#15% concentrated power of will

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

And 100% reason to remember the name!

[kaurwreck]

idk I think part of why I love my adulthood so much is because I was raising a household at a very early age (I was taking care of my infant sister at the age of five; the rest of my family by age 10), and as an adult, I'm only obligated to the needs of myself, my clients, and my close friends.

I'm overworked and underpaid and overtired and undermedicated more often than not, but when there's a fire in my woods, it's mine and nobody else's.

[blu-bat]

You ever think about how everyone in One Piece has some kinda explanation to their power and then there's Zoro who's only explanation is just 'Built Different'

[metallteeff]

did anyone else treat mob psycho like the bible

[kenananamin]

Tie my tie, marry me

Summary: The moment Nanami knew he never wanted to tie his tie by himself ever again and wanted to spend the rest of his life by your side. fluffy, nanami x fem!reader, nanami already loves everything you do but something about tying his tie was so intimate and special to him

It had been a year since Nanami officially asked you to be his girlfriend, but you had just started staying over during the weekdays. If either of you would stay at each other's houses, it would only be during the weekends when you both knew the next day could be dedicated to each other. Only recently had that unspoken rule changed.

You had both gone to the mall to shop for your new professional wardrobe and Nanami asked if he could buy a few extra things for you to keep at his house. You both knew what that implied and told him he could buy it, only if you could buy some stuff for him to keep at your house. You had both never been happier to spend more time and money at a crowded mall.

Nanami woke up a bit later for work than usual because of a power outage that turned off his alarm clock and did not charge his phone. You went into work after he did so you make his coffee and pack his lunch while he took a quick shower. You run into the bathroom to let him know he had less than 15 more minutes.

He steps out of the shower and grabs his razor to shave. You reach for the hairdryer he bought for you to keep at his house and start to dry his hair as he quickly shaves. You run out and start to rummage through his closet to set his clothes on the bed. Nanami finishes shaving and follows you out to get dressed.

"Shirt first, hurry," you take the shirt off the hanger and throw it to him.

Nanami begins to button the shirt when you get in front of him and start pulling his collar up and putting his tie around his neck. He looks at you with a questioning look and you quickly explain, "My dad taught me how to tie a tie. Never thought it'd come in handy since I never knew anyone who regularly wore a tie before you." You laugh at the memory but continue what you were doing to avoid making your boyfriend late.

Nanami however... his fingers stop buttoning his shirt. He looks at you, concentration and rush covering your features, but your fingers gently grazed his skin as you looped his tie. She's the first person to ever tie it for me, Nanami thinks. He had to learn how to do it from a video and was later corrected by some older male coworkers who showed him with their own ties.

The events of that morning finally dawn on him. You jumped out of bed right after you felt him jump out and started rushing around the apartment with him. He hadn't even mentioned that he was late, but you opened your eyes and knew what to do. He could smell the coffee from the room and heard the clanking of the leftover containers being opened and slid across counters from the shower. You dried his hair knowing that his route to work was not long enough to let it dry itself, and you took out exactly what he would have worn that day while he shaved. And now... there you stood before him, helping him tie his tie so his hands could do other things.

It seemed so... small. It was so small, so truly insignificant in the scale of life, something that could not hold weight in the world or change anything in the universe. But it changed his life, it was his favorite view in the world, and it would become his universe.

You look up at him and see him staring... and his hands not moving?! You move his hands away from the buttons and rush to finish buttoning it down. He takes your face in his hands and leans down to kiss you slowly. So very slow and soft. It stops you completely and you wrap your arms around his waist, relishing in the smell of his aftershave and body wash. Nanami deepens the kiss and moves an arm around your waist to pull you in closer. As much as you love when he pulls you in, the movement pulls you out of the kiss trance.

"Oh my god, Kento, hurry!! You're late, you're late!"

You step back and shove his pants into his arms. You tell him to hurry and that you'd grab his shoes to put by the door. You start yelling across the apartment that it would rain the entire afternoon and he needed to take the umbrella.

Nanami listens as you rustle through the closet looking for the umbrella and the light thud of what might have been his lunch bag and coffee thermal on the entryway table. He walks out the room putting on his suit jacket and sees you lightly jumping while telling him to hurry with his shoes.

Nanami leans down to tie his shoes but pauses after he's done. He goes to touch your bare leg since you hadn't even gotten dressed after waking up. You only wore his large shirt and underwear. He kneels and carefully lifts one leg to kiss your knee. He looks up from his kneeling position and says, "Thank you for helping. You really didn't have to."

His loving eyes close slightly while you lean down to give him one kiss as your response. "You're late," you whisper against his lips.

Nanami stands and takes his things while waving bye to you and your bed head. He heads out the door and begins a light jog to catch his regular train.

Yeap, she's the one, Nanami thinks.

Nanami spent his lunch break at the jewelry shop looking at rings that would look beautiful on your finger. There were so many engagement rings that would look gorgeous on you, but one caught his eye as he imagined that ring slightly moving on your finger as you tied his tie.

"I like that one. Do you have a size (your ring size) in stock?"

Nanami buys the ring at that moment and texts you to ask if he could come over to your house after work. He does not plan to propose on a regular Tuesday evening with no special plans, but he wants to hug you, smell your lovely perfume, take you some flowers, and give you a special thanks for helping him. And maybe, maaaayybe (most likely), stay over at your house to help him with his tie again the next morning.

[calisturniolo]

☆ YAPPER

summary. . . chris is yapping away with his fingers in your mouth because you kept interrupting him

pairing. . . chris sturniolo x fem!reader

warnings. . . gagging

a/n. . . this has been sitting in my drafts for quite some time, i completely forgot about this

“there’s so much shit i need to do for my brand tomorrow, like-“ chris says but being cut off by your voice for the fifth time and he’s only been talking for ten minutes.

“oh my god. i’m so excited for you to release the new items, they’re all so cute.” you gush with excitement as you think about the baby tees and hoodies chris has designed.

“yeah. i think this will be the-“ chris attempts to talk but gets cut off by you, yet again.

“that baby pink baby tee? that looks like heaven. it’s so cute, i can’t wait to-.” you say, but quickly stop as you turn to chris and see the unamused look on his face.

“what’s the problem, baby?” you ask furrowing your brows.

“you. you’re the problem at the moment, actually.” he says with a smirk growing on his face as he trails his hand up your arm, holding his hand in place when it reaches your jaw, “you’ve interrupted me so many times.” he whispers, leaning his face closer to yours as he moves his ring and middle finger up to yours lips.

you and chris kept intense eye contact as he pushes his fingers into your mouth until the lay flat in the middle of your tongue.

his finger’s sit in your mouth for a moment before he pushes them the slightest bit further in. “i swear you never let me talk.” his icy blue eyes stay locked on yours as he moves his fingers just a little more.

when he finally stills his fingers in your mouth, you attempt to talk again, “i do, i let you talk all the time” you try to say but it comes out muffled.

“all the time?” chris repeats back with a scoff, his fingers moving ever so slightly in your mouth, clearly not believing you. he knows you don’t ever let him talk. he just loves any excuse to tease you.

“maybe not all the time, but most of the time” you say but when you do chris plunges his fingers to the back of your throat, causing you to gag on his fingers and tears fill your eyes. and when they do chris pulls his fingers back to sit on your tongue, “now let me talk” he says.

his fingers sit with a little more pressure on your tongue as he waits for you to nod in agreement, watching the tears form in your eyes as you try to recover from the gag. he knows you’ll agree, you always agree.

you slowly nod your head. chris smirks then continues talking, “now you’re finally letting me get a word in. so yeah, the new drop is in about two weeks so i have a bunch of shit i need to sort between now and then.”

his fingers sit still in your mouth as he talks, his other hand that’s around your waist moving up and down your side gently. while his fingers don’t move, they do apply more pressure as he talks, making it harder and harder for you to concentrate on what he’s saying.

chris has yapped and yapped for the past 15 minutes with no interruptions, due to obvious reasons.

you let out a hum as chris brings up something you really want to talk about, but he glares at you and pushes his fingers further down your throat, causing you to gag again.

he smirks as you gag around his fingers again, he’s got such power over you at the moment as he’s in full control. every time you moan, hum, or try to say something, he gags you again. he knows there’s something you want to ask, and he finds this whole situation way too amusing, “there something you want to say, baby?” he taunts with a sly smirk on his face.

he watches intently as you hum and moan around his fingers, his smirk never leaving his face. he loves how powerless you are right now. no matter how hard you try to talk, his fingers will always stop you, and it makes him so amused. he knows that there’s something you want to ask, and he’s fully enjoying taunting you.

“sorry baby, it’s my turn to talk. not yours. but you’ll get your chance later, just not now.” he says in a mocking tone. chris lets out a small chuckle as he watches you struggle. he knows how badly you want to ask him the question, but he’s loving this too much to give you the chance too. “you’re just gonna have to wait a while, baby. i still have more to say. don’t worry.”

he continues rambling on for another ten minutes. this time he only had to gag you twice, unlike last time he had to do it countless times. you really wanted to talk so you brung your hand up to chris’ hand that is in your mouth and attempt to pull it away from your mouth, which chris doesn’t like.

as soon as your hand comes up to his, he pulls it back and pushes his fingers even further in your mouth, his smirk growing as he watches you. he lets out a small huff, “no, princess, don’t try that. this is my turn to talk, not yours. you don’t listen. i have to remind you who’s in charge, don’t i?” he says in a mocking tone.

you look up at him with pleading eyes, silently begging him to let you talk.

chris looks down at you, seeing your pleading eyes and he feels his heart fluttering. every time you look at him like that, he just wants to give in and do anything for you. but not this time, though. no, no, no. right now he’s enjoying how much control he has, and he isn’t giving that up. “ah, princess, baby. stop looking at me like that. that’s not gonna work this time. i’m in charge right now.”

your body deflates when he says that. you really thought chris was going to let talk this time, but you were wrong.

chris notices your body deflates, seeing you give up. he lets out a soft chuckle; the whole situation was so amusing to him. he’s got you right where he wants you - at his mercy. he loves having power over you like this; it’s such a huge turn on for him. he can’t help but tease you a little bit more. “aww, princess. did you really think i was gonna let you talk? after all the times you’ve cut me off? that’s really cute.”

@calisturniolo

[gender-euphowrya]

blazed post. tagged " #viral on the internet ". Babe that is not how this website works

[reasonsforhope]

Article | Paywall Free

"Maryland Gov. Wes Moore issued a mass pardon of more than 175,000 marijuana convictions Monday morning [June 17, 2024], one of the nation’s most sweeping acts of clemency involving a drug now in widespread recreational use.

The pardons forgive low-level marijuana possession charges for an estimated 100,000 people in what the Democratic governor said is a step to heal decades of social and economic injustice that disproportionately harms Black and Brown people. Moore noted criminal records have been used to deny housing, employment and education, holding people and their families back long after their sentences have been served.

[Note: If you're wondering how 175,000 convictions were pardoned but only 100,000 people are benefiting, it's because there are often multiple convictions per person.]

