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fangdokja · 8 days ago

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You’re the light he vowed to keep, even if he has to snuff it out first.

❤︎ Synopsis. You’re trapped in the suffocating grip of a man who loves you just enough to destroy you—until you’re nothing but his broken, devoted possession. A love that feels more like a curse than a choice.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Pro Hero! Katsuki x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Pro Hero! Shouto x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Villain! Deku x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Dabi x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. Ruined, Owned, Loved. - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 3,897

♡ TW. non con, possessiveness, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, mature language, degradation, verbal abuse, kidnapping

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

♡ Pro Hero! Bakugo Katsuki.

You knew better than to try running. The moment you felt his presence—a simmering furnace of fury and control—it was already too late. He didn’t announce his arrival with words; his footsteps were enough, sharp and deliberate, heavy boots hitting the floor like a countdown to something inevitable. Bakugo’s voice was never soft; it was a serrated edge, ripping through the air as if he had a right to every breath you took. And when he spoke, it wasn’t a question.

“Thought you could get away, huh?” His laugh was cruel, low, and full of condescension. “You’re dumber than I thought. But that’s fine. I like you stupid. Makes you easier to handle.”

His hands were everywhere—calloused, hot, burning like the aftermath of an explosion. You hated how they felt on your skin, hated the way your body betrayed you, trembling when he pressed you against the cold, unyielding surface of the wall. He’d whisper things in your ear, not because he cared, but because he wanted to hear you choke on your protests. He fed on resistance. It made him more determined, more ruthless, as if he needed to prove a point.

“You think anyone else could handle you? Take care of you? Fucking useless brat. I’m the only one who knows what you need.”

There was no romance in his touch, only dominance, a need to mark, to conquer. His lips were blistering against your neck, leaving bruises that would bloom dark and ugly—a reminder of his claim. He reveled in the small, broken noises you made, each gasp a sign of his victory. To Bakugo, love wasn’t soft. It was brutal, raw, and destructive. And you were the perfect canvas for his fire.

———

Bakugo Katsuki was never the kind of man to hold back. Even now, with the faint scent of charred air clinging to him and his gaze sharp enough to carve through steel, restraint was a foreign concept. He didn’t need to be gentle, didn’t care for the nuances of tenderness or quiet affection. His love was a volatile thing, violent and consuming, a wildfire that left nothing untouched. And you, unfortunate as you were, had become the fuel to his blaze.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was a low growl, the kind that sent shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear, each word deliberate, dripping with venomous intent. “You’re mine. Every single part of you. That fucked-up little brain, those stupid tears, even the way you fucking breathe—you don’t get to decide any of it anymore. I do.”

His hands were unforgiving, each touch an assertion of control, as though he was daring your body to defy him. He wasn’t satisfied with merely holding you. He needed to own you, to etch himself into your very marrow, to ensure that every fleeting thought you had began and ended with him. Calloused fingers dug into your flesh, searing heat radiating off his palms like the embers of a smoldering fire. His grip wasn’t just tight—it was possessive, like he was claiming his place under your skin, branding you without the need for flames.

“You’re so fucking fragile,” he sneered, his lips curling into a smirk that held no kindness. “Can’t even put up a proper fight. What would you even do without me? Huh?”

There was something almost mocking in the way he spoke, but beneath it lay a darker truth: Bakugo didn’t just want you compliant—he wanted you broken, a hollowed-out shell with only his name to fill the emptiness. He thrived on the power he held over you, the way your trembling body responded to him no matter how much your mind screamed otherwise.

His kisses weren’t tender. They were bruising, feral, the kind that left you breathless for all the wrong reasons. Teeth scraped against your skin, leaving faint indentations that would fade just enough for him to replace them. His mouth trailed lower, each bite deliberate, as though he were carving himself into you with the edge of his teeth.

“Don’t bother crying,” he hissed, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Won’t do you any good. Just makes me want to ruin you more.”

There was no hesitation in his movements, no room for uncertainty. Bakugo wasn’t a man who second-guessed himself, especially not when it came to you. Every touch, every whispered insult, every moment was carefully calculated, designed to tear you apart and rebuild you in his image. To him, love was destruction, and the thought of anyone else laying claim to you was enough to send his temper spiraling out of control.

“If anyone even looks at you wrong, I’ll blow them to pieces,” he said, his tone deadly serious. “And you’ll watch. You’ll see exactly what happens when someone tries to take what’s mine.”

The threat wasn’t empty. You knew Bakugo meant every word, his rage barely contained, simmering beneath the surface like magma waiting to erupt. And yet, there was something disturbingly intimate in the way he held you, his grip firm but steady, as though he believed he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

“You’ll thank me one day,” he muttered, his voice softer now but no less menacing. “You’ll see that I’m the only one who gives a damn about you. The only one who’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

His idea of safety was suffocating, a cage made of fire and ash, but there was no escaping it. Bakugo Katsuki wasn’t a man who let go—not when he’d already decided that you were his, body and soul. And he’d make sure you understood that, even if it meant breaking you into pieces and putting you back together again, over and over, until the only thing you recognized was him.

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♡ Pro Hero! Todoroki Shouto.

Shouto was a contradiction: ice and fire, tenderness and cruelty. When he stared at you, it wasn’t with love but with obsession, the kind that stripped you bare and left you exposed under his cold, calculating gaze. He was too quiet, his presence unnerving, his dual-colored eyes a predator’s trap. There was something unnervingly patient about him, as though he had all the time in the world to break you.

“You look so scared,” he murmured, voice soft enough to make your blood run cold. “But you don’t have to be. I’ll take care of you.”

His fingers were gloved, precise, as if he didn’t want to dirty himself with you. But when he touched you, it was deliberate, calculated, his hands mapping every inch of your body with clinical detachment. It wasn’t passion that drove him—it was control, the need to see you submit, to strip you of your autonomy until you were nothing but a doll for him to play with.

“You’re mine,” he said, his tone flat, matter-of-fact. “You’ll understand that soon enough.”

Shouto’s cruelty was subtle, wrapped in a veneer of kindness that made you second-guess your fear. But it was there, lurking beneath the surface, a monster waiting to strike. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to suffocate you. When he leaned in, his breath cold against your skin, you knew there was no escape.

———

Shouto Todoroki was meticulous in everything he did, and when it came to you, that precision was unnervingly intimate. He didn’t rush, didn’t let his emotions spill out in reckless waves like others might. No, Shouto was a slow, deliberate storm, his control more terrifying than any outburst could ever be. He didn’t need to shout or rage; his silence was its own weapon, slicing through you with a cold, surgical exactness that left no room for resistance.

“Do you hate me?” he asked once, his voice a quiet hum of curiosity. His mismatched eyes searched yours, not for an answer, but for the flicker of defiance he knew wouldn’t last. “It doesn’t matter. Hate me if you like. It changes nothing.”

His touch was clinical at first, his gloved fingers tracing your skin as though he were studying the way you flinched beneath him. It wasn’t lust that drove him, nor even anger—it was obsession, a need so deeply rooted it had consumed every rational part of him. Shouto didn’t see you as a person anymore, not entirely. You were a puzzle, a possession, something delicate and fragile that belonged to him alone.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmured, his voice soothing despite the steel underneath. “Even if it means protecting you from yourself.”

There was a chilling detachment in the way he said it, as though your autonomy was a trivial obstacle he’d long since dismissed. Shouto wasn’t cruel for the sake of it; every act, every word, was deliberate, calculated to strip you of your defenses. He wanted you pliant, dependent, so deeply intertwined with him that the thought of leaving felt like an impossibility.

When he kissed you, it was neither tender nor rushed. His lips were cold, an eerie contrast to the heat that followed, a slow burn that made your skin prickle and your heart race. He took his time, savoring the way you trembled under his touch, the way your breath hitched when his hand slid to the nape of your neck. Shouto didn’t rush his conquest. He was patient, methodical, the predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.

“You’re so warm,” he said, almost to himself, as his fingers traced idle patterns across your skin. “It’s comforting. I think I’d destroy anyone who tried to take this from me.”

His dual nature made him unpredictable, a constant tightrope between icy detachment and blistering intensity. There were moments when he’d cradle your face in his hands, his expression almost tender, as though he were something close to human. But even then, his words betrayed him.

“You can cry if you want,” he said, his tone soft, almost gentle. “I don’t mind. It only makes you prettier.”

He didn’t see your fear as an obstacle—it was part of the process, a necessary step in molding you into what he wanted. Your tears were proof of his power, a testament to the control he wielded with such terrifying ease. And when his hands roamed, when his lips found the sensitive curve of your neck, there was no escaping the suffocating weight of his presence.

Shouto’s love wasn’t fiery or wild; it was smothering, a glacier slowly encasing you until you couldn’t breathe without him. His cruelty was subtle, woven into the fabric of his obsession, a constant reminder that you were his and his alone.

“You’ll see,” he whispered, his breath a cold ghost against your ear. “This is what’s best for you. You’ll understand eventually. You’ll thank me.”

He didn’t rush to break you; he savored it, each crack in your defenses another victory in his quiet, relentless campaign. To Shouto, love was control, possession, and the quiet certainty that you would never, ever belong to anyone else.

And he would make sure of that, no matter what it took.

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♡ Villain! Midoriya Izuku (Deku).

There was nothing left of the boy you once knew. His smile, once kind and genuine, was now twisted, a mockery of the hero he pretended to be. Midoriya was no longer a savior—he was a predator, and you were his prey. He didn’t hide his intentions, didn’t bother with pretenses.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, his voice dripping with adoration that felt more like a curse. “I’ve been watching you for so long. You have no idea how much I’ve done for you, how many people I’ve destroyed just to keep you safe.”

His hands were trembling, not with nerves but with excitement, the kind that came from finally obtaining something he’d coveted for so long. When he touched you, it was with reverence, as if you were a sacred object meant only for him. But there was nothing holy about the way he looked at you, his green eyes dark with hunger, his grin wide and unsettling.

“You’re scared,” he noted, almost amused. “That’s okay. You’ll learn to love me. You don’t have a choice.”

His kisses were rough, desperate, as if he needed to consume you, to devour every piece of you until there was nothing left. He didn’t care if you cried, didn’t care if you begged. In fact, he liked it. Your tears were proof of his power, of the hold he had over you.

———

Midoriya Izuku had always been obsessive, but the way his fixation on you consumed him was nothing short of monstrous. He no longer sought to save the world; no, his only goal was to possess you entirely, to twist you into something that could never leave him. And he’d succeeded, hadn’t he? You were here, trapped under the weight of his adoration, his hands gripping you with a strength that bordered on desperation.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” His voice was breathless, his green eyes wide and wild as they roved over you. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You were always meant to be mine. Every step I’ve taken, every choice I’ve made—it was all for you.”

There was something unhinged in his tone, a mixture of awe and madness that made your stomach churn. He didn’t see you as a person anymore. You were his salvation, his obsession, the only thing that mattered in his twisted, crumbling world. And he would do anything to keep you by his side.

“I’m not a bad person,” he murmured, his fingers trailing down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Everything I’ve done—it was for us. They tried to take you from me, tried to ruin what we have, but I stopped them. I’ll always stop them.”

His hands were steady now, his grip firm as he held you in place. There was no escape, no room for resistance. Izuku didn’t need chains to bind you; his sheer presence was enough to suffocate you, to remind you that you were entirely at his mercy.

“You think I don’t notice?” he asked, his grin widening as his gaze bore into yours. “The way you look at me, the way your body reacts even when you’re scared. It’s okay to feel that way. I want you to feel that way. I want every part of you—your fear, your tears, your love. It’s all mine.”

When he kissed you, it wasn’t tender. It was bruising, all-consuming, a chaotic clash of teeth and tongues that left you gasping for air. His hands wandered, exploring with a fervor that bordered on worship. He treated your body like a shrine, something to be revered and defiled in equal measure.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, his voice soft but laced with dark amusement. “Don’t worry, it’s normal. You’re overwhelmed, but that’s how it should be. I want to overwhelm you. I want to be the only thing you think about, the only thing you need.”

Izuku’s affection was a double-edged sword, as sharp as it was suffocating. He spoke to you as if he were a hero, as if he truly believed that his actions were justified, that his love for you made the horrors he committed excusable. But his gaze, dark and hungry, betrayed the truth. He wasn’t protecting you—he was consuming you, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the person you once were.

“Every scar, every bruise—it’s proof that you’re mine,” he said, his fingers tracing the marks he’d left behind. “Don’t be ashamed of them. Wear them with pride. They mean I love you.”

There was no arguing with him, no reasoning with the man who had long since abandoned morality in favor of his obsession. Izuku didn’t see his actions as cruel; he saw them as necessary. To him, you were the center of the universe, and he would destroy anyone who dared to challenge his claim on you.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “I hate seeing you upset. But if it’s for me, then… maybe it’s okay. Just this once.”

His smile was soft, almost tender, but there was no comfort in it. It was the smile of a man who had nothing left to lose, a man who had decided that you were his salvation and his damnation all at once. And no matter how much you struggled, no matter how much you begged, Izuku wouldn’t let you go. He couldn’t.

“You’re mine,” he said again, his voice steady, unwavering. “You’ve always been mine. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way.”

To him, love wasn’t about freedom or choice. It was possession, control, the unrelenting certainty that you would never belong to anyone else. And as his hands tightened around you, his lips ghosting over your skin, you realized that there was no escape from the man who had turned his obsession into a twisted form of devotion.

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♡ Dabi (Todoroki Touya).

Dabi was a shadow, a ghost who lingered just out of reach until it was too late. His presence was suffocating, a combination of smoke and ash that clung to your skin like a brand. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“You didn’t think you could actually hide from me, girl?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, filled with a dark amusement that made your stomach turn. “I’m not some fool who’s gonna let you slip through my fingers.”

His touch was rough, his hands scarred and burned, but he didn’t care if it hurt. In fact, he liked it, liked the way you flinched under his grip, the way your breath hitched when he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You look so pretty when you’re scared,” he murmured, his tone almost tender. “Makes me wanna ravage you even more.”

Dabi wasn’t gentle. He didn’t know how to be. His kisses were bruising, his teeth sharp against your skin, leaving marks that would take weeks to fade. He was possessive, his grip unyielding as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. But there was a sadness in his eyes, a flicker of something broken and desperate that only made him more dangerous.

“You’re mine now,” he said, his voice steady, final. “And I don’t share.”

For Dabi, love was destruction.

And you were his favorite thing to destroy.

———

Dabi’s love was a slow burn, a smoldering fire that crept closer with every passing moment, until it devoured you whole. He didn’t rush, didn’t bother with theatrics. When he claimed you, it was with the inevitability of something that had been decided long before you had a chance to resist.

“You didn’t stand a chance,” he said, his voice a husky drawl that carried the weight of certainty. His blue eyes, bright and unrelenting, bore into yours with a heat that scorched you from the inside out. “You’ve always been mine since the moment I saw you. You just didn’t know it yet.”

