#the shading color is still incredible

[syn4k]

to be, or not to be (romanticization of the inevitable)

[perilegs]

i'm such a greenpilled dark jade maxxer but i think ive made people associate me with blue a bit too much. my icon? blue. my blog? blue. my choice of board game pieces? blue. my reason for wanting to be player one in most games? having a blue character. why i want to play as player 2 in super mario for wii? blue toad.

[wilyzombie]

I have always been a small artist, 5+ notes on something was a success in my eyes. Now excuse me as I freak out a little.

WAKING UP THIS MORNING AND FINDING THAT MY NIGHTMARE MOON MACAQUE HAS 1.4k LIKES ON TWITTER IS INSANE

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fic Idea: A little bit of Home

One day, out of the blue, J'onn J'onzz asks if he could celebrate a Martian holiday. He hadn't before, seeing as the pain of losing his people and his home was too fresh, but he missed the holidays of Mars. He felt that if he didn't try to bring back some of his celebrations, then they, too, would be lost to death.

His teammates were happy to celebrate with him; they were touched by his sharing this part of his culture. J'onn explained that all they had to do was bring a childhood food item to feast on. He explains that on Mars, recipes were passed down for generations, and having the ancestral food of friends and family was the second most crucial part of his holiday.

They are then left stunned when he admits that the feast is traditionally held that same night, but he had been too nervous to mention it beforehand. He allows them to change their minds, but no one dares to.

Heroes pour out of the Watch Tower, racing home to begin cooking, and the Martian is told that as soon as they have something, they will return in time for the meal.

No one mentions the tears gathering on the smiling Martian's face. Nor do they say that his humanoid form falls away to his proper form, a rare occasion to witness.

J'onn then starts decorating the Watch Tower as the Justice League members work on what they will each bring.

He places a lot of shimmering rocks in patterns on the ground. They weave and curl through the hallways as members are careful with no stepping on them. He then has Batman help him find different minerals that change the color of sand used in gorgeous art portraits of each member. (The man was more than capable of sending him information while helping Alfred bake cookies)

It took a bit of flying around the world, but he was able to return to the tower a few hours later with all-natural colored sand. (Thank goodness for the teleportation technology Bruce installed)

By then, a few heroes had returned, each carrying a food or drink container.

Those he forms in the cafeteria where the feast will be held. A crowd of heroes stands around, oohing and ahhing, as J'onn uses his telekinesis to move the sands and create all of them simultaneously, putting on a show.

He is singing hauntingly beautiful songs while hanging colorful drapes around the walls in the last few hours leading up to the feast. No one could understand the words, but everyone agreed that J'onn had an incredible voice.

Clark, arriving with three Kent apple pies, smiles. "He sang that at my house on Christmas Day."

J'onn informed everyone that the event would be formal wear- and everyone showed up dressed to the nines. Heroes who still hid their secret identity- like Batman- had arrived in their costumes, but they had added bowties or some other little accessories to make it formal.

Seeing Nightwing fix the tophat on Batman's head while Red Hood was dressed in a lovely suit, forgoing his usual helmet for a red half mask, was..... enlightening.

A few drinks were served while people walked around admiring the sand painting that J'onn had made. He depicted not only the heroes but also multiple parts of the world, then a section of their best missions, and finally, paintings of good memories they had all shared.

It was like a walkable photoalbum.

Spirits were high as members enjoyed themselves, smiling at the memories and chatting with friends in the few peaceful times of their crazy lives. No one could hold in the gasp when J'onn finished getting ready and arrived at the party. He had painted himself in different shades of blue, beaming in pride at the praise for his cultural markings.

He asked everyone to sit, standing to pray in his native tongue. A few heroes bowed their heads, and others merely sat comfortably, waiting for the Martian to finish.

He picked up his cup, raising it high in the air with his hand

"Friends," J'onn started, voicing, choked up with emotion. "I thank you all for joining me today. It means the world to me that you come here to celebrate the King's Feast. May Phantom watch over you all and freeze all your enemies!"

His cup floats out of his hand, turning to the side so the water can fall out and take the shape of a strange D. J'onn bowes his head, crossing his arms and muttering more prayers.

John Constantine, who had been attempting to sneak bites from the steak and kidney he brought, drops his fork. He stares in absolute shock at the flouting water symbol above the martian before Zatanna slaps him on the shoulder. "Don't be rude!"

He points one shaking finger at the Martian, turning to her with a pale face. "The Martians worship King Phantom!?"

She blinks. "Who's that?"

John moves his jaw, but no words leave his mouth as J'onn finishes his last prayer. He then holds up a plate proudly, explaining what it is and why he chose it to share. He encourages every hero to do the same, so voices fill the air one by one as they present their offering and the memory attached to it.

No one pays much mind to the blond British man desperately drawing wards on the ground using his green-colored chalk. When asked what her husband was doing, Zatanna shrugs helplessly.

Likewise, no one notices some of the plates mysteriously lose some of their contents. The food appears on Earth in the room of a very excited Halfa, who feeds on the foods and the emotions weaved into the meals.

J'onn later claims that this Great One Day felt like King Phantom was slightly closer than usual.

[post-it-notes7]

OHHH MY GOODNESS. MY GOD!!!!!!! OH MY GOSH

from: @starflungwaddledee to: @post-it-notes7

message from santa: "happy holidays post-it-notes! 🎄🥳 i know you very politely only wished for a few modest things- characters high fiving, or struggling in christmas attire- but i hope you'll still enjoy this given that i kinda went the opposite direction entirely! i'm an enormous fan of your work and most times you post anything i wind up browsing your art tag from tip-to-tail in enraptured delight. as such, i thought it was only fair i give back something a little more significant in gratitude for all the joy your work has given me. i knew i wanted to do a comic, so i was thrilled you already had a whole storyverse for me to work from!! this scene seemed the most obvious choice (chapter 8 of "wishful thinking" on ao3) given that i enjoy a dramatic fight scene 😂 i tried to stick as beat-by-beat to the writing as i could and worked in as many details as possible; i hope it'll be fun to see it envisioned this way! merry christmas! ~starflung 🎀🔔 "

[milawritess]

what cannot be said will be wept – gojo satoru

pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader synopsis: following the events from wherever you go, that's where i'll follow, the reader becomes incredibly sick. Satoru drowns in his guilt and reader struggles to grapple with the loss of her cursed technique. tags/warnings: angst, fem!reader, swearing, depression, guilt, dark thoughts, loss of identity, loss of powers, descriptions of gore/horror, tragedy, mentions of blood, breakdowns, reader is sick, Satoru doing everything he can to keep you afloat word count: 3.3k next entry: ii series mlist

The first few nights were unbearable. You made it—you survived, but you weren’t the same. Not even close. You were a fragmented, splintered hallow. You were nothing but a ghost haunting your own body. The weight of your fragility sat heavily in the corners of your home, creeping into the space where laughter once lived.

At night, you’d become so still, so quiet of breath, that Satoru would have to put his finger under your nose to see if you were still with him. There were nights when your heart betrayed you, skipping several beats or stilling altogether, long enough to drive him to the edges of panic. 

Baby, baby, wake up, Satoru would whisper in dread. It was only when you groaned that he sucked in a breath, drawing in the air his lungs were burning for. 

What? You would murmur, confused and disoriented. He’d suddenly pull you close, resting his head between your breasts as he listened to the only rhythm that brought him solace. 

Satoru found himself waking you up often. Soft kisses graced your face—your eyes, cheeks, and brushes against your lips. Other nights, he’d shake you awake in fear and trepidation. Your heart was too weak. The second sleep found you, it began to give. 

He could hear it, see it. 

Sleep was lost on him. He couldn’t risk it—could grapple with the chances of waking to find you—his entire world gone. You had come back to him, yet, for weeks, you straddled the line between being alive and moving to a place he couldn’t reach or follow. 

He couldn’t grasp, couldn’t fathom that even now, he was on the verge of losing you. 

“There are just some things I can’t heal,” Shoko told him one night. She arrived at his estate after he called her in a panic. You were cold as ice, and you struggled to draw breath. “There’s scarring in her frontal lobe… and there’s other damage that looks like it’s been there for a while. Maybe if I had caught this sooner-“

The damage was too great. He knew that’s what Shoko really wanted to say. 

There was so much more he needed to say to you, so much more he needed to make up for. 

Some nights, he grew bitter. You couldn't leave him—you wouldn’t dare. Not after everything you’ve been through together, not after loving him and making him feel love's perfect ache; not after you stripped him bare as you deprived him of pride and all resolve, rendering him down to nothing but a man on his knees, worshiping at the gates of your light. 

You undo him so wholly and completely. 

This wasn’t fair. Even with the powers most gods craved, he couldn’t protect you from this. What good was all this power if he couldn’t keep you? The best parts of you, the dark and wretched—all of it, everything—belonged to him. He loved the darkest shades of you, the brightest, and every color in between. 

When you were consumed in an unholy flame, one only he could ever reach beyond, he was housed by your warmth—reborn into something more glorious than the last. 

When had you fallen so cold? 

You had ascended onto him like nightfall, only to ignite and burn his world to ash. Yet, you sparked something within him in the echo of oblivion—a fire born of devotion was marred to his heart. 

He wasn’t going to let you off that easy. Death wouldn’t be enough for you to escape him. 

”You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “You’re not going anywhere. Not from me.” 

It was a rare moment of wakefulness. Your eyes flutter open, a dopey smile gracing your lips. You say his name. “Satoru,” you murmur. ”what are you talking about?”

He brushes the hair from your neck, kissing your cold skin. “I’m talking about you, sweets,” he moves up, kissing your cheek. “I need you to get better. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

You take in a long, shuddering breath. You couldn’t deny what you said now when you felt it in your bones. “I won’t leave,” you promise him gently, breathing slowly as sleep tugs at the corners of your consciousness. “Where else would I go?”

