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bueckets · 9 days ago

Text

Thin Walls

Pairing: roommate!Paige x reader

Genre: roommates to lovers, kinda funny?, smut, unbearable sexual tension, petty revenge, paper-thin walls, psychological warfare via moaning, paige bueckers menace era, girl failure x girl who never fails, competitive pining, mutual obsession, doomed from the start but in a fun way, vibrators n SEX, almost all ssmut

Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.

What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.

They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.

WC: 8.4k

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching rich people fight over throw pillows. Like, deep, existential satisfaction. The kind that settles into your bones, whispering at least you’re not that delusional while you scrape the bottom of your bank account for rent. That’s why Selling Sunset has become your new comfort show—nothing soothes the sting of your own financial ruin quite like watching a billionaire lose their shit over an ocean view.

The couch has practically absorbed your body at this point, molded to the exact slouch of your spine. The TV’s glow flickers against the walls, the only illumination in the apartment aside from the soft neon blur of the city outside. A bowl of Greek yogurt sits abandoned on the coffee table—your latest attempt at a “responsible” late-night snack, made in partnership with self-loathing. You’re too exhausted to move, too wired to sleep. Somewhere outside, a siren wails, stretching long and lonely through the night, and you think, for just a second, that if you squint hard enough, you can almost pretend your life is fine.

Then the door slams open like a fucking battering ram.

A mess of limbs and pure, unfiltered desperation stumbles in. Paige Bueckers and tonight’s lucky contestant.

They’re already kissing—no, consuming each other. Lips fused. Hands gripping. Hips aligning like they’re moments away from shifting the tectonic plates beneath them. It’s all sloppy giggles and breathy moans, the kind of shit that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Paige is in sweats and a hoodie that’s hanging halfway off her shoulder, her blonde hair a tousled wreck that suggests she either just left practice or got aggressively felt up in the Uber ride over. The girl—a brunette this time—has her fingers twisted into the hem of Paige’s hoodie like she might actually rip it in half. You’re 98% sure they don’t even notice they almost wipe out over the entryway rug.

You stare. They don’t. They’re too busy dry-humping against the door like horny teenagers who just discovered the concept of friction.

This is usually the part of the night where you’d be asleep. That’s the unspoken agreement. Paige does whatever (or whoever) she wants, and you exist in separate, peaceful universes where her sex life is not your problem. But tonight, insomnia had you in a chokehold, so instead of peacefully slipping into unconsciousness, you’re here, trapped in the splash zone of her latest conquest like some unwilling war correspondent reporting live from the trenches.

Paige finally clocks your presence. Her head jerks up mid-kiss, blinking at you through the haze of what you can only assume is either lust or a full-on brain shutdown.

“Oh. My bad.”

Her voice is husky, wrecked, but casual—so casual, like you just bumped into each other in line at Trader Joe’s, not like you just caught her halfway to third base in the shared living space. The brunette barely acknowledges you, too busy chasing Paige’s mouth again, fingers already curled into the waistband of her sweats like they’re pre-gaming for something much worse.

Your jaw clenches. It’s not jealousy. It’s not even annoyance, really. It’s just…the audacity of it all. You didn’t survive financial ruin, an eviction, and the world’s most soul-sucking job just to end up as an unwilling extra in Paige’s late-night softcore escapades.

Paige smirks, something smug and completely unbothered dancing in her blue eyes, and then—because apparently, she has to make sure you fully marinate in your suffering—she winks.

She fucking winks.

Then she grabs her conquest by the wrist and drags her toward her bedroom. The door swings shut with a decisive click.

You exhale sharply. Shift on the couch. Turn back to Selling Sunset.

A blonde woman in Louboutins slams a designer purse onto a marble counter, screaming about escrow like her life depends on it.

You grab your spoon, chew a bite of yogurt, and pretend this isn’t the worst night of your life.

At first, it’s nothing you can’t ignore—a muffled giggle, the faint creak of a mattress. You’ve had years of training in the fine art of selective hearing. Cheap apartments with walls thinner than a CVS receipt, noisy neighbors who lived for 3 AM karaoke, exes who had no concept of volume control—life has forged you into a soldier of endurance. A survivor. You could sleep through sirens. You could pretend not to hear the couple next door having a screaming match about a misplaced vape pen. You could—if the situation demanded it—completely erase the existence of an entire soundscape from your brain.

But then the giggling shifts. Turns breathy. Then it turns into something else entirely.

A rustle of sheets. A gasp. A low, pleased hum that shouldn’t make your stomach twist with secondhand mortification, but does.

Your grip tightens around the remote. The TV screen flickers in front of you, but you’re no longer absorbing the content. Christine Quinn is monologuing about open-concept kitchens—something about “flow” and “maximizing natural light”—but her voice isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the escalating symphony from down the hall.

You turn the volume up. Way up.

It doesn’t help.

Paige’s conquest lets out a high, breathy whimper, the kind of sound that makes your entire body lock up like your nervous system just crashed. Paige’s voice follows, low and affectionate, murmuring something you absolutely do not want to hear, but your cursed, traitorous ears pick up anyway. Whatever she says makes the brunette giggle—another peal of laughter before it melts into something softer, more desperate.

Your eye twitches. Nope.

You launch off the couch like you’ve been personally attacked, storming down the hallway with all the righteous fury of someone who has had enough. The second you reach your room, you slam the door shut behind you. The walls rattle. The moaning does not stop.

Jesus. Are your walls are made of tissue paper? No, fuck that—tissue paper at least offer some resistance. This? This is sonic purgatory. Paige’s voice is clearer now, her tone teasing, low, smug. A pet name you can’t quite make out but absolutely wish you could bleach from your brain.

You groan. Loudly. Throw yourself onto your bed and yank a pillow over your head like that’s going to do anything.

It doesn’t.

Because the sounds are intermittent—waves of giggles followed by the kind of sighs that make your ears burn. The occasional shhh from Paige, followed by a breathless “like that?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Think of something else. Think of literally anything else. You focus on the fabric of your pillowcase, the way the cotton sticks to your cheek, the faint scent of detergent—Paige moans, and your brain short-circuits like a 2003 Dell desktop.

You don’t even have the energy to be properly mad. This is just Paige. Unbothered, self-contained, casually ruining your will to live Paige. She doesn’t try to be inconsiderate, but she also doesn’t try not to be.

Another moan—drawn out and shameless—curls through the air, and you nearly levitate out of your skin. You want to scream. Instead, you yank another pillow over your head for good measure, as if two pillows will somehow create a force field against whatever the fuck is happening in there.

Christine Quinn is still monologuing in your mind, her voice a distant echo beneath the carnal horror occurring in real time.

"It’s all about location, location, location."

Yeah. No shit.

You really should’ve picked a better one.

The morning drags itself into existence like a bad hangover—except you didn’t drink. You just endured. Survived. Battled through the night like some war veteran, only your battlefield wasn’t made of trenches and gunfire but moaning and drywall acoustics.

Sunlight filters through the too-thin blinds, stabbing into your retinas like a personal attack. It casts a harsh glow over the wreckage of your living room—your personal post-war scene. The coffee table is an abandoned crime scene: an empty takeout container, a spoon half-submerged in a sad puddle of yogurt, a crumpled napkin that might have been thrown in frustration during hour two of your sleepless torment. Your blanket is twisted in a heap on the couch, kicked off at some point in your desperate attempt to burrow away from the sounds of Paige Bueckers living her best, most inconsiderate life.

It’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet. A void. No hushed giggles, no rhythmic bedframe percussion, no doors slamming. No evidence of last night’s atrocity except for your residual irritation, clinging to the air like stale perfume.

You sit at the dining table, textbook open, pen in hand, attempting to refocus on something productive. Biomed homework. Neural pathways, synaptic transmission—things that matter. Unlike Paige, who—

A shuffle of feet. Soft, socked steps. You don’t even hear her door creak open—just the lazy, leisurely sound of someone who has never known suffering emerging from her room.

You refuse to look up.

“Morning,” Paige says, casual as ever, like she didn’t turn your living space into the set of a low-budget lesbian porno eight hours ago. She stretches, arms overhead, back arching slightly, exhaling like she just had the most restful night’s sleep of her life.

Meanwhile, you—who has never been more tired—physically recoil at the audacity.

She rubs her eyes, yawns, shuffles past you toward the kitchen like nothing happened. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. No sheepish oops, my bad for mentally scarring you with surround sound sex noise. No hey, sorry about your insomnia and emotional distress. Just a morning like everything is fine.

You blink at her. Unbelievable.

Your fingers tighten around your pencil as you force your gaze back to your notes. Ignore her. You are a scholar. A person of intellect. A higher being.

Paige, meanwhile, has fully migrated to the fridge. She rummages carelessly, like she owns this apartment, like she pays your therapy bills. She emerges with the orange juice carton, unscrews the cap, and—like an absolute menace to society—drinks straight from it.

The pencil in your grip creaks ominously.

“You’re up early,” she remarks, between gulps.

“I didn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, clipped. You don’t look at her. You refuse to.

Paige makes a small sound—something vaguely amused, vaguely disbelieving. “Damn. That sucks.”

That’s it? That’s all she has to say.

You inhale, deeply, willing yourself not to commit a violent felony before noon.

Slowly, slowly, you lift your head, turn your glare toward her like a sniper locking onto a target. Paige, in all her infuriating glory, is leaning against the counter, still drinking your orange juice, looking like someone who has never felt guilt a day in her life. Her expression is neutral, open. Not quite smug, but there’s something about the way she exists that makes you want to throw your textbook at her face and plead temporary insanity in court.

She swipes her thumb across her mouth, wiping away a drop of juice.

“You know what else sucks?” you say, voice deceptively calm. “The structural integrity of our walls. They’re paper-thin. Just an interesting fact I thought I’d share.”

Paige’s lips twitch. She knows. She fucking knows. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s considering whether she should poke the bear or let you stew in your suffering. Then she settles on:

“Huh.”

That’s it.

Your grip tightens on the pencil so hard you might actually snap it in half.

Paige drains the last of the orange juice, wipes her mouth again (like an animal), and sets the carton down with a satisfied sigh. Then, as if she hasn’t just mentally and emotionally destroyed you, she stretches again, rolling out her shoulders.

“Welp,” she says, tone light, completely unbothered. “I’m out. See ya.”

“Wait, what—”

But she’s already gone, disappearing back into her room for approximately thirty seconds before emerging again—this time with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

You stare at it. “You’re leaving?”

Paige nods like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Team stuff. Won’t be back tonight.”

Your brain malfunctions. Won’t be back tonight. This terrorist has held you emotionally hostage for an entire night and now she’s just leaving? Just walking away from the wreckage like some kind of villain in an action movie, casually strolling as the building explodes behind her?

She tugs on her sneakers at the door, slings her bag higher on her shoulder, and—because the universe is cruel—throws you a lazy, almost mocking little salute.

“Don’t wait up,” she tosses over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.

The door swings shut and the apartment is silent again.

You sit there, fingers clenched around your pencil, biomed notes glaring up at you like they’re personally offended by your suffering. Your eye twitches.

I fucking hate her.

Then you sigh, rub your temple, and force yourself back to work.

It’s been three days of silence. Three whole, glorious days of peace. Three nights where you didn’t have to contemplate smothering yourself with a pillow just to escape the torment of Paige’s complete disregard for basic human decency. The apartment has felt almost normal—like an actual home instead of a halfway house for Paige’s revolving door of hookups. You don’t have to brace yourself every time the front door swings open, because it hasn’t swung open. You don’t have to leave your headphones on while studying to shield yourself from the auditory terrorism of her sex life. You don’t have to walk into the kitchen at 1 AM and fear that you’ll be confronted with Paige, half-naked, wearing nothing but someone else’s lipstick and a hoodie that’s falling off her shoulder like she’s starring in a fucking romance movie.

The peace has been so uninterrupted, so unnatural, that you’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to live in a state of constant vigilance. You throw yourself into your biomed assignments, losing yourself in the clean, clinical world of neural pathways and synaptic transmission, your SZA playlist looping softly in the background. You almost start to believe this is real. That this is the new normal. That maybe Paige has finally, miraculously, learned self-control or, at the very least, found a new venue to conduct her business.

You are so fucking naïve.

The front door doesn’t just open—it explodes. A crack, a slam, a full-body collision with the wall that rattles the picture frames. The kind of entrance that belongs to either a SWAT team or a raging hurricane of bad decisions.

Your body locks up like an animal sensing an oncoming natural disaster. The pencil in your grip slips through your fingers, hitting the desk with a dull thunk. Your heart stutters in your chest, and for one brief, delusional second, you tell yourself that it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe Paige forgot something and came back only to leave again. Maybe—

A thud. Then another. The unmistakable rhythm of someone kicking off their shoes, the soft scuff of footsteps across the floor.

You grit your teeth, pressing your palms flat against your desk. You are not going to react. You are not going to engage. If she wants to slam doors and stomp around like a feral beast, fine. You refuse to let her drag you into the chaos. You reach for your headphones, adjusting them over your ears, cranking up the volume until SZA drowns out the world.

It’s not enough.

A sound pierces through the music, slicing through the air like a warning shot. It’s high-pitched, sudden, obscene—so sharp that your entire body recoils. Your brain trips over itself, scrambling to make sense of what it just processed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you think someone is in distress. Like maybe—maybe—this is the night Paige finally made an enemy and brought home someone who wants to kill her. But no. No, that is not the sound of murder. That is the sound of someone who is very much alive and living their best fucking life at maximum volume.