His touch was calloused, rough from years of self-destruction, and when his hands gripped your wrists, the heat of his skin was a cruel reminder of his power. Dabi didn’t just want you—he wanted to consume you, to make you feel every ounce of his presence until you couldn’t think of anything else. His fingers left marks wherever they roamed, bruises that burned as if his flames had kissed you directly.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his breath warm against your neck as his rough lips ghosted over your skin. “That’s me. Burning into you. Marking you. You’ll never get rid of it. Never get rid of me.”

There was a possessiveness in his every movement, a desperate hunger that bordered on madness. He didn’t want your love—he demanded it, took it without permission, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. His kisses were rough, searing, his teeth dragging against your lips as if he wanted to taste the fear that lingered there.

“I could burn this whole fucking world down,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, his grip tightening as his flames flickered to life. “But you? You’re the only thing I’d keep. The only thing worth saving.”

But his version of saving was suffocating, a cage built of fire and smoke that left no escape. Dabi wasn’t gentle, wasn’t kind. His love was destruction, raw and unfiltered, the kind that left you trembling beneath the weight of it. He didn’t care if you cried, if you begged for release. In fact, he thrived on it, the broken sound of your voice feeding the darkness that consumed him.

“Don’t cry, doll,” he said, his tone mockingly sweet as he wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. The heat of his touch lingered, a cruel reminder of the flames that simmered just beneath his skin. “You’re too pretty for that. Besides, it’s not like you can run. Where the hell would you go?

Dabi’s obsession was a monster in itself, a hungry, clawing thing that refused to let him rest. He needed you in a way that was almost pathetic, a desperate craving that he buried under layers of cruelty and bravado. But it slipped through the cracks sometimes, in the way his voice softened when he whispered your name, in the way his hands trembled just slightly when they traced the curve of your neck.

“You make me weak, you know that?” he confessed, his laugh a bitter, shattered thing as his grip on you tightened. “And I hate it. But I can’t stop. You’re in my head, under my skin. You’ve ruined me, so it’s only fair I ruin you too.”

To Dabi, love wasn’t about tenderness or trust. It was about control, possession, the unrelenting need to keep you by his side, no matter the cost. He didn’t see his actions as cruel—they were necessary, a means to an end. And if he had to break you to keep you, then so be it.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said, his grin sharp and dangerous as his lips brushed against yours. “This is how it’s gonna be. You and me, forever. You don’t get a say in it. You never did.”

There was no escape from him, no reprieve from the intensity of his obsession. Dabi wasn’t just a villain—he was a force of nature, an inferno that consumed everything in its path.

And you were his favorite thing to burn.

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General TAG LIST: @uniquecutie-puffs , @ikevampharem , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi

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spdrvyn · 19 days ago

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SOMETHING STUPID — [ wc: 1k. post-btsv. hurt/comfort ] in the aftermath of his downfall, miguel tries to cross the threshold to securing his sense of humanity. he doesn't get why you're here with him.

very much inspired by @spiderman2-99's post! wrote this instead of reviewing for my math final LOL. sorry for the inactivity but i hope this makes up for it :) also yes. the graphics are making a comeback

Gentleness never came naturally to Miguel.

Not to say that it has never been sparked in him before, because it most certainly has. With his past lovers, with Gabriella, with his other family members at the opportune moments, but that didn’t change that alien feeling that welled up inside of him when he tried his hardest to be, or when at the rarest times, he was met with softness on his own.

He’s believed for the longest time that whatever ounce of clemency remained in him would never see the light of day again and that he would suffer the rest of his living days in loneliness, punishment for his misdemeanors and mistakes. Long nights of being beaten down, brutalized, and even longer nights of making sure that no other person would experience what he did too. He would never be able to come back to that, from what has happened to him, and what he has done unto others in result of that.

But, on you? Tenderness looked like a dream on you. It’s a language that he knows you’re completely fluent in, especially now that he’s been heavily encouraged to take a brief suspension from his Spider Society duties ever since the debacle with the Spot and Miles Morales had been wrapped up.

Of course, you weren’t the first person to come by his place but he’s sure that it’s your visit that he will remember the most in the weeks to follow. How your love translates so easily into words and actions; he will never be able to perfect, he thinks. It comes in the form of fresh take-out for dinner, musings of how your day has been going to distract him from the dark whispers in his mind. Now, you line kisses from the scars on his arms to the lingering bruises on his knuckles.

And because he can never allow himself to fully melt under the affliction of your care, “You shouldn’t be here. This was supposed to be a punishment, I’m serving my time.”

You pause dispensing your affections for a moment to simply stare at him, he casts a despairing glance at you from how content you look to be in his presence. Because you shouldn’t be, but you just are. “What makes you think I’m rewarding you?” is your easy reply, “I’m doing what I want, because I can. I thought you’d understand that by now.”

“But I—”

“Do you regret what you did?”

Miguel blinks, taken aback by your sudden interrogation. “I— Yes. Very.”

“Are you going to do something that will make up for it and try not to do it again?”

“Of course, I will. I’ve already asked Peter and Jess on what I could say, bought gifts, and I plan to—”

Before he can begin to unravel the precise details of his redemption plan, you press a delicate finger to his plush lips. “That’s all I needed to know, Miguel.”

He sighs so heavily that it practically blows the air out of your lungs too, as he leans forward so that his head is perched on your chest, where he is comforted by the consistent thud of your heartbeat. Like moths to a flame, your fingertips find home on the curls at the back of his neck. He noses the veins close to your sternum and follows a trail up to the juncture of your shoulder, where he murmurs to you:

“I don’t get how it’s so easy for you,” You can feel his frustrated huff against your skin, “To do this. To love other people so easily.”

Only because Miguel had a language of his own too.

Destruction. It’s all he knows, and all he’ll ever know. When he was younger and naïve, he knew to do what you do now so eloquently. Now time has withered him, as the lines on his face grow deeper and his hairs become greyer, his love is misinterpreted for hatred, his passion mistaken for rage, or maybe all of those feelings were never so separate from each other after all. Still, if he is not a beast, like how people have seen him as, have understood him for, then why is he as depraved as one?

“Isn’t this love though?” Your voice rumbles against his cheek, “You love, so you put a blanket on me when I fall asleep in your office. You love, so you argue with Gwen when she goes off on her own on missions. You love, so you let Peter show you pictures of Mayday while you’re working when you can easily yell at him to get out. You love, so you let me bring you food, kiss you, and tell you corny, stupid things like this.”

Your deft hands cup his cheeks, lifting him off of his hiding spot in your neck and his arms slide around your waist because as much as he needs to, he can’t let go. He needs to, because he despises how pathetic you’ve made him. You’ve sanded his sharp edges and blown the dust off of the traditions set in his life from his traumas, and it definitely wasn’t easy because he has hurt you in an attempt to do the opposite, to save you from the rotten work that is taking care of him in any capacity, yet you’ve stayed and he’s let you stay. Maybe that’s how he’s loved you, all this time.

The warmth in your gaze emboldens him and he leans forward to press your lips together. It can barely be called a kiss, but your faces mold together and the feeling of it practically captures the stillness of one.

From how intangible the success of keeping you in his life is, it almost seems like the universe is making a joke and Miguel patiently waits for the punchline. He waits and waits, but it never comes. The border between his monstrosity and humanity blur the longer you stay around, he would have hated this, but he doesn’t. This, too, is love.

missed writing for him really badly... i've been so swamped with school work but being a diligent student is probably what miguel wants 🫡

#spiderman: across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse #spiderverse #atsv #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara x y/n #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 x you #spiderman 2099 x y/n #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o’hara fluff

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dadsbongos · 6 months ago

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do u think u could write some of ur own personal headcanons for laios? i love the way u write him, it seems almost canon!

anon you dont know what fire youre messing with

also thank yew hehe :>

general headcanons:

Laios likes babysitting but does NOT want to be a real papa, he adores the idea of being the Cool And Strange Uncle but just imagining having to raise a whole person from scratch terrifies him

Usually conks out as soon as his head hits the pillow and he’s a damn heavy sleeper, he strikes me as someone that gets the dad snore when he’s a bit older

Likes doing physical activity in the moment, maintaining his stamina/strength n whatnot. But HAAATES the aftermath, he will not stop bitching about how gross he feels when sweaty

People scare him but I think men specifically scare him more than women because he mainly associates “men” with his old boarding school and military peers and his dad. Meanwhile the most callous woman he’s personally dealt with is like. his mom… who wasn’t particularly menacing and he doesn’t seem to resent her as much as he does his father

Most definitely called Chilchuck “chil” in their early days together and got his nuts sacked for the unintentional disrespect

Doesn’t drink often because the taste bugs him but when he does decide to, he drinks to get drunk. So it has to be a special occasion

The type of older brother to tell Falin food fills up your body from your feet to your head and when you’re full to your head you die

modern headcanons:

Definitely the type to unironically use little emoticons like :) or :] but his favorites are the cute ones like :3 , ^.^ , and :0

Would’ve played barbies with Falin as a kid and enjoyed it more than Falin did lol

If he were out with the group (marcille would have to threaten his life though, he would HATE “going out”) and Marcille or Falin deferred to him to deal with creepy men he’d feel like a superhero about it

Borderline mandated to have a high impact phone case by Falin because he’s GOT to be dropping that shit all the time. I just know it (projecting)

Would probably dislike resident evil as a series but thinks the premises are cool

Bouncing off that: he’s a big Undertale and Deltarune fan (definitely had a thing for Toriel at some point and probably thought sans was kind of overrated). Has ambivalent feelings towards fear & hunger, likes the atmosphere and item preservation and monsters but the assault scenes and overt brutalism ick him out from recommending it

Would go his whole life without an autism diagnosis until eventually held at metaphorical gunpoint by his friends, just for his parents to go “oh yeah we had you tested as a kid but didn’t want you using it as a crutch”

If monsters weren’t real he’d be cryptid autistic just so everyone’s on the same page

Cryptids major and ocean creatures minor type autism

I don’t think he’s straight by any measure but before he has the Realization, he’s the epitome of the girls gays and coleman meme

Segue omg: he has no desire to think more about his sexuality or gender than “i feel x” or “i choose y”. I think he identifies as Man(TM) but in a “its harder to explain i want to be a bog” way. If you referred to him with feminine pronouns or called him “girl” he seriously wouldn’t give a shit

nsfw(?) headcanons:

Could never do casual, you would have to be committed or only know each other VERY distantly and only do it once. His ass wouldn’t know how to read your relationship if you were trying to do friends with benefits (he’s also very concerned with hurting people’s feelings so just the notion of accidentally doing that to someone he’s intimate with would kill him)

May seem strange coming from a bitch always talkin about fucking him, but I think Laios would actually have kind of a lower sex drive. Like he maybe doesn’t get needy very often but also isn’t NOT in the mood, so if you proposition him and he’s into you he’ll be like “okie :3”

That being said, when he does feel needy he’s NEEDY. It’s debilitating, he genuinely can’t do or think of anything else until his poor wee is taken care of :( poor guy aww

I can see him being a virgin until his early-mid 20s and having no shame about it (good for him go king, virginity is nothing to be ashamed of it literally doesn’t matter)

Also by virgin i mean rice purity test score of like 97

Swears he doesn’t like having his cock worshipped (says its weird and embarrassing) but he’s so flustered n drooly and babbles the whole time

Biter

#laios touden x reader #laios x reader #dungeon meshi x reader #delicious in dungeon x reader #dunmeshi x reader #dunmeshi.🍈#nonny.requests.🥝#from.me.to.queue.🍅

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two-white-butterflies · 3 months ago

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how can beauty that is living, be anything but true?

Description: Daemon being adored and treated well by his loving wife while they talk about war and its aftermath.

Pairing: daemon targaryen/reader

A/N: quite short.

"I feared the worst when the King sent his letter," you say.

Daemon has always been unpredictable. He did as he pleased, took and took until the entire realm inevitably bent to his desires. "- three years away in war, and not a single word." You glared, seeing him take a step inside of your shared chambers.

Your handmaidens tell you that he returned during the night, and slept in a separate chamber lest he interrupt your sleep.

"I tried to write, my lady, but the enemy would strike our ravens down." He replies, amused. "You should've marched here on foot," you snapped, accepting his reason, but not letting him know.

"Targaryen princes have been taken by fickler things than war." You provided a reminder, but he silences you with a kiss to your forehead. Followed by a silent stare, a reminder that there is nothing in this world that would keep you from him.

"Yet, I am alive." He responds, though there were many nights he spent wishing otherwise. "Barely alive," you corrected. "I've heard rumors." You added with a prolonged sigh. There were at least five different rumors of his death, some say that he was impaled by arrows, hit by dozens of swords, or drowned, never to be seen again.

His expression changes for a second, but he composes himself before you even notice. "Rumors are skewed versions of the truth." He wraps his arms around your body, inhaling your scent that he has forgotten after three years smelling only sea and sand. "- but they still hold somewhat of a truth." You hiss.

"You promised me that if anything were to happen to you, that you'd return immediately." You held that promise above his head.

"Dragons don't run with their tails in between of their legs," he argues. "So, you were hurt in battle?" You raised an eyebrow.

You were aware of his duties, that he couldn't abandon them easily, but he could've at least whispered information about his welfare. "A scratch compared to the soldiers who will never return to their families," he answered the question without answering the question.

"What happened, Daemon?" your voice turns sweet at the utterance of his name. "Arrows, fire, swords, and a couple wounds to remember them by." He still refuses to tell you the whole truth. "Show me," you plead. Something behind his eyes shifts. His pupils become watery, almost leaking tears - but your husband does not cry.

He'd rather hide his sorrows behind a mask of cold callousness.

He does not take his eyes away from yours. He focuses on your features, your eyes, your lips, your nose - features that he's engraved in the back of his head to save him from the brutal pictures that unfolded in front of him during battle.

He gently unbuttons his tunic. He takes your hand and places it on the healed skin. A wound that spanned from his shoulder down to his stomach diagonally. "All I could think about while fighting that battle was how stupid my brother and his hand are for believing that I want to supplant Rhaenyra and claim his throne as mine." Daemon laughs.

"Men like that, my lady, those who sit on iron thrones know nothing about war. Soldiers die on the battlefield to ensure our safety, to ensure that our stone castles remain fortified against invaders. They know nothing of the mothers and wives that have lost their sons and husbands. I scorn my brother, I really do." He whispers, lest anyone except you hears his confession.

"I cannot even imagine the depths of your sorrow, lord husband." Your eyebrows merged together, wrapping him in a warm embrace. "I made it mine advocacy to return home. I could not bear to think of your sadness. Young, very beautiful and widowed." He breathes.

"I love you, Daemon."

"Likewise, my lady."