He takes time off from work shortly after. Well, he more or less just stopped going to work. He kept your condition close like a secret. Outside of the kids, Principal Yaga, and Nanami, no one knew what happened to you, and he would keep it that way. He didn’t need the higher-ups catching wind of this. 

It was just a precaution, his way of protecting you when you couldn’t protect yourself. You had enemies just as much as he did. He thinks he’d break the world in two if they ever touched you. 

However, Gojo couldn’t just wait and do nothing. He had to keep you comfortable, keep you warm. After cranking up the central heat and lighting a fire, he noticed you responded positively. It was far from comfortable for him, but it wasn’t about him, even if, most nights, sweat beaded on his chest and forehead. It was about your recovery and giving your body what it desperately needed. Heat. A heat, he fears, even as he eases you into a tub of the hottest water he could get from the faucet in his master bathroom, wasn’t enough. 

However, this was a start in the right direction. Your eyes fluttered open as your body sank into the steaming water. “This is nice,” you utter. “Really nice…”

“Hm, good,” Satoru says, grabbing the shampoo bottle. “Glad to be of service.”

You hum pleasantly as he starts massaging shampoo into your hair. “How many days has it been, Satoru?”

“Not sure what you mean, sweets.”

“Satoru,” you sigh softly. “How many days since the incident?” 

He pauses for a moment before his fingers continue rubbing the suds into your hair. “Fifteen days.”

“And yet, I don’t have a lick of cursed energy…”

“Hey, easy there,” he wipes the subs that threaten to fall into your eyes with his hands before grabbing your face and pinching your cheeks together. Just as you were about to swat him away, he kissed the pout off your face with one long smooch. “Take it easy, grumpypants. You’re still recovering.”

“Yeah, but for how long,” you mumble. “It’s never taken me this long to recover my cursed energy before. I just– I don’t feel the same.” Satoru takes a deep breath, watching as you stare down at the water, your fingers mindlessly fiddling with the necklace around your neck. “You shouldn’t have to be taking care of me like this or taking time off from work. They need you, the kids need you–”

“You need me,” he gently corrects. “The kids are fine, and Nanami has been covering for me.”

“Yeah, but–”

“You act like this isn’t something you’d do for me if I needed you.”

You look at him, eyes misting over. You reach for him, your arms wrapping around his neck. He didn’t care if he got wet as he held you, his hands rubbing softly at your damp back. “I really love you,” you tell him, burying your head into his neck. “I really do. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, silly girl. I’m here. I’m with you.”

-

Weeks pass, and things only seem to get worse. 

You could hear their whispers, see their pitiful glances, and see how they all tiptoed around you. It made you furious. It wasn’t a loud, fiery rage that once fueled you. It was quiet and insidious—burning cold and cutting deeper than any wound you’ve experienced. You hated their pity, their careful steps, and how they looked at you as if you were a ghost. 

You had once been a force that could not be ignored or buried away—a wild inferno in a world that always tried to snuff out the smallest of embers. Your power was born of defiance, a testimony of your will, even vengeance. 

You weren’t always good. At times, you think Satoru forgets that. 

Yet, against all odds, every attempt to diminish and erase you from the annals of time, you remained unbridled, unbroken. You bore no titles and came from no golden lineage; it was your strength alone that helped you carve your place in the world and carve your name into the sun. You were powerful. Unforgiving. You weren’t something to be protected and admired; you were destruction, born of dark weather and chaos.

And yet, you fell. 

A part of you wonders if this was the price to be paid for your transgressions—a quiet, unrelenting suffering that hollowed you out from the inside. It was almost poetic in it's cruelty, as if the weight of your sins could only be balanced by the weight in your chest.

Your flames, once roaring and defiant, sputtered and dwindled. For a while, you believed it was exhaustion, but you knew, deep in your bones, you weren’t the same. At first, you told yourself that you had endured far worse. You strappled the line of death more times than you could count. Sometimes, it was fury that had you crawling from your grave. Others, it was vengeance fueled by the fire meant to burn the pyre of your enemies and all those who wronged you.  

But, your fire hadn’t just dimmed and weakened. It was gone. The power, once flowing through your veins like lava and liquid gold, was replaced by a cold and suffocating emptiness. Even if the taste of ash lingered and the scent of black smoke permeated your nostrils, you weren’t the same. 

You were only six when your cursed technique appeared. You’re incapable of remembering what led to such depravity, such evil, or maybe you couldn’t bring yourself to remember why the people of your village tried killing you. You didn’t remember much of your childhood, but you remember those laughs that still haunted you in your dreams—the same laughs you heard as you were thrown into a ditch your small hands and feet couldn’t have hoped to crawl out of. 

They doused you in rum and lit a match. When the fire ignited, you were left to burn into nothingness. You remembered the feeling of each nerve ending igniting, the excruciating pain that consumed you. You remembered how your scream became a soundless cry as your vocal cords were scorched. You remembered the smell of your burning hair and flesh, the way flames licked at your eyeballs until you were blind. You remembered the end coming suddenly, but not quick enough. You remembered crying for a mother you couldn’t remember, a father that never protected you. 

Then, you remembered how suddenly the word came back. The flames became nothing but a gentle sting. Your flesh mended, and when you drew breath, a black smoke filtered into your lungs, giving you strength. You could taste the ash, and the blood in your veins began to boil. You were born again amongst the flames that once brought you so much agony. You ruled them—fire incarnate: destructive, yet devastatingly alive. 

You hadn’t just lost your technique. You were stripped away of everything you had ever been. Perhaps what stung the most was how the world kept spilling. You were a woman of no renown, no legacy to speak of. And now, you had no fire to prove you had ever been worth anything at all. 

You wonder—had you ever been as strong as you truly thought? Or were you a flame burning on borrowed time, destined to extinguish into nothing? 

You wanted to be forgotten. You wanted to disappear, to return to your flames. You had once despised them; you thought they cursed you with the wickedness they were born from. But, even so, it had been yours. Even if the world always thought you were more of a monster than a sorcerer, perhaps one more terrifying than the curses conjured from the worst parts of mankind, they were yours. And yet, you were lost without them.

You had survived because you had felt the touch of love, came to learn to accept it, and nurtured it with a darkened heart and two hands. Love yanked you back to the surface, yet a bitter and selfish part of you wondered at what cost? 

You wondered if he thought of you differently, if his love was slowly fading along with you, but you were too afraid to look. He had already told you once that you weren’t nearly as strong as you thought. He was right. You were a failure.

You still loved him. You don’t think you could ever stop loving him, but that love became so twisted—tangling with your hurt, your pride, and your inability to forgive everything but yourself.  His kindness became suffocating; his attempts at assurance only ever reminded you of what you lost. Every look of concern or sympathy—real or imagined—was a dagger to the chest. He would leave eventually. He’d grow tired of your ups and downs and how your sweetness could so quickly transform into bitterness.

Even as your strength slowly returned—enough to move without sleep constantly tugging at your consciousness or being teethed to IV drips—the hallowed absence of your cursed energy remained. It had become stagnant, hitting an invisible barrier you couldn’t push or break, no matter how hard you tried.

-

“Baby?” Satoru whispers out for you one night. You don’t respond, but he knows you can hear him. “Can I come in?” 

You make no effort to move or stand. You were frozen, lost in a grief you don’t think you could ever escape. You were on your bathroom floor, heaving over a toilet with a hand pressed to your chest as if it were the only thing keeping it from caving in. He wonders if you still have the ability to sense his presence—if you could sense that he was there waiting for you. 

“Go away,” you told him. You didn’t want him to see you like this, not with blood poring from your nose and dripping from your lips. You were sick. You were scared, angry, and so fucking confused. You didn’t know what was happening to you or how to make it stop it. 

“You know I can’t do that…” 

He wouldn’t leave you—not when you needed him; not when the love remained, even if it was buried under mounds of hurt and pain. It would be the greatest betrayal, even if you begged for it.

However, he wouldn’t push you. So, he lies on the cold wooden floor, his back pressed against the door. Even with five feet between you two, he felt as if you were going somewhere far, somewhere he couldn’t reach. Again.

He goes silent for a moment, searching for the right words that seem so out of reach. He doesn’t think there is anything he could say to make this better, but he could try.

“I used to think for a while that my life had no happy ending,” he says, voice low and steady. “But, then, I met you. Your power drew me in, yeah. But do you know what else did? Those rare smiles. I wanted to be responsible for them—all of them.” Even as you remained silent, there’s no shying away from the emotions his words sturs. There's no escaping him. 

“It was how you demanded a whole room with just your presence. I admired how you loved and hated in equal measure. I loved your wickedness and cunning wit. You dared to challenge the world, and I–” His voice dips lower. It's only to you that he reveals these fragile, intimate parts of himself. “... You made me believe in something more than myself.”

“I’m not the same,” you swallow hard, throat tightening as tears threaten to spill once again. “I’m not… I’m nothing like the woman you met.” 

“Good,” he says simply, voice firm. “Because I don’t need her. I need you. Even when you’re angry and hurting or think you’ve lost everything, I’ll still need you.” 

You turn your head to the door, his words settling over you like a blanket, heavy and warm. Your gaze falls to the floor, finding the faint shadow of him waiting for you. 

“I’ve hated myself for so long for not being able to stop what happened to you. I feel like I failed you—failed you in every way that mattered.” His head falls back, thumping against the door. He loved you. He knew he did because he could feel it in the way his heart ached for you—in the way your pain became his pain. You’re still the woman he admired; you were still the woman he longed for. You’ve never needed power to rule over him, yet he doesn’t know how to make you believe that. All he has is his heart, which he bears to you with two trembling hands. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” 

And finally, as tears gather in your eyes, you realize he wasn’t here because he pitied you. Satoru wasn’t conditional—he didn’t know how to love in halves. You had always felt it, the lingering truths caught between two hearts. But now, he was here, baring it all—leaving no room for doubt or space for denial.