Your grip tightens around your pencil so hard you genuinely worry it might snap in half.

Then it happens again—louder this time.

“Ooooh, Paige, baby it feel sooo good,” a long, drawn-out moan that echoes through the walls like a goddamn announcement.

Your jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear something crack.

You tell yourself to ignore it. You try to focus on the actual problems in your life—like the metabolic equation staring up at you from your notebook, the one that makes no fucking sense, the one you were just about to solve before Paige returned to single-handedly ruin your night. But this girl—whoever she is—sounds like she’s in a full-blown cinematic production, and Paige? Paige has zero concern for your sanity. No attempt to be discreet, no effort to maybe keep it down, no acknowledgment that she is actively breaking your spirit in real time.

A shhh from Paige, soft, teasing, followed by something breathless. While you– you black out for a second.

The chair scrapes against the floor as you shove away from your desk, adrenaline flooding your veins. You are this close to storming down the hallway, ripping Paige’s door off its hinges, and launching her entire bed out the fucking window. Instead, you flatten your hands against your desk, inhale deeply, and stare down at your notes like they personally wronged you.

This. This is it. You swear to yourself, you are getting revenge.

You don’t know how yet. But it’s happening.

Because if Paige wants to act like an inconsiderate, sex-obsessed demon hellbent on making your life miserable, then fine. Fine. Two can play at this game.

You’ve waited two days. Two agonizing, anticipation-filled days where you paced your room like a villain in the third act of a revenge flick, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every time you passed by Paige’s empty room, you could practically hear the ghosts of her past hookups mocking you. You had suffered. You had endured. And now, it was your time.

The front door swings open. Not as violently as before—no dramatic bang against the wall, no whirlwind of limbs stumbling over the entryway rug. Just the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the soft rustle of fabric, the barely-there whisper of a muffled giggle. It’s all very tame. Too tame. Like she thinks she can just slip back into this apartment unnoticed, like she didn’t shatter your will to live just days ago with her complete lack of shame or respect for human decency.

You sit up in bed, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of your laptop screen. Showtime.

It had taken an embarrassing amount of time to craft the perfect revenge strategy. You wanted something devastating. Something that would haunt Paige the way her late-night moanfest had haunted you. You considered various forms of psychological warfare—hiding her favorite hoodie, signing her up for weird spam emails, strategically microwaving fish at odd hours—but none of it felt impactful enough. You needed something biblical. Something that would scar.

And then, the answer came to you. Porn.

Loud, obnoxious, horrifically detailed porn. You smile at your glowing laptop and click play.

Instantly, the most sinful, ungodly, downright demonic sounds explode from your speakers. It’s graphic. Monstrous. A chorus of moans, screams, the unmistakable, wet, slapping of skin against skin. The kind of audio that makes you question humanity as a species. You’re pretty sure you hear someone begging in French.

It’s perfect. You crank the volume up.

Then, with the sheer dramatic commitment of a Broadway performer, you slam your bed frame against the wall.

The headboard cracks against the drywall with force, rattling like you’re in the throes of an earth-shattering experience. You moan. Not well, but loudly. Passionately. Over-the-top.

“Ohhh my GOD,” you scream, throwing in some unnecessary yes, yes, right there’s for added flair.

You can feel the disturbance in the force. But you don’t stop. Oh, no. You commit.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with guttural, animalistic gasps. You bang the headboard again, harder this time, just to make sure Paige feels your suffering on a molecular level. You toss in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out like you’re playing a villain savoring their monologue.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with deep, broken gasps, the kind of sounds that should not be echoing through the walls of a shared living space. Your voice wavers just enough to sound shaken, overwhelmed, ruined, like you’ve ascended past the mortal plane and are now one with the universe.

The headboard collides with the wall again—harder this time, with a resounding crack that might actually fracture the drywall. Good. Good. Let her feel it. Let the vibrations of your suffering seep into her bones. Let her live what you lived.

You throw in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out long, making it obscene. You let silence stretch, just for a moment, just long enough for Paige to think maybe—maybe—it’s over, that this nightmare has passed.

And then, with the full, unwavering conviction of a lunatic, you moan again.

It’s breathless. Shaky. The kind of sound that would make someone deeply uncomfortable in any setting, but especially when coming from the other side of a paper-thin wall.

A shuffle. A creak of bedsprings. A pause. You can feel her trying to process.

And then, like a gift from the heavens, Paige finally breaks.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The pure, unfiltered disbelief in her voice is a drug. It fuels you.

You slam your palm against the wall, a solid thunk that reverberates through the apartment. Then, in the single most unhinged act of pettiness you have ever committed, you howl a random man’s name.

Silence.

You shift in bed, letting out a shaky, devastated exhale, the kind of breathless, wrecked sound people make when they have been absolutely, thoroughly ruined. You make sure it carries through the wall, make sure it sinks into her skull.

There’s another pause. A long one. You can almost see Paige lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how her life has come to this exact moment.

Then—an aggressive rustling of sheets, a sharp inhale like she’s gearing up for a speech. You brace yourself.

Her response is immediate. A heavy thud—her fist against your wall. “Oh my God, have some fucking decency.”

That should be the end of it. A normal, sane person would stop here. But you? You are not a normal, sane person. You are a petty, wounded soldier, and you will see this through to the end.

So you shift, make sure your bedsprings let out a very suggestive creak, and then murmur, low and breathy, “Five more minutes.”

A second of pure, raw silence. Then, from her room—chaos.

The violent shuffle of blankets, a sound like something falling off her nightstand, an aggressively muttered string of words that you cannot hear, but you know they’re unholy.

Victory tastes sweet.

The next morning, you wake up feeling transformed. Cleansed. Vindicated. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of your own pettiness, reborn into a creature of pure, unadulterated vengeance. A god of retribution.

Last night was a triumph. A masterpiece of psychological warfare, orchestrated with the precision of a military strategist and the artistic flair of a Broadway performer. Paige had suffered—oh, she had suffered—and you had heard every ounce of that suffering in the sheer disbelief laced through her voice. You had sent her into an existential crisis without so much as stepping foot into her room. And the best part? You didn’t even have to talk about it. No awkward confrontation, no passive-aggressive exchange, no forced discussion about boundaries. Just a silent victory, the best kind of victory.

You stretch in bed, limbs loose and relaxed for the first time in days. No residual irritation, no ghosts of rage clinging to your skin. You won. You won.

The air feels different when you step into the kitchen, like the whole apartment is holding its breath. The atmosphere is charged, electric with something unspoken, a tension that exists only because you created it. You bask in it, inhale it like fresh air, let it fill your lungs as you roll your shoulders back and step into the room.

Paige is already there. She’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around her ever-present protein shake, the other holding her phone, scrolling with the kind of casual indifference that feels fake. Too stiff. Too controlled.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest. Good. That means you got to her.

You let the silence stretch, let her feel you watching her, reveling in the unspoken weight of last night’s events. Then, with all the exaggerated nonchalance you can muster, you open the fridge. You take your time, rummaging through it, making a show of your relaxed state, of your complete and total lack of shame or regret. Every movement is deliberate, every pause pointed.

The tension is thick enough to taste.Finally, after a long, drawn-out beat, you break the silence.

“Sleep well?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Paige just lifts her shake, takes a slow sip, and keeps scrolling, her gaze glued to her screen like you don’t exist.

You bite back a smirk. Oh, it’s like that, huh?

Fine. You love a challenge.

You grab a yogurt, pop the lid with exaggerated ease, and lean against the counter directly across from her. Mirroring her. Challenging her.

She knows you’re looking. She feels it.

The weight of your gaze drags over her jaw, the bare skin of her collarbone where her hoodie has slouched just a little too low. Over her hands—gripping her phone a fraction too tight, her knuckles taut with something just shy of restraint.

She lifts her protein shake. Takes a sip. Measured, deliberate.

You take a slow, obnoxiously slow, bite of yogurt.

“You seemed a little... tense last night.” Your voice is carefully neutral, the epitome of innocence, like you’re discussing the weather. But your eyes say otherwise.

A flicker. There. The tell.

It’s microscopic—her fingers tightening around her phone, a brief clench of her jaw before she lifts her shake again.

“I’m fine,” Paige says, monotone.

You hum, swirling your spoon through the yogurt, dragging it up in long, slow loops. “Really? You seemed a little... thrown off. Like you weren’t expecting something.”

Paige drinks. Swallows. Sets the bottle down with that same, mechanical precision.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, this is delicious.

“Hmm.” You take another lazy bite, then—just for effect—let your tongue flick over the spoon, slow, clean.

She doesn’t react.

But she sees it. You know she sees it.

The battle of wills unfolds in the silence. A quiet, blistering, psychological duel.

You stretch it, waiting, baiting. Letting the tension tighten between you like a tripwire waiting to snap.

And then—she exhales.

A sharp, quiet breath, controlled but strained. Like she’s holding something back.

And finally, finally, she sets her phone down.

Lifts her head.

Meets your gaze.

And suddenly, the air shifts.

Because Paige’s expression isn’t annoyed, like you expected. It isn’t irritated, or bored, or vaguely exasperated.

It’s something else.

Something slower. Darker.

Your stomach tightens—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.

She tilts her head just slightly, a fraction of an inch, but the weight of it is immense. A move so calculated it feels like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You good?" she asks, her voice a study in casual ease. Too smooth. Too careful.

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.

But you don’t back down from fights.

“Better than ever.” You drag the words out, light, effortless. “Best sleep of my life.”

Her lips twitch. Just barely. A half-second away from a smirk.

“That right?”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “Guess loud, passionate sex really tires a person out.”

A beat. A single, suspended moment.

Then—

“I wouldn’t know,” Paige says, smooth as silk. Cool as ice. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

Your smirk falters.

Oh.

Oh, she’s good.

You recover quickly. “Really? You must sleep like the dead, then.”

Paige picks up her phone again, dismissive, her gaze flicking back to the screen like you’re not worth the effort.

But her lips? They’re curling. Slightly. Just enough to show teeth.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, so damn casual, “it just wasn’t worth noticing.”

Oh, that bitch.

Heat flares up your spine, crackling, sharp.

You glare. Paige doesn’t even glance at you. The war has officially begun. And it’s on sight.

You’re not proud of yourself.

Not in the slightest. In fact, you don’t even know how you got here.

But this is what happens when you let your petty little battles spiral into something else, something darker and messier and impossible to ignore. You hate her. You loathe her. You think about her way too much—about how she gets under your skin, about her smug little smirks, about the way she acts like she owns the air you breathe just because she’s taller than you, because she can throw a ball into a hoop, because the entire fucking world looks at her like she’s something more than just a girl who’s in your goddamn way.

And maybe that’s why you’re here.

On your back. In your bed.

Hand between your thighs like an absolute fucking degenerate.

Because Paige is supposed to be gone. She’s supposed to be three states away at some game, doing her little interviews, getting her ego fed by an arena full of people. The apartment is supposed to be empty.

So you let yourself have this.

Let yourself chase the tension out of your muscles, let yourself melt into it, let yourself lose in it.

And God, you wish you were thinking about someone else.

But it’s her.

It’s her stupid fucking face.

It’s the way she taunts you, the way she stands too close in the kitchen, the way her sweatpants hang low on her hips in the morning, the way she stares you down like she’s daring you to push her, like she’s waiting for the exact moment you snap.

You hate her.

You hate how easy it is to imagine her hands on you instead of your own.

Your fingers are slick. Obscenely so. The vibrator hums against your clit like a live wire, like an electric pulse searing through your nerves, turning every inch of your body into a hypersensitive mess. Your thighs twitch, your stomach clenches, your hips keep jerking up, desperate for more, even though it's too much—too intense, too sharp, too unbearably fucking good.

The sheets are ruined beneath you, damp and twisted from how much you’ve writhed against them, chasing the high, riding the edge, dragging it out like you deserve to suffer for this. Like you deserve to ache for it. Your other hand is gripping the pillow, fisting the fabric, white-knuckled, because Paige, Paige, Paige—you can’t get her out of your fucking head.

That smug smirk, those broad shoulders, the way she leans against the kitchen counter like she owns it, owns you, waiting, watching, pushing, teasing—

God, you hate her.

You hate the way she gets under your skin, the way she’s there, always there, lingering in the space between, looking at you like she’s daring you to do something about it. You hate that you want to.

And you hate that you’re so fucking close just thinking about her.

Your toes curl, your breath breaks into little hiccuping moans, your body bows off the mattress. The vibrator sends another sharp burst of pleasure through your swollen, oversensitive clit, and it’s too much—your thighs slam shut around your hand, trying to temper the sensation, trying to trap it, hold it inside you, but it just makes everything sharper, stronger, unbearable—

You choke on a sound, a raw, desperate little whimper.

And then– a noise. Not yours. Not in your room.

On the other side of the fucking wall.

At first, your brain refuses to process it. Because no. No. No way. Paige is supposed to be gone, three states away, playing her stupid game, being her stupid self, not here.

But then you hear it again. A moan. Low, wrecked, unmistakably needy.

Your whole body locks up.

For a second, all you can do is lie there, frozen in place, vibrator still pressed against your clit, your own pulse hammering in your ears. Your skin goes hot, burning with shame, with realization.