#daemon fic #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #house of the dragon #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #hotd #house targaryen

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holymolyfizzie · 12 days ago

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i don't wanna derail @kityana's post about stolas's pill popping, so i'm making a separate one. but something kityana said finally made me think about something: "i'm still not sure if those pills are actually helping him or if they were just given to him to numb him to how shitty his life is"

I've wondered something related to this a lot myself. but Stolas takes his antidepressants with alcohol (and in the aftermath of alcohol, like at the end of The Circus), which is a depressant. taking antidepressants + alcohol at best just cancels out your antidepressants so they don't actually do anything. but both at once, at worst, makes your depression symptoms a lot worse. taking them together is the sort of stuff that college girls get yelled at for, but i guess no one told stolas. i wouldn't be surprised if he's been popping them like candy and upping his dosage because he was told they would help him…and then they don't because of the rampant alcoholism. which is to say that we don't know if the meds even worked for him at all (i'd argue strongly they didn't, considering his alcoholism only ever got worse and he kept taking more and more pills, like they never worked enough) or if they were a placebo while he was taking them

and this might be a bit too nuanced for such a show, but as someone who has suddenly gotten off antidepressants that didn't work at all, the withdrawal symptoms don't always affect mood that much (they did nothing for it to begin with) and they sure as hell don't last a full month after getting off. in fact, going cold turkey off of meds that do work for you shouldn't have withdrawal symptoms that last a full month (if you do, it's a Talk to Your Doctor moment). i just really wonder if Stolas noticed the lack of antidepressants after the first few days beyond the old habit of taking them, and if we really can contribute much of his mental breakdown to getting off antidepressants

but you know what he was taking religiously, that did affect him for sure, and that we haven't seen him touch in a month now? the alcohol. he was drinking during Mastermind, but he clearly hasn't touched it since the trial. Blitz doesn't seem to have alcohol around, and Stolas wouldn't ask for the extra expense -- he's being forced to quit. he passes up Loona's beelzejuice at the Sinsmas party, noticeably. the beelzejuice is brought in, and Stolas immediately goes outside for a smoke instead. he's not drinking anymore. and quitting alcohol cold turkey is an insane process, esp at his level of hard liquor. we're talking about disastrous health consequences and a whole host of withdrawal symptoms -- anxiety, depression, irritability, fatigue, loss of appetite, brain fog, hallucinations, and much worse stuff (in humans, seizures). it's impossible to underestimate the severe damage alcoholism does to your brain and body longterm. and a lot of those withdrawal symptoms stay weeks after stopping cold turkey

like, i don't want to detract from him going off of antidepressants; he needs and obviously wants working antidepressants, he's desperate for them. but i'm gonna be so for real, i've had my experiences going off ineffective antidepressants, and i've watched family members try to quit alcohol. an alcoholic quitting is a brutal, drawn out process that shakes me to my core. there are reasons a person still says "i am an alcoholic" even a decade after quitting. that shit's insidious in a way that antidepressants aren't, and it was affecting stolas noticeably more, surely enough to render his meds useless. if you want him back on antidepressants, then you need a sober Stolas first, and this is what he's FINALLY working on

so i think more emphasis needs to be placed on Stolas's recovery from alcoholism when discussing his mental breakdown, irritability, etc. the fact that he's doing this without rehab or other interventions is miraculous, nearly impossible. i don't want his impressive recovery (so far) from alcoholism to end up getting buried under the antidepressant talk ngl, especially when his getting off of alcohol now means that his antidepressants may actually work in the future and help him. this is something to be so so proud of!!

#helluva boss spoilers #stolas #helluva boss #sinsmas #yeah idk i'm sad i never see anyone mention it #alcohol withdrawal symptoms can kill you #getting off of antidepressants that never worked? not so much #that bird sabotaged his recovery from the beginning #but it looks like he's sobering up now #which is STEP NUMBER 1 BEFORE ANTIDEPRESSANTS #the pills are pointless when he drinks ahhh #he's a sobering alcoholic!!! thats where his issues stem from realistically

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chatsukimi · 9 months ago

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eternal: ten cursed fingers, born from the flame

ꜱ��ɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: sukuna x fem!reader, fluff, some angst, heianera!sukuna. pt 2.

When Sukuna enters the workshop, he is fifteen and mortal, and you are tending flames by the furnace.

Afternoon sun casts through the straw ceiling. You blink twice as you stare at the doorway. Heaving against it, a boy. Sunspots dance in your eyes.

'Please. Please, I'm dying. Help me!' he begs, and his wrists come up to strangle either side of your face, blood filling your tunic in buckets.

Brutal.

He is a curse user, you sense, his energy pouring out like his soul. You could feel it, flooding the plain room, his impending death.

You are young and what the elders say about helping strangers don't faze you. 'Put your hands in the fire.'

'No!'

His eyes are rolling back. He doesn't have much time left.

You grab his arm, dragging his doll-limp figure to the fire. You shove it into the coal.

Observing the healing, your grandfathers' words echo vaguely at the back of your head. They would come asking for it over and over again. They would chase you like immortality. But maybe, you think, maybe he would save dozens with those hands.

What preoccupies you more, though, squatting beside the boy, is the wonder alit in this stranger's face as his hands glisten back to life by the flames until what touches her is not slime and blood, but tender flesh. Bare fingers.

When he leaves, he does not tell you his name, nor ask for his whereabouts, nor thank you. He does not smile, and he gives no compensation. With the rags on his body, though, you do not think he has enough.

He does not do a lot of things, but the last thing you remember of your first meeting with this boy is that he did not say goodbye.

...

He, indeed, returns. He wears a stone carved lion mask.

'I do not think it's fair that I give you weapons for free,' you say, holding up a sceptre for the -now- man.

He chuckles. Sukuna shows you his innate technique: slash. Examining his technique for hours on end, you welded weapons with similar precision.

Through the years, he arrives later and later at the footsteps of your house during the night. He stops calling out for you from the door. Instead, appears frankly at the furnace where you sleep.

'Fuga,' he whispers, like an inside joke, against your ear- open. At first, you startled awake and nearly bashed him in the face. But you know now that despite his stoicism he is smiling under the mask, appearing on the opposite side of the room in an instant.

A little part of you rejoices at knowing this was an important man you have saved, though your fingers never touched.

You can tell from how he stands with solidifying confidence, toys with the necklace around your neck with the symbol of the Sun, Moon and Stars Squadron without ever grazing your skin, and the cursed energy blistering the summer air now greater than any sorcerer you'd met, he was great. All of the Fujiwara Clan combined does not compare.

Electricity trills under your pulse.

Ten years, he comes and goes.

You do not ask for his name. He does not ask for yours. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you in the corner of your eye, as you're tending the flames.

Years pass.

You forget his face.

You wonder, in his aftermath, if he will forget yours. One day he will get tired of the same old swords in the same old countryside home, you're sure of it. But he drives on back each time like an old man seeking immortality.

When he leaves, you stare at the designs of weapons you gave him. What great things would he achieve with those at his side? Your grandfather never tells you about any jujutsu affairs. Leave the girl to sword-making is his motto.

...

A rumour passes from ear to ear from the Southern Clans to the North. A sorcerer is tearing up villages in a one-person massacre to consume their flesh.

Every villager now inks black prayers on their carriages. Prayers to the living god.

You think, it doesn't hurt.

You, too, stick up rice paper on your windows to shield against the monster you know does not care, roaming through the woods in carnage.

...

The next time he comes, the man is wearing a demon mask.

Half his body, gone.

You push him to a chair. You kneel between his legs. Your hand hovers over his abdomen, where the flimsy stitches had failed to ease the bowels from overflowing. You frown. A flame blossoms from your palm, piecing his body back together. He clenches his teeth and watches you.

Cursed Flame: burns anything back to its prior state.

'What Special Grade curse could do something like this?'

He does not answer.

His sheer height has you sinking into your ankles in respect.

As you back away from the fire, you stumble into his chest. Your feet catch in the mat. In the times before, he had never attempted to touch you. Now his hand is tilting your head up, holding your chin, to look at his face, whom you had never seen before in full view.

You flinch.

Your exhale escapes as a gasp.

‘Are you scared?’

Now you realise what is so frightening about the demon who brutalises whole villages, consumes their flesh- living god. So, this is what thousands died seeing. You swallow, because he is beautiful, this four-eyed demon.

Before you utter a word, he leaves the room.

You whip your head around to inspect the windows. Nothing but wind howls against the house. No shadows but your own etches onto the tatami mat by the fire.

Rippling from all four directions, a voice booms: ‘bow.’

Your knees hit the ground. When he enters the room again, he stops before you. You dare not look at his feet.

The Fujiwara Clan teach their daughters well.

‘Stand.’

Is this a trick? With your head still bowed, you press onto one knee. ‘I do not feel enough to equal your presence, Ryomen Sukuna.’

He laughs.

Oh, how he laughs. So his name truly has spread like wildfire through the Clans, big and small. But something nicks at him, that he cannot see your eyes flickering with your flame, or your mouth working the irregular candy you chew, sometimes, on the job, when you feel comfortable around him. In those moments, he would get the urge to reach out and touch your shoulder, just for your reaction. Would you drop the sword to wrap those flaming hands around him so that he could feel some warmth?

'No. I tell you to rise so you rise.' You stand up. 'What's my name?'

'Ryomen Sukuna.'

'No.' He cups your face with his palm as he'd often dreamt of, when he was a teenager. As he'd often planned, when he grew older into the adult he is now. 'For you, I am Ryo.'

...

Ryo.

He likes it when you look at his face. He tells you sometimes, 'this is what you saved.' The four eyes blinking back at you.

He likes the smell of ash by your neck and often pushes his nose against your skin. An animal, you think to yourself, smiling.

Ryo, he takes what he wants, as the powerful do, so when the day comes, he says, 'come with me.' Out of nowhere.

He leads you out, facing the fields of darling grass and daffodils.

He hasn’t thought this through but he doesn't need to. He opens his mouth, ready to ask the question.

‘I can’t…’ He turns around to watch you speak. ‘... can’t bear child.’

For once, although you have denied his request, his face remains void of anger. Void of anything at all.

At twenty five years old, that’s all Sukuna knows what to want. If he cannot have the girl, then steal something else- after all, what are you worth?

‘Then give me something else.’

‘Have my flame.’ His eyes widen. You press on, ‘but you will protect me, in case my family decides to kill me. The flame is a sacred technique passed down from the family. But when I die, it will be yours.’

Without her cursed technique, she would be ostracised.

Everyone comes to the negotiation table with some line they would not cross. And Sukuna swore to never become a protector.

His mouth pronounces, ‘no.’

'Then what do you want, Ryo?'

He stares at you. He's never denied himself any pleasure in his life, but the way his heart skips a beat- it's what's made his enemies weak to be culled, what brings down great empires (love).

Surely, you would be his downfall.

He could not have you.

'Never mind. I want your Technique.'

He would live 1000 years wondering why those flames in his palms would perform in silence. He’d move them with grace to murder. He’d stare at the sparkling embers in a lake, waiting for it to shift and shape into some form without his control. He would realise, ages and eons in, that he had forgot to specify the fusion of their souls.

‘Deal.’

You were always an abnormally weak sorcerer in body. Never trained to exorcise a curse. Perhaps that’s another reason he suggested it, his one mistake. You were his to protect -no matter how he’d protest- but never were you with him again.

...

The next day, Sukuna wipes out the Fujiwara Clan in its entirety. Destroys them so badly no one recognises the corpses.

Mangled. Twisted. Broken.

He destroys the only thing that would've destroyed you.

It is that night at the beach, rain and seawater tangling your hair, you swear to kill him, the boy you saved so many years ago, even if you would be his for eternity.

Your hands tremble. You almost set fire to the sea.

...

'Ryo.' You're brushing his hair as he tips his head back to look at you, unfazed. 'Why do you do what you do?'

He hums, tangling his fingers through yours. 'Why does it matter my purpose?'

'I was just wondering.' You rub at his hands gently, the living things you saved.

Apparently disliking the silence, Sukuna speaks again. 'I do whatever I want, however I want. I have no purpose.'

When you kill him, he almost grins, as though proud. Had he always acted like this? The strange and feral monster.

'Are you ready to die now?' you ask. Some part of you still recalls the child wailing at the prospect of death.

Sukuna cackles, but before he even flinches as the sword digs through his skin and bones, he props his head before yours, kissing your lips as though playing a trick on you.

His scarlet eyes forever haunt your memory, reflecting the silver of your sword and the red of your flames.

'I'm always ready for you... ... and anyways death is not eternal.'

When the flames extinguish, you realise you had left none of him behind, but the hands. Ten cursed fingers, born and killed from the flame.

pt 2.

#sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk sukuna #jjk #jjk x reader #one shot #sukuna ryomen #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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mononijikayu · 8 months ago

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already gone – gojo satoru.

(manga spoilers for chapter 261)

His eyes flicked to yours, a flicker of pain and understanding passing between you. In that moment, you both knew that there would be no going back to the way things were. The choices made here would haunt you, but you also knew that you would face the future together, bound by the shared weight of your decisions and the unspoken promise of support.

GENRE: shinjiku showdown arc (spoilers for chapter 261)

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of blood, depiction of killing, depiction of suffering, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: already gone by sleeping at last

NOTE: im mourning so hard, i haven't stopped crying. but i cried more because i can't imagine how my oc would feel considering genmei views satoru as her lifeline. im not even at that part of the story writing, but genmei would be hit hard. she wouldnt be able to move on. she wouldn't be able to stop crying either. but i needed to write this, to get the emotional brunt off my chest. i hope that this comforts you a little as it did with me. i love you all. hugs for everyone.

masterlist

u s and t h e m

THERE REALLY WAS NO GOING BACK FROM THIS. You and Satoru sat alone amidst the aftermath, the bodies of the higher-ups lying around you, a grim testament to the brutal reality you both faced.

The silence was heavy, a suffocating weight that pressed down on your chest as you stared at the carnage. The acrid scent of blood and death hung in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang that coated your tongue. Each breath felt like an effort, the gravity of what had transpired settling over you like a dark cloud.

Satoru, usually so carefree and unbothered, looked uncharacteristically solemn. His usually bright, mischievous eyes were shadowed with emotions embroiling into a chaotic harmony.

He sat close to you, his hand resting on the ground beside yours, fingers almost brushing but not quite. The unspoken connection between you had always been palpable. Even when both of you were a bit younger. It was if anything, even when you both lost Suguru, a thin thread of solace in the midst of the horror.

You glanced at Satoru, seeking some form of reassurance, but his gaze was fixed on the bodies, his jaw clenched tight. The weight of the recent events bore down on you both, the decisions made, the lives taken, all swirling in a chaotic maelstrom of regret and necessity.

There was no other choice. Not when there was such little time, when there was no way you would leave this for the kids to wrap up. It was a moment where the true cost of your responsibilities became painfully clear, the price paid in blood and sacrifice. This is all that will secure the future.

Satoru finally broke the silence, his voice low and rough. "We did what we had to." he said, more to himself than to you, as if trying to convince himself of the necessity of their actions. “Don’t think too much.”