He loves you.

“Your fire isn’t just in your technique—it's in everything you do, angel. It's in the way you look at the world, how you fight for what you believe in, and even the way you love… it used to scare me,” he chuckles gravely. There wasn’t ever a moment, he thinks, that he wasn’t enraptured with you. He can’t recall a time when he hadn't been caught in your obit and seized in the invisible weight of your gravity. 

Your eyes fluttered close, your breath catching as his words settled over you. For the first time in a long while, you feel something other than the crushing burden of loss. You feel him, steady and unwavering. You don’t know if you should cry or let yourself fall into him entirely. 

“Satoru,” you trembled. “What’s happening to me?”

One thing Satoru could never do was lie to you. Not even about this, as his heart nearly fails him. “You're displacing more cursed energy than you’re retaining. It’s making you sick.” 

A shuddering cry slips past your lips. “... Am I dying?”

You hear him move behind the door. His voice, steady but tense, cuts through your panic. “I’m coming in.” 

“No, don’t–”

But it was too late. A locked door wasn’t enough to stop him. The knob crumbles under the force of his grip, a deafening crunch filling the room. Yet, despite the raw display of his strength, he pushes the door open with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. 

You were terrified, your hand pinching harder against your nose that refused to stop dripping blood. It was everywhere—soaking your shirt, trickling down your arm, dripping to the floor, and piling between the cracks of the tiles. You tried to clean it up, but it just wouldn't stop.

His eyes are a bit wide as he takes you in, but he doesn’t reveal much. His expression is unreadable as he drops to his knees. You crawl backward until your back meets the tub. “No, no, no, stop–” but it was futile. 

Blood stains his shirt, his hands, and smears across his cheek as he drags you into his arms. He doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he doesn’t care. 

“Satoru–”

“I don’t care,” he says sharply. His hands cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he presses you to his body. “I don’t care about that. Just… stay still. Breath,” he murmurs. “In and out. That’s all you have to do right now.”

You cry with such an unalloyed and raw pain that robs you of breath. It starts low, guttural, crawling from the deepest parts of you. It carries jagged edges, and swells into a sound so consuming, it drowns out everything else. Shaking, shuddering, choking—you fall apart, gasping for air between waves of anguish.

Satoru loses track of time suspended in the purgatory of your suffering.

“I’m not leaving,” he promises, trembling against you slightly. “And neither are you. I already told you before that you’re stuck with me.”

-

a/n: since my first fic did so well, i decided to make a mini-series depicting readers recovery :) feel free to send requests if you have any. i can either make a small blurb, a headcannon, or even make an entire chapter out of it. also, sorry if there are any typos its getting late lol

on a different note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter. my goal was to capture the readers suffering and Gojo's guilt, and i truly hope i did it justice. i also added a little bit backstory for the reader! i wanted to add layers and reveal that she's an imperfect character. regardless, i sincerely hope you enjoyed. please let me know your thoughts!! I would love to hear them :)

also, i know the kids weren't in this chapter but don't worry! they'll be around very soon!

lastly, thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support on my first fic. i'm beyond grateful that so many of you enjoyed my writing. it genuinely means the world to me! your encouragement and kind words warmed my little heart.

as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[comatosebunny09]

cotton candy clouds | sylus

summary: you guilt-trip sylus into taking you to the carnival. you get caught up in more than just the festivities, hidden feelings finally coming to light. genres: romance, fluff, minor angst warnings: kissing, unrequited (not really) feelings, tender touches, pet names, incredibly self indulgent, profanity, cheesy af, fuck fate notes: limerence au, but a little less pain. now playing: siren guitar - carlos carty

Well, it seemed like a good idea. 

Until it wasn’t. 

You see, the boardwalk wasn’t too far of a walk from your bungalow. You saw the Ferris Wheel gleaming in the near distance from the passenger window of Sylus’ rental. Caught sight of it on the ride back after spending the morning with him.

The carnival beckoned to you. Taking you was the least Sylus could do after torturing you with restricting dresses and uncomfortable heels all weekend. And he could sweeten the deal by winning you a plushie and stuffing you full of cotton candy. 

Sylus relented with a chuckle, pulling the car into the carport. Good on you for suggesting you travel on foot to the boardwalk after you dropped your bags at the house. He looked like he wanted to contest you, gaze turned skyward like he knew something was amiss. Instead, he shrugged and settled his dark shades onto his face, following your lead. 

The carnival was lively. 

It smelled of funnel cake, smoked turkey legs, and lubed machinery. People milled about, their glee staining the stratosphere. Carnies coerced you into trying for prizes. You had an armful of colorful plushies with a grin to match by mid-afternoon, courtesy of your boss and his impeccable aim. 

If you hadn't known any better, you swore you were on a date. But you knew that could never be, given the state of your relationship and your position in Sylus’ life. 

You were halfway through a candied apple when Mother Nature decided, ah, that’s enough fun. 

The sky, once a bright cyan with a golden sun pinned to its center, gave way to ominous, dark gray clouds. Thunder followed, and eventually, the nimbus clouds opened up to pelt the boardwalk below with its glacial downpour.

You scattered along with the other carnival goers, Sylus in tow, the spoils of your endeavor forgotten. On the race back to the bungalow, he grabbed your hand, and you laughed like two carefree adolescents as he tugged you across the sand to your temporary lodging. 

You were breathless when you reached the porch, shoving into the warm sanctity of the entryway with a “Hurry, hurry!”

It was quiet inside. 

The light pouring in through the sliding doors and windows illuminated the stilled space. Your teeth chattered as Sylus helped divest you of your clothes in the living room. Such a gentleman, his gaze never dipping past your collarbones as he tore his sweater from his shoulders. He left you briefly, taking his warmth with him to light a fire beneath the mantle. 

Clad only in your undergarments, you pawed at him, giggling amid your shivering when he came back to drape you in an oversized throw. 

He led you to the high-pile rug in front of the fire. Sat down cross-legged, drawing you into his lap. He shrouded the pair of you in the throw blanket, his arms encasing your middle, hands smoothing over your arms to ward off the cold.

For a while, you sat like that, watching the fire kindle. Chuckling, panting, and existing in the moment until your shared quivering abated, and only the rhythm of your even breaths, the crackling fire logs, and distant waves crashing against the shore colored the air. 

Even now, you sit like this, still housed in Sylus’ lap and arms, his chin notched in the hollow of your shoulder. He absently rocks your body side to side, his occasional pleased hum vibrating your spine.

You’re no longer a sopping, chattering mess. You’re much warmer than before, Sylus’ proximity causing your cheeks to prickle with heat. You don’t want to disrupt the mood that’s descended onto your shoulders. Ignore the complicated thoughts and feelings that burble to the surface, threatening to bare themselves in the face of your peace. 

He feels too good. Smells even better, the scent of his cologne easing the tension from your shoulders. And a glance at him in your periphery reveals his lashes fluttering, eyes closed in what you assume is contentedness. You study him for a beat or two, ingesting the peachy tone stippling his cheek and the pretty curl of his lips. He looks so boyish and unguarded this way, his hair falling into his face, and you find yourself wanting to see this side of him more often.

“You look like you want to say something,” he teases through a smile, thumb cruising over the skin of your belly.

You shake your head no, eyes wide like you’ve been caught rifling through the cookie jar. 

His hold on you stiffens the slightest. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He moves to pull away, but you quickly ensnare his wrists with your hands, quietly imploring him to stay. He acquiesces, holding to you a little tighter. Nuzzles a little more affectionately, inhaling deep the warm aroma of your skin.

“What’s on your mind,” he queries on an exhale, tenderness lancing through his question. He almost sounds like he’s afraid to scare you off. Afraid to let you go, swept up in the spell of the moment and the sensation of your body against his.

Your lips pull into a rigid, thoughtful line. Your pulse thrums in your ears, and you rub cautious thumbs over the veins pulsing in Sylus’ hands as you study the geometric patterns of the rug. Sighing, you figure it’s best to broach the subject now rather than let it fester.

“Is this alright?” you timidly ask. Uncharacteristic of you, but in light of everything that’s transpired since he whisked you away on this impromptu vacation, you’ve become even more confused and unsure of yourself.

Sylus shifts, drawing back until you feel his eyes on the side of your face. In the corner of your vision, he cants his head quizzically, lips parting.

“What do you mean?”

The angle is awkward, your neck straining. But you turn as best you can to look at him, and the puzzled pinch of his brows makes your chest tighten. 

“I mean, us being this…close. Is it really okay?” Your question hangs in the air like the pop and fizz of the fire. You watch his Adam’s Apple bob whilst he swallows, and he scrutinizes you, the cogs in his mind slowly turning. 

“Is this a problem? Because if I’m making you uncomfortable, sweetheart—”

“Sylus, that’s…that’s not what I mean.”

He watches your lips tremble. Expression still reads like he has no idea what you’re on about. He strokes up your arm, encouraging you to elaborate. With another weighted sigh pushing through your nostrils, you relent.

“I mean, like…what the hell are we doing here?” Try as you like to mask your frustration, bits and pieces of it leak into your words. You clench your fists in your lap, brows furrowing as your eyes burn and glaze over with the threat of tears. “Why did you bring me here? The last few days have been so… wonderful and confusing, and I—I just wanna know where I stand with you.”

The past weekend with your boss has played out like a dream. 

It began when Sylus snatched you away from the arctic darkness of the N109 Zone in favor of something brighter, more low-key. Wanted you to take a load off after employing you for so long. To show his appreciation for you laying your life on the line for him each day.

He bought you gifts at every turn. Said things that thoroughly derailed your perception of him. Touched you in ways that, although weren’t sexual in nature, lit a fire within you and gave you an inkling of hope. Hope that he cared for you as much as you pined for him despite his history with the Hunter. 