She heard you. She fucking heard you.

Another shift. A creak of her bed. The rustle of sheets.

A sharp inhale escapes you, unbidden, and then you clap a hand over your mouth, mortified.

The vibrator is still humming against your clit, sending little aftershocks through you, but you can’t move, you can’t fucking move, because your brain is stuck on the fact that Paige is touching herself right now, that she’s lying in her bed, one wall away, listening to you, moaning for you, and you—

Oh. Fuck.

Your breath catches, your whole body locks up, your hand stills between your thighs—just for a second, just long enough for your brain to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You press the vibrator harder against your clit, bite your lip so hard it hurts, and keep going.

You’re sick, a fucking degenerate. You have to be, because the thought of Paige, lying there in her bed, one flimsy wall away, fingering herself to the sound of you falling apart is the single hottest, most disgusting, most earth-shattering thing you’ve ever fucking imagined.

Your hips twitch up, chasing the feeling, chasing the high, chasing whatever this is, this tight, searing, unspeakable thing curling in your stomach. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should not be doing this. But your fingers are shaking, your whole body is on fire, and you can’t stop, you can’t fucking stop—

And then she makes another sound.

This time it’s louder, more desperate, like she doesn’t care if you hear her anymore. And it sends you spiraling.

Your eyes slam shut, your thighs squeeze together, your stomach clenches so hard you can’t breathe, and the pleasure—fuck, the pleasure—rips through you, tears you apart, drowns you, ruins you.

You come so hard you forget how to exist.

The air is still humming.Your skin is still hot, still damp, still sensitive in a way that makes every shift against the sheets feel like too much. Your breath hasn’t fully evened out, your body still shaking from the wreckage of it, from the way you lost yourself, let yourself drown.

It should be over. It should.

But then—

A sound. Distant, but there. A soft shuffle, the faintest creak of floorboards beyond your door.

Your breath catches. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to ignore it. It’s late. Maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still stuck somewhere between dream and aftermath, still feeling the phantom weight of her—her hands, her voice, the way your mind kept slipping back to her even as you tried not to.

But then it happens again. A shift of movement. Closer.

A slow, deliberate pause just outside your door.

Your stomach tightens. No.

But the air is suddenly thick with something too real, something too electric—something that makes your pulse hammer in warning even before the first knock lands.

Knock. You stop breathing.

Another.

You jerk up, your body still too sensitive, your skin prickling under the weight of anticipation. You don’t move at first. Don’t respond. Just listen.

A pause. Silence. Maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll take the hint—

And then, the voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

"Open the door."

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, pulse kicking hard. Not a question. Not a request.

Just a command.

You should hesitate. You should stay still, let the moment pass, let it slip into the quiet, pretend it never happened.

But you know what’s waiting on the other side. And you know you’re already too far gone. But now she’s here.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door, heart picking up speed, hands pressed against the comfort of your blanket. A breath. Another. You tell yourself to stay still, stay quiet, maybe she’ll go away, maybe she’ll take the hint—

She knocks again.

“Open the door.”

Your skin prickles. Not a question. Not a request. Just a flat, patient command. Still, you hesitate. Seconds pass, stretching out between you like a tightrope, thin and fraying. And then, finally, you move.

The door creaks as you pull it open, slow and careful. Paige stands in the dim hallway, shoulders loose, hoodie hanging from her frame like she just threw it on without thinking. Her hair’s a mess—like she’s been running her hands through it, like she’s been restless all night. Her blue eyes flicker over you, unreadable, scanning, weighing.

Then she steps inside.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just walks past you, brushing close enough that you feel the heat of her body, the scent of her—something clean and sharp, faint sweat and warm fabric and something entirely, infuriatingly her.

The door clicks shut behind her. You don’t speak.

You don’t have to. She turns to you, slow, deliberate, expression unreadable. Then, voice low and measured:

“Lay on the bed.”

A prickle of heat races down your spine. You swallow, breath catching, fingers curling at your sides. But you don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just step back, moving without thought, without question, without sense—because it’s Paige, and because you want to know where this is going, and because something inside you is already unraveling at the edges.

The mattress dips as you crawl onto it, arms bracing, knees pressing into the sheets. You don’t dare look at her. You hear the shift of fabric, the quiet creak of the bed frame as she moves behind you, slow, careful. A pause. A breath.

Then—

“Where’s your vibrator?”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs. Sudden, shocking, stealing the air from your lungs.

Your fingers clutch the blankets, throat dry. You don’t answer.

Paige hums, thoughtful, unimpressed. Then you feel her—one hand at your lower back, pressing just enough to make you sink into the mattress, the other trailing up your spine, fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder.

“You’re gonna tell me,” she murmurs, voice steady, quiet, dangerous in its softness. “Or I’ll find it myself.”

Heat pools low in your stomach, twisting sharp and deep. Your breath stutters. Paige’s hand lingers at the back of your neck, fingers tracing, waiting.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Drawer.”

A pause. The ghost of a smile in her voice.

“Good girl.”

Then she moves.

You hear it—the slide of the drawer, the shift of objects, the quiet click of plastic against wood. A heartbeat. Two. Then the bed shifts again, and she’s behind you, close enough to feel the heat of her, the weight of her presence, the steady, unshaken confidence in every movement.

Her fingers skim your thigh, light, testing, teasing.

“You know what to do.” Your stomach clenches.

Slowly, breathlessly, you shift forward, sinking onto your hands, pressing your chest to the mattress. Your knees spread, thighs parting just enough to leave you open, vulnerable, trembling with something you can’t name.

The air is thick, charged, electric.

Then, Paige’s voice, low and certain:

“Don’t look at me.”

You shudder.

And then—she starts.

The first press of the vibrator against your clit is light—just a tease, barely there, a flicker of sensation that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, breath catching, body already wound so fucking tight you think you might shatter from just this.

Paige hums, pleased, lazy. Her other hand skims up your back, slow and deliberate, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your ribs, fingers spreading wide as she grips your hip, holding you in place. The bed shifts beneath her weight, but you don’t look back. You don’t dare. Not when you can already feel her eyes on you, watching every little reaction, every twitch, every shaky inhale.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “So fucking wet already.”

You let out a soft, helpless sound, pressing your forehead against the mattress, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. The vibrator hums again, firmer this time, rolling against your clit in slow, torturous circles, and your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more, needing more.

Paige clicks her tongue. “Uh-uh. Stay still.”

The sharp sting of her palm against your ass is unexpected, quick and precise, more startling than painful—but fuck, it makes you tighten everywhere, makes you gasp, makes heat curl even deeper in your gut. Your nails dig into the sheets, thighs trembling.

Then—without warning—the vibrator presses harder, just enough to make your whole body tense, thighs twitching, stomach clenching. Your mouth falls open, a high, breathless moan spilling out before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” Paige murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

She drags the vibrator lower, just for a second, teasing the slick heat between your thighs, and then—fuck—you feel her fingers, tracing, pressing, testing. You whimper, hips bucking, and she chuckles, low and amused, before finally—finally—she sinks one finger inside.

Your breath stutters, back arching, body clenching tight around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” she exhales, voice rough, almost reverent. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

The vibrator keeps buzzing against your clit, steady, relentless, a constant pulse of pleasure as her finger moves, slow and deliberate, curling just right, dragging along that sensitive spot that makes you tremble.

“God, you’re dripping,” Paige mutters, voice edged with something darker, something raw. “You want more?”

You nod frantically, too wrecked to form words, pushing back against her hand, chasing it, needing it.

She gives it to you.

Another finger presses in, stretching you, filling you, fucking into you in slow, deep strokes, pushing past that tight resistance, until she’s buried up to the knuckle. Your whole body shakes, heat coiling low in your stomach, sharp and overwhelming.

“Jesus,” Paige breathes, her voice tight, wrecked. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

She picks up the pace—fingers curling, twisting, pressing in deeper as the vibrator rolls against your clit, unrelenting, merciless. You’re gasping now, panting, your hips moving without thought, without control, grinding down, fucking yourself onto her fingers, onto the pulsing buzz of the toy, lost in the slick, obscene sound of it, the heat, the pressure, the unbearable, intoxicating pleasure building too fast, too much—

“Paige—”

She tightens her grip on your hip, holding you still, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, fingers thrusting deeper, sharper, hitting that spot over and over and over—

And you snap.

It crashes into you all at once—blinding, breathless, a shockwave of raw, shuddering pleasure that rips through your entire body. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, legs shaking, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm slams into you, wrecking you, drowning you.

Paige curses, low and filthy, working you through it, keeping the vibrator pressed firm against your clit as your body jerks, as you convulse, as pleasure spills over in wave after brutal wave.

You collapse forward, panting, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up. But Paige isn’t done.

She flips you onto your back in one smooth, effortless motion, her body pressing into yours, caging you in. Before you can even catch your breath, her mouth is on you.

The first kiss is rough, searing, a claim more than a kiss—teeth dragging against your lip, tongue pressing deep, swallowing the wrecked little sounds spilling from your throat.

Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, dragging your legs apart, squeezing your waist, your ribs, your tits, mapping every inch of you like she’s memorizing it.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, voice thick with hunger. “All fucked out and messy for me.”

Your breath stutters. Paige leans in again, dragging her mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that makes you shiver.

“I want you loud this time,” she mutters, fingers already slipping back between your thighs, spreading you open, rubbing slow, teasing circles against your overstimulated clit. “You gonna give me that?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips bucking up into her hand, desperate for more.

Paige smirks against your skin. “Good.”

The heat of her body presses you into the mattress, her grip firm, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you like she’s owed it, like she’s been waiting for this for so fucking long that holding back isn’t an option anymore.

And it’s not. It never was.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and sharp, pressing right against that devastating spot that makes your whole body tighten and shudder. You’re soaked, dripping down onto her hand, onto the sheets, your thighs slick, trembling, spread wide as she takes what she wants—what she’s wanted for so fucking long.

“You have no idea,” Paige mutters, voice low, wrecked, breath warm against your neck as she drags her lips over your skin, teeth grazing, biting. “No fucking idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your brain short-circuits. You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, legs wrapping around her waist, dragging her closer, needing her closer.

She groans, grinding against you, fingers moving faster, harder, pushing into you with a rhythm that’s obscene, ruthless, making you arch, making you cry out.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growls. “The way you looked at me? The way you listened when I fucked other girls in this apartment?”

Your stomach clenches, a sharp pang of shame and arousal slamming through you.

Paige laughs. A low, breathy, utterly wicked sound.

“That’s right,” she purrs, slowing her fingers to a torturous, teasing drag. “I know what you’ve been doing. Lying in here, all hot and frustrated, touching yourself to the thought of me.”

Your breath catches.

“You ever wonder if I was thinking about you?” she continues, voice husky, lips dragging down your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. “Lying in bed, hearing you through the walls, touching myself to the sound of you coming?”

Your hips jerk up, a desperate, broken sound escaping you.

Paige chuckles, dark and amused, before she slams her fingers into you again, relentless, brutal, dragging you right back up that peak.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat ripping through your body, pleasure slamming into you all at once, sharp and unbearable, too much but not enough, never enough.

Then she’s everywhere—her mouth crushing against yours, teeth nipping, tongue pressing in deep as her fingers fuck into you, relentless, merciless, like she’s making up for every second she didn’t have you like this.

“Come for me,” she demands, voice ragged, forehead pressing against yours, blue eyes dark, wild, locked onto you like she’s daring you to fall apart.

Your whole body seizes up, back arching, mouth falling open on a silent scream as the orgasm tears through you, overwhelming, devastating, making your mind go blank, making your vision fucking blur.

Paige groans as you clench around her fingers, as you drip onto her hand, onto the sheets, onto her.

“Jesus fuck,” she breathes, watching you, drinking in every twitch, every shake, every shattered gasp. “You look so fucking good like this.”

And before you can even catch your breath, before you can even think, she’s flipping you over again, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down, her body covering yours completely.

Her mouth is everywhere—hot, desperate, claiming every inch of you, kissing you like she wants to consume you, biting at your throat, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re mine now,” she mutters, breath ragged, hand gripping your hip, dragging you up against her. “You fucking get that?”

You nod frantically, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

“Say it,” she growls.

“I’m yours,” you gasp, voice wrecked, desperate.

Paige grins—wild, triumphant—before crashing her mouth against yours again, her hand slipping back between your legs, fingers dragging through the mess she’s already made of you.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” she murmurs, voice dark, teasing.

Your breath stutters, eyes going wide.

“You can’t—”

“I can.” She presses the vibrator back against your clit, fingers already sliding back inside you, making you sob. “And I will.”

Then she fucks you, properly, thoroughly, relentlessly, making you come again and again until you can barely breathe, barely think, until the only thing left in your head is her.

The room is wreckage. Pillows displaced, sheets tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. Your limbs are jelly, nerves still sparking like frayed wires, pleasure still ghosting along the edges of your skin in aftershocks you can’t quite suppress. Paige—Paige fucking Bueckers—is lying beside you, her chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, arm slung possessively across your stomach like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

You blink up at the ceiling, brain still trying to reboot. The night—Jesus, the night—had unraveled into something primal, something endless, something that had pushed you past exhaustion, past coherence, past sanity. Paige had wrecked you, torn you apart, rebuilt you in the shape of something raw and ruined and aching for more. And now—

Now, she shifts beside you. A lazy stretch, muscles flexing, a small, satisfied hum escaping her lips. You don’t have the energy to turn your head, but you feel her, the weight of her gaze settling on your profile.