You nodded, though your heart ached with the truth of his words. "I know." you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "But after all this time, I thought it would be easier.”

You did think it was easier. You knew what it was like to kill human beings. The act of taking a life was not foreign to you; it had been part of your existence as a jujutsu sorcerer for as long as you could remember. The initial shock and horror of it had dulled over time, replaced by a grim acceptance of necessity. Each death was a means to an end, a way to protect the innocent, to rid the world of curses, to maintain balance. Yet, today felt different.

The bodies of the higher-ups lay sprawled around you, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. These were not faceless enemies or malevolent curses; these were people you had known, some for years. Their ambitions, their fears, their humanity—it all lay exposed in the finality of their deaths. You and Satoru had made a choice, one born out of desperation and the need for a new order, but the cost of that choice now weighed heavily on your soul.

You have always been able to justify your actions in the past. Each kill had been a step toward a greater good, a necessary evil in the grand scheme of things. But this? This felt like a betrayal of the very essence of what you stood for. These were your peers, your allies, albeit flawed and corrupt. The distinction between right and wrong blurred, leaving you adrift in a sea of moral ambiguity.

Satoru's hand tightened around yours, a silent anchor in the storm of your thoughts. His presence was a reminder that you were not alone in this, that he too bore the weight of what you had done. You glanced at him, searching for some semblance of solace in his expression. His face was a mask of determination, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—betrayed a depth of sorrow that mirrored your own.

“Hm, it doesn’t.”

Silence engulfs you both.

Your eyes flared downward.

A sigh passes through your lips.

"It's not in you to have liked to do this." you finally said, breaking the silence. Your voice trembled with the weight of unspoken emotions, the sorrow churning in layers unknown. “To decide the upper floors had to go.”

Satoru sighed, his gaze fixed on the horizon, a faraway look in his eyes. "We had no choice," he replied, his voice devoid of its usual lightheartedness. "We have no more time to indulge in the future."

There was so much you wanted to say, so many arguments and pleas that burned on the tip of your tongue. But the words refused to come, trapped in the maelstrom of your conflicted heart. Satoru seemed to sense your turmoil, turning to face you, his piercing blue eyes searching yours.

"Just say it," he urged gently. "Tell me how you hate me for what Yuuta and I agreed to do, should I lose to Sukuna."

You met his gaze, the pain and love in your eyes reflected in his own. "I do hate you," you whispered, the confession tearing at your soul. "Because I love you too much."

Satoru's expression softened, and he stood, walking over to you. He pulled you into his arms, his embrace warm and comforting. "The loss of me will pass," he murmured against your hair, his breath warm on your skin. “Hm? You will always move forward. You have to.”

You clung to him, the thought of losing him more than you could bear. "You say it as it is. I had to. Not because I wanted to.”

He laughs a little, echoes of guilt layered among it.. “But you will this time too.”

This is what you think you hated the most about Satoru. How settled he was in his ways, how stubborn he was with his plan. It was a means to an end. As long as it brought down the system, he didn’t care about what happened. As long as his students lived, he didn’t care. And yet you wondered, what he would leave you with.

How much emptiness, how much grief he would let you settle for years and years — because he cared more about the world he wanted to build. In a way, you loved Satoru too much. You loved him so much you went against the world you had always known.

You had a dream of a normal life. Once when Kaiko and Namie were alive. Once with Shoko, Suguru and Satoru. When all you had left was Satoru, you were determined to live for him.

But you never gave up on that dream That you would have that white picket fence life. That you would raise a family. That you would grow old with him. But you should have known. You should have known that he was too far gone for you to reach.

Even with all the love that was between you, you should have known that love would not be enough to bring him back to life. Gojo Satoru had decided that love was a curse. And he lived by it. Geto Suguru had given it to him.

And he had accepted it. And since that day, you knew that he would have never let it go. Yet, what right do you have to judge him for it? You felt the same, when Kaiko died. And you never looked back.

“I loved you too much to let you just be a passerby in my life," you finally said, your voice breaking. "I've lost too much already, Satoru. But…. but to lose you would break me."

He held you tighter, his voice steady and resolute. "You have to be strong, for me and for everyone, y’know that." he said. "They'll need you when I'm gone."

His words cut deep, but you knew he was right. The world would keep turning. The sun would keep moving forward. The march of time, the echo of life would not change. It will go on and on. Even without him. People would need you to be there, to fight for them, to protect them. But the thought of a world without him was a dark, hollow void in your life, in your heart. In your soul. More tears flowed in your eyes.

Memories echoed in your head, as though they were just reels of your life in a picture show. You knew he could see it too, as though his six-eyes could see it as painfully as you could. As clearly as possible. Eleven years of life, motioned into small moments. Small moments that encompassed your whole world. Because he was your world. He was your whole world.

2011

You and Satoru spent a day at the beach, the sun high in the sky and the ocean waves crashing gently against the shore. He chased you along the sand, laughter bubbling up as you tried to escape his playful grasp. When he finally caught you, he lifted you up and spun you around, both of you dizzy with happiness.

You collapsed onto the sand together, breathless and smiling. "I wish we could stay here forever," you said, looking out at the endless horizon.

He squeezed your hand, his voice soft and sincere. "We can always come back. This place will always be here for us. We’ll bring Megumi and Tsumiki with us next time too.”

You smile back at him. “I’d like that, Satoru. More than you know.”

2013

One quiet night, you both lay on a blanket under a canopy of stars, the world around you silent and still. Satoru pointed out constellations, his voice a soothing murmur in the darkness.

"There's Orion," he said, tracing the outline with his finger. "And over there is Cassiopeia."

You nestled closer to him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. "Do you think we'll always have moments like this?" you asked softly.

He wrapped an arm around you, his voice filled with certainty. "Always. No matter what happens, we'll always find our way back to each other."

2014

Your New Year's together that year was magical. You stood on a rooftop, watching fireworks light up the night sky. The colors exploded in brilliant patterns, reflecting in Satoru's eyes as he pulled you close.

"Happy New Year," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss.

"Happy New Year," you replied, feeling a sense of hope and excitement for the future. "Let's make this year unforgettable."

He smiled, his arms wrapped securely around you. "Every year with you will be unforgettable."

“You guys make me sick.” Megumi whispered under his breath, taking a bite out of his cake.

“Megumi, don’t say that! They’re in love.” Tsumiki says, smiling at the sight of you and Satoru.

You both could only laugh.

2017

In the quiet of the night, you and Satoru sat together, your hearts heavy with grief for the loss of Suguru. The weight of his absence hung in the air like a tangible presence, a reminder of the sacrifices made in the name of duty and honor.

Satoru's normally bright eyes were dimmed with sorrow, his shoulders slumped with the weight of the burden he carried. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, offering what little comfort you could in the face of such profound loss.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I had to do it. I had no choice."

You squeezed his hand, offering silent understanding and support. "I know," you replied softly. "It wasn't easy, but you did what had to be done. Suguru understood that."

Tears welled in Satoru's eyes as he leaned into your embrace, seeking solace in the warmth of your presence. In that moment of shared sorrow, you held each other close, finding strength in your love and the knowledge that you would always be there for one another, no matter what trials lay ahead.

Satoru pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a sorrowful intensity. "Remember all the things we wanted?" he began softly. "Now all our memories, they're haunted."

Tears welled in your eyes as his words resonate deeply within you. "We were always meant to say goodbye." you whispered, your voice trembling.

"Even with our fists held high, it never would have worked out right," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "We were never meant for do or die, darling."

A sob escaped your lips, and you shook your head. "I didn't want us to burn out, Satoru" you said, your voice breaking. "I didn't come here to hurt you now. I don't want to hurt you. But now I.... I can't stop."

Satoru gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "I want you to know that it doesn't matter where we take this road. Someone's gotta go."

His words cut through you like a knife, the finality of it all hitting you hard. "It doesn't have to be you."

He smiles shaking his head.

"And I want you to know you couldn't have loved me better," he said, his voice full of love and regret. "But I want you to move on, so I'm already gone."

“How do I do it?” You sobbed to him. “Without you?”

“You can.” He presses a kiss against your nose. “And you will.”

“You were meant to grow old with me.” You croaked to him.

"But now you’ll do it for me. For the both of us, hm? Live a long life." Satoru shakes his head, his voice gentle but firm. "Keep Gakuganji in check. You know that old geezer can’t be trusted to keep the straight line.”

“Satoru….”

“Keep the jujutsu world at peace on my behalf.”

You shake your head against his chest.

You hit your arms against his figure.

Infinity was always down when it was you.

“Live long so that you have stories to tell me."

You buried your face in his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. "I hate you!" you repeated, the words laced with anguish. “I really really hate you.”

He laughed sadly, a bittersweet sound that echoed in the empty space around you. "I know, darling." he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I know."

In that moment, you both understood the depth of your bond, the unspoken promises and the inevitable heartache that lay ahead. But for now, you held onto each other, finding solace in the shared pain and the love that had brought you together.

When you let him go that day, you knew.

You would have to wait until you were gray.

You looked at Shoko and you shook your head.

Your eyes were too red to even look one last time..

As far as you were concerned, he was already gone.

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transformers-spike · 2 months ago

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Please author, TFP Megatron x human Reader but they (if you can, AFAB) are into being bitten. Throw in some knife play in it?? Maybe?? I mean his teeth do qualify as knife play I think??? Also Megatron spoils them with aftercare because he is the evil tyrant but with a special spot for his favorite human

I'm kinda showing the aftermath of Megatron's biting featuring poor Knock Out. I hope you got your tetanus shot

“Hold still,” Knock Out tells you while disinfecting a particularly bad gash. He’s been at it for a while now, switching his attention to and from the monitor displaying a wide variety of human skin lesions and wikihow articles on how to treat them properly. You’ve been sitting on the medical table for a while now, feet dangling off the ledge like a child ignoring the safety protocols of the Grand Canyon. If his helm wasn’t on the line, you’re sure he would have gladly slapped you right off the edge himself. Instead, he watches over you with the determination of someone unwilling but forced to keep a cockroach alive no matter how often it crawls under their shoe. You’ve been to the medical bay enough times to cause Knock Out at least one mental breakdown while the actual Breakdown watched, bewildered, as the Chief Medical Officer tried to make sense of human anatomy despite the tangible disgust he harbors for your organic biology. Eh, you’re probably stretching it – he wouldn’t have silently threatened to squeeze your organs out of your body if he was that disgusted. Although, you must admit, you love when he fusses over you like a mother hen keeping its suicidal chick from repeatedly drowning itself. Megatron’s handiwork has been especially brutal, not that you mind. Even in his mass-displaced form his strength is unparalleled, it makes you wonder just how much he holds back, how easily he could tear out your jugular with his dentae alone. He is a massive predator, after all, by human and Cybertronian standards. The decision he made to file down his dentae into pointed tips must have skyrocketed his success rate in the pits through sheer intimidation factor. Maybe Cybertronians aren’t exactly known for having evolved a “bite when you’re cornered” reflex like Earth fauna, but you’re pretty damn sure Megatron can bite a chunk out of someone’s chassis if he’s angry enough. You try not to imagine Starscream with enough holes to qualify as a new type of vegan swiss cheese. Knock Out hasn’t said it to your face, but he’s alluded to sedating you in the medical bay if only to put a stop to your inane talent for sticking limbs you shouldn’t into Megatron’s intake. Alas, you do not give a fuck, and if he has the wrecking balls for it, he’ll have to answer to his leader for his transgressions (and promptly get his interface panel smashed in before he can so much as activate his vocalizer). Checkmate, glitch.

From the furrow of his optical ridge you can tell he’s actively purging any incentive to glance down at your tits and comment on the sheer damage caused to them. This, you’ve grown acquainted with. Call them bazonkers all you want, but these bad girls can only take so much abuse before you start crying. You’ve cursed breast tissue enough times to solidify your distaste for their uselessness outside of child rearing (disregarding sex). It takes a slight graze of Megatron’s dentae against them and you’re already trying to escape your mortal coil from the pain alone. Yes, said pain has made you orgasm. No, you refuse to take a good hard look at yourself and reevaluate what in God’s name is wrong with you.

Megatron by all means isn’t the soothing type. But after having experienced his specific brand of “gentle” brutality he’s grown to watch over your rapidly rising and falling form as you gingerly touch the gashes on your skin. Cybertronians, you’ve learned, can emit a purr similar to an engine (courtesy of Knock Out). Megatron however, having no Earth-based alt-mode, can only produce the dull rumble of Cybertronian aircraft – and that you learned when he scooped you up like a newborn deer and placed you on his chassis for safe-keeping. His servo, claws sharpened to perfection (for the pits, logically), switching between stroking your empty little head trying to make sense of your surroundings and caging your bleeding body under its grip.

Knock Out wacks you over the head with the back of his digit.

“Ow what the fuck?” You snarl.

“Stop daydreaming and show me the inside of your thighs,” he says with the complete lack of amusement of a convenience store clerk asking a customer to stop pushing a pull-door.

“Oh. My bad,” you hiss none-too-apologetically, nonchalantly spreading your legs and letting him figure out the horrorshow any sane human would have fainted experiencing. Except you. Because you have the spite of a cockroach. A flying cockroach aiming for Knock Out’s optic at the speed of light.

In the silence that follows, you can hear his processor drafting his resignation letter.

#transformers x human #transformers x reader #transformers prime #knockout tfp #megatron x reader #tfp megatron #biting #I love bullying Knock Out #valveplug

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transhawks · 6 months ago

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Why does everyone treat Hawks having always been an assassin as canon? I know he was brought in as a replacement for Nagant but as far as I’m aware there’s no actual proof he killed anyone before twice

You're right! We've never been explicitly told he has a kill-count of anything but 1 (rip Jin). However (honestly you knew this would make me actually write, didn't you?)....

1. The HSPC has changed (somewhat)

It's spelled out to us that Madame Prez wasn't like her predecessor. Her methods weren't as brutal, she was way into a war of information. In some ways, crueler. Kaina wasn't executed - instead she had her hair shorn and was defamed, humiliated.

Nagant assumes Keigo has been used like her. Horikoshi says Madame Prez groomed Keigo from a much earlier age than the middle school-aged Kaina so he had way less ability to leave or question (additionally, he was so sheltered from society and marginalized that he simply would have been incapable until he was an adult).

This is what the story says outright. So, yes, you're right - everything else is speculation. But then the question is why people believe this is canon outside of the typical abysmal literacy found in this fandom?

2. But Hawks being Hawks doesn't Make It Easier

Truth be told, I'm on your side. I used to very much doubt he had much of a body/kill count. I still think it might be single digits if we consider actually murdering someone with his own hands/quirk, though I suspect he might be responsible for deaths in other ways. I would have completely accepted Jin being his first (and only at this point) murder.

So why did I change my mind about this? Simply; Keigo's a fucking freak. I say this with love.

