breed them, so you need to keep buying your stock from hatcheries.
Freedom Rangers and other similar red meat birds still grow very fast but can actually function as chickens and can even be propagated and used in meat bird breeding projects. They can still be culled around 8-10 weeks which is what's standard for commercial meat birds or you can wait till later if they are robust and healthy.
Heritage breed chickens take a much longer time to raise. A wyandotte for example might need to be a few months older before being a good butcher weight but because they take longer they tend to have more flavor and texture. This goes for pretty much all heritage breeds but some take even longer to reach that weight then others. High quality large fowl Brahma and Jersey Giants can take more than a year to reach full size so if your looking for only raising for meat then they wouldn't be a great time and cost effective option. What's great about heritage breeds is that you can breed them yourself and have the hens for eggs while eating the spare cockerels which is really what dual purpose breeds are made for.
Egg laying production breeds suck for meat production in general. Even if you wait for the cockerels to fully mature. Your never going to get the same feed to weight ratio out of a leghorn cockerel compared to an orpington since their bodies are built for maximum egg production. Still good for soup though.
My personal breeding project birds are bantams that I wouldn't consider meat birds at all right now. I cull the cockerels once they have a nice layer of meat along their keel and have a bit of heft to them usually for my birds they are already sexually mature or very close to maturity which is usually around 4 months for them.
I haven't raised quail personally but that time frame sounds right to me. Quail are a good source of meat if you want to go that direction they aren't to expensive and are easy to raise just need to keep an eye on their social behavior as quail can be really aggressive to each other. It's really up to you if you want to wait longer to process or not. I honestly suggest trying out different things and seeing what you like. Maybe you would like an older more gamey bird like I do or maybe you like tender younger birds. If your the one raising them it's all up to you.
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ashlynniis-bracketeers · 5 months ago
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THE EIGHTH CHEF - The Eighth Chef Meursault Concept - The Eighth Chef Meursault Tenderizer
So... This is a lot. I'll be putting a lot of this + some extra stuff under a cut, because this will be a three-mile-long post otherwise rofl.
Yes, I have been firmly sucked deep into the Limbus Hole™, how could you tell? Anyways, have a fan ID (including Pre-Uptie art).
A Walpurgisnacht ID for Meursault, of Greta (Distorted cannibal shark lady, the only surviving member of the "Eight Chefs") from Library of Ruina.
This all started because I thought "Meursault deserves a cannibal ID, he deserves Eating People Privileges™ after what he dealt with in Hell's Chicken", and I told this to @cult-of-the-gundead who then said "the only cannibal left for an ID is Greta" and I went "who's Greta" and she sent me down a rabbit hole of the funny shark lady. So this is a very self-indulgent fan ID concept lmao.
Drawing the mock-up Pre-Uptie art kicked my ass, it's technically a remake of my previous attempt at designing the Pre-Uptie art (which will be under the cut). I cannot digitally paint worth a piss, so this time I didn't try to mimic the painterly style (thank hell). I tried to do an Uptie III art, but I couldn't figure out anything or how to make it look right, and the thought of animating it like the UTIII art in-game made me feel extra stabby, so maybe some other time lmao.
I hope you like it!
Cut time:
Design notes for THE EIGHTH CHEF:
The composition of this is supposed to be a call-back to R.B. Chef de Cuisine Ryōshū's (i.e. Pierre Ryoshu) Uptie III art
The pot with the bone in it is a reference to the pot appearing in some of Greta's pages in Library of Ruina
The teeth (+ jawbone) and seven tongues are meant to be those of the other Eight Chefs, as Greta described their autocannibalism as "They kept going until their teeth and tongues were all that's left".
The infinity sign in the background is meant to be a play on the number eight, as the symbol is often seen as the numerical symbol for the number eight placed sideways. There are no longer eight chefs…
Design/Concept notes for The Eighth Chef Meursault Concept:
The name "Benthic Witch" is derived from the fact that Greta's Distorted form is that of a shark (i.e. a creature that lives in water), and from the tale of Hansel and Gretel, where a cannibalistic witch attempts to fatten up Hansel before eating him (because Greta is a cannibal).
Meursault's face is supposed to always be framed in shadow in Teetering E.G.O, with only the red glow of his now-extremely-wide eyes being seen. The pattern of his mouth-covering combined with the mouth/teeth of the shark hood are meant to look like glowing eyes from inside a sharp-toothed maw.
The primary silver-and-white colors of the E.G.O are based off of Greta's sharkskin colors, while the white triangles lining the edges of the apron (and the edges of his gloves and boots in Teetering E.G.O) are meant to resemble teeth. The pattern resembles a mouth further on his apron in Teetering E.G.O.
So, he has a Volatile E.G.O gimmick similar to Dawn Office Fixer Sinclair. Playing off of the fact that we never see non-Distorted Greta, I played around with whatever her E.G.O could have possibly been, even in a Volatile/incomplete state.
Meursault is a mystery, but one thing we know is this: He Corrodes hard if he Corrodes with Electric Screaming. He's also memed as having an "Anti-Distortion Shield". So, going along with this ID of him being a cannibal and going murderously bonkers, I've given him "Teetering Off of the Edge of E.G.O": He has two different versions of his E.G.O state he can enter depending on Sanity/unique resource count, being Volatile and "Teetering" E.G.O. The main difference between the two gameplay-wise is that Teetering E.G.O state makes all of his attacks indiscriminate, so he can end up targeting and killing your teammates like 90% of Corrosions. He's supposed to basically be on the very edge of Distorting when in Teetering E.G.O.
If you want to see my gameplay/mechanical concepts, I'll link this Google Doc. I haven't been able to use that LCB ID/EGO generator site without it breaking lmao. I'll also screenshot the important stuff and put it here (in a reblog, as this is already reaching the character limit lmao) in case the file gets corrupted or something. Feel free to comment of my incompetent balance, I have no idea how to balance the numbers in this game rofl.
The old version of "THE EIGHTH CHEF" and my first drawing of Gretsault will be below
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