Then, voice still husky from exertion, smug and utterly fucking unbearable—

"So, do you want to get dinner with me?"

Your brain stalls.

Your head turns, slow, disbelieving, vision sharpening just enough to catch the absolute shit-eating grin tugging at her lips. She’s fucking with you. She has to be. After everything—after the way she spent hours making you come until you forgot your own name, until your body had nothing left to give, until you had collapsed against her, too spent to do anything but breathe—she’s asking you out. Like it’s casual. Like it’s normal.

Like this isn’t the most insane, deranged turn of events imaginable.

You stare.

Paige smirks.

And you—God help you—you might actually say yes.

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onelonelyghost0 · 2 months ago

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About to get graded on how well I can yap, however, I didn’t want to bring my cane to class (weird looks, I’m known as the youngest here, idk if it’s a safe space) and wow. Let me tell you. Motherfuckers walking is actually really fucking hard when I can’t lean on shit? Like I can still do it and really well but holy shit this is tiring. Can we not. Like can my body go back to the way it was bc I do NOT want to be using a cane everywhere and ALSO I just FUCKING WANT to be NORMAL AND ABLED AGAIN.

Apologies this is a bit of a rant, I speak for no one but myself and my own emotions, feel free to weigh in but plz don’t be mean

#wailing from the graveyard #text post #it’s the chronic illness babe #chronically ill #chronic illness #chronic pain #chronic fatigue #cripple punk #cane #tw rant #love yall I’m just having a moment lmao

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onelonelyghost0 · 3 days ago

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- Danny Phantom

i do not ghost purposely i just have no idea what to say ever

#wailing from the graveyard #text post #danny phandom #danny fenton #danny phantom

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novaursa · 6 months ago

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The Silent Pyre

- Summary: It was a rainy night when Blood and Cheese came to deliver you your half-sister’s message; a son for a son.

- Pairing: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. Aegon and the reader have four children, the oldest son named Aeron, a daughter, Daena, and twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon. These events happen after Twin Fires and before The Fire That Binds Us. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot. Anonymous user inquired about these events, and I've decided to post it and share it with you all, it has been stashed away for too long in my file graveyard.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (no adult content, but there are graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore)

- Word count: 5 133

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the coolness of autumn seeping into the stones of the Red Keep. The fire in Helaena’s chamber casts long shadows across the walls, flickering as the wind howls faintly outside. You stand by the door, the weight of your crown pressing down upon you as you gaze at your younger sister. Her pale hair gleams like moonlight as she kneels by her children’s cradle, whispering a soft lullaby. Her voice is a quiet, fragile thing, a melody that seems almost too delicate for the world that surrounds you both.

“Helaena,” you murmur, stepping closer. She lifts her head, her violet eyes distant and unfocused, as though she is seeing something far beyond the chamber walls.

“Y/N,” she replies, a small, distracted smile gracing her lips. “Goodnight. May the Seven bless your dreams.”

“And yours, sister.” You reach out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sleep well.”

With one last glance at her serene face, you turn and leave the room, pulling the door shut softly behind you. The corridor outside is eerily silent, the usual clamor of the servants and guards muted, as if the Keep itself holds its breath.

As you walk through the darkened halls, a sense of unease begins to coil in your chest. The silence feels unnatural, like the calm before a storm. The rain patters against the windows, a steady rhythm that should be soothing, but instead heightens your anxiety. You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, the chill of the stone floors seeping through your slippers.

Your thoughts drift to Aegon, waiting for you in your shared bedchamber. You picture him sprawled across the large bed, his platinum blond hair tousled, perhaps with a goblet of wine in hand. There is comfort in the thought of him, of the warmth of his body against yours, but it does little to dispel the growing dread that gnaws at your insides.

As you approach the nursery, the unease sharpens into fear. You pause, your hand hovering over the door. The sound of something crashing softly from within reaches your ears—a faint, almost imperceptible noise, but enough to send your heart racing. The shadows behind the door shift, moving in ways that shadows should not.

You swallow, forcing down the rising panic. Your children are in there, your precious sons and daughter. Steeling yourself, you push the door open slowly, trying to remain as silent as possible.

The scene before you is one pulled from the darkest of nightmares. The warm, cozy nursery is cast in a pall of terror. Your eyes first find your mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, bound and gagged on the floor, her eyes wide with a terror that you have never seen before. She struggles against her bindings, her muffled cries like the wail of a ghost in the suffocating silence.

But it is the two men in the center of the room who capture your attention—the one holding your eldest son, Aeron, in his arms, a cruel knife pressed to his throat, while the other stands nearby, his presence looming and sinister. Your son is awake, tears streaking down his face, his small body trembling in fear.

“Do not scream,” the man holding your son whispers, his voice low and threatening. “Or the boy dies.”

Your breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea rising within you as the reality of the situation crashes down. You force yourself to remain calm, to not give in to the terror clawing at your heart.

“What do you want?” you manage to say, your voice shaking despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

“Vengeance,” the other man—Cheese, they will call him, from his size and the rat-like cunning in his eyes—replies coldly. “For son's blood has been spilled. Now, it is your blood that must pay.”

You take a step forward, and the knife digs deeper into Aeron’s tender skin, a small whimper escaping his lips. Your entire body tenses, every instinct screaming at you to protect your child, but you are powerless, bound by the threat that hangs over him like a blade.

“Let my son go,” you plead, your voice cracking. “Please. He is but a child.”

Cheese’s grin is twisted, devoid of mercy. “A choice, Your Grace. You must choose one of your sons. Two to live, and one to die.”

The words hit you like a blow, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the world spinning as the horror of what they ask becomes clear. They want you to condemn one of your children to death. To choose between your sons.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I cannot.”

“You must,” the man holding Aeron insists, his voice a menacing growl. “Or we kill them all three.”

You look between your sons, your heart shattering into pieces. Aeron, your eldest, so brave despite his fear, his wide eyes pleading silently for you to save him. And twin boys, Vaelon and Baelon, still asleep in their cribs, blissfully unaware of the nightmare unfolding around them.

Tears blur your vision, the anguish of the choice tearing at your soul. You cannot do this. You cannot be the one to decide who lives and who dies. But their lives, three of them, hang in the balance, and the choice is yours to make.

“Please,” you beg once more, though you know it is futile. “Do not make me choose.”

Cheese steps closer, his breath foul as he leans in. “Choose, Queen Y/N. Or your precious children will all die, and it will be on your head.”

The weight of your crown feels like a curse as you stand there, trembling, the choice before you too terrible to comprehend. Your hands are shaking, your heart breaking, as the words begin to form on your lips, but they can't leave them.

The world narrows to the unbearable choice before you, every second stretching into an eternity. You stand frozen, the screams of your heart drowned out by the silence that has gripped your throat. Aeron, your firstborn, stares at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, pleading for a salvation you know you cannot grant him. And there, in their cribs, laid Vaelon and Baelon, so small, so unaware, their chest rising and falling peacefully with each breath.

It is the smaller and younger twin’s innocence, his lack of awareness, that seals your fate. If he must die, let it be without knowing fear. Let him slip from this world in the safety of his dreams.

Your decision comes not from cruelty, but from a twisted, desperate kind of mercy.

“Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice a broken thing. “Take him.”

The words taste like ash on your tongue, a confession of the darkest sin. The man holding Aeron grins, his eyes alight with a sadistic satisfaction. But even as the choice leaves your lips, a cold realization claws at the back of your mind—this was never meant to end well. They were never going to let Aeron live.

You see it happen almost in slow motion, the knife glinting in the dim light as it draws across your eldest son’s throat. The sound that escapes him is a choked gasp, eyes widening in pain and betrayal as the blood wells and spills down his neck.

“No!” The word tears from your throat as you lunge forward, but it is too late. The man has already sliced deeper, crimson blooming like a terrible flower. Yet, Aeron is not yet gone. The blade catches as the man’s hand slips, and in that moment of weakness, Alicent—your mother—finds her strength.

With a fury you have never seen, she throws herself against the man holding Aeron, her bound body knocking him off balance. He stumbles, the knife digging deeper but freeing your son from his grasp. Aeron falls to the floor, clutching at his bleeding throat, his small hands stained red.

A scream of pure, primal rage rips from your chest as you hurl yourself at the man, the world around you narrowing to a singular purpose: kill him. You grab for the knife, your hands slick with Aeron’s blood, and wrest it from his grasp. The man struggles against you, but your desperation lends you strength. With a wild, desperate thrust, you drive the blade into his side, feeling the give of flesh and bone as it sinks in.

He gasps, a wet, gurgling sound, eyes wide in shock as he stumbles backward, clutching at the wound. You pull the knife free and stab again, and again, each strike fueled by the agony that has consumed you. Blood splatters across your face, warm and sickening, but you do not stop until he falls, lifeless, to the floor.

In the chaos, you do not notice Cheese until it is too late. He has turned his attention to one of the twins, to Vaelon, your youngest, the one you had chosen to condemn. As your daughter, Daena, screams—a piercing, heart-rending sound that echoes through the nursery—Cheese moves swiftly, seizing the smaller boy from his crib.

“No! Please!” you cry out, scrambling to your feet, but your voice is drowned by the sheer panic that has overtaken you. You are too far, too slow. Vaelon’s eyes flutter open, confusion and fear flickering across his tiny face as the knife flashes once more.

And then it is done. The light fades from Vaelon’s eyes as his small body crumples to the floor, lifeless.

A silence falls over the room, broken only by the sound of your daughter’s sobs, Baelon’s baby gurglings and the ragged breaths of Alicent, who is desperately pressing her hands against Aeron’s wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Aeron!” You rush to him, dropping to your knees beside him. His eyes are glazed with pain, his breathing shallow and labored. The wound is deep, but he is alive, clinging to life by the barest thread.

Cheese is panicking now, his eyes darting around the room as if realizing for the first time the gravity of what they have done. The plan, whatever it was, has gone horribly wrong. He looks at the bodies—the man you killed, Vaelon’s small, lifeless form—and he falters, unsure of his next move.

“You will die for this,” you hiss, every word trembling with a deadly promise. “You will not leave this room alive.”

Cheese takes a step back, fear flashing in his eyes, but before he can act, you move. Fueled by a mother’s wrath and the madness of grief, you surge forward, the bloodied knife still clutched in your hand. He tries to fend you off, but he is no match for the fury that drives you. With a wild, savage strike, you plunge the knife into his chest.

He gasps, a final breath escaping his lips as his eyes go wide, then glassy. He collapses to the floor, joining his fallen companion in death.

You stand there, panting, covered in the blood of your children’s murderers, and of your children themselves. Your hands shake as you drop the knife, the sound of it clattering to the floor barely registering in your mind.

“Y/N,” Alicent calls out, her voice trembling. “Aeron needs you.”

You blink, the fog of rage lifting just enough for you to focus on your son. You drop to your knees beside him, your hands finding his, trying to staunch the flow of blood with trembling fingers.

“Stay with me, my love,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Stay with me. Please.”

Alicent is beside you, pressing her hands down on the wound with all her might. “He’s strong,” she says, though her voice wavers. “He will survive this.”

You nod, though your heart is breaking. You dare not look at Vaelon’s still form, his twin, Baelon, now wide awake in his crib, or at your daughter, Daena, who is now curled into a ball in the corner, sobbing for her brothers. You can only focus on Aeron, on keeping him alive, as the horror of what has happened sinks into your soul.

The night is no longer just cold and rainy; it has become a night of death and despair, one that will haunt you until your last breath. But you will not let it claim Aeron. Not him, too.

And as the dawn begins to break, casting pale light over the carnage, you hold your son close, praying to the Seven to spare him. To spare at least one of your children, as the taste of your own choice, the bitterness of it, poisons your every breath.

Aegon sits in the dim light of your shared bedchamber, his goblet of wine resting lazily in his hand. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls, but the warmth it offers does little to chase away the chill of the autumn night. He sighs, his thoughts drifting to you, knowing that you will join him soon. The bond you share, forged not only by blood but by a deep, consuming love, is one that neither of you can escape, nor would you wish to. Sleep eludes him without you by his side, as it always has since you were children.

He takes another sip of the wine, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps approaching. The thought of the night ahead, of holding you close, offers a comfort that softens the weariness in his bones.

But then, a scream pierces the stillness of the night—a scream that he recognizes instantly as belonging to your daughter. It is followed by your voice, raw with anguish, echoing down the corridors.

The goblet slips from his hand, clattering to the floor as he leaps to his feet. The wine spills across the stone, forgotten as dread seizes him. He knows something is terribly wrong. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rushes to the door, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Your Grace!” one of the Kingsguard calls as they fall into step behind him, but Aegon doesn’t respond. The only thought in his mind is to reach you, to reach his children.

He tears down the hall, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, until he reaches the nursery. The door is ajar, shadows flickering ominously in the light from the hallway. The scent of copper fills his nostrils before he even crosses the threshold, a scent that chills him to the core.

He bursts into the room, but in his haste, he doesn’t notice the slickness beneath his feet until it’s too late. His foot slips on the blood that pools on the floor, and he stumbles, barely catching himself on the doorframe before he can fall.