Every so often Keigo says or does something in this manga that both confirms he's kind of insane and in a very different moral space than everyone else, and just off-handedly mentioning he went and, after being subjected to third degree burns and essentially losing limbs, immediately went to eliminate every last sample even after the battle (where he was carried off by Tokoyami mind you) as in....destroying Jin's body or ensuring no one can use it. He's offended when it's clear Dabi got the better of him with this.

Mind you, he's the world champion at repressing his feelings, duh, but the fascinating way he speaks about this (a minute after screaming they NEED TO KILL JIN AGAIN) speaks volumes. Keigo's completely undaunted about handling death and its aftermath. If he's never killed before, he's been certainly trained to in a way that he handles it professionally.

There's one more thing that makes me think Keigo did kill before Jin. We can argue over how much Keigo hesitated killing Jin, but I think it's a point in that he did in how much he ABSOLUTELY does not with All For One.

Like he does not hesitate. Immediately tries to put a feather-knife through his brain. Logically, I mean, I think anyone would try to one-shot AFO because the more time the man that has (until he rewound himself) the more time he has to fuck you up, but still. He tries to stab through his man's head as soon as he gets out of the portal.

Here's Keigo just admitting it, albeit saying he expected it wouldn't work, but really, he's more apologizing he can't immediately kill this man.

No hesitance.

My final piece of evidence is that Keigo is currently walking around Japan in a suit with a katana begging mfers to "try it bitch". Like being quirkless, not a hero, none of that is stopping him if he needs to defend himself. And it's not like he can pin someone away with his feathers. Nor does he have dozens of daggers at his disposal anymore, just one blade. He's the type to try and finish things quickly as the manga has shown time and time again. I really hope no one actually tries to assassinate him because there's an extreme likelihood he'll just decapitate them in the SPC boardroom.

3. Red, Red Hands

To recap, we know Keigo has been trained to kill, in a multitude of ways (and not only with his quirk), and has always seen killing as option/tool he can use. The HSPC might not be as eager to kill as Kaina's era was, but they raised Keigo with the intent to use him to be able to kill people and cover it up. While there's no proof of other murders, there's proof he's been given the training, tools, and expectation to kill. And his attitude towards killing isn't making it seem like he's not done it before. Of course, he's not agonizing over it like Kaina, which makes me think he was used sparingly to kill.

But the other thing to ask is - will Keigo continue to kill (and not like in personal defense) or lead to the deaths of others? He's already set on reforming the Public Safety Commission by allowing for the reform of Villains who cooperate, renaming the Commission to distance itself from solely heroism... We're still a few chapters away of seeing what this new president has in store for society and how he'll distinguish his methods from the people who created him, but we also have two hundred and fifty chapters of him expressing dislike of how he's used, so perhaps it's fair to say he's not continuing the cycle?

#asks #my meta #takami keigo #hawks #bnha hawks #bnha

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nickeverdeen · 1 month ago

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Hey, could I request a yandere alphabet for Abby from TLOU? I was thinking for fem!reader specifically, but I'm not sure if gender would make a difference in your headcanons? Anyways, I just thought it'd be interesting too see how you think the trope would fit into Abby's story? (also because- the main reason i'm requesting ahaha- i have a big crush on abby and i'm a fan of the yandere trope. sue me)

Abby Anderson yandere alphabet

A - Affection

Abby shows love through overwhelming protection and acts of service, often without considering how her darling feels about it. She’s fiercely attentive, going to great lengths to ensure they’re cared for—even if her methods come across as suffocating. Her affection is intense, and she struggles to express it softly.

B - Blood

Abby has no problem getting her hands dirty—she’s a survivor in a brutal world, and nothing will stop her from protecting or claiming her darling. She’s willing to kill or maim without hesitation, rationalizing it as necessary to keep them safe.

C - Cruelty

If Abby abducts her darling, she wouldn’t mock them outright, but she’d be brutally straightforward about their situation. She’d explain that this is “for their own good” and that any resistance is futile. Her cruelty would manifest in her lack of empathy for their struggles, not seeing their distress as valid.

D - Darling

Abby would absolutely do things against her darling’s will, particularly when she thinks she knows better. Whether it’s isolating them from others, controlling their movements, or physically restraining them, she justifies it all as keeping them out of harm’s way.

E - Exposed

Abby isn’t one to bare her soul easily, but she might open up to her darling in moments of vulnerability, using her trauma as a way to bond with them. She’d reveal her fears of loss and abandonment, hoping it creates a sense of understanding—even if it’s manipulative.

F - Fight

If her darling fought back, Abby would react with a mix of frustration and determination. She’d likely overpower them, using her strength to reassert control while trying not to hurt them too much. However, their defiance would sting, and she might take it as a personal failure.

G - Game

To Abby, this isn’t a game. She takes her obsession seriously, seeing it as a matter of survival and emotional necessity. Watching her darling try to escape wouldn’t amuse her—it would anger and hurt her, fueling her need to tighten her grip.

H - Hell

The worst experience her darling would endure might be Abby’s explosive temper. If they pushed her too far, she could lash out physically—not enough to cause serious harm, but enough to remind them of her dominance. The emotional aftermath would be just as harrowing, as she alternates between guilt and justification.

I - Ideals

Abby envisions a future where her darling is entirely dependent on her. She dreams of a partnership where they rely on her for protection, care, and love, seeing herself as the only one capable of providing what they need in a dangerous world.

J - Jealousy

Abby’s jealousy is intense and immediate. She lashes out at perceived threats, whether it’s a person, an idea, or even her darling showing too much independence. Her response is usually physical—she’ll eliminate the threat directly or enforce stricter control over her darling.

K - Kisses

Abby’s kisses are firm, possessive, and often unexpected. She uses physical affection as a way to assert her claim, sometimes overwhelming her darling with sudden displays of dominance and intensity.

L - Love letters

Her “courting” style is blunt and straightforward. Abby isn’t one for subtlety; she’d make her feelings clear with gestures that are protective but also intimidating, like following her darling or intervening aggressively in their life to “prove” her love.

M - Mask

Abby’s yandere tendencies don’t differ much from her usual personality, but they amplify her protective instincts and controlling nature. Around others, she might appear composed, but with her darling, she’s much more intense and emotionally volatile.

N - Naughty

Abby’s punishments would be physically imposing. If her darling disobeys or defies her, she might restrain them, isolate them, or use her strength to intimidate. Her punishments are never excessively cruel, but they’re always a stark reminder of her power.

O - Oppression

Abby would take away most of her darling’s autonomy, limiting their ability to leave or interact with others. She’d justify every restriction as necessary for their safety, refusing to acknowledge the harm she’s causing.

P - Patience

Abby is patient up to a point. She’s willing to wait for her darling to “come around,” but her temper flares if she feels disrespected or if progress takes too long. Her patience is heavily dependent on her emotional state.

Q - Quit

If her darling were to escape or die, Abby would be devastated but not entirely broken. She’d throw herself into physical activity or survival work to cope, but the loss would haunt her for the rest of her life. If she thought her darling could be found, she’d never stop looking.

R - Regret

Abby would feel moments of guilt, especially if she hurt her darling or pushed them too far. However, she’d rationalize it as necessary in the grand scheme of things, convincing herself that it’s all for their benefit.

S - Stigma

Her obsession stems from her deep-seated fear of loss and abandonment, likely a result of her traumatic experiences. Having lost so much, Abby latches onto her darling as the one thing she can control and protect.

T - Tears

Seeing her darling cry or scream would unnerve Abby, but she wouldn’t stop. She’d frame it as proof that they need her guidance and protection, using their distress to reinforce her own importance in their life.

U - Unique

Abby’s uniqueness lies in her physicality. Unlike many classic yanderes who rely on manipulation, Abby uses her sheer strength and survival skills to dominate and control. Her obsession feels more grounded in practicality than in fantasy.

V - Vice

Abby’s biggest weakness is her guilt and desire for validation. If her darling played on these emotions, showing signs of acceptance or manipulating her into believing she’s “won,” they might be able to buy themselves an opportunity to escape.

W - Wit’s end

Abby is unlikely to intentionally hurt her darling severely, but if pushed to her breaking point, she might lash out in a moment of rage. However, her remorse would kick in immediately, leading to desperate attempts to “fix” the damage.

X - Xoanon

Abby doesn’t revere her darling in a traditional sense. She sees them as a partner, someone she’s bound to protect and control. Her worship manifests more as possessiveness than adoration, focusing on their survival and dependence on her.

Y - Yearn

Abby wouldn’t pine for long before acting on her feelings. Once she fixates on someone, she moves quickly, believing that taking action is the only way to ensure they’re safe and hers.

Z - Zenith

Abby wouldn’t intentionally break her darling, but her controlling and intense nature might wear them down over time. She doesn’t want to destroy their spirit—she wants them to willingly accept her love, even if it takes years of manipulation to get there.

#request #yandere alphabet #alphabet #abby anderson x reader #abby the last of us #abby x reader #yandere abby anderson

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beartitled · 4 months ago

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how did Euclid go about experiencing the third dimension for the first time? did Scalene have to like physically show him what was different somehow, or did he figure that out on his own?

also, why does Euclid wear eyepatches over his injured eyes, but Scalene doesn't wear an eyepatch over her (one) injured eye?

also also, here's a random headcanon I wanna share: since the mutation attempts are numbered 1 through 4, and Euclid's attempts are #1 and #2, I get the feeling that he volunteered to try to mutate first so Scalene wouldn't have to risk her own eyes as much. even though both attempts failed in the end, they improved the mutation process through these failures, and so Scalene's last attempt finally succeeded.

A person who noticed the implications 😈

Ok I will go in order

Euclid and third dimension

I imagine this was extremely confusing for him

Picture the scenario where you’ve been speaking your native language your entire life

And somebody says “you been speaking with a thick accent and wrong grammar, also all things are called differently, you have to relearn now”

You will try to speak “correctly”, but slipping into old habits when you’re not thinking about it

This is pretty much how Euclid felt when his wife said that “ok imagine a square, but it has another one, and another one, and another one, but they are one, like you know… ummm… mmmermm.. you get it right?”

He still thinks, imagines stuff and dreams in 2D

But he’s kinda adapted to moving around in this weird world that has so many copies of things in it

Also one person had a headcanon that Euclid has an exceptional hearing

I 👏adore 👏this idea 👏

I don’t remember who exactly wrote this comment, there are so much cool headcanons people have actually, I need to keep a file on cool ideas with credits™️💥

Why Scalene doesn’t wear an eyepatch

Well

Her eye doesn’t look that bad

First attempts have a kinda brutal aftermath, because they had no idea of what they’re doing

+ I an eyepatch would be a bit unpractical for the successful eye

Headcanon

My guy

🫵You get it 🫵

This is exactly what I wanted to hint towards

Euclid was completely against of Scalene trying to mutate her eyes (he loves his life guys 🥺)

So his initial plans was 2 attempts, if they fail they’ll find another way

But you see, when your wife is stubborn

You don’t really see what she’s up to

And can only hear that she did not agree to the initial plan

He was terrified when she started testing the 4th eye

I’m writing this and going to eep immediately after, wish me good dream horrors guys 😎

Thank you for your ask❤️ Hope everyone enjoyed a lil essay 🧐

#bear answers #evil cipher parents AU #the ask box is constantly getting filled 💥#I both appreciate you guys and struggling to keep up ❤️💥#content updates will probably be with a bit of a breaks in between #my eyes hurt 🐻‍❄️ ow #(this is what I get after blinding an innocent triangle)#bill ciphers parents #book of bill #bill cipher #gravity falls au #gravity falls fandom

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novaursa · 20 days ago

Text

Between Pride and Fire (matters of the realm)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: royals

- Next part: lion's den

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated by Grand Maester Mellos in The Histories of the Dragon’s Heirs

The aftermath of the ill-fated wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon left scars that stretched far beyond the stone walls of the Red Keep. What was meant to be a celebration of unity between House Targaryen and Velaryon descended into a night of blood and horror, and the ripples of that chaos were felt throughout the realm. Though the Septon’s final words bound Rhaenyra and Laenor in marriage, no feast nor dance could wash away the stain of Ser Criston Cole’s brutal slaying of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth.

The following morning brought a hush over King’s Landing. Gone were the sounds of trumpets and revelry, replaced instead by whispered rumors that passed like fire through dry grass. Lords muttered behind closed doors, and the smallfolk spun tales of what had occurred within the Red Keep’s great hall. Some claimed it was jealousy that drove Criston Cole into such madness. Others whispered of darker schemes—of secrets unveiled and grudges laid bare. What all could agree on, however, was that nothing would ever be the same again.

Amidst the wreckage of this chaos, Lord Jason Lannister and his Targaryen wife, Princess Y/N, emerged as figures of enviable stability. Where the royal family seemed fractured and fragile, the golden lions of the West stood tall and untouchable, their crimson cloaks as vivid as blood amongst the rubble.

In truth, it is said that Jason Lannister handled the scandalous events of the wedding with the same smug aplomb that defined him. Grand Maester Mellos noted in his letters that Jason “laughed when others wept, as if the bloodshed were no more troubling than spilled wine.” Mushroom, however, provides a far more colorful description, claiming that Jason whispered to his wife as they departed the chaos of the great hall: “This was a wedding for the histories, my dragon—though I do think our lion slaying made for better sport.”

The princess, by contrast, was said to have been troubled. Mushroom claims she remained quiet and pale throughout the night, tending to her twins, Leona and Loren, in the privacy of their chambers while Jason drank deeply and regaled his kin with tales of the absurdity he had witnessed. “My lady soothed babes while her lion roared,” Mushroom writes, “and so it is with all marriages—a woman tends to what matters while a man tends to his pride.”

Yet while others looked upon the aftermath with despair, the Lannisters only seemed to shine brighter. In the days following the wedding, it was Jason and Y/N who took to the streets of King’s Landing to present themselves—her silver hair and his golden crown of curls appearing like twin beams of light amidst the gloom. The smallfolk cheered for them as though they were the ones newly wed, and they cooed over the twins, Leona and Loren, as if the babes themselves were proof that unity could still exist in the realm.

“The king’s first grandchildren,” Jason boasted loudly in the marketplace, clutching a goblet of wine as he stood before the people. Mushroom claims that Y/N chastised her husband for flaunting the twins so openly, fearing what enemies such displays might invite. “They are children, Jason, not trophies,” she is said to have told him. Yet Jason only grinned and replied, “All Lannisters are trophies, wife. Even the cubs.”

It was in this way that Lord Jason and Princess Y/N presented an image of strength when others faltered. While King Viserys withdrew further into his chambers—his health seeming to wane with each passing day—and Queen Alicent surrounded herself with her father’s allies, the Lannisters stood as a spectacle of gold and crimson, untarnished by scandal.