A Sweeping Act

“We aren’t nibbling around the edges. We are taking actions that are intentional, that are sweeping and unapologetic,” Moore said at an Annapolis event interrupted three times by standing ovations. “Policymaking is powerful. And if you look at the past, you see how policies have been intentionally deployed to hold back entire communities.”

Moore called the scope of his pardons “the most far-reaching and aggressive” executive action among officials nationwide who have sought to unwind criminal justice inequities with the growing legalization of marijuana. Nine other states and multiple cities have pardoned hundreds of thousands of old marijuana convictions in recent years, according to the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws. Legalized marijuana markets reap billions in revenue for state governments each year, and polls show public sentiment on the drug has also turned — with more people both embracing cannabis use and repudiating racial disparities exacerbated by the War on Drugs.

The pardons, timed to coincide with Wednesday’s Juneteenth holiday, a day that has come to symbolize the end of slavery in the United States, come from a rising star in the Democratic Party and the lone Black governor of a U.S. state whose ascent is built on the promise to “leave no one behind.”

The Pardons and Demographics

Derek Liggins, 57, will be among those pardoned Monday, more than 16 years after his last day in prison for possessing and dealing marijuana in the late 1990s. Despite working hard to build a new life after serving time, Liggins said he still loses out on job opportunities and potential income.

“You can’t hold people accountable for possession of marijuana when you’ve got a dispensary on almost every corner,” he said.

Nationwide, according to the ACLU, Black people were more than three times more likely than White people to be arrested for marijuana possession. President Biden in 2022 issued a mass pardon of federal marijuana convictions — a reprieve for roughly 6,500 people — and urged governors to follow suit in states, where the vast majority of marijuana prosecutions take place.

Maryland’s pardon action rivals only Massachusetts, where the governor and an executive council together issued a blanket pardon in March expected to affect hundreds of thousands of people.

But Moore’s pardons appear to stand alone in the impact to communities of color in a state known for having one of the nation’s worst records for disproportionately incarcerating Black people for any crimes. More than 70 percent of the state’s male incarcerated population is Black, according to state data, more than double their proportion in society.

In announcing the pardons, he directly addressed how policies in Maryland and nationwide have systematically held back people of color — through incarceration and restricted access to jobs and housing...

Maryland, the most diverse state on the East Coast, has a dramatically higher concentration of Black people compared with other states that have issued broad pardons for marijuana: 33 percent of Maryland’s population is Black, while the next highest is Illinois, with 15 percent...

Reducing the state’s mass incarceration disparity has been a chief goal of Moore, Brown and Maryland Public Defender Natasha Dartigue, who are all the first Black people to hold their offices in the state. Brown and Dartigue have launched a prosecutor-defender partnership to study the “the entire continuum of the criminal system,” from stops with law enforcement to reentry, trying to detect all junctures where discretion or bias could influence how justice is applied, and ultimately reform it.

How It Will Work

Maryland officials said the pardons, which would also apply to people who are dead, will not result in releasing anyone from incarceration because none are imprisoned. Misdemeanor cannabis charges yield short sentences and prosecutions for misdemeanor criminal possession have stopped, as possessing small amounts of the drug is legal statewide.

Moore’s pardon action will automatically forgive every misdemeanor marijuana possession charge the Maryland judiciary could locate in the state’s electronic court records system, along with every misdemeanor paraphernalia charge tied to use or possession of marijuana. Maryland is the only state to pardon such paraphernalia charges, state officials said...

People who benefit from the mass pardon will see the charges marked in state court records within two weeks, and they will be eliminated from criminal background check databases within 10 months."

-via The Washington Post, June 17, 2024. Headings added by me.

[zvaigzdelasas]

Instead of burning fossil fuels to reach the temperatures needed to smelt steel and cook cement, scientists in Switzerland want to use heat from the sun. The proof-of-concept study uses synthetic quartz to trap solar energy at temperatures over 1,000°C (1,832°F), demonstrating the method’s potential role in providing clean energy for carbon-intensive industries. A paper on the research was published on May 15 in the journal Device.[...]

Glass, steel, cement, and ceramics are at the very heart of modern civilization, essential for building everything from car engines to skyscrapers. However, manufacturing these materials demands temperatures over 1,000°C and relies heavily on burning fossil fuels for heat. These industries account for about 25% of global energy consumption. Researchers have explored a clean-energy alternative using solar receivers, which concentrate and build heat with thousands of sun-tracking mirrors. However, this technology has difficulties transferring solar energy efficiently above 1,000°C.

To boost the efficiency of solar receivers, Casati turned to semitransparent materials such as quartz, which can trap sunlight—a phenomenon called the thermal-trap effect. The team crafted a thermal-trapping device by attaching a synthetic quartz rod to an opaque silicon disk as an energy absorber. When they exposed the device to an energy flux equivalent to the light coming from 136 suns, the absorber plate reached 1,050°C (1,922°F), whereas the other end of the quartz rod remained at 600°C (1,112°F).

“Previous research has only managed to demonstrate the thermal-trap effect up to 170°C (338°F),” says Casati. “Our research showed that solar thermal trapping works not just at low temperatures, but well above 1,000°C. This is crucial to show its potential for real-world industrial applications.”

Using a heat transfer model, the team also simulated the quartz’s thermal-trapping efficiency under different conditions. The model showed that thermal trapping achieves the target temperature at lower concentrations with the same performance, or at higher thermal efficiency for equal concentration. For example, a state-of-the-art (unshielded) receiver has an efficiency of 40% at 1,200°C, with a concentration of 500 suns. The receiver shielded with 300 mm of quartz achieves 70% efficiency at the same temperature and concentration. The unshielded receiver requires at least 1,000 suns of concentration for comparable performance.

17 May 24

[melminli]

Cold Coffee

pairing: young coriolanus snow x fem. reader

summery - you liked working, and someone else liked you working for them.

word count: 2k+

contains: young president coryo, crack, fluff, secretary reader, coryo being lovesick and shy

You had a routine. A routine that you strictly followed every day and it started with your alarm clock waking you up at 5 o'clock in the morning. The first thing you did was get up and go to the bathroom to wash the sleep off your face, otherwise you couldn't get anything done. After you had finished everything else concerning your hygiene, you continued with your outfit of the day.

You liked to play around a bit when it came to your fashion choices. After all, you were living in the Capitol. Your job still demanded a certain formality and professionalism, which is why you were perhaps not as free in your choice as others, but that wasn't a problem for you. You always managed to find something elegant to wear since you had all kinds of clothing in different colors and fabrics that were perfect for combining with various other items. Whether vests, suit jackets, skirts, trousers or everything all together, it was entirely up to your mood. (Even though combining everything together was something you hadn't done since your school days at the academy.).

Then the last thing left missing was your hair and maybe some make-up, before you could step out of the house with your pre-packed bag. After a 15-minute drive in your car, you would arrive a few minutes early and were able to go about your duties as planned until it was time to leave at around 4 pm (if you were lucky).

You've been doing this every day for three years. Every day. That may sound exhausting (because it is), but you were also kind of happy about it since missing work would just mean that you had more to do on the following one. You rarely got sick, but when you did it was usually nothing serious so you came to work anyway. On the two rare occasions when you were really seriously ill, you were once off work and once you were lucky (or unlucky) that it was at the time of several public holidays. So yes, you haven't missed a single day of work - until today.

Your alarm clock died in the middle of the night.

"...huh - what's happening?" You asked, slightly drowsy, and it felt like you'd been asleep for far too long, a suspicious amount of long. Your eyes glanced at the clock on your wall, and you had to concentrate to keep the image from blurring. "...It's a quarter past seven." You finally realized, before widening your eyes and jumping out of bed. "It's a quarter past seven! I'm going to be late!"

In your stress to get ready quickly, you decided to get dressed first and quickly picked something out before scurrying to the bathroom to get ready. That was your mistake because while being a bit too hectic when brushing your teeth, you were clumsy enough to get toothpaste on your shirt. "No, no, no - ugh. I can't believe this." You whined and hurried so you could change again.

Hair? fine, make-up? Fuck it - okay, just go out and get in the car. At this point, you were already a whole hour late. When you arrived at the place where your car was supposed to be and couldn't see it, you started to panic and it didn't stop when you realized why. It's in the repair shop! Why, does this have to happen to me?!

"Okay, let's calm down for a minute." You said to yourself and took a deep breath of the cold morning air. It was quiet, only the chirping of the birds could be heard, it was still early in the morning. "That's just the way it is now. I'll just let someone know I'll be late and - " You said and took out your phone, only to realize that it was dead. This all was probably due to a power cut in the night, which also explained why your alarm clock wasn't working this morning. " - alright, I won't do that then. It's cool. Everything's cool."

Your day was off to a pretty bad start already. It would take you at least half an hour to get to work with the train, and you'd have to wait another half an hour since the last one left five minutes ago according to your watch. Yes, the morning commute wasn't exactly popular in the Capitol - the people here usually preferred to sleep in.

"You know what? I'm just going to treat myself to my favorite drink in my favorite café. I really can't do this right now." You finally decide and set off a little more relaxed. "I would argue that I don't get paid enough for this, but I actually get paid pretty well." You admitted but didn't care any more than to laugh about it.

Of course, no one would assume that the secretary to the president of Panem would get a bad wage.

Hm. Coriolanus looked at his watch again. His eyes had been darting there strangely often since this morning. Well, he didn't see you at all today, and normally you would greet him on the way to his office, and he would greet you back. After a while, you would come through the door and ask if he wanted coffee while you were already carrying it to him in your hand. This was followed by a little summary from you about what appointments he had today, who he was meeting and so on - it's not that important, the point is that he hasn't seen you yet and he didn't know why.

He got up from his seat and opened the door of his office to look out, but like before, you weren't sitting in your seat at the reception desk.

He then decided to look for his nearest employee. "Excuse me, Mr. Pox. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. " He announced his presence as he knocked lightly on the open door with his knuckles.

The man immediately stood up slightly nervously in order to appear respectful. He was older than Coriolanus, but he also wasn't the president. "You're not interrupting anything, sir! How can I help you?" He asked, a little confused. Oh no, he never asks me anything personally, I hope it's nothing serious. I'm not in trouble, am I?

Coriolanus reassured him as he subtly asked his question. "Well, I was just wondering where my secretary was. You wouldn't happen to know anything about her whereabouts?" He said, thinking it was a little stupid of him for not wanting to appear conspicuous. She works for me. I have the right to know where she is. This is not in any way inappropriate.

Pox was relieved when it turned out that this wasn't about him, but immediately felt a little guilty because you seemed to be in trouble. You were his nicest colleague, he liked you a lot. But I can't just lie to the president either. He's literally the president! He'll certainly find out if I do. "No, sir. Unfortunately not, she didn't tell me anything." He replied and just watched as the man in front of him hummed absently, which is why he quickly added. "Maybe she's just late?"

If that were the case, you'd already be three hours late. That was not like you, and Coriolanus began to subconsciously worry a little. She would let me know if she was going to be late. He thought to himself until he realized that you had never been late before, so he couldn't be too sure of his theory. Because that was what it was - just a theory. "Hm. All right, thanks for your time, see you then." He said goodbye to Pox and decided to go back to his office.