You knew it wasn’t right to covet him like that. But you couldn’t help yourself, and how he’d been behaving since you arrived on the island only worsened matters. He treated you like a lover more than his subordinate, and you needed—no, deserved—an explanation for the sudden shift in tone. 

“I thought it was obvious,” he half-chuckles, shaking his head whilst pinching the bridge of his nose. 

As if you’re the problem here.

You make a sound. Maneuver yourself in his lap to get a better look at him, fixing him with a perturbed look. Explain, demands the quirk of your brows. 

“Well, it’s been brought to my attention that maybe I haven’t been completely clear with my intentions.” 

Sylus shifts you around in his lap until you’re straddling him, your legs framing his hips, wrists instinctively crossing behind his neck. He drapes his arms about your waist, a wide, possessive hand at the small of your back to hold you in place. He peers at you with all the softness of the world, and from your vantage point, you make out the amber flecks nestled between the crimson wash of his irises.

He tilts his head, quietly studying you. Turning over the right words in his mind. “I care about you.” His voice is low and abrasive, but the crackle of it sparks in your chest like steel dragged across a flint stone. 

Your breath hitches, and you watch him with widened eyes and parted lips.

“I care about you. Maybe more than I should. Perhaps more than I deserve to, but I do. And you mean more to me than mere words can illustrate.”

Great. Now you feel absolutely horrible amid the butterflies piling in your stomach. “Sylus—”

He chuckles sardonically, glancing off to the side. “I thought that by bringing you here, I could make it inherently clear how I feel about you. No distractions. No outside forces. Nothing standing between us.”

Unconsciously, you gather his cheeks into your hands. Lure his gaze back to yours, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach somersault. You’ve never seen him so wounded. Like he fears your rejection, yet he’s determined to set the record straight.

Sylus’ voice steeps a few octaves when he closes in, his warm breath fanning over your lashes. You feel dizzy like you would collapse if not for his virile arms keeping you fastened to him. 

“Fate be damned,” he whispers. Molds his hand to the nape of your neck, fingers easing up into the delicate hair that resides there, and you shiver when his gaze slacks to your lips. “You were an oversight—a pleasant oversight. A detour in my plans that I didn’t anticipate. A detour I don’t regret taking.”

His lips graze yours, and you’re panting as pleasant tingles ricochet up your spine.

“You occupy all of my thoughts.” Sigh. “You ruin me,” he husks, sealing your chest to his. “I don’t want anyone else but you. And I know your mind has more than likely convinced you otherwise. But I’m here to say that I truly…” He draws back to kiss the tip of your nose. “Honestly…” Brands the corner of your mouth with the languid drag of his lips. “—pine for no one else. You’re the only person I want in this lifetime.”

“Sylus,” you halfway sob in the slither of space between your mouths, every nerve in your body trained to the feel of him.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You swallow thickly, your mouth dry, your mind fogging over. “You gonna keep waxing poetic, or are you gonna kiss me?”

He snorts out a laugh at your impatience, cupping your jaw with a tender, sweltering hand. “There is nothing I would like more,” he breathes, luring you closer for a taste of your lips. 

[suffering-asthmatic-tifosi]

Happy Birthday Baby

Warnings- none, bad baking ig, fluff

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!girlfriend!reader

Summary: happy accidents for Lando’s birthday present

A/n: inspired by the cupcakes I made today that turned out rlly delicious but looking rlly bad. Enjoy

You creeked the door open slowly so you don’t wake Lando. Your afternoon movie and nap session was perfect and Lando was still asleep.

You decided it would be perfect to suprise Lando with some homemade cupcakes for his birthday.

Had you made cupcakes before… no.

But you had made a cake! And that wasn’t a COMPLEAT disaster.

Everything tasted good it was just the decoration that was not your strength

You got the flour and sugar out of the cubard and began baking.

You made sure to hand mix everything as to not make noise and wake your boyfriend.

You put the cupcakes in the cute orange liners you had bought a while back and popped them in the oven.

Now for the frosting.

You could make frosting that wasn’t hard right?

You found the perfect recipe and started mixing.

Again determined to be as quiet as possible, you hand mixed all the ingredients. Which unfortunately, was not the best idea.

The powders sugar and cream only made the frosting runny. Event your attempts to make it more firm were becoming useless.

Did the frosting taste good? Yes it was absolutely divine.

Did it look like frosting that could be piped? Absolutely not.

You decided to try and put the frosting in the freezer for a while to see if that would make it more firm.

While it was in the freezer, you took out the perfectly baked cupcakes and set them out to cool.

While they cooled and the frosting froze, you decided it would be a cute touch to make little logos to put in the cupcakes.

So you found some fondant your friend left in your kitchen a while ago and some food coloring and went molding.

You were good at using clay and whatnot. Crafting was your best skill. Not baking tho, definitely not baking.

You made the little Ls and the little Ns perfect and identical. You placed them on small black discs you also cut perfectly.

You decided some cute McLaren Logos would be perfect for the last 3 cupcakes.

After making the perfect shade of Papaya orange, you almost had an aneurysm trying to make the Logo look like the McLaren one and not Nike.

After you made the 6 little decals, you found the cupcakes room temperature, and went to see if your prayers for the frosting worked.

They did not.

It was still incredibly runny and not very good looking. But hearing Lando come out of the room made you realize you had not time to try again.

You found a spoon, and carefully dripped the runny mess onto the cakes. You placed them on a nice plate and finally added the logos you made.

Lando came down just as you put the last one down.

“What’s all this babe?” He asked you, when he saw the sink with a pile of dishes yet to be washed.

“I made these…” you said in a low embarrassed voice.

These cupcakes looked so so bad.

Lando giggled when he saw the cupcakes.

“What?” You asked him, more weight in your voice.

“The icing… it doesn’t… it looks wrong are you sure that’s icing?”, he asked you

Embarrassed, you put your head in your hands and tried to make yourself smaller.

“I’m sorry I tried to make something for you but it got messed up like everything I try to make. I’m sorry”, you said, the words spilling out of you.

“Hey, hey, stop that”, he said as he came over and wrapped his arms around your crouched body.

“I love them they’re perfect”

You looked up from your hands, “stop lying ik they look bad”

“No, y/n I love them. The logos are perfect they’re so cute” he picked up a cupcake with his logo on it and took it off, carefully so your work wouldn’t be destroyed.

“Imma try it, k?” He said.

You nodded as he took a bite. A moan escaped his lips as he tasted your cupcake.

“Oh my gosh y/n this is actually so good”, he said coming closer again and kissing your forehead.

He put the cupcake to your mouth for you to try. After you took a bite you smiled, realizing that they truly were delicious.

“Best birthday present every baby”, he said, planting kisses on your face with the runny icing on his lips.

You smiled as you looked into his eyes, “happy birthday my love”

He kissed you again, on your lips this time and gave a playful smirk.

“A’right now who’s gonna clean this mess?” He asked.

[emberglowfox]

“Probably ought to bring you up to speed on something right now. In order to escape, we're going to have to go through HER chamber."

Redraw of an original from September of 2017– someone liked it and made me think about it for the first time in a while. My Portal dragon au was a fun time. I miss just being mindlessly self-indulgent like that, haha.

This is a bit of a weird redraw. Usually when I do redraws, I try to match the style more, so the technical improvement is clearer. But with this one, I was thinking more about, like… if I had the skill then that I do now, what would I have made?

Growing up, I was really envious of looser styles that could rely more on color and light than lines. Lineart and cell shading is still my bread and butter, clearly, and I’ve always enjoyed it. But when I was younger, it sometimes felt like a cage. The old drawing, with its blurry but strong colored lighting, is an obvious attempt to get away from that.

So, I paid less attention to the specifics of the original composition and tried more to capture atmosphere. I love the lighting and aesthetic of Portal 2, it’s still incredibly influential on me, so I wanted to see how much closer I could get now. I’m not all the way there— especially sketching this at 2am with no references— and there’s a lot of things I still want to improve. But I’d like to think past me would have been really, really excited about what I can do now.

[beneathsilverstars]

My @isat-secretsanta-2024 gift for @pillowspace!! They said they’re fascinated by secret research lab AUs, and, in a case of incredible serendipity, that’s been my favorite trope since I was like 8 years old. So I may have gotten possessed and spent three weeks straight worldbuilding a whole entire thing.

So! This comic is my gift for Pillow, but I’m planning to write a fic set in the same AU eventually, titled Desperate Measures. It will take place in a modern day Vaugarde and focus on Odile, Loop, and Siffrin, alongside other more-or-less-familiar faces. And by “eventually” I mean this is now my highest priority project, but it’s big enough that it may be a couple months till I have anything else to show!

Journal transcript under the cut:

wavelength of 690nm, which means it would activate L cones nearly exclusively. If we're correct in our mapping of wavelength combinations to color terms in historical documents, then this would be considered a shade of "red".

I still don't know if I believe it. It seems fantastical, like I've become a character in a children's story, chosen to leave behind the world of the mundane and enter a realm of magic. Or like this is all a dream, and as soon as I'm about to see the shade my brain will realize it doesn't actually know how to show me something I've never seen before, so it'll put me in front of a full auditorium instead; and then I'll forget how to speak Vaugardian, or realize I'm not wearing any pants, or both, and then I'll wake with a start back in Ka Bue.

But however strange it seems, I can't think of any reason they'd have to lie about it. Why else all the NDAs? Why else contact me? So I must assume that it's true. That after years of trying to solve humanity's loss of color vision — a project that began long before I joined it, and that I expected to continue long past my time — I am about to simply be shown a perceivable color. That's the strangest part, really; that this breakthrough isn't related to the mechanisms of sight, but rather, the thing seen.

14/1/29

I thought perhaps they'd synthesized it somehow. Stumbled upon the correct combination of chemicals by accident. Maybe even invented a new sort of craft.

I didn't expect their source of red to be alive.