For a moment, everything seems to slow. He looks down at the blood smeared across the floor, the vivid red of it stark against the stone. And then he sees the scene before him, a tableau of horror that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Two men lie dead on the floor, their bodies twisted in death, blood oozing from fatal wounds. But it is not them that hold his attention; it is the small, lifeless form of Vaelon, his infant son, lying not far from them, his throat cruelly slit. Aegon’s heart seizes, his vision blurring with tears that he fights to hold back.

“No… no, no…” The words are barely a whisper as he staggers forward, his mind unable to fully comprehend the sight before him.

But there is more—your mother, Alicent, is on the floor, her hands pressed desperately against Aeron’s throat, trying to stem the flow of blood. And there you are, kneeling beside your eldest son, your hands covered in blood, your face a mask of desperation and despair as you try to keep him alive.

“Y/N!” Aegon chokes out your name as he rushes to you, his voice filled with fear and anguish. “What… what happened?”

You look up at him, your eyes red and swollen from crying, and the sight of you breaks something deep within him. “Aegon… they… they killed Vaelon,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “They tried to kill Aeron… we… I couldn’t stop them…”

Aegon falls to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uselessly over Aeron, unsure of what to do. He can see the life fading from his eldest son’s eyes, the pale skin, the way his breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. Aegon feels a crushing sense of helplessness, something he has never experienced with such intensity before.

“Aeron, my boy… stay with us,” Aegon pleads, his voice thick with emotion as he brushes a trembling hand over Aeron’s hair. “Stay with us, please…”

Alicent looks up at her son, her own eyes filled with tears, though she fights to keep them at bay. “We need to stop the bleeding, Aegon. If we don’t… if we don’t…”

“I know,” Aegon says, though his voice is strangled. He tears a strip of cloth from his sleeve, pressing it to Aeron’s wound with a firm but gentle hand. “Stay with me, Aeron. You’re strong. You can fight this.”

But even as he says the words, he feels the cold dread settle in his chest, knowing that the wound is too deep, that his son’s life is slipping away with every passing moment.

You lean into Aegon, your body shaking with sobs as you press your bloodstained hands over his, trying to help, trying to do something—anything—to save your child. But the blood keeps coming, seeping through your fingers, staining the floor beneath you.

“Please… please…” you whisper, over and over, your voice breaking with each word. “Don’t take him from us…”

Aegon pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around you even as he continues to press down on Aeron’s wound. He can feel your pain, your sorrow, as if it were his own, and in that moment, he knows that this night will haunt both of you for the rest of your lives.

The Kingsguard finally arrive, swords drawn, their faces pale as they take in the scene before them. But there is nothing they can do; the threat is already gone, the deed already done. All they can do is stand there, silent and grim, as the horror of what has happened sinks in.

“Get a maester!” Aegon commands, his voice rising with desperate urgency. “Now!”

One of the guards rushes off without a word, the others standing watch as if expecting another attack, though it is clear that the danger has passed. Aegon looks down at Aeron, his heart breaking as he watches the light in his son’s eyes flicker and fade.

“Stay with us, Aeron,” he whispers again, but the words sound hollow, empty, even to his own ears.

Alicent, her hands still pressed against the wound, glances at you, her eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seems to swallow the room whole. “Y/N,” she says softly, her voice thick with grief, “he’s… he’s still fighting. But we need to prepare ourselves… we need to…”

“No!” You cry out, shaking your head violently. “No, he’s going to survive. He has to. He’s strong. Please, Aegon, tell her… tell her he’s going to survive.”

Aegon swallows hard, trying to keep the tears at bay as he looks at you, seeing the hope in your eyes, fragile and desperate. “He’s strong,” he agrees, his voice trembling. “He’s a dragon. He’ll survive this.”

But even as he says the words, he knows that they are more for your sake than for his own. He knows the truth, as much as he hates it, as much as it tears at his very soul.

And then, as if in response to your pleas, Aeron’s breathing hitches, a faint, ragged sound that sends a jolt of hope through your heart. But Aegon sees the truth in the way his son’s eyes begin to flutter shut, the way his small body goes limp beneath your hands.

“No, no, stay with us, please…” you sob, your voice breaking completely as you try to shake him awake, as if you can keep him from slipping away just by sheer will alone.

Aegon pulls you closer, holding you tightly against him, his own tears falling freely now. “Y/N… he’s…”

But before he can finish, the maester arrives, pushing his way into the room with a satchel of supplies. He takes one look at Aeron and immediately sets to work, but Aegon can see it in his eyes—the resignation, the grim acceptance of what is to come.

Aegon watches as the maester tries to stem the bleeding, his hands moving quickly, efficiently, but it is clear that he is fighting a losing battle. You cling to Aegon, your tears soaking into his tunic as you watch, your breath catching in your throat every time Aeron’s breathing falters.

Minutes pass, each one stretching into an eternity, until finally, Orwyle pulls back, his face pale and drawn. He looks up at Aegon, then at you, and shakes his head, his expression filled with sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “There’s… there’s nothing more I can do.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you cry out, your hands trembling as you reach for Aeron, as if you can somehow pull him back from the brink.

“No… no, please, no…” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you cradle your son’s head in your lap, your fingers brushing through his hair.

Aegon feels his heart shatter completely as he watches you, as he sees the light finally fade from Aeron’s eyes, his small body going still in your arms. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but hold you as you break down completely.

The days following the brutal attack on your family pass in a haze of grief and despair. The Red Keep is draped in a suffocating silence, its once lively halls now cold and empty, as though the life has been drained from its very walls. The horror of that night lingers in every corner, every shadow, a constant reminder of the blood that was spilled and the lives that were lost.

Your remaining children, Daena and Baelon, are kept under the strictest watch by the Kingsguard. No less than two knights are stationed outside their chambers at all times, and they are never left alone, not even for a moment. The memory of what happened to their brothers hangs over the nursery like a dark cloud, and every sound, every creak of the floorboards, sends a fresh wave of terror through the household.

But it is you, their mother, who is most affected. The grief has hollowed you out, leaving you a mere shadow of the woman you once were. You spend your days in a state of numbness, your heart shattered beyond repair. Nothing and no one can console you, not even Aegon, who tries desperately to reach you, to bring you back from the edge of the abyss into which you have fallen. But his attempts are in vain. You are inconsolable, broken beyond words.

Aegon himself is a man consumed by fury. The fire of his rage burns hotter with each passing day, fueled by the sheer injustice of what has happened. He holds a small council meeting in the dead of night, summoning only those he trusts—or at least, those whose loyalties he can control.

In the dimly lit council chamber, Aegon sits at the head of the table, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are white. His eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn and pale from lack of sleep. The tension in the room is palpable, every man present feeling the weight of the King’s anger pressing down on them like a physical force.

Around the table sit Otto Hightower, his face a mask of stern concern; Ser Criston Cole, his expression grim and unyielding; Lord Larys Strong, who watches the proceedings with his usual calculating gaze; Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, his fingers tapping nervously on the table; Lord Tayland Lannister, the Master of Ships, who remains unusually quiet; and Grand Maester Orwyle, who sits with his hands folded, his eyes downcast.

Aegon’s voice breaks the silence, a low, seething growl that sends a shiver down the spine of everyone in the room. “How did this happen?” he demands, his eyes blazing with fury as he looks from one man to the next. “How did two men infiltrate the heart of the Red Keep, murder my sons, and nearly take the life of my other children without anyone knowing? Where were the guards? Where was the protection I was promised?”

Otto is the first to speak, his voice calm but firm. “Your Grace, we are all grieved by this tragedy, but rest assured, we are investigating every possible lead. The guards who were on duty that night have been questioned, and those found negligent will be dealt with severely.”

“Dealt with severely?” Aegon echoes, his voice rising with incredulity. “My sons are dead, and you speak of discipline as if that can undo what has been done! This was not just negligence—this was treason, betrayal of the highest order!”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the loyal sword, speaks next, his tone as hard as steel. “Your Grace, the Kingsguard were stationed as ordered, but the enemy was cunning. They knew exactly where to strike, and when. We are searching for any who might have aided them from within the Keep.”

Aegon glares at him, his anger still simmering. “You should have been there, Ser Criston. You should have been protecting my family, as you swore to do.”

Criston bows his head, accepting the rebuke without argument. “I failed you, my king, and I will bear that burden until the day I die.”

Larys Strong, who has remained silent until now, leans forward slightly, his voice smooth and unhurried as he speaks. “Your Grace, the men who did this were not acting alone. This attack was meticulously planned, designed to strike at the heart of your family and weaken your claim. There is but one who stands to gain the most from such an act of terror.”

Aegon’s eyes narrow as he fixes his gaze on Larys. “Speak plainly, Lord Strong. Who do you accuse?”

Larys meets Aegon’s gaze without flinching, his voice carrying a weight of certainty. “Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her husband, Daemon. They are the ones behind this atrocity. They seek to undermine your rule, to sow chaos and discord within the realm, so that Rhaenyra might usurp your throne.”

Aegon’s breath hitches at the mention of his half-sister’s name. His hatred for her is no secret, but to hear that she might be responsible for the deaths of his sons sends a fresh wave of fury coursing through him. “You have proof of this?” he demands, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

Larys inclines his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “The men who committed the murders—the butcher and the rat catcher—are known associates of Daemon Targaryen. They were hired by him to carry out this heinous act. The gold they were paid with was traced back to Rhaenyra’s supporters in King’s Landing. This was not just an act of violence—it was a message. Response to the death of Lucerys Velaryon by the hand of Prince Aemond.”

Aegon’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into the wood of the table. “A message? They dare to send me a message by murdering my sons? Two innocent boys?”

“Yes,” Larys replies, his voice as cold as ice. “They wish to show that you are vulnerable, that your rule can be challenged. They wish to provoke you into rash action, to draw you into a conflict that will weaken your position.”

“Rash action?” Aegon scoffs, his anger flaring anew. “They think they can provoke me? They think I will sit idly by while they murder my children?”

“Your Grace,” Otto interjects, his voice measured. “We must be careful. If we move too quickly, without proof, we risk turning the realm against us. Rhaenyra still has many supporters. We must gather our strength, consolidate our power, and then strike when the time is right.”

But Aegon is beyond reason, his grief and rage too great to be tempered by caution. “I will not wait!” he snarls, slamming his fist on the table. “They have taken from me what I hold most dear, and I will make them pay for it, tenfold! If Rhaenyra wants war, then war she shall have!”

The council members exchange uneasy glances, each man aware of the storm that is about to be unleashed. Aegon’s wrath is a dangerous thing, and they know that nothing they say will dissuade him from the course he has set.

Grand Maester Orwyle finally speaks, his voice soft but insistent. “Your Grace, the lives of your remaining children—Princess Daena and Prince Baelon—must be your foremost concern. They are the future of your house, and they must be protected at all costs.”

Aegon’s expression softens slightly at the mention of his children, the thought of them momentarily piercing through the fog of his anger. He knows that Orwyle is right, that the safety of Daena and Baelon is paramount. But even this knowledge cannot quell the burning desire for vengeance that has taken root in his heart.

“I will protect them,” he says, his voice hardening once more. “But I will not allow this attack to go unanswered. Rhaenyra and Daemon will know the price of crossing me.”

Otto inclines his head, understanding that there is no turning back now. “Then we must prepare for war, Your Grace. We must rally our banners, secure our allies, and strike swiftly and decisively.”

Aegon nods, his jaw set with determination. “Do it. Call the banners, prepare the dragons. We will bring fire and blood to those who dare to defy us.”

The council members rise from their seats, each man knowing that the decisions made this night will plunge the realm into chaos. As they leave the chamber, Aegon remains behind, staring at the bloodstained map of Westeros spread out before him. His thoughts drift to you, to the shattered look in your eyes, to the bodies of his sons lying cold in their graves.

He swears to himself, to the gods, and to the memory of his murdered children that he will not rest until Rhaenyra and Daemon are brought to justice. No matter the cost, no matter the blood that must be spilled, he will have his revenge.

And so, the storm begins to gather, the winds of war stirring in the darkness of the Red Keep.

#house of the dragon #alicent hightower #otto hightower #aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd aegon #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon the second #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x you #blood and cheese #criston cole #helaena targaryen

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dunmeshistash · 9 months ago

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Dungeons

Dungeon Meshi Dungeons have unique characteristics and the Adventurer's Bible gives us a look on a few of the more important ones.

First, what makes a dungeon a dungeon? According to the Glossary section:

Dungeon There are two types of dungeon: manmade and natural. Manmade dungeons like the one on the Island are structures created when a door is linked to another dimension. Natural dungeons are environments that resemble manmade dungeons; they're created when a portal to another dimension forms on its own and mana seeps in. In natural dungeons, you can't be resurrected if you die. The cavern Falin took Marcille to when they were at magic school was a natural dungeon.

Continuing bellow the cut, Major Spoilers ahead

In ch87 we learn that man-made Dungeons were created by the ancient civilizations to contain the Demon's powers, and be able to better use it.

In ch 68 Thistle confirms something similar.

With this in mind, Dungeons also seem to have "Styles".

Like these examples from the cover of ch 48.

"The island", which is the name given to the Dungeon Linked to Melini Village's Graveyard, is a "Compound-Style Dungeon" while other dungeons seem to have specific styles linked to other ancient civilizations (Dwarf-Style, Gnome-Style, Elf-Style)

'The Island' in specific seem to be a Compound Style between dwarfish and elvish styles. As Thistle says, continuing in ch 68, it was an ancient Dwarf construction that was then used by Elves.