There wasn't really anything else he could do - well, except maybe call you. He stopped his steps for a moment at the thought. That feels wrong. Usually, you were the one who called him regularly or barged into his office so he didn't really have to. Well, sometimes he wanted to, but he doubted you would appreciate it if he contacted you after your working hours. He sometimes wished that his thoughts of you would end with your departure, but he hadn't really been successful yet, and for god's sake, he didn't know why. Well, I do - but it's complicated. She's my secretary and this isn't a stupid rom com.

He saw you all day. That is enough. It should be enough. It wasn't like he was looking forward to monday or anything since you started working for him - well, he was, but that was because of other things, for sure. It could be because of other things, he could find joy in other things.

"Oh, Mr. Snow. There you are." Your voice surprised him as he opened the door to his own office and was greated with your face in front of his. "I wanted to talk to you, but then you weren't here. I'm sorry I got in without your permission." You apologized sincerely and took a step to the side so he could enter.

"It's all good. You don't need to apologize." Coriolanus said calmly and sat down in his seat, subtly watching you move in front of his desk. "What is it?" He asked, appearing unaffected - as if he hadn't been thinking about you and what you were doing since this morning.

You looked slightly confused. "Well, I'm three hours late for work." You announced, sure that he would have noticed. "I know this can't be excused, and I'll get straight to work to make up for it, I promise. It's just that my car has a few issues and, well..." You assured him and placed a paper cup on his table. "I know I usually bring you coffee, and this is not the expensive one from here, but from my favorite café around the corner, but well..." You started rambling a bit and were a little more talkative than usual, which didn't go unnoticed. "...It also got cold on the way, and I spilled half of it because someone ran into me on the train." You added when you noticed how his gaze shifted to the stain at your side.

"Sounds like you had a pretty exciting morning. It's all right, don't worry, I'll turn a blind eye since it's the first time." Coriolanus replied with his slightly charming smile. You usually told him so little about your personal life that he unconsciously began to appreciate the little things he got to hear from you.

Like no, he didn't want to hear another stupid story about Mr. Aliose and his fucking hamsters. He almost felt sorry for the guys patheticness, maybe he could live a happier life if he put more effort into finding a wife than getting his pet to do a roll. Or from his other employees who tried to entertain him with uninteresting personal stories he didn't care about - because he didn't care about them.

And the one person he did actually want to hear from, kept their personal and work life very separate. He hated that it wasn't the other way around.

You nodded. "You don't even know. I don't expect you to drink this, by the way. As a matter of fact, I'll make you another one right now. It's just that - I worked really hard to get this to you, and it felt wrong to just throw it in the trash in the end." You let that bit out before returning to your professional self. "I just wanted that at least one thing would go right today."

Stay cool, Coriolanus. Don't freak out, and also, stop romanticizing this. "It's all good. I'm honored that you thought of me." He said, hoping he sounded natural.

A smile graced your face. "Of course, Mr. Snow. I'll be right back." You promised him as you stepped out of his office and made your way to the coffee machine.

As soon as the door closed behind you, Coriolanus let out the breath he had been holding. His hand reached for the coffee cup and turned it in his hand only to discover a small note on it. "For my boss and the boss of Panem :)" He read out loud and smiled as his thumb ran over the drawing of the snowflake. He couldn't help but take the little gesture to heart. "That's so sweet."

I should send out a car to pick her up tomorrow - for business reasons, of course.

[sirfrogsworth]

I'm moving out of the city and I'm going to have to learn to drive. Any advice for someone (reluctantly) looking into cars for the first time?

Sorry for the late response, but I really wanted to answer this because I think I have some relevant advice.

I started driving the very day I was allowed to get my learner's permit. I took it very seriously. My dad was a mechanic, my brother literally built a car when he was 16. They were car guys and I was the goofy comedian they didn't really understand. So I wanted to be a really good driver to impress them.

I practiced every chance I got. I took driver's ed in school and got a 100% in the class. And I got a perfect score on my written driver's test and only got dinged for 1 thing on the main exam (it was bullshit, but apparently there is no way to protest a near perfect score).

But then I got sick and it didn't make sense to pay for car insurance and maintain a vehicle. So I didn't drive for roughly 15 years.

Then both my parents got sick and they became dangerous drivers and so I had to figure out how to drive again. And at first I was nervous, but after about a week of driving, I was nearly as good of a driver as when I was younger.

The reason?

Muscle memory.

Muscle memory will save your life over just about anything. The less you have to concentrate on the physical actions and habits required to drive, the more you can concentrate on situational awareness. If you don't have to think about turning the wheel, or braking, or even activating the turn signals, you can use all of that brain power to pay attention to all of the dumb fucks they let drive cars.

So my biggest piece of advice would be to break down all of the physical actions required to operate a vehicle. Even the tiny stuff like switching the station on the radio or turning down the fan on the A/C. Then find a way to practice these things over and over and over until you have that muscle memory embedded into your brain. My muscle memory was so deeply ingrained that it lasted through 15 years of not driving and a batch of mind-wiping electroshock treatments.

Find a safe place to practice and just repeat things until they feel like second nature. Especially checking your blind spots. If you can get checking blind spots to the point where you do it without even thinking about it, you will increase your safety substantially.

Other tips...

Small cheap cars are best first cars. Big cars can make you feel disconnected from the road. Almost like you are piloting the vehicle in a video game. I started on my grandma's 1987 Chevy Cavalier. It was tiny. It had no power. It was free. But I could feel everything I was doing. I could feel the turns. I could feel the road. I could feel braking and acceleration. And it really helped me understand the relationship between driver and vehicle. It was like a big go-kart but I think having that as my first car really helped me develop my driving skills.

And my last tip is to learn gradient braking and acceleration. It's mostly for the comfort of your passengers. It gives them a smoother experience but it also makes them feel safer driving with you. Basically you want to figure out how to apply pressure to the pedals in such a way that almost no G-force is felt. So you start with very light pressure and gradually transition into the max pressure you need. And you need to do it quick enough to stop and accelerate at the proper rate. If you don't transition fast enough you might not stop in time or be able to merge onto the highway. And if you transition too fast people will be lurching back and forth in their seat. But, again, practice makes perfect.

My brother is horrible at this, though mostly on purpose. He likes driving like everything is a race. And with his muscle cars, that can be fun at times. But when you are just going to the store it can make one a little nauseous. I find myself just grabbing the "oh shit" handles and never letting go.

But if you can smooth out your acceleration and braking to the point it is barely felt, all of your passengers will thank you for it.

Hopefully that helps. And maybe other folks can reply with additional advice. And if you have any more specific concerns feel free to ask. I wasn't sure if you were more worried about driving or picking out a car, so hopefully we can collectively cover both.

I wish you luck and hope you learn to love driving. It is pretty cool once you get the hang of it.

[izvmimi]

cw: set in both past and present. goofy but a bit of fluff. reader has a specified quirk. suggestive near the end.

Concentrate. Stop being impatient. You’re applying too little power, you won’t heal anything like that; you’re applying too much power, you’ll kill them! Slow down. Move more quickly, the sick and injured will keep coming. 

You bite your lip and pull your backpack closer to yourself as you think back to today’s lesson, both mentally and physically exhausted from the day before you. These internships are meant to push the limits of your Quirks, and you can imagine that all of your classmates are just as tired as you, but it’s hard for you to reconcile the fact that an old lady who keeps candy in her purse and smooches indiscriminately to heal injuries should be such a hardass to you. 

The tips of your fingers still tingle with the aftermath of transferring so much electricity towards them. Today, she had you try to practice transferring all of your energy from your toes to the palms of your hand and back, consecutively, and you still feel wobbly on your feet as you make your way home. It’s dark now and you’re a little lonely walking home alone, but your thoughts will keep your company as you walk through the streets. 

Joining the hero class late, you simply have to work harder, that’s all there is to it, you think. You don’t have the flashy quirks your peers do, no extreme power without blowback, no endless ice or fire or weapons, no explosions or gravity manipulation, no animals to come to your aid or ability to disappear and slip away. 

You have to be creative with your Quirk as best you can if you want to be of any use. 

You’re about 15 minutes away from your home by now and check your cell phone. There are messages from Momo where she’s trying her hardest to convince you that there’s some utility in makeup commercials for the greatest good, and you try to placate her as best you can as the good friend you are. Your friend from the support course has also sent you a wide-eyed orange cat emoji with the aim to check in since you’ve been quiet and you smile and send a signal that you’re alive with a tongue out emoji. You look at your screen for a few more seconds and don’t get an immediate reply but smile to yourself anyway before slipping your phone in your pocket.

As you turn past an alleyway, the sudden crashing sound of trash cans and body weight against concrete startles you enough that you jump. You have a few seconds to decide if you want to see what’s happening before you convince yourself it’s an animal, but you hear a groan, and before you can make it around the alleyway, there’s yet another thud. 

When you turn the corner, you’re surprised to see Midoriya, face smashed into the wall, nearly ten feet in the air. He falls too fast for you to reach him to try to break his fall, but it’s broken by a load of bundled trash, possibly more than you’ve ever seen not disposed of in your entire life. Dumbfounded, you watch him frown but he doesn’t seem hurt too badly (at least, not as badly as you’ve seen him self-inflict before) and he barely even realizes you’re there, before he’s back to his feet again, staring at the wall pensively, eyebrows knit together as he’s lost in thought. 

He’s in his hero suit, and you wonder how long he’s been out here. Feet pressed against the pavement again, he bends his knees and you see sparks fly before he’s about to jump again, and before he can move…

��Uh… Midoriya? What are you doing?” you finally announce yourself and he freezes still like a statue.

The sparks stop immediately as he turns to you, and his face is redder than a strawberry, jaw slack.

“Oh! Oh my God! I.. uh…”

You blink. Midoriya is always somewhat skittish around you, and you do admit that it’s probably because you’ve been prone to mess with him and give him nicknames, but you’ve never harbored any ill will against it. In fact, there’s a sort of fondness you have towards him, ever since the sports festival. He always manages to surprise you with his resourcefulness even if he’s the polar opposite of you ability-wise - all power, no self preservation.

Still, this isn’t the type of surprise you anticipated. 

Midoriya is still staring at you, mouth agape as he tries to come up with an explanation, not having realized that you’re no longer interested in whatever strangeness he imparts to you as long as he’s okay. All you can think about now is the fact that your head has started to pound, so watching him smash his face into the wall a second time might be the least of your concerns.

But you have to be curious in some way if you’re still standing here at 9 pm on a weekday.

“I-I’m trying to figure out my Quirk…” Izuku says through nervous laughter. You nod slowly, looking at and around him.

“Looking for the light in a dark alley, I see,” you murmur. He doesn’t laugh, instead grimacing. You scrunch your nose a bit at the smell, inescapable, trying to be kind enough not to say a word about it. “It’s super late,” you murmur, then tilt your head. “Are you going to go home soon?”

Maybe walking home with a classmate might be nice, it occurs to you.

Izuku’s green eyes light up for just a moment, then he frowns. 

“I can’t-” he sees you pout before you even realize you are doing so, “-but I can next time! I just have to…” his voice falters as you shift your weight from one side to another then shrug your shoulders. 