Mushroom, of course, cannot resist adding his usual crudeness to their story. He claims that Jason’s cheer during the day was matched only by his ardor at night. “The Rock’s lion roared as loudly in bed as he did in the streets,” Mushroom writes salaciously, “and if the princess protested, no soul ever heard it. One might think that bloodshed stirred the man’s appetites, for it is said that Jason and his dragon wife scarce left their chambers save to parade the babes like kings at a tourney.”

Whether or not such claims hold any truth is impossible to say, for Mushroom’s accounts are ever prone to exaggeration. Grand Maester Mellos writes only that the princess “remained attentive to her children and dutiful to her husband, keeping her composure where many others faltered.” Yet even he could not deny the sharp contrast between the turmoil within the Red Keep and the Lannisters’ public display of unity.

It is worth noting, too, that the princess did not forget her sister. Rhaenyra, secluded with Laenor in the wake of the tragedy, is said to have received a quiet visit from Y/N in the days following the wedding. No records remain of their conversation, but Mushroom insists he overheard whispers through the keyhole, where Y/N reassured Rhaenyra that “the world may tear at you, but you will endure.”

Jason, meanwhile, paid little mind to such solemn affairs. Mushroom claims that when questioned about the wedding’s bloodshed, Jason merely laughed and said, “The realm would be dull without a bit of chaos. A Lannister thrives in it.”

And so it was that while King Viserys aged before the eyes of the court, and while Rhaenyra and Laenor retreated into their uneasy marriage, Lord Jason Lannister and Princess Y/N stood like a beacon amidst the gathering storm. Mushroom, ever the cynic, described it best: “When the world shakes and dragons roar, the lions stand tall—but make no mistake, my lords, even lions cannot see when the ground is crumbling beneath their paws.”

For now, though, the realm looked upon Jason and Y/N as a shining example—a marriage of fire and gold that burned brighter in the shadows cast by others’ failings. The twins, Leona and Loren, were called “the hope of the Rock” by the smallfolk of the Westerlands, and wherever the Lannisters walked, the world watched.

Yet even as their star rose, the events of Rhaenyra’s wedding left a scar upon the realm—a scar that would fester in the years to come. And while Jason laughed and Y/N stood strong, the first cracks in the foundation had already begun to form.

King Viserys sat slouched in a cushioned chair at the head of a large table, his crown tilted slightly askew as though it weighed far too much. The king looked every bit as weary as he had in the days following Rhaenyra's wedding, though his smile remained warm and genuine as he listened to Laenor Velaryon recount some jest or tale of his youth.

Jason Lannister reclined comfortably in his chair, legs stretched out, a goblet of wine lazily balanced in one hand. He had been summoned to join the king this morning, alongside Ser Laenor, for reasons that were as yet unclear. Jason, of course, never missed an opportunity to enjoy royal company—or to make his presence felt.

Leaning back, Jason smirked at Laenor as the young Velaryon finished his story, his laughter ringing easily through the otherwise quiet chamber. “So let me see if I’ve heard this correctly,” Jason said, his voice dripping with amusement. “You dove headfirst into the harbor after your brother dared you… and were fished out naked before half the ships of Driftmark?”

Laenor grinned, his silver hair catching the sunlight as he shrugged. “What can I say, Lord Jason? I was young and bold, and the water seemed warm enough at the time.”

Viserys barked a laugh, clapping his hand against the armrest of his chair, though the effort seemed to take more energy than it once might have. “Ah, youth,” he said fondly, shaking his head. “If only we could live those days again.”

Jason chuckled softly, raising his goblet toward Laenor. “You’ve spirit, Velaryon. That much, I can respect.”

Across the room, Otto Hightower stood like a shadow, his hands clasped neatly at his waist, though his sharp eyes never stopped watching. His presence was like a cold draft in the otherwise warm chamber, lingering silently but impossible to ignore. His gaze flitted toward Jason every now and again—side glances sharp as a dagger—as though measuring every word that fell from the Lord of Casterly Rock’s mouth.

Jason, for his part, paid him no mind. Or rather, he pretended not to notice.

After a lull in conversation, Otto stepped forward slightly, clearing his throat with deliberate softness. “Your Grace,” he said, though his eyes lingered on Jason, “the matters of the realm wait for no man—even those of noble station.”

Viserys waved a hand, though it lacked its usual vigor. “What matters, Otto? Let us have peace in this room for once. There are no councils here today.”

Otto smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. “Of course, Your Grace.” He turned his gaze fully to Jason now, his tone clipped and polite. “Lord Jason, it is a pleasure to see you still in our halls. Though I must admit… it has been nearly a week since the wedding festivities came to an end. I imagine your people in the Westerlands must miss you greatly by now.”

Jason did not so much as blink, though his smirk sharpened like a blade’s edge as he tilted his goblet, swirling the wine idly. “How kind of you to concern yourself with my duties, Lord Hand,” he said, his tone almost lazy. “But my bannermen are capable. I trust my family is managing affairs in my absence without issue.”

Otto’s smile remained fixed, though his fingers tightened slightly where they rested at his waist. “And yet,” he continued, voice smooth as silk, “I would not wish to keep the Lord of Casterly Rock from the lands he serves so dutifully. Surely your family will be eager to return to the Westerlands soon?”

Jason glanced at Otto from the corner of his eye, the glint of amusement never leaving his face. “In time,” he replied smoothly, sipping his wine. “The king has graciously offered us his hospitality, and it would be rude to leave too soon, don’t you think?”

Viserys, oblivious to the subtle tension in the air, let out a faint chuckle. “Jason is right, Otto. Let them stay a while longer. It’s not every day I have the pleasure of my grandchildren’s company.”

Jason smiled broadly at that, clearly pleased to hear Viserys mention the twins. “Aye, Your Grace. It warms my heart to know the king takes such joy in their presence. Leona and Loren have grown fond of their grandsire already.”

Otto’s expression flickered ever so slightly at the mention of the twins. “Yes, no doubt,” he murmured, though his tone was laced with something unreadable.

Laenor, who had remained quiet throughout this exchange, cleared his throat with a small grin. “Lord Jason, I suspect you’ll find it hard to leave the capital if King Viserys has his way. The man seems to adore your children almost as much as you do.”

Jason turned toward Laenor, his easy grin returning as he raised his goblet. “Who could blame him? The twins are the pride of the West.” He turned back to Otto with a faintly pointed look. “You might even say they shine brighter than gold.”

The jab was subtle, but Otto caught it. His expression remained neutral, though his gaze lingered on Jason for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Gold fades, my lord,” Otto replied softly. “But the realm endures.”

Jason laughed, though there was little warmth in it. “Wise words, Lord Hand. I’ll be sure to remember them.”

Viserys, sensing none of the tension now thickening in the room, exhaled heavily and leaned back into his chair. “Enough of this talk. Otto, there will be time for matters of duty later. Let us enjoy what peace we can.”

Otto inclined his head, though he cast one final glance at Jason before stepping back into the shadows. Jason, ever unbothered, leaned closer to you as the king settled into a half-doze, murmuring softly near your ear.

“Do you see how he watches me, wife? Like a cat watching a mouse that refuses to scurry.”

You offered him a sidelong look, keeping your voice low. “And what does that make you, my lord?”

Jason grinned, his confidence unshaken. “The mouse who knows the cat can’t catch him.”

You shook your head faintly, though you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Perhaps you should not push him so.”

Jason shrugged, leaning back in his chair with that infuriating air of ease. “Otto Hightower cannot push me from King’s Landing any sooner than I wish to leave it. Besides,” he added, casting a glance toward the king, “I’ll take my leave when it suits me—and when the king tires of spoiling my children.”

“Let us hope that day comes quietly,” you murmured, though even you could sense that the quiet days were already beginning to dwindle.

Jason only smirked, lifting his goblet to his lips once more, as though the game he played was his alone to win.

The city of King's Landing hummed with life beneath the early afternoon sun, its sprawling streets teeming with vendors hawking their wares, children darting between carts, and common folk bustling about their daily routines. The smells of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh bread mingled in the air with less savory scents—a testament to the chaotic beauty of the capital. Today, however, the market had something far grander to behold.

Jason Lannister strode through the heart of the city like a king on progress, flanked by his retinue. His cloak swirled behind him with every step, and his pride shone brighter than any coin in the city. At his side walked you, composed and regal. The twins, Leona and Loren, were nestled securely in your arms and the arms of a trusted wet nurse, swaddled in soft crimson silks embroidered with golden lions and dragons.

A royal escort preceded you, knights of the City Watch with their gleaming golden cloaks clearing a path through the crowd while banners of House Targaryen and House Lannister fluttered proudly overhead. Behind you, Jason’s Lannister men and retainers marched in formation, their polished armor catching the sun and dazzling the gawking crowd. What began as an ordinary market day had now become a spectacle—and Jason, ever the lion, relished it.

“Lord Jason Lannister! Princess Y/N!” came the cries from vendors and citizens alike as you passed. A ripple of excitement spread through the market as more people pushed forward, eager for a glimpse of the king’s first grandchildren.

Jason, of course, was all smiles, nodding graciously to the crowd and pausing now and then to lift his hand in greeting. “Good folk of King’s Landing!” he called at one point, his voice carrying like a man born to be heard. “The pride of the West greets you! A fine day, is it not?”

You shot him a look, though amusement tugged at your lips. “Must you parade us so boldly?” you murmured, adjusting the swaddled babe in your arms. Leona, bright-eyed even in her infancy, squirmed softly against you.

“Of course,” Jason replied smoothly, glancing sidelong at you with a grin. “How else will they know that Lannisters walk among them? Besides,” he added, gesturing toward the crowd, “they should see the king’s first grandchildren—let them remember this day.”

“And when they curse us for blocking their stalls?” you teased lightly, though you could not deny the awe on the faces of the smallfolk as they caught sight of the twins. Women gasped and cooed, children shrieked in delight, and men whispered to one another as they craned their necks for a better view.

“If they curse us, it’ll be through tears of joy,” Jason replied with a wink.

The market sprawled open before you, the crowd parting wherever the gold-cloaked guards marched. Jason paused at a particularly loud stall, where a vendor was shouting about the finest Dornish silk. The merchant, an older man with a grizzled beard, nearly dropped his bolts of fabric when Jason stopped before him.

“Silk from Dorne, you say?” Jason asked with mock scrutiny, his grin lazy. “And what makes it finer than the silks worn by my lady wife?”

The merchant blinked rapidly, his mouth hanging open before he stammered, “I-It’s the finest, m’lord—truly! Soft as the morning mist and strong as dragon’s wings!”

Jason glanced back at you with a smug grin. “Shall we compare, wife?” he teased, though his voice carried enough weight to send the merchant into a sputtering fit.

You rolled your eyes, shifting Leona in your arms as the wet nurse beside you held Loren securely. “Lord Jason, if you mean to torment every vendor in the market, we’ll be here till sundown.”

“Perhaps I’m a generous man, parading my coin,” Jason replied with a wink, though he tossed the merchant a gold dragon for his trouble before strolling on, shoulders back and chin high.

The procession wound its way through stalls of fruit, fish, and fine jewelry, with Jason greeting strangers like long-lost friends and showing no signs of humility. Children gawked as the twins passed, their small faces pressed to the edges of the crowd. A small girl, no older than six, tugged at her mother’s skirts and pointed.

“Is it true?” she whispered loudly. “Are they dragons?”

Jason heard and turned, crouching low enough to address the girl directly, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Dragons and lions both, little one,” he said with a conspiratorial grin. “Fire and gold, brought together.”

The girl’s eyes widened as she clutched her mother’s hand tightly. “They’re magic,” she breathed.

Jason straightened, glancing toward you with a faint smirk. “Did you hear that, wife? Magic. I knew it.”

“Enough of your games, Jason,” you murmured, though you could not suppress the faint smile on your lips. The twins were beginning to fuss now, little Loren letting out a high-pitched wail that cut through the air. The wet nurse bobbed him gently, but Jason was undeterred.

“Ah, the boy has lungs,” Jason said proudly, as though Loren’s cries were a testament to Lannister strength. “A roar, like his father.”

“And if you don’t let them rest soon,” you replied pointedly, “they’ll roar loud enough to scatter this entire market.”

Jason gave you a good-natured grin before turning to his men. “We’ll head back to the keep,” he announced, waving a hand lazily. “But not before they know they’ve seen the future of the realm.”

As the procession wound its way back toward the gates of the Red Keep, the streets of King’s Landing seemed to buzz with renewed life. Jason Lannister’s “spectacle,” as you had called it, had done its job. The people stared in awe, whispered about the silver-haired babes who would grow to inherit power, and cheered as you passed.

Jason, of course, was entirely unbothered by the extravagance of it all. He slowed his steps as you reached the shadow of the keep, casting a look at you, smug and satisfied. “There,” he said softly, gesturing toward the lingering crowd still watching your departure. “The first of many days when our children will be remembered.”

You shook your head faintly, though your voice held none of the fire your words implied. “You’ll make them into legend before they can even walk.”

Jason laughed softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of silver hair behind your ear. “Why not? Let them shine, wife. They are Lannisters and Targaryens both—and worth every cheer.”

As the gates closed behind you and the streets faded into distant hums of noise, you sighed softly, looking down at Leona as she stirred in your arms. “Just try not to make a habit of turning every outing into a parade.”

Jason smirked, his hand brushing yours as you walked. “No promises.”

The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the Red Keep’s sprawling courtyards in its light as the day waned. In the quieter corner of the gardens, two figures stood near a marble bench beneath the shade of an old elm. Jason Lannister, ever confident, leaned lazily against the tree’s trunk, a small goblet dangling loosely from his fingers. His younger twin, Tyland Lannister, stood rigid as ever, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his sharp green eyes scanning the courtyard with watchful intent.

The soft rustle of leaves filled the silence, punctuated only by the distant calls of servants tending the grounds and the faint hum of the city beyond the walls. For once, Jason seemed content to remain quiet, taking a slow sip from his cup as Tyland studied him with a frown.

“You’re too comfortable here,” Tyland said finally, his voice low but firm, cutting through the late afternoon stillness.

Jason glanced at him sidelong, lifting a brow. “And why shouldn’t I be? The king himself welcomed us. The court admires us, my children are the first of Viserys’s grandchildren—tell me, brother, where is the harm in that?”

Tyland exhaled softly through his nose, as though he’d expected Jason’s reply. “Because not everyone admires us, Jason. Some see your pride as a threat, and you do little to dissuade them.”

Jason smirked, pushing himself off the tree trunk to stand straight. “The Hightowers, you mean,” he said, his voice edged with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’ve come all this way to warn me of Otto Hightower. The man’s shadow might loom over the king, but I’m hardly frightened of it.”