Maybe that's the reason the dwarfish inscriptions are only in the innermost levels of the dungeon. The Style then seems to indicate which ancient civilizations created the manmade Dungeon.

From how they speak about Dungeons in the story I also believe there isn't a way to create new manmade dungeons, and rather they must find them since they were buried by ancient civilizations once they realized it was impossible to control the Demon.

Besides that dungeons apparently also seem to have a life cycle, or "Maturity Levels", that ends with the collapse of the dungeon. Here's the cover for ch 54 illustrating it.

From the descriptions, Utaya seems to have reached lv 5 while others tend to be conquered and collapsed before. Some even seem to collapse on their own.

These are the main Dungeons pointed out in the adventurer's bible with their respective descriptions.

DUNGEONS

1 THE ISLAND

A new dungeon that was discovered just six years ago. It's rumored that the Golden Country that existed a thousand years ago still lies in its depths, imprisoned there by the Lunatic Magician.

2 BUDOU PIT

A dwarf-style dungeon. It was excavated straight down like a mine shaft and has already collapsed. Its atmosphere and location are bad, and even after it was discovered, not many adventurers visited it. As a result, it's believed to have collapsed naturally. Its depths may be connected to the ocean: If you listen carefully, some say you can hear the waves. People also claim that if you throw something into the pit, it will inevitably wash up in the port of Kahka Brud.

3 THE BRUD DUNGEON CLUSTER

A dwarf-style dungeon. It's made of the ruins of dungeons that riddled the ground beneath Kahka Brud. Now that its last lord has been defeated, the dungeon has been completely captured. It's become part of the town, and bits of it are used as storehouses, shops, and private homes.

4 THE TOWER OF NIGHT CRIES

A gnome-style dungeon. It's on the verge of collapsing and is currently sealed. Since it's still functioning, if barely, it's believed to have a lord somewhere. The dungeon is shaped like a tower. Its name comes from the wailing noise produced by the wind blowing through holes in its walls at night. Winged monsters have been sighted flying around the tower.

5 THE UTAYA DUNGEON

An elf-style dungeon. It changed lords frequently, and it's the dungeon that grew the largest after the ancient war. At present, it's sealed. Fifteen years ago, monsters flooded out and destroyed the nearby towns. Because it had expanded so much, it couldn't be blocked off completely, and the Canaries quelled the situation by casting a barrier over the dungeon and the entire surrounding area. Magic users are still permanently stationed there to maintain the barrier.

6 THE DRAGONS' LAIR

An elf-style dungeon. Currently collapsed. A rare case in which an entire region of interlacing canyons became a dungeon. Many dragons lived here once, and it was a notoriously secluded region. However, it was hard just to get to it, the rewards were small, and the dragons were tough. Almost no adventurers visited it, and it's thought to have collapsed naturally. When the population dwindled, mana stopped flowing through it, so the large dragons vanished. However, a few small dragons still live there.

7 THE CENTRAL WATCHTOWER

An elf-style dungeon near the capital of the Western Elves. Currently sealed. Since it hadn't had a lord for a long time, it was believed to be nearly collapsed. Mithrun was dispatched to investigate a nearby rash of disappearances and got taken in.

There's much more to talk about how the dungeons work, especially how it relates to Ancient Magic but I'll leave it for another post in the future. If you have any insights about the information here or if I've missed something important please share!

#Dungeon Meshi #Dungeon Meshi Spoilers #Dungeons #Dungeon Design #The Island #thistle dungeon meshi #dunmeshi thoughts #Its hard to know whats relevant to the dungeons and whats more relevant for ancient magic since they're so linked #I'll try to edit the image ids and make them better later I hope these are ok

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itsabouttimex2 · 3 months ago

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Fun fact: In China, Chinese criminals were marked on their faces for life. Hot knives cut the flesh of prisoners, engraving characters on their foreheads. Later the ink was inserted into the open wounds to form words like “murderer”, “thief” and etc.

That’s such a morbidly neat fact, and thank your for sharing it with me! It actually got me looking around online, where I found a few articles about it!

It certainly provides some “encouragement” for Y/N to play along with whatever the kings want, after they tried to steal from the royal kitchen- there’s always the threat of a permanent criminal marking on the table.

(They wouldn’t actually do that to a kiddo, but Y/N doesn’t know that.)

Or worse- Y/N has already been punished for their former acts of theft, without the jurisdiction of either king who would have absolutely vetoed the notion of essentially mutilating a hungry child for stealing scraps from a graveyard or windowsill.

MK learning from his loving baba that only “bad people” get these tattoos and growing very, very upset no matter how his fathers try to comfort or soothe him, and for all they remind him that it “only happens to bad people”, it just pushes him closer and closer to the brink because-

“Y/N is not bad,” the boy wails, tears gushing from his big black eyes, sopping uselessly away into his golden father’s robe, both monkeys gently trying to comfort him.

“Shush, shush, shhh… Xiaotian, baby, please! No one said anything about Y/N!” Macaque tries to soothe, bouncing his son lightly.

“You did,” he bawls, kicking his little feet like any other toddler throwing a tantrum. “You did! Y-you said “bad people” have those tattoos! And- and- and Y/N is not bad!”

“Y/N has… someone gave them a penal tattoo?” Sun Wukong queries, unknowingly tightening his grip on the gilded handles of his throne. “…someone gave a starving orphan the mark of a dangerous criminal?”

“…I think we need to take a trip down to the village.”

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #MK #Monkiefam #Eclipse Kings #TW: Mutilation

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onelonelyghost0 · 4 months ago

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Let’s play a game

let your moots tell you which one you are!!!

#wailing from the graveyard

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angelseraphines · 8 days ago

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ೃ⁀➷ body electric ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ suguru niragi x former!lover!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! please note that i do not agree with the choices of niragi and for any fanfictions i write about him, those controversial actions will be omitted!

˚ ༘♡ it was the strangest thing, stepping out of your bedroom and into a world that had ceased to exist. the familiar cadence of life, the hushed creaks of the old family estate, the distant sounds of the city beyond, had been swallowed whole by silence. you called out, expecting an answer, but none came. the lavish halls stretched empty, the doors left ajar as if abandoned in an instant. outside, the streets of tokyo stood frozen in time, emptied of their ceaseless crowds, their neon-lit chaos. no cars idling at intersections, no distant murmur of conversation, no footsteps beyond your own.

˚ ༘♡ for hours, you wandered, a lone figure adrift in a dead city. the absence of life gnawed at your mind, an eerie stillness pressing against your skin. you searched for movement, for any sign that you weren’t the last person left in the world. then, at long last, you found them, a handful of strangers clustered in the remains of a building complex, their faces etched with the same confusion and fear that pained your expression. pitiful consolation burned in your chest, only to be doused by frustration. they knew nothing. no one did.

˚ ༘♡ then came the notification, it read the following, “visa: 3 days remaining.”

˚ ༘♡ your heart pounded as you turned to one of the others, demanding to know what it meant. their answer was worse than anything your mind had conjured. you had three days to play. three days to win. fail, or refuse, and your visa would expire. and when that happened, you would die.

˚ ༘♡ it sounded absurd, a nightmare spun from exhaustion and fear. but then the first game began.

˚ ༘♡ a siren wailed through the building, red emergency lights casting the halls in an unnatural glow. a door slammed open. and then he appeared.

˚ ༘♡ a towering figure draped in dark clothing, a horse mask concealing his face, the gleam of a gun heavy in his hands. he did not hesitate. the first shot rang out, cutting through the confusion, splattering blood across the walls. screams shattered the air. chaos erupted, bodies scrambling for cover as the game of tag began, except this wasn’t a game. not really.

˚ ༘♡ you ran. every breath burned, every heartbeat a countdown to death. the masked man moved with terrifying precision, his steps unhurried, methodical. you turned a corner just as another shot rang out through the air, a body hitting the ground behind you. fear coursed through your veins like fire, but survival drove you forward.

˚ ༘♡ in the end, you lived, not by skill, not by strength, but by sheer luck. a young man and a woman, moving like they had done this before, found the safe zone in the final moments. you barely made it, collapsing against the wall, lungs heaving, the taste of fear still thick in your throat. the masked man vanished. the sirens cut off. eerie silence returned.

˚ ༘♡ your phone buzzed again. your visa had been extended.

˚ ༘♡ the next day, you could hardly move. fatigue and shock weighed you down, pinning you to the cold floor of the abandoned building you had taken refuge in. your mind refused to process what had happened, but deep down, you knew. if you didn’t move, if you didn’t act, you wouldn’t survive the next game.

˚ ༘♡ it was pure chance that you ran into them again, the two who had saved you. the young man introduced himself as ryohei arisu, the woman as yuzuha usagi. you thanked them, though words felt meaningless after what you had just endured. when they asked if you wanted to join them, you didn’t hesitate.

˚ ༘♡ arisu mentioned a location called the beach, a rumored sanctuary where players had gathered. a sliver of hope in a city that had become a graveyard.

˚ ༘♡ it took time, careful observation, and calculated risk, but after following a group of players you recognized from the game of tag, you knew you were close, but without warning a devastating blow was delivered to the back of your head and you were entrenched by darkness.

˚ ༘♡ when you woke, your wrists were bound, the scent of lavender incense thick in the air. a lavish room stretched before you, unfamiliar faces standing in the dim light. a man entered, draped in a loose robe, his presence far too casual for the circumstances. he grinned and extended his arms in a welcoming gesture, “i am sure you all have questions, and we have the answers you are searching for.”

˚ ༘♡ the robed man, who introduced himself as the hatter, was the self-proclaimed ruler of the beach. with a charismatic grin, he explained the laws that governed this facade of a sanctuary, his voice smooth, practically hypnotic, as if he had rehearsed it countless times before.

˚ ༘♡ one. all playing cards collected from the games belonged to the beach. they believed that obtaining a full deck would grant them passage back to the original world, though there was no proof, only blind faith and desperation. two. all members were to follow the will of the leader, the hatter himself, and his chosen executive members. their word was law. questioning it was not an option. three. the most sinister of all, betray the beach, and you will be executed without mercy.

˚ ༘♡ his delivery was casual and lighthearted, but the dread of those mandates settled akin to lead in your stomach. there was no room for dissent. you were not being invited, you were being conscripted.

˚ ༘♡ with no choice but to comply, you were ushered away, given a simple command: change into swimsuits. no exceptions. it was a method of control, a way to ensure no weapons could be concealed. but beyond that, it was humiliating. a stripping away of your identity, reducing you to just another body in the beach’s twisted paradise.

˚ ༘♡ you were led into a grand dressing room, its gilded mirrors and velvet benches a stark contrast to the world outside. racks of swimwear lined the walls, bright, revealing, designed for spectacle rather than function. hesitant, you sifted through the options before settling on a pearl-white one-piece with a sweetheart neckline, elegant yet understated. even so, the thought of baring yourself in such a vulnerable space made you uneasy. for a sliver of modesty, you grabbed a sheer cover-up, draping it over your shoulders before stepping out into the heart of the resort.

˚ ༘♡ and what you saw left you speechless.

˚ ༘♡ the beach was alive with indulgence. men and women in vibrant bikinis and neon swim trunks danced freely, their bodies moving under the golden glow of the sun. cocktails sloshed in their hands, music pulsed from unseen speakers, laughter rang out like the city had never vanished. it was surreal, a fever dream of excess set against the backdrop of an abandoned world.

˚ ༘♡ but beneath the revelry, there was something off. something calculated.

˚ ༘♡ as you moved through the crowd, you felt it, the leering gazes of men trailing after you, drinking you in like you were just another prize in this lawless haven. your grip tightened around your cover-up, pulling it closer, shielding yourself as best as you could without drawing attention. searching the crowd, you finally spotted familiar faces, usagi and arisu, standing off to the side, their expressions indistinct.

˚ ༘♡ relief rushed through you as you hurried over. “i thought i’d never be able to find you two.”

˚ ༘♡ usagi glanced up, her eyes taking you in. she wore a navy blue two-piece, a peach zip-up jacket pulled tightly around her frame despite the heat. her voice was low, almost conspiratorial as she muttered, “can you believe they’re making everyone dress like this? it’s humiliating.”

˚ ༘♡ arisu, arms crossed, let out a slow breath, gaze drifting toward the endless stretch of blue sky. “you think what the executives said is true?” his voice was laced with doubt. “that if we gather all the cards, we can go back?”

˚ ༘♡ neither you nor usagi answered. because what was there to say? it was a fool’s hope, a dangling promise intended to keep the beach running, to keep its members playing the games. no one knew if escape was even possible. and something told you that the people in charge of these depraved, debauched games didn’t care.

˚ ༘♡ the vivacious laughter and excitement that had consumed the resort mere moments ago began to wane, like a tide pulling back, exposing something far more menacing beneath the surface. you felt it before you saw it, a change in the air, an unspoken tension that rippled through the crowd, silencing the drunken revelry. turning your head, your breath became erratic.

˚ ༘♡ a group of men strode through the party, their presence suffocating, the very energy of the beach seeming to warp around them. at the front of the pack, you recognized him immediately, the man who had taken down the tagger during your first game. his presence had unnerved you then, and it unnerved you now. he moved with the quiet confidence of a predator, his muscled frame tense beneath his tank top, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with indifference. he looked like a member of the yakuza with his shaved head and vicious attitude.