“No big deal.”

You turn on your heels, a little slighted but fine. He’s nice to talk to sometimes but you could call your mom or another friend perhaps for company. Izuku is annoying anyway, he’ll probably find a way to aggravate you before you make it home and you’ll regret even running into him. Perhaps.

“I’ll see you around then,” you offer, waving impassively behind you as you walk away.

“B-be safe!” he calls out as you take your first steps away, and you keep walking, the sparks of electricity he generates again as he goes back to whatever desperate move he’s working out putting the hairs of your neck slightly on edge, light catching your peripheral vision.

You turn to him, and take the scene in again. The boy with the Quirk that grants incredible power with a blowback he still can’t withstand. Perhaps truly, he’s not the opposite of you, but complementary. 

He has a look of determination to him, you note, as he squats slightly, then leaps again, soaring high to the point that it’s almost graceful -  but then he hits the wall once more. He tumbles again into bagged trash, and you sigh. 

You’re exhausted but not so exhausted that you can’t help.

“Midoriya, don’t jump again.”

As his head snaps back in your direction, he seems shocked that you’re still there and you wonder how he has such singular focus. Before he can react to you, you end up palming his entire face, pulsing the rest of your energy reserves quickly into the bruised tissues before retracting your arm.

Izuku’s eyes are wide when he looks at you, but you can tell you’ve succeeded because the redness and tiny scrapes on his face have already started to disappear, even if you can’t do anything about his bleeding nose.

You should have thought about this, you think as you wipe your hands on the side of your pants.

“T-thank you,” he mutters. 

You offer him a smile. Either way it’s a form of training.

“Of course. See you around, dino nuggets.”

—

“You know, that was the first time you healed me, ever.”

Izuku remembers that night so many years ago slightly differently than you do, it seems. He remembers being less uninterested in your presence than you impart to him as you recount it, and tells you his heart thumped so fast with embarrassment the moment he saw you he might as well have been having a heart attack, and focusing on his goal of figuring out OFA was the only thing that kept him from dying of mortification on the spot. Your crush finding you crashing into a wall then garbage repeatedly at nighttime in a dark alley isn’t exactly a chivalrous look, and looking so pitiful he earned an unsolicited heal wasn’t exactly the way he tried to woo you.

But all’s well that ends well, no?

You giggle, letting small pulses of your bioelectricity relax the muscles in his back with pinpoint precision. Your fingertips continue to dance gently along his skin until the tension dissipates completely, and he lets out a satisfied sigh as they move gently to his neck, then tap gently at his scalp. 

“I probably could have been just a little more respectful of your dignity, but I think even back then I was trying very hard to suppress any positive feelings for you,” you admit. There’s no point in pretending now that your tender relationship is clearer than crystal, blatant for the world to see.

“And how did that work out for you?” he retorts as your hands run through his hair lovingly. 

You smile to yourself, letting your torso press gently against his back. Izuku’s laying on his belly and you were straddling him prior to this, having decided to bless him with a special back massage as a treat. Your husband always does his best, and doing his best has taken a lot out of him in the past few recent days, so this is the least you can offer him and you’re glad to do so. Both of you have grown stronger, smarter, and better at using your Quirks for yourselves, for society and for each other. It’s only natural that you’ve learned a trick or two.

“Terrible,” you answer.

You smile as your face presses against his upper back, letting your hands run along the length of his arms, more soft pulses of electricity passing through his skin. He shudders against your body and your heart practically sings with affection. 

“Terrible?” he tries to sound annoyed but his voice comes out higher than usual, riddled with relief.

“Yeah, I had no intention to fall in love with you. A huge fail on my part, actually.”

He chuckles.

“I guess it’s true that there’s a lot to gain from failure then.”

You hate and love that he’s always so good at redirecting and softening any of your playful resistance. Your hands tighten gently around his wrists.

“Are you mocking me, Izuku?”

His laughter rumbles through his larger body, the vibration running through all parts of you as you stay pressed together.

“Maybe,” he replies, coyly. 

“You know, in this position, I could make sure you never get up again,” you say in a honeyed voice. “You have a vested interest in being nice to me,” you tease.

Izuku moves a little too fast for you to keep up at times, and this is one of those times. Before you realize, your positions have switched, and now he’s on top of you, so close his forehead is pressed to yours.

He kisses just above your eyebrows, your eyes closing automatically.

“I’m always nice to you,” he reminds you, his voice soft.

You smile as they open again and you look at him. He’s far from the awkward try-hard boy he once was, and you’re far from the sometimes standoffish, other times overly yet hesitantly invested girl you once were.

You’re invested in him with full intention, just as he’s invested in you.

“You’re right. Thank you for being so good to me,” you reply softly.

And you’ll always be good to him.

[creepymutelilbugger]

this is 10% cat

20% gril

15% concentrated power of pill

5% penis

50% cock

and 100% reason to go purchase a glock

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (15)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: 14

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The sun hangs high over Dragonstone. The clanging of swords and the shouts of sparring echo off the ancient stone walls. You move with precision, your blade meeting Jace’s with a sharp clang, the force of your strike sending a shiver through your arm. He grunts, his teeth gritted in concentration, and steps back, his stance wary but determined.

“Good, Jace,” you praise, your voice carrying over the courtyard. “But you need to be quicker with your counter. Don’t just defend—respond.”

Jace nods, sweat beading on his forehead, his grip tightening on the hilt of his practice sword. Beside him, Luke and Joffrey watch intently, their wooden swords clutched in eager hands. You’ve been drilling them for hours now, running through new techniques and refining their form. It’s hard, grueling work, but they’re determined, and you’re proud of how far they’ve come.

You catch a movement out of the corner of your eye and glance up to see Daemon leaning against the low stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s been observing quietly for some time now, his sharp gaze taking in every movement, every correction you make to the boys’ stances.

“You’re being too lenient with them,” Daemon calls out, his tone teasing. “They’re growing soft.”

You smirk, parrying Jace’s next strike with ease. “I’d like to see you do better, Uncle,” you retort, sidestepping and tapping Jace lightly on the shoulder with the flat of your blade. “But I’m afraid you might end up in the dirt.”

Jace’s face flushes with effort and embarrassment, but he doesn’t falter. He launches forward again, his movements sharper now, more precise. You nod approvingly, meeting his attack and countering with a swift, controlled strike that sends his sword flying from his grip.

“You’re thinking too much, Jace,” you advise, lowering your sword as he bends to retrieve his own. “Trust your instincts. When you hesitate, you lose the fight.”

Luke and Joffrey shift restlessly, their eyes fixed on you, eager for their turn. “Patience,” you tell them with a smile. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

From the other side of the courtyard, the sound of laughter drifts over, and you turn to see Rhaena and Baela playing with Aegon and Viserys. The sight makes your heart swell—your family, all together, safe and thriving.

“How’s Rhaenyra?” Daemon asks, his voice softer now, his eyes following your gaze. “I heard she’s resting more these days.”

You nod, a shadow of concern crossing your face. “She’s well, just tired. The pregnancy has been harder on her this time.” You glance up at the stone keep where you know she’s resting, a hand absentmindedly drifting to your sword’s hilt. “The maesters say she needs more rest.”

Daemon’s expression darkens for a moment, then he pushes off the wall, striding toward you with that easy, confident grace that always seems to hang about him. “She’s strong,” he says quietly, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “She’ll be fine. And in the meantime, you’ve got these boys to keep you busy.”

He jerks his chin at Jace, who’s back on his feet, his jaw set with determination. “Well, go on then. Don’t let me distract you.”

You laugh, turning back to Jace. “Ready?”

Jace nods, his eyes locked on yours. “Ready, Father.”

“Then show me what you’ve got.”

The next exchange is faster, more intense. Jace’s strikes come harder, his form tighter. You meet each blow with measured force, letting him push you back step by step, testing his limits, his resolve.

“Don’t overextend,” you advise as he lunges forward, catching his blade and twisting, sending him spinning off-balance. “Watch your footing.”

Luke and Joffrey cheer him on, bouncing on the balls of their feet, eager to jump in. You smile at their enthusiasm, the warmth of it filling you. This—training them, seeing them grow strong and skilled, preparing them for the challenges they’ll face—is everything you’d hoped for when you left King’s Landing behind six years ago.

Daemon watches with a critical eye, his fingers tapping idly against the pommel of his own sword. “You’re teaching them well,” he says, almost begrudgingly. “Better than I would have expected.”

You raise an eyebrow, deflecting another of Jace’s strikes with a quick flick of your wrist. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

Daemon chuckles, the sound low and genuine. “It is. Don’t get used to it.”

The bout continues, your focus split between Jace’s movements and the playful shouts of the younger children nearby. You’re aware of every detail—the shift in Jace’s stance, the tightening of his grip, the way his breath comes in short, sharp bursts. He’s pushing himself hard, testing his limits, and you can see the progress he’s made.

“Good,” you say, meeting his next strike and holding it, your blades locked together. “Now, what do you do?”

Jace hesitates, his eyes flicking down to where your swords meet, and you can see the answer forming in his mind. He shifts his weight, trying to break free, but you twist your blade, disarming him in one smooth motion.

“You hesitate,” you say, stepping back. “That’s the problem. Don’t think—act.”

Jace picks up his sword, his expression frustrated but determined. “Again.”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips. “Again.”

From the sidelines, Daemon watches, his eyes gleaming with something like pride. “They’re growing up fast,” he muses, his gaze flicking to his own daughters, who are now sitting with Aegon and Viserys, pointing and laughing as they watch your sparring.

“They are,” you agree, your voice softening. “And they’ll need to. The world won’t be kind to them.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, thoughtful look. “No, it won’t,” he says quietly. “But they’ve got you, and they’ve got each other. That’s more than most.”

You nod, meeting his eyes. There’s an understanding between you, a shared determination to protect these children, to prepare them for whatever may come.

“Come on, boys,” you call to Luke and Joffrey. “Your turn. Show me what you’ve learned.”

They rush forward, faces alight with excitement, and you brace yourself, ready for the next round. As they swing their wooden swords at you, laughter and shouts filling the courtyard, you feel a rare moment of peace—a moment where everything is as it should be.

The chamber is quiet, the only sound the soft scratching of quill on parchment as Jacaerys painstakingly transcribes a passage from an ancient tome. The light from the high windows spills over the room, illuminating the rows of books and scrolls stacked neatly on the shelves. You watch your son closely, your arms crossed over your chest as he works. His brow is furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he writes.

“Focus, Jace,” Grand Maester Geraryds murmurs, his voice gentle but firm. The old man stands beside your son, his eyes sharp despite the wear of age. “Precision is just as important as speed.”

Jace nods, his face determined, and adjusts his grip on the quill. You can see the effort he’s putting in, the desire to do well in his studies. It fills you with a deep sense of pride—and a quiet relief. As your heir, Jace will have to be more than just a skilled warrior. He must be learned, wise, and capable of navigating the complexities of the realm that will one day be his responsibility.