[spiderfunkz]

MIDNIGHT FICTION

pairings. cho hyun-ju x f!reader

cw. very cutesy fluff, post-transition hyun-ju, established relationship, hyun-ju and reader move to thailand, takes place a while after the games.

author's note: helloooo, my requests for hyun-ju are open, or if you wanna request for another squid game character just check here. oh and, the title is a song by ill-it in which i am obsessed with tee hee.

the streets of thailand felt like a breath of fresh air.

compared to the previous atmosphere you were in, this was the change you needed. the lights were radiating an addictive glow, it illuminated the market stands filled with delicious food and exotic treats, everything felt a bit overwhelming but nonetheless you couldn't be anymore excited to explore.

hyun-ju's hand held yours tight, navigating through crowds, you eventually landed on a street decorated with different fashion, makeup, and jewelry shops. this was exactly what you're looking for.

your forever stay here completes a certain promise made during tough times. a night where hyun-ju shared tears and smiles, you reassured that she'll get out and live the life she's always wanted. though, she wanted you to go with her, so she could give you the love you've never gotten before. at that moment, a pinky promise was initiated.

her surgery went well, she's still healing from post. but now you thought it was the perfect time to go shopping for new things. initially, you two didn't bring as much stuff from korea, most used clothes or items were donated, and your homes were sold not long after. you wanted to move here to start a new chapter of your lives.

hyun-ju had been prepared for everything, she looked for houses in good locations, jobs that could be taken, everything was perfectly analyzed and well thought out by her.

the clothing shop was the first stop.

"oh! look at this skirt, this would look so good on you!" you smiled, the black skirt with lace accents were held up near hyun-ju. she flinches slightly, "i don't know if i would be confident in it," she shrugs, causing you to pout.

"okay, well, i could give it a try." she smiled.

she left the shop with two bags full of new skirts, tops, and outerwear. you left happy, skipping. "see how fun this is! i've always wanted to go on shopping dates, you know?" — "thank you for taking me here, y/n. don't you want to buy something as well?" she asks.

you nod, "let's go there." you point at a large makeup store, it's plastered with different advertisements for all kinds of brands.

you and hyun-ju swatch lip tints, eyeshadow, eyeliner, highlighters, concealer, to the point your arms were basically a makeup product itself. you helped hyun-ju find her perfect shades, and she handpicked products she thinks suits you. at the end, you left with your new lip tint, and hyun-ju with a small bag of basic makeup anddd, a kiss stain in your exact shade on her cheek!

as you two were about to leave and go back to your home, you spot a small booth with handmade jewelry. it was priced for a reasonable amount, and the seller seemed incredibly nice.

you made a quick plan to distract hyun-ju and buy a pair of matching rings. and so you did, "wait, hyun, could you buy me a drink there really quick? thanks!" she nodded, "okay, don't go anywhere."

you wave, before walking towards the booth. purchasing two rings with a small butterfly on it, one in hyun-ju's favorite color, and one in yours. you thanked the seller and hyun-ju came back almost immediately.

"here you go, i also bought a drink for myself, i've been craving something sweet this entire day." she laughs, "oh, am i not sweet enough?" you joke, the small bag with the rings hide behind your back.

"hm, i guess not." hyun-ju teases. you roll your eyes, "maybe, this will change your mind." the bag was handed to hyun-ju, she held out the ring in her favorite color and admired it for a moment.

"you bought me this?"

"do you think i'm sweet enough, now?"

hyun-ju gave you the biggest kiss ever before making a stupid pick up line joke.

[vampcubus]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐄

𝐊𝐘𝐎𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐎𝐊𝐔 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

:ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : kyojuro sure likes to stare, doesn't he? :ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : sfw, gn!reader, pre-established friendship, background obamitsu meddling. :ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 : 1.4k+

Kyojuro, bless his heart, is so hopelessly attracted to you in ways he’s never experienced. 

Everything about you draws him in, from your striking beauty to your quick wit, how despite your snark you always treated others with compassion. You were fast friends, not that Kyojuro was particularly difficult to get along with. You’d even argue that such a person as him was impossible to dislike, at least without feeling guilty about it. 

He was blunt, genuine, and brimming with so much enthusiasm it tended to unsettle some. But never you. You would look upon him with quiet acceptance, hanging onto his every word. You didn’t seem to mind his complete disregard for eye contact or his erratic conversational skills. 

You just get him, he muses. And he’s never felt a kinship like that with anyone.

Kyojuro has always felt like he was moving faster than everyone else, both in mind and body. The man couldn’t sit still or shut up to save his life, or so the other Hashira would say – endearingly of course. No matter the sentiments his comrades held for him, none of them seemed to keep up quite as well as you did. Which is why he presumed you worked so well together.

He could blabber on about anything and have you following along just fine. Though after a few roundabout conversations ranging from swordplay to street food, he musters the confidence to ask if he talked too much for your taste. 

You only quirk a brow and snort, “Pffft, of course not! I like listening to you talk.” and you see something shift in his gaze, the softest shade of pink tinting his round cheeks.

It’s around there when the staring starts.

It’s a subtle change at first, catching his wide-eyed gaze from across the training field. Feeling his eyes upon you as you shared meals together. Stumbling over your words when you realize for the first time that he’s actually looking you in the eye as you talk.

It’s a new and exhilarating feeling to be able to admire those honey-colored eyes fully fixated on you for a change. Too often you found yourself staring back. And the way he brightens when your eyes meet sends your fickle heart into pesky palpitations every time. You swore his pupils bled further into his golden-red irises every time he spotted you. 

The idea of his eyes dilating at the mere sight of you endears you even more fiercely to him. As if such a thing was possible. You’re already attached at the hip, not to mention the dozens of joint missions you’ve taken. 

His exuberance could be trying when your objective was to blend in, but his swordsmanship more than made up for it. He was incredibly good at taking the edge off when tensions were high, he was an emotional pillar of support, and you were honored to have his focus.

The beloved Flame Hashira was enthusiastic about many things, but you most of all it seemed. You’ve been told by several other Hashira that you were one of his favorite topics of conversation. The image of him gushing about you to other people is as embarrassing as it is flattering.

“Y/n is so easygoing, I cherish their company!”

“Did you know Y/n makes the best rice cakes?”

“Y/n is such a fierce swordsman, I am honored to fight at their side!”

“Y/n this, Y/n that. You’re all he talks about you know,” Iguro points a finger in your face one morning.

“So I’ve heard,” you hum, hand perched lazily on the hilt of your sword, though you’re unsure of precisely why he’s telling you this. Your eyes stray to Kaburamaru, who only flicks his tongue at you, leisurely slithering down Iguro’s shoulder from his coiled position around his neck.

You’ve always known the Serpent Hashira to be abrasive and confrontational, but the sudden interest in your relationship with Rengoku was uncharacteristic. Especially since he usually disregarded your presence unless he had something to criticize. You didn’t dislike him, but you wouldn’t say that you were close.

Did he know something you didn’t? 

You try not to make assumptions based on the worries of others, but Kyojuro’s childhood friend approaching you out of the blue to tell you something like that? It makes you wonder just what sort of things Kyojuro has been saying about you to warrant such an interrogation.

Was Iguro trying to discern your intentions as a way of looking out for him? Perhaps your feelings for Kyojuro weren’t as internalized as you’d thought. 

“Is this your way of saying you’ll snap me like a twig if I break his heart?” you ask, lips curling up into a sly grin, head cocked to one side.

Heterochromatic eyes blink in surprise, and then narrow.

“You catch on quick.” 

“You can relax, Iguro. I won’t hurt him.”

“Few can be entirely sure of that. For your sake, I hope that’s the truth,” he waves you off, turning away in disinterest upon hearing your response.

The encounter leaves you with mixed feelings. Would Iguro have asked if he didn’t already know how Rengoku felt in return? It's an unsettling and gnawing feeling. Not the idea that your feelings could be returned, just the uncertainty of it all. If Iguro noticed it, why didn’t you?

“Iguro approached me earlier,” you say as you sit across from the flame-haired swordsman, currently having lunch at one of your favorite spots to eat.

“Did he now?” Kyojuro acknowledges, eyes still closed as he stuffs another bite of octopus into his mouth. His round cheeks puff out cutely, the image of a chipmunk with its cheeks full of nuts forming in your mind.

“He told me you talk about me a lot.”

“All good things of course!” he assures, seemingly unbothered by the news.

“That’s the thing,” you chuckle nervously, poking at your food with your chopsticks. Kyojuro’s eyes fluttered open, now focused on your fidgeting hands. “He seemed concerned that you had feelings for me beyond friendship.”

It’s silent for a moment, and you stuff food into your mouth to escape it, eyes focused on your plate. You can feel his gaze, but you’re too intimidated to meet it.

“Would that be a bad thing?” for once, Kyojuro sounds nervous. 

It's a subtle strain in his tone that others who didn’t know him as well might have missed. But years of close proximity have made you perceptive to the almost invisible chinks in his armor. Kyojuro was heavily guarded for being such a friendly man, always eager to lend a hand or ear when others were in distress, but quick to clam up when it came to his own problems.

Your heartbeat skips, excited and terrified. Was that a confession? Were you reading too far into things? Was the question rhetorical? All these questions well up inside until you feel like you’ll burst. 

You can’t help but let out an exasperated sigh.

“You’re so hard to read,” you lamented, nearly jumping out of your skin when his fingers brush yours from across the table.

“Perhaps If you looked at me, you’d have an easier time,” he laughs, and your heart already feels lighter at the joyous sound. 

The anxiety in your tummy melts into giddiness, and you demurely tilt your head up to meet his eyes. They’re crinkled fondly, pupils large, and fully fixated on yours. His golden-red eyes consume yours, inspiring your fingers to twitch against his. You can only compare such an expression to a smitten puppy. 

You suddenly feel silly for entertaining any doubts that the Flame Hashira was any less enamored than you were.