˚ ༘♡ yet, it was the figure behind him that truly sent a chill down your spine. a man dressed in black, his hood drawn up over his head, a long, gleaming blade clutched in his grip. his head was shaved clean, but tattoos inked his stark white skin, crawling down his neck like a web of curses. he didn’t speak. he didn’t need to. his very presence was suffocating, a walking omen of violence.

˚ ༘♡ your gaze steadily drifted to the figure on the left, and your entire body locked up.

˚ ༘♡ no.

˚ ༘♡ your heart lurched, your stomach twisting into knots so tight you felt nauseous. your breath caught in your throat, your knees going weak beneath you. your mind screamed at you that it couldn’t be, that it shouldn’t be. but it was.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, aguni, who is this jerk staring at you?”

˚ ༘♡ the masculine voice with a taunting edge, slashed through the unbearable silence, your gaze landed on him. niragi.

˚ ༘♡ he stood before you, a rifle slung casually over his shoulder, his smirk razor-sharp and laced with cruelty. but your eyes weren’t on the weapon. they weren’t even on the piercings that now lined his eyebrow and tongue, nor the unruly strands of black hair that had grown out since you last saw him.

˚ ༘♡ the same eyes that once held warmth, shyness, devotion. the same eyes that once looked at you like you were his entire world. but now? now they were malicious and dark, devoid of anything kind and compassionate. the cocky bravado was there, the smirk, the teasing edge to his voice. but for a fleeting second, just a fraction of a second, his mask slipped. his expression faltered. he recognized you. he wasn’t expecting this, he wasn’t expecting you.

˚ ༘♡ arisu, beside you, blinked in surprise. “you’re the guy from the game of tag.”

˚ ༘♡ aguni, the man leading the group, barely spared you a glance. instead, his gaze flickered over the three of you, his lips curling in something that wasn’t quite a sneer, wasn’t quite pity. “i see your friend died.” his tone was cold, impersonal. “what a shame. the weak ones survived.”

˚ ༘♡ niragi, however, was no longer looking at arisu or aguni. his full attention was on you. his fingers twitched at his side, his head tilting slightly, like he was trying to piece together if this was real or some bizarre hallucination. then, before you could even think of what to say, he took a step forward, closing the distance between you just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

˚ ༘♡ ”it’s been a while, honey.”

˚ ༘♡ his voice was laced with mockery, with that menacing brutality, but there was something else too, something genuine. a sliver of sincerity buried beneath it all, a trace of something that made your heart ache, remnants of the niragi you once cherished so deeply.

˚ ༘♡ “why are you hanging out with this loser?” niragi seethed, his voice ridden with contempt as his glare locked onto arisu. before arisu could even process the insult, let alone defend himself, niragi swung the end of his rifle into his face with a sickening crack. the impact sent arisu crashing onto the cold, tiled floor, his head snapping back against the hard surface.

˚ ༘♡ blood gushed from his nose and mouth almost instantly, painting the shining white tiles in deep crimson. he barely had a chance to react before niragi loomed over him, lifting his boot and slamming it into his ribs. arisu curled inward, gasping in pain, but niragi wasn’t done. he kicked him again, this time in the head.

˚ ༘♡ usagi let out a panicked cry and dropped to the ground beside arisu, her hands flying up to shield him. “stop! please!” she shouted, desperation cracking her voice. she tried to shove niragi away, but he barely stumbled. without hesitation, he turned and shoved her back with enough force to send her sprawling across the floor.

˚ ༘♡ “what the hell are you doing?” you snapped, horror and disbelief flooding your veins. your mind reeled, unable to make sense of what you were seeing, of the man standing before you. niragi had once been the one suffering under the weight of cruelty, bullied relentlessly until he had nearly been broken. you had been the one to step in, to defend him, to pull him from the insults and beatings of others. and now, here he was, standing in the shoes of the very monsters who had tormented him.

˚ ༘♡ what happened to him?

˚ ༘♡ “niragi, enough! no more!” you yelled out, but he ignored you, lifting his boot again as if he had already decided arisu’s fate.

˚ ༘♡ you didn’t think. you acted. you threw yourself in front of him, your body a barrier between niragi and the bloodied mess of arisu curled up on the floor. usagi was already huddled beside him, shielding him as best as she could. you could see niragi’s rise and fall as adrenaline coursed through his veins, feel his eyes boring into you, but you didn’t care.

˚ ༘♡ “what have you become?” you shouted, your voice shaking, your emotions threatening to swallow you whole. “have you lost your mind because of these games? is this who you are now?”

˚ ༘♡ niragi stood motionless, his expression darkening. for a minute, something unreadable glistened in his gaze, something vanishing, something buried beneath layers of cruelty and indifference. then, his lips coiled into a sneer.

˚ ༘♡ “what have i become?” he mocked, his tone laced with amusement. “why are you being so melodramatic?”

˚ ༘♡ your heart pounded as you looked past him, at the men standing behind him, watching without saying a word. this was for them. niragi wasn’t just acting out of anger, he was performing, playing the role expected of him, preserving whatever foreboding image he had built here.

˚ ༘♡ he exhaled sharply and tilted his head, his smirk growing. “get out of my way, would you?” his voice was almost teasing, but there was a dangerous edge beneath it. he reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch that once would have made you feel more beloved than any woman in the world. but now? now, it was no different than the most potent of venom.

˚ ༘♡ your grimaced with revulsion, and before he could even register it, you jerked away, stepping back like his touch had burned you. niragi chuckled, shaking his head. “come on, don’t be like that,” he mused. “i promise we’ll have all the time in the world to catch up, after i finish with these two.”

˚ ༘♡ he moved to step around you, his patience wearing thin, but you blocked him again. this time, your stance was firmer, your hands clenching into fists at your sides, your fingernails digging into the skin of your palms. you could feel your pulse pounding in your throat, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze, unflinching.

˚ ༘♡ “niragi, please.”

˚ ༘♡ his name left your lips softer this time, stripped of the anger, stripped of the disbelief. it was a plea, not simply for arisu’s sake but for his, for the young man you once knew, the one you once loved.

˚ ༘♡ niragi hesitated. for a short while, something in his expression changed. you held his gaze, hoping, praying, that somewhere beneath the layers of cruelty and violence, he still remembered, those late-night phone calls, the way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t watching, the warmth of his fingers laced through yours on lazy afternoons at the café. if there was anything left of that niragi, maybe, just maybe, he would stop.

˚ ༘♡ his smirk twitched, his tongue flicking over the silver piercing on his lip. then, with a lazy wave of his hand, he scoffed. “eh, whatever,” he muttered, swinging his rifle back over his shoulder as if nothing had happened. “this is no fun with you whining in my ear.” he turned away without another glance, striding off like he had already forgotten all about you. the rest of the men followed, their presence dissipating as quickly as it had arrived. aguni lingered for a tad longer, his expression obscured and harsh, before he, too, disappeared into his horde of followers.

˚ ༘♡ you stood bewildered, the tension in your body unraveling all at once, leaving only nausea in its wake. the atmosphere still buzzed with energy from the resort party, but it all felt so far away, like a different world entirely. your mind returned to arisu and usagi, they required your help.

˚ ༘♡ you spun on your heel and dropped to your knees beside him. he was still on the floor, barely conscious, his face drained of color, his body limp. usagi knelt beside him, pressing her zip-up jacket against his forehead to slow the bleeding. the fabric was already stained deep red.

˚ ༘♡ panic surged through you. you reached out, brushing arisu’s shoulder tenderly, trying to ground yourself as much as him. “i’ll get help, okay? stay here.”

˚ ༘♡ usagi nodded, her jaw tight, her focus entirely on arisu. you pushed yourself to your feet, your heart hammering as you turned and ran. you didn’t know where you were going. you didn’t even know who you could turn to in a place like this. but you had to hurry. arisu was losing too much blood, his life was in danger, because of niragi.

˚ ༘♡ your mind still couldn’t fully grasp it, the sheer impossibility of what he had become. your sweet and loving boyfriend you once knew was gone, replaced by a man who could smile through savagery, who could beat someone half to death and consider it entertainment.

˚ ༘♡ niragi was gone. whatever had taken his place, you weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

a/n: my first alice in borderland fanfiction! if you have any thoughts or requests, please let me know! 🤍

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remarcely · 7 months ago

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Batmanfic Prompt: WHAT IF Superman heard Jason come back to life?

The coffin, unfortunately, was so comfortable that when Jason woke up inside it he’d been tempted to roll over and go back to sleep. It was only when he knocked his elbow onto something hard and way too close that he opened his eyes. He didn’t see anything, they hadn’t exactly put a nightlight in for him, but he could still feel and his hands scrambled to touch everything inside the box. He knew that he was wearing a suit buttoned all the way up, which was weird because he never did the top button, and there was a slab of something solid laying flat above his face.

He had to bend his arms to press his palms against it, not having enough space to do much else, and shoved. It didn’t move so he shoved again and then again, the third attempt using his knees to try and force it open. No matter what Jason did, it wouldn’t budge.

It was as he laid there, panting, and growing dizzy for some reason, that he began to remember. He had no memory of crawling in a box or getting stuck under his bed, but he could recall a warehouse. There had been laughter, blood, and a steady beep as the countdown of a bomb grew ever closer. Jason swallowed hard as panic started to take hold. He hit the lid again, frantically this time, and thrashed his entire body in his desperate bid to escape because he knew where he was. He was packed underneath six feet of dirt and trapped in a box that no one had thought about putting air holes in.

Somewhere in his lashing out he’d begun to cry and plead to closed in air. He shouted for Bruce, begging to be let out and that he was sorry, and screamed for Alfred to find him. Jason even called out for Dick, even though they’d barely gotten on for the last few months after years of nothing but bitterness from the older boy.

His chest heaved as he hyperventilated with little oxygen to take in and, with his list of potential saviours running low, he recalled something Bruce had told him. If he was ever in trouble and Batman or Nightwing were too far away, then he should always shout for-

“SUPERMAN!” Jason wailed, slamming his head into the coffins lid and clawing at the wood. His nails ached and bled, but he continued to scratch away “PLEASE, SUPERMAN! BRUCE! HELP ME!”

His movements grew weaker and his head pounded. Jason slumped against the cushioning and, with his limbs too heavy to lift, sobbed. His tears rolled down his face, trailing over his cheeks and past his ears, to soak into the pillow beneath his head. He was dead. He was dead and no one was coming for him.

At least when he’d been half-beaten to death and inhaling smoke, he’d held onto hope that Batman would find him in time.

As Jasons eyes slowly closed and his inhales and exhales felt as if they were minutes apart, he heard something. It was muffled and hard to make out but, for a moment, Jason was sure he could hear someone calling his name.

It was midday in Metropolis and Clark Kent was on his lunch break. He was three bites into a disappointing BLT sandwich with far too much mayonnaise when he heard a voice, far outside the bounds of his city, call for Superman. That wasn’t rare in itself, neither was how young and distressed they sounded unfortunately, it was after the second time they called for Superman that Clark flinched.

“SUPERMAN! BRUCE! HELP ME!”

By the time his sandwich landed on the breakroom table, he was gone.

The voice had stopped screaming for help but Clark could hear them crying uncontrollably and that was enough to track down the source. He broke the sound barrier as he flew into Gotham and the ground was dug a few inches deep as he landed. Clark whirled around for the crying child, drowning out every other noise in the world to focus on them, and looked down with dread. They were underground. In a graveyard.

Clark raised his eyesight to the headstone planted above the child and stumbled. In expensive marble, carved in swirling font, was a familiar name and all of a sudden, the person screaming out for a ‘Bruce’ made alarming sense.

‘Here Lies Jason Todd’

Before he knew what he was doing, Clark was tearing away at the earth in chunks, throwing it behind him without care (and hopefully avoiding the surrounding headstones). As he moved deeper into the ground he lost the need for his enhanced hearing. While it was faint, Clark could make out the sound of Jason weakly crying out. He reached the coffin in a matter of seconds and didn’t hesitate to tear the lid away, breaking through its seal with ease.

Laid out on white satin lining, stained by red where his hands rested at his sides, was Jason Todd- oxygen deprived and passed out, but alive nonetheless.

“It’s going to be alright.” Clark whispered to the boy as he knelt down and carefully lifted him into his arms “I’ve got you, kiddo, you’re going to be just fine.”

As soon as Jason was securely tucked to his chest, Clark launched upwards and in the direction of Gotham’s nearest hospital.

#catatonic jason todd #bruce wayne #batfamily #batman #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #batman fanfiction #dc fanfic #batman prompt #superman #clark kent #superman fanfiction #jason todd prompt #jason todd #resurrected jason todd #i have not edited this and refuse to do so #:)

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lovemybluebully · 3 months ago

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Salad is a Four Letter Word

Soooooo Venom seems to be popular again, especially with my new pal @ticklishdeadpool so this one is for you, buddy! 🍻

While I don't think I'm going to see the new movie I did decide to dig into my graveyard of abandoned fics. Found this WIP that I had started after the first movie came out and have now filled in all the gaps for your viewing pleasure. It was a little tricky as I haven't seen the movie in awhile, but hope I did okay. For that reason, I probably won't be writing anymore Venom fics for the current time, but at least this one will be out there now.