From the corner of the room, Rhaenyra reclines on a sofa piled high with cushions, her form graceful despite the weight of her pregnancy. Her ladies-in-waiting hover nearby, attending to her needs, while a servant girl fans her gently. Her eyes are on Jace, a soft smile playing at her lips as she watches him work.

You glance at her, the sight of her surrounded by such care stirring a mixture of emotions in your chest. There’s love, of course, and pride, but also a lingering concern. This pregnancy has been harder on her than the others, and despite her reassurances, you worry.

Jace pauses in his writing, glancing up at you with a hesitant smile. “Is this better, Father?”

You lean forward, scanning the parchment. The lines are more even now, the script clearer. “Much better, Jace,” you say, your tone warm with approval. “You’re doing well.”

Geraryds nods, his expression thoughtful. “Your progress is commendable, Prince Jacaerys. But remember, knowledge is as much about understanding what you read as it is about recording it. We’ll review the text together, and I’ll ask you questions.”

Jace nods eagerly, his eyes bright. “Yes, Maester.”

You smile at the exchange, feeling a swell of pride. Jace is growing into his role, bit by bit, and you can see the promise of the man he will one day become.

The door to the chamber swings open, and Daemon strides in, his presence as commanding as ever. There’s a faint smirk on his lips as he surveys the scene, his eyes lingering on Jace before shifting to you.

“Nephew,” he greets, his tone light but carrying an edge. “I come bearing news.”

You straighten, your attention sharpening. “What is it, Daemon?”

He hands you a folded letter, the seal of the king’s office unmistakable in the candlelight. “A message from King’s Landing,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “Viserys has summoned us all for a family dinner. It seems he wants to mend what he can while he still breathes.”

You take the letter, breaking the seal and scanning the contents. The words are brief, almost painfully so. Viserys’s hand trembles in the ink, the once-strong script now wavering and frail. He writes of wanting his family together, of wishing for peace in what time remains to him.

There’s a heaviness in your chest as you fold the letter again, your gaze lifting to meet Daemon’s. His face is uncharacteristically serious, his usual air of indifference replaced by something somber.

“There’s little life left in him,” Daemon says quietly, his eyes dark with a sorrow that he rarely shows. “Your father is not long for this world.”

Rhaenyra shifts on the sofa, her eyes wide as she looks between you and Daemon. You walk over to her, sitting beside her and taking her hand in yours. The contact is warm, comforting, but it does little to ease the ache that has taken root in your heart.

You exchange a long, searching look with her, the unspoken emotions passing between you like a current. No matter what bitterness or anger has grown in the wake of others’ actions, the love you both hold for Viserys remains. He is your father, her father, and the prospect of losing him—even after everything—is like a knife twisting in your gut.

“What will we do?” Rhaenyra asks softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her eyes.

“We’ll go,” you say firmly, your gaze steady on hers. “We owe him that much. Whatever else has happened, he’s our father.”

She nods, her grip on your hand tightening. “And the children?”

“We’ll take them too,” you reply, glancing over at Jace, who’s watching the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “They need to see their grandsire. It might be the last chance they have.”

Daemon makes a low, thoughtful sound, his eyes flicking over Jace and then back to you. “Are you sure that’s wise? The last time we were all together—”

“I know,” you cut him off, your voice firm but not unkind. “But this time will be different. It has to be.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, a cynical smile touching his lips. “You’re too hopeful, nephew. But maybe that’s what we need.”

You turn back to Rhaenyra, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “We’ll go,” you say again, your voice softer now, filled with a quiet resolve. “And we’ll do what we can to honor his wish.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but she nods, her expression determined. “For him,” she agrees.

You stand, turning back to Daemon. “Thank you for bringing the message, Uncle. I’ll make preparations for our journey.”

Daemon inclines his head, a glimmer of something like respect in his eyes. “I’ll see to the dragons, then. We’ll leave at first light.”

As he strides from the room, you look back at Rhaenyra, still holding her hand. The future is uncertain, and the wounds between your family and the Hightowers are deep. But for now, you will go to your father, and you will be the family he needs you to be.

For whatever time remains.

The Red Keep looms above you, its familiar silhouette outlined against a sky heavy with gray clouds. As your party makes its way toward the main gate, you cast a glance back at Rhaenyra, who rides beside you on her horse. Her face is composed, but you can see the tension in her jaw, the tightness in her posture. Behind her, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, while Aegon, and Viserys follow closely in a carriage with their nannies.

Daemon rides on the other side of you, his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, flanking him like shadows. The sight of the Red Keep should have been a welcome return, a homecoming, but there is an unsettling quiet, an absence of the grandeur and formality that should have greeted the heirs to the throne.

“No royal welcome for us, it seems,” you murmur, your voice carrying only to Rhaenyra and Daemon. “The King’s own son and heir, his daughter and grandchildren, and not so much as a guard to receive us.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over the battlements, her lips thinning into a hard line. “They want us to feel unwelcome,” she says quietly. “To remind us whose influence holds sway here now.”

Daemon snorts softly, his eyes narrowing as he surveys the castle. “They’ve let the vultures roost on our bones,” he mutters. “But we’ll remind them who truly owns this place.”

As you approach the gates, you notice the heraldry of the Targaryens—the three-headed dragon of your house—has been replaced by the sigils of the Faith of the Seven. Banners bearing the seven-pointed star hang where the crimson and black should have flown, the sight of them making your blood run cold. It’s not just a sign of your father’s decline; it’s a proclamation of the Hightowers’ dominance.

You feel a surge of anger, your hands clenching around the reins of your horse. “They’ve turned our home into a temple,” you say, your voice thick with disgust. “This is no longer the Red Keep of the Targaryens.”

Daemon’s eyes flick to the banners, his mouth twisting in disdain. “They’d rather see this castle burn than in the hands of a dragon.” He glances at you, his expression sharp. “But we can’t let their games go unanswered.”

Rhaenyra leans forward, her eyes dark with determination. “We’ll go to Father. Let them see we’re not cowed by their petty displays.”

You nod, turning to the guards posted at the gate. They straighten at your approach, their eyes flicking nervously between you, Daemon, and your men and royal retainers that stand behind your group. “Take us to the King,” you command, your voice brooking no argument. “Now.”

The guards hesitate, exchanging uneasy glances before the senior officer steps forward. “Of course, my prince. If you and your family would follow me.”

As you dismount, you place a steadying hand on Jace’s shoulder. “Stay close,” you murmur to him and the rest of your children. “Keep your heads high.”

Jace nods, his young face set in a determined expression. Luke and Joffrey stand on either side of him, their eyes wide as they take in the unfamiliar surroundings. Aegon and Viserys cling to Rhaenyra’s skirts, their small hands gripping the fabric tightly.

You cast a glance back at Daemon, who gives you a curt nod. His presence is a reassuring weight at your side, a reminder that you are not alone in this viper’s den.

The walk through the keep is a painful reminder of all that has changed. The once vibrant halls feel dim and cold, the energy drained from the very stones. Servants scurry past with bowed heads, their eyes avoiding yours. You can almost feel the judgment and resentment simmering beneath the surface, the unspoken tensions hanging in the air like smoke.

Rhaenyra’s hand brushes against yours as you walk, her touch grounding you. “This place feels like a tomb,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It’s not ours anymore,” you reply, your tone grim. “They’ve let it wither, just like they’ve let Father.”

As you pass through the corridors, the shift in atmosphere becomes more pronounced. Every corner, every archway, is marked by the influence of the Faith. Priests and septas move about, their solemn faces and plain robes a stark contrast to the opulence you once knew. You scoff under your breath, the sound harsh in the silence.

“They’ve turned this place into a sanctimonious prison,” Daemon says, his voice a low growl. “They’ve done everything but chain him in his chambers.”

“And now they call us back,” Rhaenyra says, a bitter edge to her voice. “To witness what? To watch him die while they hold the reins?”

You stop outside a set of large, imposing doors, the entrance to the King’s private chambers. The guards posted there glance at each other nervously as you approach, their hands shifting on their weapons. The senior officer gestures for you to wait, then moves to knock on the door.

You take a deep breath, your eyes locking with Rhaenyra’s. There’s a moment of shared understanding between you, a recognition of the love you both still hold for your father despite everything. This place, these people, have tried to tear you apart, to destroy the bond that should be the strength of your house. But they have failed.

The doors creak open slowly, and you feel the weight of the moment settle over you like a shroud. 

Daemon’s hand settles on the hilt of his sword, a habitual gesture of readiness. You nod to him, then turn back to Rhaenyra, giving her a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

“Whatever happens,” you murmur, your voice firm despite the knot of anxiety in your chest, “we’re here for him. For us.”

She nods, a fierce light in her eyes. “For our family.”

With that, you step forward, ready to face what awaits inside.

The door creaks open, and you step into the low lit chamber, your family following close behind. The room is filled with the heavy, suffocating scent of incense, mingling with the stale air. It’s a space suffused with shadows, the flickering candlelight casting long, eerie shapes across the walls. In the center of it all, surrounded by heavy drapery and silk cushions, lies your father.

King Viserys, once so strong and vital, is now a frail, gaunt figure against the expansive bed. His body seems to have withered away, skin stretched thin over bones, his once proud features now sunken and pallid. The sight of him, so diminished and fragile, makes your heart clench painfully. He is more ghost than man, the vitality of the king replaced by a husk clinging to life.

You move forward slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. As you draw nearer, Viserys’s eyes flutter open, clouded with pain but still holding a spark of recognition. For a moment, it seems as though he’s looking past you, his gaze searching for something beyond the room. Then, those eyes settle on you, and a flicker of clarity cuts through the haze.

“My son,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a rasp, but there’s a hint of the old strength in it. “My firstborn… my heir.”

The words strike something deep within you, a surge of emotions you can’t quite name. You kneel beside the bed, leaning closer so he can see you clearly. “Father,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady. “I’m here. We’re all here.”

His skeletal hand trembles as it reaches out, the effort of the movement almost too much for him. You take it gently, holding it between your own, careful not to squeeze too hard. His skin is cold, the bones beneath it brittle and frail.

“Good… good,” he breathes, his lips curving in a faint, weary smile. “You’ve come… as I hoped.”

You feel a presence at your back and turn slightly to see Daemon standing there, his face a mask of grim control, though his eyes are soft with something like sorrow. He steps forward, laying a hand on your shoulder before leaning down to speak to his brother.

“Viserys,” he says, his voice low and steady, “you look terrible.” It’s an attempt at levity, a feeble joke in a desperate moment, and Viserys’s lips twitch, a ghost of a smile.

“Daemon… always… the charmer,” Viserys wheezes, his chest shaking with the effort of speaking. “Still… a rogue.”

You glance back, and Rhaenyra is there, her face pale, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She moves to your side, slipping her hand around your arm, her touch grounding you in this surreal moment. She leans over, her voice barely a whisper. “Father,” she says softly, her voice trembling. “We’ve come as you asked.”

Viserys’s eyes shift to her, a spark of recognition and love in his gaze. “Rhaenyra… my bright girl,” he murmurs. “So… beautiful.” He struggles to lift his other hand, and she takes it gently, holding it close to her chest.