“You should be,” Tyland shot back sharply, his tone laced with frustration. He stepped closer, his boots crunching faintly over the gravel. “Otto is not blind to your games, Jason. Nor is Alicent. You parade your wife and children through the city as if you were already king’s heir. You act as though you have nothing to lose, and that arrogance will make you enemies.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying his brother with a flicker of curiosity. “And since when have you been so cautious, Tyland? It’s unlike you to sound so… measured.”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, though he kept his composure. “I am cautious because someone in this family needs to be. I’ve seen the way Otto Hightower watches you—and your wife. The man is no fool. He knows the king favors the princess, but that favor extends to you now, too, by marriage and blood. The twins, Jason.” Tyland’s voice dropped lower, as though he feared the words might carry. “They are Targaryen by their mother, but to the Hightowers, they are lions sitting too close to the throne.”

Jason let out a short, dismissive laugh, though the sound held little mirth. “Lions are always close to thrones, brother. That is where we belong.”

“Not in King’s Landing,” Tyland snapped, his patience fraying. “Not here, not now. The Hightowers are careful, deliberate, and they will see every golden thread in this keep as a noose around their necks.”

Jason’s smirk faded just slightly, though he masked it with another sip of wine. “You worry too much, Tyland. Otto can scheme all he likes, but Viserys is no fool. The man loves his daughter, and by extension, he loves me and our family. Us. Do you truly think the Hightowers can undo that with mere whispers?”

Tyland’s expression hardened, his sharp features shadowed by the waning light. “Whispers are all it takes when the right ears hear them. Alicent and her brood will not sit idle while you charm the court into loving you. Mark me, brother—when the queen smiles at you, it is not kindness. It is a measuring look.”

Jason fell silent at that, his gaze narrowing slightly as he studied Tyland. The truth of the words sank in, though he would never admit it aloud. “And what would you have me do?” Jason asked finally, his voice softer now, though his pride still lingered. “Pack my family off to Casterly Rock with our tails between our legs? Run, so Otto Hightower can preen in victory?”

“I would have you be smart, Jason,” Tyland replied firmly. “This is not Casterly Rock. Here, lions are not kings—they are guests. Tread carefully. Do not give the Hightowers reason to fear you more than they already do.”

Jason glanced away briefly, his gaze sweeping across the quiet garden as he weighed his brother’s words. He loathed the idea of playing meek, of hiding the strength he so openly wore, but he could not deny the truth in Tyland’s warning. The Red Keep was no place for complacency, not with so many eyes watching.

Finally, Jason turned back to Tyland with a faint sigh, though his smirk returned—smaller this time, quieter. “Fine. I’ll play the part of a humble lord if it will ease your mind. I’ll even refrain from parading my children through the streets like trophies.”

Tyland arched a brow, unimpressed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Jason chuckled softly, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he passed him, his voice light despite the lingering tension. “Come now, Tyland. Where’s your faith in me?”

“I have faith,” Tyland replied dryly, watching him go. “Just not in your restraint.”

As Jason strolled back toward the keep, his confident stride unbroken, Tyland lingered beneath the elm tree, his expression clouded with thought. He had spoken his warning, but whether Jason would heed it—or whether it was already too late—remained to be seen. The game was changing in the Red Keep, and as ever, the lions of the West walked a fine line between power and peril.

The faint sounds of the Red Keep—servants bustling in distant halls, the distant clang of swords from the training yard—faded as Jason entered in your shared chambers, shutting the heavy door behind him with a muted thud.

You sat curled on the chaise near the hearth, a book resting lightly in your lap, though you didn’t appear to be reading it. The soft glow of the fire illuminated your silver hair and the delicate lines of your face, though there was an unmistakable weariness to your features—a weariness that Jason caught immediately.

“Brooding again, wife?” Jason’s voice broke the quiet, his tone light as ever, though he studied you carefully as he stepped deeper into the room. He shrugged off his crimson cloak, letting it pool on the bench near the door before he approached you.

You looked up at him, arching an eyebrow with faint amusement. “I think brooding is your word for thinking, Jason.”

“Perhaps,” Jason admitted, dropping heavily into the armchair across from you with a dramatic sigh. “But I find thinking far less productive than brooding. Brooding invites company. Thinking only invites headaches.”

You smirked faintly, though you said nothing as you marked your page and set the book aside. Jason stretched out his long legs, his boots scuffing against the edge of the hearth. For a long moment, the two of you sat in a companionable silence, the fire crackling softly between you.

At last, Jason spoke again, his tone quieter this time. “And how did you spend your afternoon, my dragon?”

You shifted slightly, smoothing your skirts as you regarded him. “With Rhaenyra,” you said simply. “She needed company, I think. This place weighs on her.”

Jason hummed faintly, his expression unreadable. “I imagine it does,” he said after a moment. “There’s no peace here—not for her, and certainly not for us.”

You tilted your head slightly, catching the edge in his voice. “What did Tyland say to you?”

Jason’s gaze flicked to yours, though his smirk returned almost immediately. “What makes you think he said anything?”

“Because I know you,” you replied, your voice calm but certain. “And Tyland always looks like he’s swallowed a lemon when he’s giving you advice.”

Jason laughed softly at that, leaning his head back against the chair as his smirk widened. “You know me too well, wife. Tyland, ever the solemn twin, has warned me of Otto Hightower’s lingering stares. Apparently, we are a threat.”

You frowned, your brow creasing slightly. “A threat?”

Jason waved a hand dismissively, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t let it trouble you. The Hand has seen a golden lion where there is only a loyal son-in-law and devoted husband.”

You gave him a pointed look, though you didn’t press him further. “You should listen to Tyland, Jason. The Hightowers are dangerous, and Otto plays his games well.”

Jason let out a mock groan, as though exhausted by the topic already. “Enough of the Hightowers. I’ve no interest in talking about dour old men when I have my lovely wife before me.” He pushed himself up from the chair, crossing the room with that familiar easy grace.

You watched him warily as he approached, his green eyes glinting with mischief, though you couldn’t entirely suppress the smile threatening to form. “What are you doing?”

Jason crouched before you, resting his hands lightly on your knees, his expression deceptively innocent. “Admiring you, of course. Can a man not look upon his wife and marvel at his good fortune?”

You arched an eyebrow, though you felt the heat rise faintly in your cheeks. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you married me,” Jason quipped smoothly, his grin widening. His hands slid slowly up your thighs, his touch deliberate and teasing as he leaned closer. “Are you regretting it now?”

You shot him a look, though your voice held no real bite. “Not yet. But you’re testing me.”

Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm as he brushed his lips against your knuckles. “Testing you? No, my dragon. I’m simply reminding you of how much you adore me.”

You scoffed lightly, though your breath hitched as his hand trailed further, fingers curling just slightly around your waist. “Always an arrogant ass,” you murmured, though your voice softened.

Jason’s smirk turned roguish as he leaned in, his mouth hovering just above yours. “And yet, you can’t resist me,” he whispered. “Admit it.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, Jason closed the space between you, his lips claiming yours in a kiss that stole whatever argument you might have made. He kissed you slowly, deliberately, as though savoring every second. His hands found your waist, tugging you closer until you were pulled against him, your book and thoughts forgotten entirely.

When he pulled back, just slightly, he grinned down at you, his face far too pleased with itself. “See? You’ve no defense against me.”

You exhaled, your heart pounding despite yourself. “You are being ridiculous, Jason.”

“Ridiculous and charming,” he corrected, leaning in to brush his lips against your jawline, his voice soft and teasing. “The perfect combination.”

You shivered slightly as his lips trailed along your neck, his hands sliding up to tangle in the silk of your gown. “And too arrogant for your own good,” you repeated, though the words came out breathless.

“And yet here you are,” Jason murmured, his voice a low rumble against your skin. “Married to me, alone with me, and very soon, in bed with me.”

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as you allowed yourself to lean into his touch. “You shameless man.”

“I am. Completely,” Jason agreed, pulling you to your feet with one fluid motion. His hands lingered at your waist as he turned you, his breath warm against your ear. “And if I recall, you love that about me.”

Before you could argue, Jason spun you toward the bed, his hands finding the ties at the back of your gown. He tugged gently, loosening the silk as he pressed another kiss to your shoulder. “Let me spoil you tonight, wife,” he whispered. “Let me remind you that we are far from those shadows and games.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him over your shoulder, your expression softening as you finally let out a sigh. “Fine, my lord. But only if you promise me you’ll behave tomorrow.”

Jason laughed quietly, his grin wicked as he leaned in, pressing his lips to your bare shoulder. “No promises, my fierce dragon.”

As Jason’s deft fingers worked the ties of your gown, the silk slid from your shoulders in a whisper, pooling in a soft heap at your feet. The cool air of the chamber kissed your bare skin, raising a shiver along your spine, though it was quickly replaced by the heat of Jason’s hands. He traced slow, deliberate lines down your back, his touch reverent and maddening all at once.

“You’ve missed this,” Jason murmured against your neck, his breath hot as his lips brushed just beneath your ear. His hands found your waist, pulling you back flush against him, and you could feel the strength of his body pressed against yours. “Don’t deny it.”

You turned in his arms, your bare skin catching the glow of the firelight as you faced him. “And if I said I hadn’t missed it?” you teased, your voice soft but edged with challenge.

Jason’s green eyes gleamed with that infuriating confidence as his hands slid lower, curling possessively over your hips. “Then I’d call you a liar,” he replied, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. “Because I’ve missed you, my dragon. More than I can bear.”

The admission, so soft and unexpected, sent warmth blooming in your chest. Jason Lannister, smug and untouchable to the world, stood before you with his walls lowered—for you, and you alone.

You pulled him closer, your fingers working at the fastenings of his doublet with practiced ease. “Then perhaps you should spend less time parading through markets and more time here, with me.”

Jason laughed softly against your lips, though there was a hunger beneath it now, his hands growing bolder as he lifted you slightly. “The markets are nothing compared to this,” he murmured, his voice roughened by desire. “Compared to you.”

With a final tug, his tunic fell away, revealing the expanse of his chest. The firelight played over the golden skin, highlighting the lines of muscle and the faint scars earned from years of training and pride. You ran your hands over his skin, savoring the warmth and the way his breath hitched under your touch.

“You’re staring,” Jason teased, though his voice was hoarse, his gaze dark with longing.

You smirked faintly, your fingers trailing down his abdomen. “Perhaps I missed you too.”

Jason’s hands slid over your thighs, gripping just above your knees as he lowered himself, pressing kisses to the delicate curve of your hip. “Say it,” he murmured between each kiss, his voice a low rumble. “Say you missed me.”

Your breath caught as he nipped softly at the sensitive skin just below your ribs. “Jason—”

“Say it,” he repeated, his green eyes flickering up to meet yours, his lips still trailing fire along your skin.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers tangling in his curls as you gave in. “I missed you.”

The words seemed to light something in him. Jason surged upward, his lips claiming yours with sudden, ferocious need. He lifted you easily into his arms, carrying you the short distance to the bed and laying you down against the soft furs with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his movements.

He knelt above you for a moment, taking you in—your silver hair spilling across the pillows, the firelight turning your skin brilliant, your chest rising and falling as you waited for him. His gaze softened slightly, the usual arrogance replaced by something deeper, something almost tender.

“You are a sight,” Jason whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “The gods themselves would weep to see you.”

You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Then come here, my lion. Before I lose my patience.”

Jason grinned, leaning down until his body hovered just above yours. “Impatient, are we? I’ve hardly begun, wife.”

His lips found yours again, slow and teasing at first, before he deepened the kiss, his hands wandering across your body with unhurried possession. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, until his mouth found your breast, his tongue flicking softly over the sensitive skin. Your back arched beneath him as you gasped his name, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

Jason growled softly against your skin, his voice thick with satisfaction. “There’s my fierce dragon.”

His lips traveled lower, kissing and nipping at every inch of you until you were writhing beneath him, your breaths coming in shallow pants. When you could take no more, you pulled him up by his hair, claiming his lips in a fierce kiss before rolling him onto his back with surprising strength.

Jason let out a startled laugh as you straddled him, his hands instinctively finding your hips. “Oh, you’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you?” he teased breathlessly, though his voice broke slightly as you sank onto him, his fingers tightening against your skin.

Your breath caught, your body shivering as you adjusted to him. “Quiet, Jason,” you murmured, leaning forward until your lips brushed his ear. “Or I’ll make you beg.”

Jason groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding up to grip your waist as you began to move. “Then beg I will,” he gasped, his voice raw. “If it means you’ll never stop.”

The world around you faded as you moved together, the rhythm of your bodies unashamed and wild. Jason’s hands roamed your body, worshipping you as though he might never touch you again. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, a litany of reverence and longing that filled the space between each gasp and moan.

When he sat up, wrapping his arms tightly around you, your bodies pressed flush together, his forehead rested against yours as he whispered fiercely, “I love you, Y/N. By the gods, I love you.”

The confession sent you spiraling closer to the edge, your hands tangling in his hair as you gasped against his lips, “I love you too, Jason. Always.”

With a final surge, you both shattered together, your cries mingling as the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in the aftermath of your shared storm.

Jason collapsed back against the furs, pulling you down with him, his arms still wrapped securely around you as though he would never let you go. His breath came ragged, his curls damp with sweat, but his grin—soft and content—remained unshakable.

“Now tell me,” he murmured, brushing a strand of silver hair from your face. “Wasn’t that better than brooding?”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his chest, your voice a sleepy murmur. “It always is.”

Jason hummed contentedly, pulling the furs up around you both as he settled against the pillows. “Good. Because I intend to keep you here for a long, long while, my dragon.”

And as you lay together in the flickering firelight, your bodies tangled and hearts still racing, you allowed yourself to believe—if only for tonight—that the shadows of the Red Keep would never reach you. Not here, not in Jason’s arms.

The great chamber, once a place of solemnity and power, now buzzed faintly with anxiety as lords and retainers gathered in pockets of conversation. Banners of House Targaryen hung heavy from the rafters, their dragons coiling in silent vigilance, while the Iron Throne loomed in the center, cold and sharp as ever.

At the far end of the room, Jason Lannister stood in the center of a small circle of crimson-cloaked retainers from House Lannister. Their polished armor shining in the morning light, each lion sigil stark against the deep red of their cloaks. Jason, of course, stood at the center of it all, utterly at ease. He leaned casually on one hip, his smirk firmly in place as he nodded in faux politeness to whatever Lord Jasper Wylde was droning on about.

“—and with the Crown’s coffers dwindling,” Wylde concluded dourly, “prudence must be taken, my lord. These expenditures cannot continue unchecked.”

Jason tilted his head, a hint of boredom flickering in his green eyes. “Ah, but where would the joy of the realm go, Wylde, if the king stopped spending? No feasts, no tourneys—what a miserable place Westeros would become.” He waved a hand lazily, as though swatting at a fly. “We’re all the poorer for it.”

“Some more than others,” muttered Wylde, though Jason had already stopped listening, his attention shifting as the doors to the chamber groaned open.

Prince Daemon Targaryen swept into the room with all the casual arrogance of a man who had long stopped caring for pleasantries. His presence immediately drew whispers from the assembled lords, their gazes flickering warily toward the Rogue Prince. Clad in black leather, his silver hair falling loose over his shoulders, Daemon strode forward like a shadow cut from firelight. Behind him, the doors slammed shut with a thunderous echo.