“To be completely honest, I have been interested in you romantically for quite some time now, and at a loss of how to contain such strong feelings,” he confessed, and suddenly a lot of things started making sense.

He stared at you so much because he liked you. He talked about you so much because he liked you. He let you tag along to missions he could have easily handled on his own because he liked you. Iguro approached you because he noticed.

“Then no, I don’t think that would be a bad thing at all.” You turn your hand with your palm facing upward to accept his own into your grasp.

Kyojuro’s smile widens, and he nearly shakes the entire restaurant with the volume of his declaration of, “WONDERFUL!”

“See, Obanai? I told you they just needed a little push!” Mitsuri gushes from across the restaurant, just her green eyes and the top of her head peeking over the menu.

[intimidating-fettuccine]

Jeff, Helen, and Liu with a partner who likes leaving obvious lip prints on their face a from kisses? Or just "tests" what the lipstick shade might be by putting it on and kissing them afterwards?

This is so cute, thank you-

Jeff:

Our sweet, baby boy Jeff, does not realize what you're doing at first. After he gets dressed and ready in the mornings he doesn't really ever look into mirrors, so the first few times you intentionally leave lipstick kisses on his face he doesn't even realize they're there. It's highly possible he smeared some of them all over his face without realizing it, and he only noticed when someone pointed it out, or when he saw the lipstick all over the side of his hand. After this happens a couple of times (and you have a few facepalm moments), Jeff finally realizes what you're doing, and he LOVES IT! Jeff is 100% for "claiming territory", and he usually does so with you by things like letting you wear all his hoodies (not that he had to encourage that in the first place), or leaving some hickeys on you (when you allow him), or even matching couples bracelets, anything to show you're his. So, when you continue leaving your lipstick kisses on his face, he feels incredibly excited about it, often feeling very smug whenever it gets pointed out by anyone. Even if he can't really feel it on his face at all, it makes him feel so special that you love him so much you'd do something that cute to him. He's also totally for you "testing" colors on him (even if you already know what they look like and you're just looking for more excuses to do that to him), and he'll even roll up his sleeves and offer up more skin for you, so you could hypothetically just cover his arms too if you wanted. This man will do literally anything to get your lips on his skin, and it's incredibly obvious, but it's not like you're gonna refuse him, so he doesn't even care that it's so noticeable.

Helen:

Helen knows what you're trying to do immediately before your painted lips even touch his skin for the first time, but you know what? You're cute and he loves you, so he'll allow it. I will say, that Helen does not like attention being on him, and he gets pretty anxious a lot even if he doesn't show it, so there will definitely be times when he doesn't want you doing that, but there will also still be plenty of times where he's fine with it. Just make sure you ask him for permission first, instead of trying to do it sneakily, and you'll be fine. I also have this cute idea that, as an artist, Helen might offer to do your lipstick for you in pretty ways (designs, gradients, just really cool color mashups), before you kiss him with it so that you can leave really unique kisses on his skin. As he says, if you're gonna do it, it may as well look fashionable and artistic when you do so. If you're actually actively testing lipstick on him, he'd prefer you leave those kisses on his hands or arms, rather than his face, but if you're fake testing lipstick and you already know what it looks like, feel free to leave a smooch on his cheeks. I feel like with his really defined cheekbones Helen would look really good with a kiss on the top of his cheekbones, so that should definitely be your main target. He always looks incredibly good with your kisses placed there (especially with his knack for modeling, and when he does your lipstick in a beautiful way beforehand), so it feels a little unfair, and like Jeff, he feels pretty smug, just for different reasons. He really does grow to love it, he just won't admit to it. (He begins offering his cheeks to you in the mornings, but shhhhh.)

Liu:

Liu will absolutely tease you for doing this, as he thinks it's very silly. You'll beckon him to bend down a little, before pressing a nice, thorough kiss to his cheeks, and he'll hum and pretend he doesn't know what you did, before looking in a mirror and gasping very dramatically. He'll put his hands on his hips and teasingly shake his head, saying he can't believe you'd do that to him. He does this very regularly, and he never gets tired of it. Liu thinks it's really cute that you'd like to leave kiss marks on his face, and he always peppers your face in little kisses afterward and ruffles your hair. Some mornings if he's feeling particularly silly, he'll ask to borrow your lipstick, and he'll artfully place his own lipstick kiss in the same place on you that you left one on him. He'll remove the lipstick from his lips after, but he argues if you're gonna leave one on him, he may as well leave one on you, too. He probably starts buying you lipsticks, especially in pretty colors, or colors he happens to be fond of, in a subtle way of hinting at you that you should continue what you're doing in the new colors (it's not as subtle as he thinks it is, it is in fact very obvious). He probably buys you a couple of shades at a time, so that literally encourages you to test them all on his skin. You could cover his face in a whole bunch of different colored kisses, and he might look ridiculous, but he wears them so casually that it doesn't even feel out of place. It becomes such a common occurrence that sometimes if you don't leave a little kiss on him he might act a little sad and tease you for it, only because he's become so fond of the little ritual the two of you have going on.

[bumblesimagines]