Behind you, the children stand in a somber line, their faces a mixture of confusion, fear, and sadness. Jace and Luke exchange glances, their young faces tight with worry. Joffrey stands beside them, his eyes wide as he stares at the frail figure of his grandsire, trying to reconcile the man he’s heard stories about and little he remembers of him, with the man now before him. Aegon and Viserys, too young to fully grasp the situation, clutch at the skirts of their older cousins, their little faces peering out with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Viserys’s gaze shifts past you to them, his eyes softening further. “The children… let them… come closer.”

You turn, nodding to the boys, and they step forward, moving cautiously toward the bed. Jace reaches it first, his movements careful, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the room. Luke follows, then Joffrey, each of them looking to you and Rhaenyra for guidance.

“They’ve grown so… strong,” Viserys breathes, his voice fading. “Like their… parents.”

He tries to lift his hand again, but the effort is too much. You squeeze his hand gently, your voice catching in your throat. “They’re strong because of you, Father.”

Viserys’s eyes find yours again, a faint, wavering smile touching his lips. “You’re… a good man. I knew… you would be.”

Emotion surges in your chest, and you swallow hard, fighting to keep your composure. “And you’re a good father,” you say, your voice thick. “We’re here because we love you.”

He blinks slowly, as if the weight of those words is too much to bear. His gaze flickers to Daemon, then back to Rhaenyra. “Keep them safe… all of them,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “Promise me.”

“We will,” Rhaenyra vows, her voice strong despite the tears shining in her eyes. “We promise, Father.”

The room seems to close in around you, the air filled with the gravity of the moment. There is so much to say, so much left unspoken, but the words won’t come. You can only hold his hand, feeling the fragile pulse beneath his skin, knowing that time is slipping away.

For now, all you can do is be here, by his side, holding on to what remains of the man who was once your strength, your king, your father.

You stand by the window, staring out at the gardens below, your thoughts a turbulent sea. Rhaenyra sits on a chaise, her hands resting protectively over her swollen belly, her eyes distant as she looks at the fire crackling in the hearth. Daemon paces restlessly, his gaze flicking to the door every few moments, his expression set in a hard, unyielding mask.

The children had been taken to their quarters by servants, their confusion and fear hidden behind obedient nods and reluctant steps. You had watched them go, a part of you aching at the thought of how they must be feeling, drawn into this conflict that they can barely comprehend.

The door opens with a soft creak, and Queen Alicent enters, her presence as tightly controlled as ever. She’s dressed in somber hues, her hands clasped in front of her, her face carefully composed. But the moment her eyes meet yours, she hesitates, taken aback by the intensity of your gaze.

You step forward, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Why were we not properly received, Queen Alicent? Why do we wait here, like strangers in our own home?”

Alicent’s composure falters for just a moment before she gathers herself, her chin lifting slightly. “There were pressing matters of the realm that required attention,” she replies, her tone measured, almost rehearsed.

You scoff, the sound sharp and bitter. “I am the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone. What matter could be so urgent that it overshadows my return?”

Her lips part as if to respond, but she falters again, clearly searching for the right words. Before she can speak, Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the room, cold and accusing. “We’ve seen my father, Alicent. What are you doing to him?”

Alicent’s eyes flick to Rhaenyra, a flash of something like guilt passing over her face before she forces it away. “The King is in great pain,” she says quietly. “The milk of the poppy is the only thing that grants him any peace.”

Daemon, who has been watching the exchange with growing fury, steps forward, his voice laced with contempt. “Peace, or stupor?” he sneers. “You and Otto have drugged him into a living corpse, all while you rule in his name. You’ve desecrated the Red Keep with your Faith, turning it into a shrine to your ambitions.”

Alicent’s face pales, but she stands her ground. “You know nothing of what he suffers,” she retorts, her voice trembling slightly. “His pain is—”

“Spare us your platitudes,” Daemon snaps, his eyes blazing. “You’ve poisoned him, hollowed him out until there’s nothing left. All so you and that snake of your father can control everything.”

You feel a cold, hard resolve settle over you, your anger solidifying into something sharper, more dangerous. “It won’t be like this much longer, Uncle,” you say, your voice low but carrying a dangerous edge. “When the throne is mine, I’ll tear every seven-pointed star out of this castle if I have to do it with my own hands.”

Alicent’s eyes widen, shock and fear flickering across her face. “You cannot mean—”

“Oh, but I do,” you cut her off, your gaze unwavering. “And I imagine you’ll be quite eager to return to Oldtown. I’m sure you’ll find it far more comforting than staying here once I am crowned.”

The silence that follows your words is felt, heavy with the weight of the threat you’ve just issued. Alicent’s face drains of color, and for the first time, you see real fear in her eyes. She stares at you, as if seeing you truly for the first time, not as the young prince she once knew, but as the man who now stands before her—a man forged in fire and loss, no longer swayed by the gentle ideals of his youth.

“You’ve changed,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “You’re not the same…”

“No,” you agree quietly, a steely calm in your voice. “I’m not.”

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, her eyes fierce as she looks at Alicent. “We will not let you destroy what is ours, Alicent. Not our father, not our home, and not our children’s future.”

Alicent’s gaze shifts between the two of you, and you can see the realization sinking in—the understanding that the balance of power is shifting, that the control she and Otto have wielded for so long is slipping through their fingers.

Her voice is thin, almost pleading. “The King—”

“Is dying,” Daemon finishes, his voice cold and unyielding. “And you’ve hastened it with every lie and every drop of that poison you call mercy.”

Alicent’s mouth opens, but no words come. She takes a step back, her hand clutching at the front of her dress as if she can’t quite catch her breath.

You watch her, your expression hard, unrelenting. “This is your last chance to show some dignity, Alicent. Stop hiding behind your piety and your pity. Stop pretending this isn’t about power.”

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The room seems to hold its breath, the silence stretching taut and fragile.

Daemon crosses his arms, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “I suggest you start preparing for your departure, Queen Alicent. It’s clear you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

With those words, the last semblance of calm shatters. Alicent turns, almost stumbling in her haste to leave the room, the door swinging shut behind her with a resounding thud.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, turning to Rhaenyra. She’s watching you with a fierce pride, her eyes shining. You lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s time to take back what’s ours,” you murmur, your voice firm, resolute.

Daemon’s eyes gleam with satisfaction as he nods. “And burn anything that stands in our way.”

The dining hall is aglow with candlelight, the flickering flames casting warm hues over the long table set with platters of roasted meats, fruits, and fine wine. Despite the opulence, there’s a tension that underlies every gesture, every forced smile. The Targaryen family sits divided, an invisible line running down the center of the table, separating what should be a united house.

Viserys, at the head of the table, looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in a long time. The shadow of pain still lingers in his eyes, but for tonight, it seems dulled, replaced by a fragile contentment as he gazes around at his family. His thin frame is swathed in the royal colors, and he smiles faintly, his eyes lingering on you and Rhaenyra, then shifting to Daemon and the children.

You’re seated beside Rhaenyra, your eldest sons—Jace, Luke, and Joffrey—lined up next to you. They sit straight and tense, their eyes darting cautiously between their cousins across the table. Daemon, his face a mask of calm, sits at your other side with Baela and Rhaena, who watch the scene unfold with the quiet intensity of those too young to understand but wise enough to sense the undercurrents.

Opposite you, Alicent is seated, her expression strained but polite. Otto is beside her, his eyes sharp and calculating as ever, taking in every word and gesture. Aegon slouches in his seat, his gaze unfocused, while Helaena hums softly to herself, her fingers playing with the delicate golden bracelet on her wrist. Aemond sits straight-backed and still, his single eye moving slowly between you and Luke, his gaze intense and unreadable.

The dinner begins, the clinking of utensils and soft murmurs filling the space. You make small talk with Rhaenyra, your hand resting lightly on hers, trying to ignore the simmering resentment that prickles at your skin. Viserys’s presence is a fragile bridge, holding this fractured family together for one last time. For his sake, you force yourself to maintain the facade.

Viserys’s voice is weak but warm as he speaks, breaking the strained silence. “It brings me joy,” he says, his words slow and deliberate, “to see you all here, together. My family.” He pauses, his breath hitching. “I know… there have been disagreements, misunderstandings. But we are all blood. We are Targaryens.”

Rhaenyra nods, her smile gentle but strained. “Of course, Father. We are here to honor you.”

Alicent offers a tight smile. “Yes, Your Grace. We are grateful for this opportunity to be together.”

The words are hollow, and everyone knows it. You catch Aemond’s eye across the table, and his gaze is cold, calculating. There’s something simmering beneath the surface, something dark and unresolved, but for now, he holds his tongue.

You focus on the food, the rich flavors tasting like ash in your mouth. Jace shifts beside you, his discomfort palpable. “Father,” he murmurs under his breath, his eyes flicking to Aemond and then back to his plate. “This doesn’t feel right.”

You squeeze his shoulder gently, leaning in. “I know,” you whisper. “But we do this for your grandsire. For him.”

Jace nods reluctantly, his jaw clenched. You glance at Luke, who is picking at his food, his face pale and tense. You know he feels Aemond’s gaze on him, the weight of that unspoken animosity pressing down like a physical force.

Viserys raises his goblet, his hand trembling. “To peace,” he says, his voice wavering but resolute. “To family.”

Everyone lifts their cups, the toast a murmur of voices that lacks any real conviction. You exchange a look with Rhaenyra, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all. Peace, for now, is a hollow word.

As the dinner progresses, Viserys’s condition starts to deteriorate. His head droops, his breathing becomes labored, and the color drains from his face. You can see the pain creeping back into his eyes, and it’s clear that he’s struggling to keep himself composed.

“Father,” Rhaenyra says softly, concern etching her features. “You should rest.”

Viserys shakes his head weakly. “I’m fine, my dear. I want to… to be here. With all of you.”

But it’s obvious he can’t continue. He slumps forward slightly, his hand slipping from his goblet, and a murmur of alarm ripples through the room. Servants rush forward, helping him to his feet, and Viserys grimaces, his body trembling with the effort.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “I’m… I’m tired.”

They begin to escort him from the room, and you watch, a heavy ache settling in your chest. This might be the last time you see him like this, trying so desperately to hold his family together, to remind you all of what once was.

As soon as Viserys is out of the room, the fragile mask of civility shatters. The silence that follows his departure is taut, brittle. You can feel the shift in the atmosphere, the unspoken tensions that had been held at bay now breaking free.

Aegon leans back in his chair, his lips curling into a lazy, mocking smile. “Well, that was cheerful,” he drawls, his words dripping with sarcasm. “The great family reunion.”

Jace’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “Show some respect,” he says, his voice tight. “He’s your father too.”

Aegon’s smile widens, more of a sneer now. “Oh, don’t be so serious, nephew. We’re all one big, happy family, aren’t we?”

Luke shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Aemond, whose single eye is still locked on him. “We should just leave,” he mutters to Jace, but the anger simmering beneath his voice is unmistakable.

“Leave?” Aemond’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, cold and sharp. “Running away again, are you, Lucerys?”

Rhaenyra stiffens beside you, her eyes flashing with anger. “That’s enough, Aemond.”

Aemond leans forward, his gaze never leaving Luke’s face. “Tell me, nephew,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “How does it feel to know your father has to constantly shield you from the truth? From who you really are?”