Jason’s smile widened faintly as he spotted Daemon heading in his direction, the prince’s gaze sharp and unmistakably amused. The murmurs around them quieted as Daemon stopped just short of Jason’s circle, his dark violet eyes glinting with something that might have been humor.

“Well,” Daemon drawled, his voice a silken purr that carried through the chamber, “if it isn’t the lion of Casterly Rock, still lingering in a dragon’s court.”

Jason turned smoothly, inclining his head in a show of mock respect. “Prince Daemon,” he greeted, his voice light but edged with wit. “To what do I owe the honor of your company? Surely you didn’t come all this way to admire my cloak.”

Daemon smirked faintly, folding his arms across his chest. “I came because the whispers of your presence refuse to die down, Lord Jason. Some might wonder if you’re here to take root in King’s Landing.”

Jason chuckled, unbothered. “And why shouldn’t I? The king himself has extended his hospitality, and my wife and children are most welcome here. Is it so strange that I enjoy the company of my royal kin?”

“Strange? No.” Daemon tilted his head, a sardonic smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Amusing? Very.”

Behind Jason, his brother Tyland shifted uncomfortably, though he kept silent. Jason, ever unflappable, only grinned. “I’m glad I amuse you, Prince Daemon. The court could use more laughter.”

“Laughter,” Daemon repeated, his tone laced with mockery. “Otto Hightower must be beside himself with joy to have you here.”

At the mention of the Hand, Jason’s grin sharpened. “I believe the Hand is a man of great patience, Prince Daemon. Surely my lingering presence does not trouble him. I am, after all, only a devoted husband and proud father of the king’s grandchildren.”

Daemon let out a soft, dark chuckle, his violet eyes narrowing slightly. “Careful, lion. The Hightowers are not known for their humor. I would hate to see Otto lose his temper.”

Jason shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “If he does, I’ll offer him a Lannister coin to soothe his nerves. A man like Otto values coin more than laughter, wouldn’t you agree?”

The corner of Daemon’s mouth twitched as though he were holding back a laugh. “You’ve a dangerous tongue, Lord Jason. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you—I thought the lions roared only when provoked.”

Jason inclined his head slightly, his voice dropping just enough that only Daemon could hear. “Only when it suits us, my prince.”

The tension between them stayed for a moment, though it was not born of hostility. Daemon’s sharp gaze lingered on Jason, as though weighing him, before the Rogue Prince let out a soft snort of amusement. “You’ll be trouble yet,” he said, though there was something almost approving in his tone. “I’ll enjoy watching Otto squirm over you.”

“You’ll have front-row seats, I’m sure,” Jason replied smoothly, the two men sharing a knowing look.

Before Daemon could respond, a sharp voice broke through the growing quiet.

“Prince Daemon. Lord Jason.”

Both men turned to find Otto Hightower approaching with all the grace of a vulture circling its prey. His expression was carefully neutral, though his sharp eyes flickered with thinly veiled annoyance as they settled on Jason.

“My lord,” Otto said, his tone clipped, “I wonder how it is you find so much time to linger in our halls. Surely the Westerlands require your attention?”

Jason smiled—pleasant and unbothered. “Ah, Lord Hand, I was just telling Prince Daemon how generous the king has been in extending his hospitality to my family. It would be most ungrateful of me to leave too soon.”

Otto’s jaw tightened slightly, though his composure remained intact. “Generosity is a virtue, my lord, but it is easily taken advantage of.”

Jason’s smile didn’t falter, though his green eyes glittered with something sharper. “I assure you, Lord Otto, I take only what is offered. Nothing more.”

Daemon, watching the exchange like a cat watching two dogs squabble, leaned closer to Jason. “Careful, Lannister,” he murmured just loud enough for Otto to hear. “The Hand might mistake your charm for ambition.”

Otto’s gaze flickered toward Daemon, his expression icy. “Prince Daemon, your concern for the realm is, as always, commendable.”

Jason let out a soft laugh, clearly enjoying the exchange. “I’m flattered by your interest in my affairs, Lord Otto, but I assure you—I have no ambition beyond enjoying the company of my wife and children.”

“Of course,” Otto replied coldly. “May it remain so.”

With a final glance between Jason and Daemon, the Hand turned on his heel and strode back toward the throne, leaving the two men in his wake.

Jason watched him go, his smirk firmly in place. “Charming, isn’t he?”

Daemon huffed a quiet laugh, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ll give him a fit before this is done.”

“Let him fret,” Jason replied smoothly, straightening his crimson cloak. “It does him good to remember the lions are watching.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m beginning to think I misjudged you, Lannister.”

“Good,” Jason replied, grinning as he turned toward his retainers. “Let them all keep guessing.”

And as the chamber’s murmur swelled once more, Jason Lannister stood tall amidst the dragons and shadows, a lion who would not be cowed—much to the dismay of those who watched.

A warm breeze fluttered the silken curtains, carrying with it the faint hum of the city beyond the walls. Inside, the quiet of the room was broken only by the soft coos of the twins and the rustle of the nursemaid’s skirts as she moved about with quiet efficiency.

You sat near the center of the room in a cushioned chair, a babe cradled in each arm. Leona’s tiny fingers were wrapped around the edge of your gown as she blinked up at you with curious eyes. Beside you, Loren dozed with a furrowed brow, his small chest rising and falling steadily as the morning’s warmth lulled him to sleep.

Rhaenyra stood just inside the doorway, her presence as silent as the shadows she brought with her. Her gown, simple yet elegant, pooled lightly at her feet, the faintest glimmer of pearls lining the bodice. She watched you with a carefully neutral expression, her violet gaze lingering first on the twins and then on you as you murmured softly to Leona.

“You must stop grabbing at my gown,” you said quietly to the little girl, though your voice held no true chastisement. “One day, you’ll have gowns of your own, stitched with dragons and lions both. But for now, you must be patient, little one.”

Leona gurgled in response, her tiny grip tightening stubbornly, as though determined to prove she already possessed a lion’s pride. You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers over her soft hair as Loren let out a small sigh in his sleep.

Rhaenyra’s voice broke the silence, soft and tentative. “You’re very good with them.”

Your head lifted, surprised to find her standing there. Her tone was not unkind, but there was a strange hesitation to her words—as though she were unsure of herself.

“They’re babes,” you replied gently, though your gaze held hers for a moment longer than necessary. “They demand little more than patience.”

Rhaenyra stepped further into the room, her hands clasped loosely before her as she approached. “Patience is not something I possess in abundance.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “I recall.”

The words hung between you like a bridge half-built, both of you waiting to see whether the other would step forward to cross it. Rhaenyra finally moved to sit in the chair opposite you, her gaze flickering briefly to Loren before returning to you.

“They have your hair,” she observed, her voice quieter now. “Leona, especially.”

“And Jason’s stubbornness,” you added, glancing down at the girl still gripping your gown with surprising tenacity. “I’m afraid they’ve inherited the worst of both of us.”

Rhaenyra’s lips quirked faintly, though her expression soon softened as her gaze lingered on Loren’s sleeping form. “They are beautiful,” she said after a moment. “The first dragons born to the realm since… well, since us.”

There was a note of something unreadable in her voice—nostalgia, perhaps, or longing. You looked up, studying her carefully. “You sound as though that troubles you.”

Rhaenyra shook her head slightly, though her gaze didn’t meet yours. “It does not trouble me. It only… makes me think.” She paused, the hesitation returning to her voice. “Of what people will say. What they will expect.”

You shifted slightly in your chair, adjusting Loren’s position as you replied. “What people say has never stopped you before, sister.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met yours then, sharp and searching. “Perhaps it should have.”

The words surprised you, though you masked it quickly. “You don’t mean that.”

Rhaenyra exhaled softly, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.” She paused before adding, almost reluctantly, “You’ve always been better at this than I.”

“At what?” you asked gently.

“At… being what they want,” Rhaenyra replied, her tone tinged with something that sounded like envy. “A wife. A mother. A princess who doesn’t stray too far from her place.” Her eyes lifted to meet yours again, and the truth of her words lay bare. “They look at you and see everything they wish I could be.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Leona’s quiet babbling and the soft sound of the nursemaid tending to the blankets nearby. You held Rhaenyra’s gaze, searching for the right words.

“I am not what they wish me to be,” you said finally, your voice steady but quiet. “Nor have I ever been. Do you think they truly love me for who I am, Rhaenyra? The people love what they see—a perfect marriage, perfect babes, a union of that everybody supports. But it’s all illusion.” You paused, brushing your thumb over Loren’s tiny hand. “You know as well as I do that illusions are not so easily kept.”

Rhaenyra looked away, her jaw tightening as she absorbed your words. “You make it look so simple.”

“It is not simple,” you said softly. “It never has been. But I chose this path, as you chose yours.”

“And mine feels heavier,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice faint.

You regarded her carefully, sensing the cracks beneath her carefully maintained facade. “Your path was never meant to be light, Rhaenyra. You will be queen someday, and queens carry the weight of the realm on their shoulders.”

“And what if I stumble?” she whispered, almost to herself. “What if I fall?”

“Then you will rise again,” you replied firmly, your gaze unyielding. “You are a Targaryen, sister. It is what we do.”

Rhaenyra looked at you then, truly looked at you, and for the first time in days, something softened between you. The distance that had lingered—unspoken but present—seemed to ease ever so slightly. She nodded once, her lips pressing into a faint, almost reluctant smile.

“You would make a fine queen,” she said, though her tone held no bitterness this time.

“And you will be a better one,” you replied, offering her a small, genuine smile.

Rhaenyra seemed to consider your words for a moment before she leaned forward slightly, her gaze drifting to Leona, who was now sucking on her tiny fist. “May I hold her?”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

Carefully, you handed Leona to Rhaenyra, who cradled the babe with surprising gentleness. The little girl blinked up at her aunt, cooing softly as Rhaenyra traced a finger along her delicate cheek.

“She’s fierce,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice quiet but fond. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“Just like you,” you replied softly, watching the two of them with something that felt like hope.

Rhaenyra glanced up, her smile small but real this time. “Perhaps.”

And for the first time in what felt like too long, the silence between you wasn’t awkward—it was comforting. The cracks between sisters were not yet healed, but they were mending. One soft moment at a time.

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated in part by Grand Maester Mellos and court records, as recorded in The Histories of the Dragon’s Heirs

Three moons after the ill-fated wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon, the golden lions of the West departed King’s Landing. Lord Jason Lannister, his wife, Princess Y/N, and their twin babes, Leona and Loren, took leave of the Red Keep amidst great fanfare, accompanied by a grand retinue of Lannister knights, bannermen, and retainers. Their banners, adorned with roaring lions, snapped in the breeze as they made their way through the capital, a sight as impressive as it was final.

It is said that the mood within the Red Keep on that morning was somber, weighed down by the unspoken truths no one dared name aloud. King Viserys I, whose health had begun to falter visibly in those days, stood at the gates of the keep with his remaining strength, watching his daughter’s family prepare for their journey westward. Mushroom, ever a creature of dramatic embellishment, claims that tears streamed openly down the king’s cheeks as he embraced his grandchildren for the last time.

"The king wept like a man broken," Mushroom writes, "his great hands trembling as he cradled the babes—one silver-haired dragon, the other emerald-eyed as a lion’s cub. He kissed both upon their brows and clutched at his daughter’s hands as though he meant to anchor her to King’s Landing forever. ‘You must write to me,’ the king pleaded, his voice weak. ‘Tell me when the child comes.’”

For it was true, according to Grand Maester Mellos’s accounts, that Princess Y/N was once again with child—an unexpected but not unwelcome revelation that had caused much murmuring within the court. Mushroom, in his usual crude candor, claims that Jason Lannister was adamant that “no child of his would first draw breath beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne.” Whether this was a remark made in jest or in earnest cannot be determined, but Jason’s swift preparations for their departure following the announcement left many to speculate.

It was not only the king who was affected by the Lannisters’ leave-taking. Princess Rhaenyra, whose relationship with her sister had been marked by coolness since the events of her wedding, was said to have watched the procession in stony silence from her chambers high above the courtyard. Mushroom, who ever claims to be where he should not, reports that Rhaenyra said nothing as the last Lannister banner disappeared from view, but her handmaidens noted the tension in her shoulders and the faint crease of her brow. “Perhaps,” Mushroom muses, “she regretted letting her sister go—for once gone, the princess of lions and dragons would be far beyond the reach of her whispers.”

The Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, watched the departure with far less sentimentality. The Hand had grown increasingly wary of Lord Jason’s presence in King’s Landing, seeing in him a lion too bold and too loved by the king. His swift departure—though ostensibly amicable—was seen by many as a quiet victory for Otto, who had long worked to reclaim control of the court’s increasingly volatile politics.

As for Jason himself, Grand Maester Mellos writes that the Lord of Casterly Rock wore a face of supreme satisfaction as he escorted his family through the gates of the Red Keep. The man’s pride had not dimmed in the slightest since his arrival moons earlier, and he departed King’s Landing as he had entered it—with confidence, grandeur, and an unshakable air of triumph.

Mushroom, however, paints a different picture of Jason Lannister’s parting. “The lion was no fool,” he writes. “He knew the game in the Red Keep had changed, and he would not allow his wife or babes to be pieces upon the board. His laughter may have echoed through the halls, but I saw him that morning, whispering in his lady’s ear as she held their son. There was steel beneath his smiles, and a man who wears his pride so boldly knows when to retreat.”

What cannot be denied is the impression the Lannisters left behind. The smallfolk of King’s Landing gathered to watch their departure, crowding the streets and calling out blessings for the twins, whose silver hair had become the subject of many songs and stories. Women tossed flowers into the path of their carriages, while men waved banners and shouted cheers for “the lions and dragons of the West.”

It is said that the departure left an emptiness in the Red Keep that even King Viserys’s courtiers could not ignore. The king himself withdrew to his chambers more often in the days that followed, his health waning as his spirits seemed to diminish without the presence of his grandchildren. Mushroom claims that he heard the king sigh heavily during a council meeting weeks later, muttering, “The Rock is far, and my halls are silent.”

In the moons to come, the absence of Lord Jason and his family would be felt keenly as tensions in King’s Landing deepened. The king’s failing health, the ever-growing influence of the Hightowers, and the lingering shadows of the past all threatened to boil over. And yet, from the Westerlands, news would arrive that Princess Y/N Lannister—beloved daughter of King Viserys and proud lady of Casterly Rock—had given birth to a third child. Mushroom, always fond of theatrics, claims that Jason Lannister toasted the babe’s arrival with a goblet in hand, declaring:

"Born of fire, the West’s future grows brighter still."

What cannot be denied is this: while the Red Keep festered with whispers and schemes, the lions of the West had returned to their den—strong, unshaken, and with the future firmly in their grasp.

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