The Lions Claws

Request: Yes or No

Summary: When a Lannister visits King's Landing, he ends up finding entertainment in the King's eldest son.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical HOTD warnings, toxic/manipulative behavior, Lannisters being Lannisters, mentions of bruises, cersei would be proud, aegon might feel a lil ooc

~~~

For a capital meant to represent the Crown, King's Landing was incredibly underwhelming. Even the towering Red Keep sitting atop Aegon's Hill proved lacking with its dull red stone and drum towers casting shadows. He'd expected something akin to Highgarden's serene beauty or the formidable and untouchable Storm's End but the Red Keep was dreary at best. The air felt thick and suffocating as if it were eager to be rid of guests with clouds loomed overhead in varying shades of grey, leaving one wondering if there'd be a drizzle or downpour awaiting them the moment they stepped outside.

"A smile wouldn't kill you," Erwin muttered across from him, yet the grimace on his face spoke for his own thoughts. Homesick was one word to describe the heaviness in their chests. "Your mother wouldn't be pleased if she heard you left a sour impression on Her Majesty and the Hand." 

"Oh, please." (Y/N) spared his cousin a glance before his eyes returned to peering up at the Red Keep from the window of the carriage. Chilling air flowed inside, opposite of the warm breezes that so often clung to the westerlands he knew well. "All she cares to know is if Tyland's made a fool of himself yet, the poor idiot. She may not say it but I know she fears the dragons will eat him alive." 

"I haven't heard of dragons eating lions yet." Erwin's lips quirked up into a grin, showing off his pearly white smile that always made impressionable young ladies swoon. 

Once the carriage came to a stop, Erwin's smile disappeared and he straightened up, casting him one last look before the door was opened. He stepped out first, his bronze hair briefly glittering when the sun managed to peek out from behind a drifting cloud as his eyes swiftly swept over the courtiers and servants around. (Y/N) released a soft sigh and followed him out into the chilly air, the bottom of his feet hitting the gravel beneath and moving around the small grains. 

The Red Keep was equally as boring up close as it was from afar. In its prime, back when Aegon the Conqueror was still around, it may have been a sight for sore eyes; something that truly struck both awe and fear into the hearts of his enemies. But now, with the tightened hold of the Hightowers, it was bleak. Perhaps its beauty drained with the King's ailing health, forever entwined with the bloodline that'd built it. Perhaps historians and poets were simply sucking up to their rulers. 

His eyes naturally glided downward to the pop of color sticking out against the stone. Her Majesty, Queen Alicent Hightower, stood before the grand doors with her children. She was pretty, shockingly youthful, and dressed in a color that clashed with the house she'd married into but was every bit of Hightower. Floor-length, off-the-shoulder, and in a nice shade of green that reminded him of forest leaves during the peak of spring. It allowed for her ivory skin and auburn hair to stick out more. Yet, despite her striking beauty, she was not all he expected. The Hightowers were known for plenty of things, but the woman before him appeared as frail as a withered flower. 

"Thirdborn son of Lady and Lord Lannister, Your Majesty, Your Graces." Erwin's words sounded robotic and slightly practiced, the little armor he wore clinking together when he bent at the waist. Poised, proper, and with a hint of authority, Erwin had always been what every knight dreamed of becoming. "(Y/N) Lannister of Casterly Rock."

And so the charade began.

Allowing a smile to grace his features, (Y/N) stepped forward and dipped his head in respect before lifting it to look her in the eye. She stared back at him, the exhaustion in her eyes subtle yet he noticed it immediately. She had many duties now with her husband bedridden. How would she fare, he wondered, when he passed. "Your Majesty, it is an honor to make your acquaintance." He recited the words his mother had ingrained in his head, the memory so clear he could practically see her glowering at him. "I hope my older brother has done House Lannister justice during his time here."

"Ser Tyland has done us a great service as our master of ships." Queen Alicent smiled politely, though the underlying tone in her voice spoke plainly: he was essentially useless without the need for a naval fleet, though most masters of ships were. He imagined Tyland offered bits and pieces of advice now and again during meetings. He'd always been a little wiser than Jason. "I pray the trip here from Casterly Rock wasn't weariful. Your apartments have been arranged already if you wish to rest."

"You are most generous, Your Majesty." It was the bare minimum of a host but good manners and thankful words often went a long way, especially with prideful nobles. However, Queen Alicent hardly seemed keen on compliments, or his presence, for that matter.

"I'm afraid I have pressing matters to attend to but I'm certain the Princes Aegon and Aemond will be pleased to refresh your memory of the castle." Queen Alicent tilted her head toward the three Targaryens lined up beside her, her smile notably falling when she eyed the eldest of the bunch before it returned just as quickly to bid them farewell. Four pairs of violet eyes tracked her movements, one pair with a little more longing than the other.

The eldest, Prince Aegon, stood a little shorter than his lanky brother and he lacked the rigid posture and poise of a young man of his station; his shoulders were lowered and his knees bent slightly, though, from the lazy smirk on his face, it was all purposeful. An attempt to irritate his mother, (Y/N) assumed given the swift exchange between them. Prince Aegon was a curious fellow, (Y/N) decided then and there.

His hair was wavy like his mother's but unkept and messy, matching his disheveled clothes that'd turn any parent red with embarrassment. Pale violet eyes watched him, glinting with hunger, but for violence or affection, (Y/N) hadn't deduced yet. Prince Aegon wanted others to fear him, to feel intimidated by his title, judging by the way his eyes narrowed challengingly. He reminded (Y/N) of the juvenile lions back home, the teenagers torn between proving themselves or running back to their mother's side.

Prince Aemond, on the other hand, was every bit of a royal son. His back remained erect and his shoulders were squared, the height he had over his siblings allowing him to appear as if he were towering over them. His hair was straight and reached past his shoulders, seemingly brushed regularly unlike Prince Aegon's. His singular eye had unease settling in the pit of (Y/N)'s stomach, piercing and scrutinizing as if searching for a flaw or weakness to pounce upon. Gossip and news spread like wildfire across Westeros, so when the King's son lost an eye to his own nephew during a scuffle, the news reached Casterly Rock within a few days. It hardly surprised him Prince Aemond seemed guarded.

Beside Prince Aemond stood Queen Alicent's only daughter and perhaps the most beloved amongst the smallfolk, Princess Helaena. She pointedly stared at the cobbled floor beneath her feet, her lips pressed into a thin line as she shifted her weight from foot to foot with a slight sway. (Y/N) knew her to be of a gentler, almost odd disposition, but her tender-heartedness won over the smallfolk more than her elder sister ever had. She seemed to be a mix of her two brothers with her hair not quite wavy yet not quite straight and her almost slouching stance. A light pink had dusted her round cheeks from the cold and her nose crinkled ever so slightly with each breeze.

Princess Helaena seemed too gentle of a girl to bother and (Y/N) had an inkling Prince Aemond's patience ran thin, which only left the would-be heir as (Y/N)'s form of entertainment for the duration of his stay. His gaze glided over to the prince in question, the corners of his lips threatening to twitch up into a smile. There was nothing more he loved than a lordling (or in this case, a princeling) to toy with. Lannisters were known for playing with their food.

"Your Grace," (Y/N) moved up the steps swiftly, amused at the way Prince Aegon's brows raised and his lips turned downward with a perplexed frown. His hands reached out to smooth his palms over the sleeves of Prince Aegon's coat, his ears picking up the faint sigh from his cousin behind him. Prince Aegon visibly flinched at his touch. "I recall we once played together as children. I hope we can catch up in due time; you must have many stories to tell of your childhood here. You can tell me of the dragons housed in the Dragonpit, and if it interests you, I can tell you of the lions we keep in Casterly Rock." 

Prince Aegon blinked, his adams apple bobbing with a harsh swallow. "I-"

"I look forward to it, Your Grace, but I am dreadfully tired." The facade already began to crack. The prince seemed utterly baffled by his sudden attention. His fingers fidgeted at his sides and his posture straightened with uncertainty. "I hope to see you at supper."

With each passing day, it felt as if the Red Keep were trying to suffocate him with boredom. The other courtiers were as predictable as expected, flocking to him with an eagerness to be favored by a Lannister whilst simultaneously hoping to hear anything they could whisper about in the halls. Gossip wasn't new to him; he loved indulging in it back home, often while sprawled out over a couch with his giggling gaggle of friends. But the Red Keep... he simply despised it.

At the very least, the chaos of the Targaryen family kept him from smashing his head into the nearest wall.

Perched on a stone railing overlooking the training yard, (Y/N) watched the lordlings and pages train under the supervision of Ser Criston Cole and other on-looking knights who had little to do. His eyes tracked Prince Aemond's stride, his chin cocked upward and smile challenging, but the only one daring enough to step forward. (Y/N) hadn't cared to figure out whether his confidence was merely a charade to mask the wounds of a child once tormented by his peers or as real as the greed in everyone around them. 

He'd concluded the royal children were like bruises, purple and green with hints of yellow, fresh and tender. If he lingered on one for long enough, pressed and prodded with enough force, their pain would be revealed for his eyes to observe. Prince Aemond hid himself well enough through cold stares and calculated words, but the days that'd passed had allowed (Y/N) to view the little boy beneath the young man. Whenever he passed the ladies of the court, he'd adjust his eyepatch and turn his gaze away from them to subtly hide his face from sight. If Prince Aegon bored him, he considered Prince Aemond as his next plaything. 

The only one emboldened enough to step out to face the tall prince had been none other than his older brother, though, by the way he staggered and cackled as if everything were one big joke, it could only be assumed he'd had one too many drinks. Prince Aegon's blatant disregard for their training had his brother rolling his eyes, his chest rising and falling with a heavy exhale. His antics were common enough for Ser Criston to stare at him with hardly disguised disappointment, his hands resting on his hips like a father ready to scold his troublesome child. 

"If only he were a jester and not a prince." (Y/N) murmured with a quiet sigh. He could bargain for a jester, offer a trade to Her Majesty and the Hand so there'd be no losing side but princes were like the gold in the mines of the westerlands. They had to be shaped and formed, just as any other person, but they had to feel as if everything they did was of their own accord. 

A sweet Dornish red swirled around in his mouth, his attention locked on the stumbling prince that by all means should've been heir had it not been for his father's stubbornness. Prince Aegon moved awkwardly in the chest plate and the sword swung clumsily in his hands yet his laughter continued bouncing off the walls. It was childish and carefree, unlike his brother's scowl which deepened by the minute. Prince Aemond spared Ser Criston a glance and then charged at his brother, his movements akin to a fluid dance as swords clashed. Prince Aegon struggled to keep up, too inebriated to focus clearly, thus leading to his loss. 

Swiftly, Prince Aemond ended the brief spar by slamming the hilt of his sword into his brother's face, legs leading him backward as Prince Aegon fell onto the gravel with a pained cry. Ser Criston sprang into action, shooting the younger prince a disapproving look over his shoulder before he reached out toward Prince Aegon, his words lost to the wind. The knights closest to them moved to help Prince Aegon onto his feet but once the prince found his footing, he shrugged away their hands and sneered at them. His cheeks, once pink from the many drinks, turned into a deeper shade of red that spread to his ears. Humiliated, though certainly not for the first time. 

(Y/N) swung his legs over the railing and slid off it, kicking up hints of dust when he touched the ground. He savored the last few droplets of his wine and set the cup aside with a satisfied sigh. His legs carried him into the hallway and down a set of stairs, his mind still unfamiliar with the castle but he'd memorized the places he wished to visit the most. One being Prince Aegon's bedchambers, which he shared with his sister-wife and down the hall from the shared room of their little children. He lingered by the railings overlooking the inner courtyard until Prince Aegon appeared, his figures disappearing into his bedchambers with a tentative young maester trailing after him. 

The guards positioned outside the door allowed him in without so much as a glance, a monotone voice gruffly calling out his name before the doors rattled shut. (Y/N) scanned the bedchambers but found nothing of interest apart from shrouds and other fabrics with embroidered insects and the maid cleaning a wine stain off the floor, so he settled his attention onto the silently fuming prince and the maester attempting to work around his pout. 

"What is it?" Prince Aegon questioned, wincing by the end of his sentence which only fueled his anger. 