Your blood turns to ice, and you see Luke’s hands clench on the table, his face flushing with anger. “Stop it,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

Aemond smirks, but before he can speak, Rhaena interjects, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “You have no right to speak to him like that. You’re nothing but a coward who hides behind his words.”

The tension in the room escalates, the hostility crackling in the air like a storm about to break. Alicent’s face is pale, her eyes darting nervously between her children and yours, as if realizing how close to the edge this all is.

“Enough of this!” she snaps, her voice strained. “We are here to honor the King’s wishes, not to fight.”

But it’s too late. The façade has crumbled, and the old wounds are bleeding anew. Jace’s voice is taut with barely restrained rage as he turns on Aegon. “Maybe if you spent less time whoring and drinking, you’d understand what family actually means.”

Aegon’s eyes flash with anger, and he rises from his seat, his hands balled into fists. “You little—”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, standing as well. “We won’t do this.”

But even as you speak, you can see the fear and anger in your sons’ eyes, the way Aemond’s smirk twists into something cruel.

The room then erupts into chaos. Aegon lunges across the table, his fist aimed at Jace’s jaw, while Luke shoves Aemond back, his face twisted in anger. Shouts and cries fill the air as the boys collide, chairs scraping across the floor, goblets and plates crashing to the ground.

You’re on your feet in an instant, moving toward the melee. You see Aemond’s hand grasping at Luke’s tunic, yanking him forward with a vicious snarl. The rage in Aemond’s single eye is visible, a dark fire that seems intent on consuming everything in its path.

“Get off him!” you shout, reaching out to seize Aemond by the collar, pulling him away from Luke with a sharp jerk. Aemond stumbles, his grip loosening as you push him back, your own anger flaring.

“Control yourself!” you bark, shoving him toward Alicent and Otto, who stand frozen in shock. “Keep him in check!”

Aemond straightens, fury blazing in his gaze. He recovers quickly, his expression twisting with a hatred that sends a chill down your spine. “You think you can command me?” he sneers, his voice low and venomous. He takes a step forward, eye locked on yours, his intent clear.

But before he can make another move, Daemon steps in, his presence like a wall of iron. He stands beside you, his gaze steady and unflinching as it meets Aemond’s. “If you’ve any sense, you’ll stand down,” Daemon warns, his voice dangerously calm. “You’re outmatched, boy.”

Aemond hesitates, his eye flicking between you and Daemon, weighing his options. His face twists with frustration, but he doesn’t advance, his fists clenching at his sides.

You take a deep breath, your own fury simmering beneath the surface. “This ends now,” you say firmly, your voice carrying over the din. “We’re leaving. We’ll return to Dragonstone until it’s time to come back.”

You turn to Alicent and Otto, who are watching the scene with wide eyes, the shock slowly giving way to something more calculating. “Keep your son in line,” you tell them coldly, your gaze hard and unyielding. “Or there will be consequences.”

Alicent’s face blanches, her eyes darting to Aemond, then back to you. You can see the memory of your earlier words flicker across her face, the promise you made—the warning of what would happen once you were crowned. Fear and something else—regret, perhaps—cloud her expression.

“No, wait!” she says, her voice rising in desperation as she takes a step toward you. “Please, don’t leave like this. We can—”

Rhaenyra is beside you in an instant, stepping between you and Alicent, her gaze like a shield. “There’s nothing left to say,” she states, her voice cold and final. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have come.”

Alicent’s eyes flash with a mix of frustration and sorrow. “You can’t just—” she begins, her voice breaking. “Please, I’m asking you—”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardens, her chin lifting defiantly. “You’re asking for what can never be given. The Prince you knew is gone, Alicent.”

Alicent looks past Rhaenyra, her gaze searching yours, pleading with a desperation that seems to come from the depths of her soul. “You were once kind,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “You weren’t like this.”

You stare at her, the woman who once sought to win your favor, the girl who had idolized you. But that was another lifetime, another world, and that person no longer exists. “I was a fool then,” you say quietly, your voice firm. “I’ve learned too much to be that naïve again.”

Alicent flinches as if struck, her face crumpling with a sorrow that she can’t hide. Otto steps forward, his hand on her arm, his expression unreadable. “It’s done, Alicent,” he says softly. “Let them go.”

For a moment, you see the struggle in her eyes, the hope that something can still be salvaged. But it’s a fleeting illusion, and she knows it. Slowly, painfully, she takes a step back, her hands falling to her sides.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, her strength and resolve bolstering you. You glance at Daemon, who gives you a curt nod, his eyes gleaming with approval.

“Let’s go,” you say, your voice steady. “We have no place here. For now.”

You turn, guiding Rhaenyra toward the exit, your children following closely behind, their faces pale but defiant. As you leave the hall, you feel the weight of Alicent’s gaze on your back, the unspoken pleas and regrets trailing after you like ghosts. But you don’t look back. This chapter, this farce of reconciliation for the sake of your father, is over.

The path ahead is clear, and your course is set. Whatever comes next, you will face it on your own terms, not theirs. And when the time comes, you will reclaim what is rightfully yours, no matter the cost.

The council chamber of Dragonstone is swarming with a charged energy. Maps and scrolls clutter the large table at the room’s center, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over the faces of those gathered. You stand at the head of the table, surrounded by your advisors, Rhaenyra seated to your right and Daemon to your left. Discussions of defenses, alliances, and plans have filled the air for hours, the stakes rising as the realm teeters on the brink of turmoil.

But now, a heavy silence has settled over the room, anticipation thick in the air. The door bursts open, and a breathless messenger rushes in, his face pale and drawn. All eyes turn to him as he stumbles forward, his gaze locking onto yours.

“Prince,” he gasps, his voice strained with urgency. “My lord, I bring grave news.”

You feel your heart tighten, a sense of foreboding creeping over you. “What is it?” you demand, your voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

The messenger hesitates, his eyes flicking to Rhaenyra and then back to you, as if unsure how to deliver the blow. “King Viserys… your father… he is dead.”

The words hang in the air, echoing through the chamber like a death knell. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, a stunned, suffocating stillness that seems to freeze everyone in place. Rhaenyra’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, while Daemon’s expression darkens, a shadow falling over his face.

“My brother has been slain,” Daemon says, his voice low and full of barely contained rage. His fists clench at his sides, and there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes, a fire that promises retribution.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, and you turn to her, seeing not just grief in her eyes but something else—something deeper, a pain that seems to be more than just the loss of her father. “Rhaenyra?” you murmur, concern threading through your voice.

Before she can respond, the messenger continues, his voice trembling. “There is more, my lord… Aegon the Elder has been crowned king. It was done in King’s Landing, before the masses, by High Septon Eustace.”

A wave of shock ripples through the chamber. Your breath catches in your throat, the words striking you like a physical blow. The Hightowers had moved quickly, far too quickly. The realization of what this means, of what has been stolen from you, tightens in your chest, a cold, burning rage building inside you.

“They have usurped my birthright,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, disbelief mingling with fury. “They’ve stolen the crown.”

Chaos erupts around you as your advisors begin to shout over one another, voices rising in anger and shock. Some call for immediate retaliation, others demand caution and strategy. The room fills with a cacophony of voices, the noise rising and falling like the tide. Daemon, ever the warrior, slams his hand down on the table, his eyes blazing. “This is war,” he declares, his voice ringing out above the din. “They’ve declared it by this act of treachery. We cannot let this stand!”

But your attention shifts from the tumult of the council to Rhaenyra, who suddenly lurches forward, her hand gripping the arm of her chair, her face contorted with pain. “Rhaenyra!” you exclaim, fear spiking through you as you move to her side, your hand reaching for hers.

She gasps, her breathing ragged, her face pale as she struggles to compose herself. “The babe…” she whispers, her voice trembling. “It’s too soon…”

Your heart drops like a stone. “No, it’s not time yet,” you murmur, panic rising as you look down at her, your hand hovering over her belly. “It’s too early.”

She shakes her head, her eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pain washes over her. “The babe is coming,” she chokes out, her voice strained.

The room falls silent as everyone turns to look at her, the shock of the news momentarily forgotten in the face of this new crisis. Daemon’s eyes widen, and he takes a step closer, his earlier rage replaced by concern.

“Get the maester!” you shout, your voice echoing through the chamber as you turn to the nearest guard. “Now!”

The guard rushes from the room, and you turn back to Rhaenyra, your heart pounding with fear and helplessness. She grips your hand tightly, her fingers digging into your skin, and you can feel her trembling. You lean closer, your voice soft but urgent. “Hold on, Rhaenyra. Hold on, my love.”

She nods weakly, her breaths coming in short, painful gasps. “I’m trying,” she whispers, her eyes meeting yours, filled with a mixture of fear and determination. “But it hurts… Gods, it hurts…”

You glance at Daemon, his face set in a grim mask, then back to Rhaenyra, your mind racing. The chamber is still buzzing with shock and confusion, but all you can focus on is her, the terror in her eyes, the way she’s clutching at you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the world.

“Stay with me,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to hers. “We’ll get through this. We have to.”

But even as you speak, you can’t shake the dread that’s curling in your chest, the sense that everything is unraveling, that the world is shifting beneath your feet and there’s no solid ground left to stand on. And outside these walls, the realm is already starting to burn.

The screams reverberate through the halls of Dragonstone, a haunting, guttural sound that twists the gut and chills the blood. You sit beside Rhaenyra, your hands clenched tightly around hers as she writhes in agony, her body arching with the pain that seems endless. Her face is slick with sweat, strands of her hair plastered to her forehead, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and torment.

“It’s been three days,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with worry and helplessness. You brush a damp cloth across her brow, your heart aching with every labored breath she takes. “Please, Rhaenyra… please hold on.”

She grips your hand with a strength that belies her frail state, her nails digging into your skin. “I will not die,” she rasps, her voice raw, each word a battle. “I will not leave you. I will not leave our children.”

Tears burn in your eyes, but you force them back, leaning closer. “I’m here, my love. I’m not leaving you.” It’s all you can say, all you can do. You’ve been here for days, refusing to leave her side despite the pleas and orders of the maesters and midwives.

The room is stifling, the air thick with the smell of blood and sweat, the sounds of Rhaenyra’s suffering echoing off the stone walls. You can hear the whispers of those gathered outside, their voices hushed with fear and speculation. The door remains shut, guarded by loyal men, but you know the weight of this moment is not lost on any of them.

Beyond these walls, Daemon and Jacaerys have taken charge of the war council. With the news of Viserys’s death and Aegon’s usurpation, the realm is poised on the edge of chaos. But here, in this room, there is only Rhaenyra, her pain, and your helplessness.

She gasps, her body tensing as another wave of pain wracks her. “It’s wrong,” she whispers, her eyes wide with terror and agony. “Something is wrong.”

You press your lips to her knuckles, your voice breaking. “You’re strong, Rhaenyra. You’ve always been strong. You can do this. Please, just hold on a little longer.”

She shakes her head, a sob tearing from her throat. “No… the babe…” Her voice cracks, her grip on your hand tightening even more. “Something’s wrong.”