It's a totally nonsense-type of fic. lol Didn't really have anywhere that I was going with it so it had been abandoned, but still just fun, silly interactions between Eddie and Venom. With tickles of course! Me, write a fic without tickling? 🤣 Good one.

If you have a flesh-loving alien inside of you, you don't threaten to force him to eat salad. 😆

Venom (Movieverse)

Word Count: 2,546

"What are we doing here? We don't like this place."

Eddie let out an exasperated groan as he stood in the lobby of the hospital, waiting for the elevator to come back down.

"I already told you, Anne just wants to be safe and have Dan check me out. You know, just in case my body is having any adverse effects to you practically living inside me."

"We can assure you it is not," Venom gave an offended growl from inside of him just as the elevator doors opened.

"Yeah, well as much as I'd like to believe you we'll let the body scan decide that," Eddie nodded as he stepped into the elevator and pushed the button to the correct floor.

"Eddie doesn't trust us," the symbiote accused, prompting Eddie to roll his eyes as they moved up the floors of the building. For a powerful super alien from outer space he could sure be sensitive sometimes.

"Shut up, it's not that it's just that I need proof. I'm a reporter, and I like to have the facts."

"The fact is you're being a traitorous piece of shit."

The elevator finally stopped as they reached the selected floor and Eddie walked out into the hallway. He sighed heavily once he stopped in front of the door to Dan's office; his eyes looking up towards the ceiling as if trying to find his calm.

"Tell you what, if you behave here then we'll go get some McDonald's after this. Fair?"

"....Ok, deal. But lets make it a quick visit! I'm hungry!"

"You're always hungry," Eddie shook his head as he opened the door where the doctor and Anne were waiting.

"Hi Eddie, really nice to see you again," Dan welcomed him as he stood up from his desk and walked around to shake Eddie's hand.

"You too. Uh sorry we're late. My alarm didn't go off, and when I was trying to get out the door Venom was being his usual primadonna self and-Gaah!" Eddie grunted when a single symbiote tendril reached out and poked him in the ribs, just under the armpit.

"Keep talking, Eddie," Venom hissed threateningly; his head popping out from his host's back and wrapping himself over the wide shoulders.

"Well now I see who wears the pants in this relationship," Dan laughed, but it died out when Eddie gave him an annoyed glare, not finding his joke amusing in the slightest.

"It's a good thing you're a doctor and not a comedian."

"And it's a good thing you're a reporter and not a giant loser....oh wait," Venom snickered to himself while Eddie glared back at him.

"That's it. Deal's off."

"NOOOOO!!!" Venom wailed in sorrow as Eddie gave a smug grin and reconfirmed his earlier comment.

"See? Primadonna."

"Come on, guys, take it easy. This will all be quick and painless," Anne tried to break it up, though always finding their antics to be amusing.

"Yeah, it shouldn't be bad at all. Very standard procedure. So if you're ready we can get this all underway."

Eddie was then handed a hospital gown to change into as Dan led the way down to the lab.

.......................................

"Alright, buddy, we're gonna do an MRI now, and I know you don't like that so take a hike for a minute," Eddie instructed the alien as he gestured a thumb away from himself.

"Do I have to?"

"Just do it, would ya?"

"Ohhh ok," Venom grumbled as he seeped out of Eddie onto the floor, mostly forming into a blob, but with a serpent-like head extending out. Eddie blinked for a moment and then smirked down at the symbiote.

"You know, I never noticed how cute you actually look like that."

"We are not cute!" Venom glared up at him as Anne looked the symbiote over and nodded.

"You kinda are," she agreed with a grin, causing Venom to hiss and slither off out of the room.

"Well lets get this over with before Venom has a heart attack from not eating for thirty minutes," Eddie joked, purposely saying it loud enough for the alien to hear.

"It's been an hour, you prick!"

"Ooooh sorry, one whole hour! Someone better call CPS on me," Eddie rolled his eyes and climbed up onto the table. He then laid down with his arms at his sides as Anne looked back at Dan to give him the go ahead.

"Alright, we're all set. Here goes nothing," Dan said over the speaker as he controlled the conveyor to slide into the tube until only Eddie's legs and feet were sticking out, "Now try not to move and this won't take long."

"Got it," Eddie nodded, but with the position he was in Anne couldn't resist teasing him a little.

"Comfy in there?" Anne grinned playfully, running a finger up the bottom of Eddie's bare foot as the man yelped and jerked his leg.

"He-Hey! Well not when you do THAT!"

"Sorry, it's just too easy," she briefly tickled his other foot receiving another squawk of objection as Eddie pulled up his knees to put his feet flat on the table.

"Heehee, stop it!"

"Get him again, Anne," Venom goaded into the microphone from where he sat next to Dan inside the control room as Eddie yelled back at him.

"Shut your mouth, parasite!"

Dan was trying to remain professional, but had to use his hand to cover his mouth so he could hide his amused smile.

"Lay still, please. Anne, leave the patient alone."

Anne smirked, giving him a wink as she walked away to join Dan and Venom. Once he saw that she was at a safe distance Eddie put his legs back down.

A few moments later the machine came to life and began the in-depth scan, while the three observed on the monitors in the control room. After a minute of looking at the pictures on the screens Dan cleared his throat.

"Hmm. Well that's interesting...," the doctor trailed off in his thought, making Eddie assume something was wrong.

"What? What do you see?! He hasn't been snacking on my organs, has he?! Venom!"

"Actually everything looks perfectly normal. Organs are all intact, no restrictions in your blood flow, heart looks healthy, brain functions are top notch. All in all I'd say you check out just fine. It's incredible," Dan put his hands up in astonishment as he sat back in his chair.

"So you're saying that having Venom inside of him hasn't done any damage whatsoever?"

Anne was just as surprised to learn this new information as Dan shook his head in response.

"Not that I can see, no."

"Told you, pussy," Venom sneered haughtily, slithering out of the control room back into view while the conveyor drew Eddie out of the machine.

"Well that's a relief," Eddie sat up and immediately began putting his clothes back on, "Guess I can sleep better tonight knowing that this parasite inside me isn't leeching off of my body so much."

"That can easily change if Eddie keeps calling us names...," the symbiote growled as Eddie just shook his head with an amused smirk. Dan then walked out into the room, scribbling some notes onto a clipboard.

"Alright, well since we're all done with that it's safe for Venom to get back into your body now."

"Yes!" Venom whooped as he quickly hurled himself at Eddie, knocking him back onto the table.

"Hey! Watch it!" Eddie grunted as he then found himself forced off of the table to his feet.

"Come on, lets go Eddie! Now!" Venom shouted as he took control and yanked Eddie's body across the room towards the door much to the surprise of the other two.

"Uhh, goodbye?" Anne gave an awkwardly half-wave.

"I promised him McDonaaaaaaald's!" Eddie's voice faded as Venom violently drug him out of the room.

A SHORT WHILE LATER....

"Happy now?" Eddie asked with a sickened frown as he recanted watching Venom devour over ten quarter pounder cheeseburgers. The alien belched in response from inside of him as they walked down the sidewalk.

"Yes. That will probably hold us over for another hour or so."

"You know, you're a pretty expensive date," Eddie groaned as he looked into his wallet, only having a few dollars remaining now.

"Would you rather we ate a human instead?"

"Uhhh no, heh. No, I'd appreciate if you didn't do that," he laughed nervously as he glanced around at all the people on the busy street that Venom could easily snatch up if he so desired.

"Well then you shouldn't complain. Besides, you love us."

"In a really screwed up kinda way, yeah I guess so," Eddie smirked, "Now shut up, will ya? People are gonna think I'm crazy if they see me walking around and talking to myself."

"People already think we are crazy," Venom pointed out, making Eddie shake his head.

"Not complete strangers. Now not another word until we get back home. Got it?"

"But Eddie we can't stay quiet that long..."

Eddie just kept his mouth closed, pretending he didn't hear anything.

"Eddie...."

Still Eddie continued to ignore him

"EddieEddieEddieEddieEddie!"

Eddie just continued facing forward as he focused on getting back to his apartment down the street.

"Ignore me will you...," Venom then grinned slyly as he crept out underneath Eddie's jacket to stay unseen and then gently squeezed the man's shirt covered ribs, making his body jerk in an unusual fashion.

"Gggnnh! You little...!" Eddie yelled just as he was passing a mother with her child, who looked at him accusingly as she pulled her daughter closer and hurried on.

"I'm...I'm sorry, I didn't mean....Not her, I just....," he tried to explain himself as he stammered after them to no avail, hearing the mother mention something to the little girl about, 'That is why you don't do drugs'.

Venom chuckled at how perfect the timing of that had been as Eddie growled.

"Alright, very funny. Now stay still and stay quiet," he muttered, trying not to move his lips too much as his outburst had attracted some unwanted eyes.

He'd made it another half a block before his sides were being attacked again as he stumbled and clamped his arms down.

"Eeheehee!" He gave a high-pitched giggle, prompting some of the street vendors to give him odd looks as he blushed and tried to walk a little faster.

"Will you stop? You're making me look insane."

"Can we talk again?"

"No!" Eddie hissed, "Just keep your fucking mouth shut, and wait until we-Ehahahah!"

The tentacled goo dug into his armpits for a few moments as Eddie squirmed in place and laughed wildly.

"No, not there!" He yelped just as the tickling stopped, looking up to find people had paused on the street to stare at him with curious eyes.

"I uh...heh.....I'm just uhhh....," when he couldn't think of any kind of believable explanation he quickly just turned and walked away again.

"I hate you so much right now," he whispered loudly through gritted teeth, hearing Venom laugh from within and knowing he was getting a big kick out of making Eddie look like a fool.

"Think that's funny? Well guess who's eating nothing but salads for the next week or two."

Venom's snickers immediately were cut off as he was now silent for a moment.

".....You're bluffing," his voice was full of uncertainty and worry and that made Eddie smirk, knowing he had the upper hand now.

"Tickle me again and find out, fucker," Eddie threatened vaguely, and just let Venom stew in his thoughts for now about whether he was being serious or not.

It seemed to work as he had now made it a few blocks without incident, even stopping to have a nice chat with Mrs. Chen when he came across her sweeping up her store front.

"Evening, Mrs. Chen."

"Hello Eddie. Not going to buy a chocolate bar today like usual?"

"No, no chocolate. I was thinking about going on a diet actually," Eddie smirked slightly as he rubbed at his stomach.

"Ohhh, he's not going to like that," she smiled, referring to Venom and knowing that he was the one who had the sweet tooth.

"Well it's for his own good. Besides he's been misbehaving a lot lately so I had to put my foot down. Say you don't happen to sell any saHAAlads, do yoohou?" His body spasmed out of nowhere as the shop keeper gave him a concerned look.

"What's wrong, Eddie? Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm f-INE! I'm juhust....Venom keeps....teehehehehee...I...I gotta go-ho, Mrs. Chen," Eddie stuttered through his giggles as he gave her a wave and continued on his way down the street.

"Don't worry, dear, he'll be back for that chocolate," Mrs. Chen called to Venom with a smile as the alien peeked out from under the back of Eddie's jacket and gave her a wink.

"V! What did I tell you?!" Eddie spat once they were out of earshot, "You really want to eat nothing but salads for a week?!"

All was quiet for a few moments before Venom finally gave a reply that made Eddie's skin crawl.

"Worth it."

A split second later and the tendrils were everywhere on his upper body; this time staying underneath his t-shirt to get directly at the bare skin. They were wriggling all over from his hips and belly all the way up his sides into his armpits, and there was nothing Eddie could do to try to hide his reactions.

The man was in a laughing fit now as he nearly fell over but managed to find his footing and continued to hurry down the sidewalk despite all the people staring at the hysterically laughing man as he went by. The tickling was unrelenting this time as he desperately looked for some kind of escape.

He finally was able to duck down an alleyway, stumbling and tripping over a garbage can as he went further down. After giving a brief look to make sure no one was around he collapsed with his back against a wall and shouted through his laughter.

"Okaaahaay! Okaahaahaaay! Hahahaha! You caahaan tahahalk agahahain! Now pleeeheease st....stop tihihickling meeheee!" His arms uselessly pressed to his sides as he kicked out and squirmed.

"And the salads.....?" Venom pressed with goo squirming up to tickle the reporter's sensitive neck as well, making him squeal out giggles.

"A johohoke! Juhuhust a johohohoke! Ahaahahaheeheehee! Plehehease buhuhuddy! I'm sohohorry!" Eddie shouted for mercy and was grateful when it was granted to him as he tried to calm down and get his breath back. Venom then popped out of his jacket to give him a shit-eating smile.

"Nice of you to come around, Eddie."

"....You're an asshole," Eddie glared playfully at him, giving him a small shove.

"Takes one to know one."

"Yeah? I thought I was a pussy?"

"Yes, but you're our pussy," the symbiote replied as Eddie's face gradually twisted in revulsion.

"Uhhh, thanks? I mean, that hardly sounds like a compliment, but thanks?"

"The best pussy we've ever had," Venom grinned proudly, in his mind thinking that had sounded better as Eddie only sighed and put his face in his palms.

"Please stop."

"Definitely the biggest."

"You can still eat me, right?"

#ticklish!eddiebrock #ticklish!eddie #ler!venom #venom tickle #tickle fic

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