"I saw what happened, Your Grace." (Y/N) spoke gently, crossing the distance without much of a hurry and eyeing the blossoming bruise spreading across his cheek. The hit had cracked open the corner of his lip, leaving it raw and speckled with blood the maester attempted to clean. (Y/N) allowed his hand to brush over Prince Aegon's shoulder in a comforting manner, his other hand dismissing the maester with a flick of his wrist. "I wished to see if you were alright." 

"Obviously I'm not." Aegon spat, bristling like a cub and pouring himself a cup of wine to swallow down with a cringe. His cut and cheek no doubt ached from his actions, and (Y/N) withheld the urge to snort. Foolish and impulsive, acting on his emotions without thinking twice about the outcomes. A funny little princeling.

"Bring us some sweets." (Y/N) angled his head toward the maid, her scrubbing absentminded enough to tell him she'd been hoping to eavesdrop on the conversation between two noblemen. She raised her head at him, a red curl slipping free from her loosely thrown-together bun and tapping lightly against her cheek. She stared at him for a minute too long, likely irked by a stranger giving her orders, but she stood up regardless with the stained rag in hand. "Thank you, darling." She paused, her irritation soothing over and her head dipped bashfully.

(Y/N) settled down on the chair beside the prince and picked up the napkin the maester had been using, folding it over his index finger and dabbing lightly at Prince Aegon's lip. His brows, a darker shade than his snowy locks, furrowed again and his lips twitched, threatening to pull into a frown that'd certainly sting. 

"Are all westermen as strange as you?"

"Strange is one word for it, I suppose. Most people use 'kind' or 'empathetic', Your Grace." (Y/N) leaned back into the cushion of his seat, withdrawing his hand and setting the napkin aside. His violet hues flickered elsewhere with a hint of guilt and annoyance at his words, his fingers releasing the cup to rest over his thighs in fists. 

"Aegon," He said quietly, uncertainty lacing his words. "Call me Aegon."

"Aegon," (Y/N) echoed with a coo, studying the young man before him with hawk eyes. He searched his body, his facial features, for movements and emotions, for any fidgeting or ticks that'd reveal things his voice refused to. "It must be hard having the name of an ancestor as great as Aegon the Conquerer. You must feel pressured."

Aegon scoffed, and just like that, he revealed his pain. It'd been clear for (Y/N) to see since the first day he arrived, but the assumption slowly developed over the passing days; Queen Alicent's weariness at the mere mention of him, the heavy exhales from the Hand, the distaste that crossed the features of those who knew him well when he passed them in the halls. He'd likely been under some pressure as a boy, but he'd fucked up enough times to be properly labeled a disappointment, a bother. He knew it, too. He carried it on his shoulders, masking it by attempting to appear unbothered and lazy. 

(Y/N) made no comment on it. Instead, he offered him a smile and caught the footsteps approaching the door. "You're a pretty prince, Aegon. Has anyone ever told you that?" The answer came in the form of two widened eyes staring at him as if he'd grown two heads. It was true, if one squinted past the excessive drinking and snarky words. He had his mother's beauty and the mystique of Targaryens.

The maid shuffled inside with a tray and approached the small round table they sat at, giving them the faintest of smiles as she gingerly set the tray down and began placing plates of sweets on the table. She'd even brought two teacups and a kettle, the faint smell of chamomile tea filling the air when she poured it into the two cups. "That'll be all." (Y/N) said, ensuring his fingers grazed against the back of her hand when she set the teacup in front of him. Her freckled cheeks flushed and she gathered the now empty tray into her hands, sneaking glances over her shoulder as she left. 

"I hope you ate before you indulged." (Y/N) ignored the small silver fork resting beside a slice of cake and broke off a piece with his pinched fingers, sticky and clinging to his fingertips. He debated his next movements, considering the possible outcomes and reactions before his unquenchable curiosity won. 

Smiling once more, (Y/N) stuck his arm out toward Aegon and held the piece of cake up to his lips. Aegon blinked, eyes flickering wildly between him and his fingers, his brows slowly furrowing. Aegon, too, debated his next movements, his hands unfurling to press his palms into his thighs and adams apple bobbing with a swallow. 

When (Y/N) had been a boy, he inquired one of the lion-keepers about how they went about taming beasts. The wrinkled old man had chuckled at his questions, his hand lowering to affectionately pat the top of his head. He'd told him, plainly, that certain beasts could never be tamed, beasts like lions or dragons. But, he'd added with a grin, beasts like humans certainly could. At his young age, (Y/N) found his words to be a riddle he couldn't be bothered to decipher, and so he'd forgotten the question in favor of watching the caged felines.

He learned with age that his words rang true.

To tame any beast, two-legged or not, you had to have a certain amount of patience and keen eyes. A level of trust had to be built, whether through food, water, shelter, or gentle words, that would ease them into being comfortable around your presence. You had to push, and really push, against the boundaries of the beast, threatening to cross the unspoken line until they reacted, favorably or not. Beasts were complicated creatures but the same across all species. And so the princeling before him made up his mind about the crossed boundary.

Tentatively, Aegon closed the space and opened his mouth, his eyes flickering with something familiar, a teasing hunger. His lips closed around his finger, that challenging spark returning and mixing feverishly with the hunger. The tip of his tongue slid along (Y/N)'s finger, collecting crumbs and sticky residue. Honey, he assumed, tugging his finger back with a pop that had the corners of Aegon's mouth lifting. He winced again and unconsciously licked the cut.

"What will your mother say of what happened?" He asked, knowing it'd sour Aegon's mood immediately to bring up the subject of Queen Alicent, but he kept him from shutting down by entertaining him. The same saliva-coated finger broke off another piece of the sweet treat, this time rising to his own mouth. He mimicked Aegon's previous actions, watched the delight and intrigue that briefly sparked across his face. Predictable but still entertaining. 

"Nothing," He answered, eyes locked on (Y/N)'s lips and ears twitching with the pop that followed. Aegon slumped back into the chair and dragged his fingers over the bruise, his brows twitching involuntarily when he pressed on it. His shoulders drooped with a heavy, ticked-off sigh, and he reached for one of the tea cups. He brought it to his lips and then hesitated, inhaling the steam and deciding against drinking it. 

A hum rumbled in the back of his throat, a tickle in the back of his head eager to test the young man across from him. "Well, I should leave you to rest." He said, curling his hand around a napkin to dry his finger before he stood up. 

"Wait!" Aegon blurted out, his chair scraping against the stone floor when he shot up from it, the force nearly making him barrel right into (Y/N)'s chest. Amusement curled around him but he held back the grin to tilt his head at him curiously. Those deprived of attention often sought it out in any way possible, so (Y/N) hardly found himself surprised when Aegon's hand curled around his wrist firmly. "You- You wished to know about the Dragonpit, right?" His tone reeked of desperation. 

"That can wait, Your Grace. You've had a rough evening." (Y/N) spoke soothingly, fingertips brushing along Aegon's jaw. They crept upward toward his uninjured cheek, digging into his porcelain skin. He wondered how hard Aegon would break if he pressed hard enough, if he formed cracks or let him shatter. He watched the pale skin redden under his touch, a color that faded slowly. 

"I-"

"It's alright, Aegon." (Y/N) assured him, soaking up the hopelessness in his eyes. He leaned forward and ghosted his lips along the bridge of his nose before planting a kiss on the skin between his eyebrows. Aegon practically melted beneath his touch. Such easy prey. "We have plenty of time to catch up."

[suugarbabe]

I had just gotten the cutest fluffiest tooth rotting sweet idea for a fanfic I've ever gotten.

You know how there is a type of color blindness called red green color blind? It's basically green turns to yellow and red to brown and well fellow and blue stay the same.

So what if reader is red green color blind and her favorite color is blue since it's the only special color she can see and since Theo's eyes are blue when she sees his eyes she gets really excited, wi excited that she just grabs Theo's face so she can get a better look.

I feel like the reader need to have a cherry and bubbly personality because she needs to be very very clueless to just grab someone's face because of how exited she would get.

i've quite literally been obsessed with this ask since you've sent it, and i've gone back and forth on how to write it completely, then went through a little bit of writers block altogether so hopefully i do this justice and close to how you might have envisioned it.

You were really young when it happened, the accident that caused it. Mum was proficient in potions, and you just wanted to be just like her. But a four year old really shouldn't have been messing with her things. It all happened so fast, your little mind just thought you were playing, copying what you've seen her do. Throwing a little of this and a little of that in the cauldron, pouring the pretty blue liquid inside. You had picked it because it was your favorite color, which, looking back seems incredibly ironic.

The explosion was quick but it shook your entire house. Your parents had come rushing in, only to find you sitting up against the far wall, eyebrows gone and lower lip quivering. It has taken about six months before anyone was aware of what it did to you. You were so young and the experience was, well, pretty traumatic so you never really said anything about the changes.

Everyone thought you consistently picked the blue things because it was your favorite color. And while that was slightly true, it was also the only color you were able to see completely. You could occasionally see very dull shades of other colors, extremely muted or like you were seeing them through a layer of grey tissue paper.

Your parents never made too big of a deal out of the situation, instead just teaching you how to by hyper vigilant for specific details you could notice to help you out. Like the difference in how a ruby felt to an emerald, or how gum root smelled versus hickory drip. So overall you had learned to manage. And truly you didn't think you were missing out on much.

In your opinion all of the best things were blue. The ocean on a bright summers day, the sky on a crisp fall morning, the shine on a sapphire, and of course, your Ravenclaw robes. Your 'condition' was spread throughout the school by Christmas holiday your first year. It wasn't something you kept a secret, but it also wasn't something you spread around like you'd won the quidditch world cup.

It didn't bother you that people knew, but it did change how some people saw you. When you were younger, they tried to tease you, tried to call you a freak, tell you that you wouldn't amount to much as "you'd never be successful with such a limitation." It's a wonder what a loving family and supportive friends can do to keep one grounded and happy. As despite all those negative words in your early years, you were still so bright and bubbly.

You had gotten used to how you viewed things a long time ago, but that didn't stop you from being marveled at new discoveries. Which is what had you following a very tall and lanky Slytherin boy down the hall. You had noticed it by accident, as he passed you in the hall. You knew who he was, were well aware of his and his little gang's reputation. But you liked to form your own opinions from experience, and you hadn't quite interacted with this particular member yet.

Your friends had called after you, but after seeing the determined pep in your step had just settled for following. When you had finally caught up to him you wrapped your arms around his bicep, spinning him round to face you. "What the-," he was cut off by your hands grabbing hold of either side of his face, delicate thumbs resting on his sharp cheek bones to hold him still.

"Merlin, Theo, your eyes they're...gods they're like water colors." Theo was thoroughly caught off guard. Not only by the pretty girl holding his face but by the words coming from her mouth. "Oh sweet Rowena, they've just shifted, what are you thinking about?" He did his best not to stutter, "Erm, I...," you could feel his cheeks heat beneath your palm and your smile was instant, "I've not heard that description before. Usually they just say like the ocean or the sky or whatever."

Your thumbs rubbed gently on the apples of his cheeks. "Oh, they're much more than that. They're like...when you first dip your brush into the prettiest pallet after a dip in the water, then when you make the first brushstroke, and the color spreads so perfectly, shifting hues of blue. That's them...your eyes."

No sooner had you finished your explanation were his lips on yours. It was unexpected, catching you off guard but not unpleasantly. His mouth slotted against yours seemingly effortlessly, your hands slipping form his cheeks to loop around his neck and his hands found solace on your waist. His eyes are what drew you in but his lips, merlin you could get used to those.

"Oi, Nott. Who're ya-," The interruption caused the two of you to break apart abruptly, you wiping your slightly swollen lips and straightening where Theo was gripping your skirt. "Oh, no fucking way," Enzo Berkshire's voice sounded as smug as the look on his face. Theo simply threw up his middle finger at the boy before turning to you, small grin on his face.

"Erm, sorry for bombarding you like that its just-," You shook your head, cutting him off, "S'okay." Theo's grin grew two times, "Can I see you this weekend? Coming to the Slytherin party?" You nodded, biting your bottom lip to try and contain your growing smile. Theo placed a kiss on your forehead before looking you in your eyes, more so so you could see his one last time. Then with a wink, he turned and ran to catch up with his friend.