You look up at the midwives and maesters, their faces pinched with worry and resignation. They’ve seen it, too—the signs of a labor gone horribly awry. But they’re as helpless as you are, caught between the duty to their patient and the horror of what is to come.

Rhaenyra’s cries echo in your ears as she fights against the agony, her body convulsing with each failed attempt to bring your child into the world. You don’t know how long you’ve been here—time has lost all meaning, stretched into an endless cycle of hope and despair.

And then, finally, after what feels like an eternity, there is a terrible, wrenching scream, a sound that seems to tear the very air apart. Rhaenyra’s body goes still, her face pale and slack with exhaustion and pain. And in the silence that follows, a cry does not come.

The room is frozen, every breath held as the midwives move, their hands trembling as they lift the still, silent form from between Rhaenyra’s legs. The babe is small, too small, its skin pale and twisted, malformed. Your heart clenches with a pain so fierce it threatens to tear you apart.

“No…” you whisper, your voice breaking as you reach for the tiny form. “No, please…”

Rhaenyra turns her head, her eyes clouded with tears as she looks at the child cradled in your hands. “Visenya,” she whispers, her voice a broken breath. “Her name… is Visenya.”

You stare down at your daughter, your heart shattering as you take in the sight. The tiny, twisted limbs, the malformed face, the scales that dot her skin—a cruel mockery of the dragon she was meant to be. A sob tears from your throat, and you pull her close, your tears falling onto her still, silent form.

Rhaenyra’s body shakes with sobs, her hand reaching out to touch Visenya’s cold cheek. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You can barely breathe, your grief a weight that threatens to crush you. But even through the pain, there’s a spark of something else—something dark and fierce, a fire that burns deep in your chest, igniting a rage that you can barely contain.

“They did this,” you whisper, your voice shaking with fury. “The Hightowers. They killed her.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, her tears mingling with sweat as she looks at you, her face a mask of grief and despair. “What… what are you saying?”

“They took everything from us,” you say, your voice rising with each word, the anger boiling over. “They stole the throne, they murdered my father, and now this. They killed my only daughter. Our daughter.”

The room is silent, the weight of your words pressing down on everyone present. The midwives and maesters exchange fearful glances, their faces pale with shock and horror. But you don’t care. The rage has consumed you, and there is no turning back now.

“I swear,” you say, your voice steady despite the fury that blazes within you, “I will make them pay. Every one of them. I will burn their houses to the ground, tear their families apart, until there is nothing left but ashes and blood.”

Rhaenyra’s grip on your hand tightens, her eyes shining with pain and anger. “We will avenge her,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “For Visenya.”

You nod, your gaze never leaving your daughter’s lifeless form. “For Visenya. For all of them. Fire and blood.”

The vow hangs in the air, a dark promise that seems to echo through the room. And you know, in that moment, that there will be no peace, no forgiveness, until the debt has been paid in full.

The war has begun, and you will not rest until every one of your enemies has felt the wrath of the dragon.

[miraclewoozi]

hi j!! congratulations on 500!! can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than you :) hope you’re having a lovely day! just wanted to send in a request:

❛ don’t be a stranger, okay? ❜ from the fluff list with woozi?

it’s no pressure though! thank you so much <33 mwah

LEE JIHOON, YOUR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT I.T GUY. - l.jh

pair : jihoon x gn!reader prompt : “ don’t be a stranger, okay? ” wc : 2.3k heads up : coworker!jihoon. fluff. kinda silly.  notes : HI BESTIE thank u sm for sending this in!!!! i hope you like it.<3 notes 2.0 : everyone deserves an emotional support IT guy, in my unprofessional opinion. i also think that 100% of those should be woozi.

You knew Jihoon was leaving. You’ve had a lot of time to prepare for this: he told you before he even handed in his resignation that he had accepted a job offer elsewhere. But despite trying everything in your power (including, but not limited to, bribery, begging and three whole days of the cold shoulder), his decision didn’t change. When you gave him a full lecture about abandonment and betrayal, and the fact that nobody else in your work’s IT department comes close to solving some of the shit that happens with your computer…

He had the audacity to fucking laugh. 

In your moment of desperation. Your hour of need. Practically begging on your knees (all right, he was stood next to your desk while you were looking up at him from your office chair) for him not to leave you high and dry like this, he patted you on the shoulder and chuckled as he told you that you’d be fine. As if this wasn’t actually, literally, the end of the world. 

Asshole. 

And okay, whatever, maybe Jihoon isn’t ‘just’ the only person on the tech team who understands that you’ve been followed by a curse when it comes to computers since you were in middle school. Maybe he isn’t just so good at his job that him leaving has the potential to ruin your ability to do yours.

Maybe... it’s a little bit deeper than that.

You first met nearly five years ago, when he was brand new. In his first week, he came stumbling into your office, bleary eyed and coffee in hand, at 8:15 on a Monday morning to try and ‘fix’ your PC. After about 6 seconds of fumbling, your screens came to life and he flushed as he told you that a cable on one of your monitors had just come loose. Ever since, you’ve been totally taken with him: with his frowny concentrating face, his pretty, nimble fingers, his quietly delivered jokes. The way he always goes pink when the older ladies in your office coo over him and how he splutters when they tease you for practically being work-married, by now.

Not least because he’s a very nice guy, and you find him so easy to talk to, and now? Now he's leaving you. 

The guy who brings you snacks on days you have to work through your lunch breaks. The guy who comes by just to make sure you’re not about to dive out of a second floor window on a Wednesday afternoon. One of the special few people you choose to hang out with outside of work. He’s the man who meets you for coffee some weekends and lets you complain about the fact that the next closest person in your department to you in age could still be your mother, while he complains to you about bossy executives who escalate their IT jobs to a ‘critical incident’ after just five minutes. Jihoon is the guy who has brought you a silly gift to decorate your desk with every birthday and Christmas since you met. The guy who picks you up (with breakfast) when your car is in the shop getting work done. 

He even pretended to be your boyfriend one year when Johnny from accounting started to make moves on you during the annual Christmas function. (Perhaps him posessively keeping a hand on your thigh every minute you were sat down next to each other made it the best night of your life.)

All this to say… he gets you. He always has. Your weird little friendship with him works, and even though you still get butterflies every time you see him, you’ve never felt so comfortable with a colleague before. You can ignore your little crush when you start thinking about your devastation over him being gone soon. Your feelings have no part to play in Jihoon being someone you trust, someone who helps you immeasurably: someone who makes your working life a little more bearable. 

What on Earth are you going to do without him?

His last day has rolled around faster than you know what to do with, and at 3:30 on Friday afternoon, like clockwork, his head appears around your office door. An apologetic smile replaces the cheeky one he usually wears when he shows up, and you narrow your eyes at him before telling him to go away.

“Charming as ever,” he laughs, sliding into your office anyway and making a beeline for you, waving at the people who glance up and greet him. He leans against your desk and you sit back finally, crossing your arms. 

“I’m busy,” you lie, frowning at your screen. You finished everything you needed to do about ten minutes ago, but you’re not about to let him — or anyone, for that matter — know so. You’ve worked hard to master the art of looking occupied and you’re deploying every tactic you know: there’s no way you’re going to get five more projects added to your to-do list this close to home-time. “Traitor.”

“Last thing on a Friday? Like hell you are,” Jihoon chuckles, leaning down and looking at your screen too, speaking quietly enough to ensure no one around you can to hear him. 

“Blow my cover and I’ll slash your tyres,” you playfully threaten under your breath. “I’ve already rejected a meeting request this afternoon.”

“Well, aren’t you a team player,” he quips, rolling his eyes before he sits back upright and says louder, “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to drop this off.”

He places a small brown bag on top of a neatly stacked pile of paperwork on the left hand side of your desk and gestures for you to look inside. When you do, you know your attempt at a stoic gaze starts to soften and you look up at him again with a saddened pout. 

“Hey,” you say quietly. “You can’t do this to me, I’m fragile enough already.”

It’s just a muffin, for crying out loud. He’s been bringing you these from the bakery across the street every week, for as many weeks as you can remember. But something about him doing it on his last day makes your heart beat out a funny little pattern and you bite the inside of your lip as he shakes his head. 

His hair is tied low today with a few pieces left out to frame his face: it softens him, giving him a bit of a curtain to hide behind, but you can still see his cheeks flush as he glances away from you. You slip your hand into the bag and pull the muffin out, setting it on your desk and peeling the paper back. 

“I’m really gonna miss you,” Jihoon says, momentarily stopping you as you rummage through your desk drawer for the cutlery set you keep wrapped up in there. You just wanted a knife so you could cut it in two. You just wanted to share this last little treat with him.

There are a million ways you could respond. Last-ditch attempts at telling him to retract his notice to leave. Advise that it’s his own fault. Pretend like you’re not going to be miserable here without him. To name but a few. 

But the fact that he’s picked up, and started to play with, the little fidget cube you keep by your pen holder for particularly boring Teams calls tells you that he isn’t saying it in the way he does when you’re taking a week off to go on vacation.

His thumbs rhythmically play with the little clicking buttons on one side and you pull the blunt knife free from the plastic bag hidden beneath your favourite notebook. Instead of teasing him, you cut the muffin equally and pick up one piece, holding it out to him.

“I’m gonna miss you too.”

He eyes you to make sure you’re certain before he takes the slice out of your hand and holds it in his fingers. You pick up the other piece and extend it towards him, bumping the two halves together in a mock ‘cheers’ for the time you’ve spent together. 

You take bites from the muffin in unison and you know the zesty lemon flavour spills onto his tongue at the same time as it does yours. Soft hums come from the both of you and Jihoon tilts his head back for emphasis, too, sighing contentedly after he swallows. 

“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” You ask of him, laying the paper bag down flat and putting your own piece on top of it. “I mean it. You better not forget about me.”

“As if I ever could,” he says.

“You might, if there’s someone at your new job more pitiful than I am,” you counter. “You’ll have a replacement ‘me’ quicker than you can blink.”

Jihoon laughs, setting what’s left of his half of the muffin down too and dusting the crumbs off his fingers into the trash can at your side. 

“Trust me,” he starts, folding his arms. The subtle flex of his muscle makes the shirt he’s wearing tighten around his biceps and you glance down at them, at how his sleeves are pushed up to the elbows and his long, delicate fingers lay over the neatly folded cotton. “My eyes are up here. Trust me — I don’t want a 'replacement you'.”

You know your eyes go wide as he calls you up for staring and you look at his face immediately, at the coy smile he’s wearing, at the way the tips of his ears — just visible through the way his hair separates — are dusted pink. You just nod. He takes another bite, savours, and swallows it before talking again.

“So, I actually… kind of lied? There’s another reason I came down here, uh—”

You know this catches the attention of your office’s resident blabbermouth by the way her eyebrows pick up from a few desks in front of you and you tap his hip with the back of your hand, darting your eyes towards the door quickly to hush him. Jihoon catches your drift, nods, and stands up; you lock your computer and lead him out. When you’re in the hallway, door secured (and checked) behind you, he turns to face you again, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Okay,” Jihoon nods, tilting his head forwards for a second to gather his thoughts before he shakes his hair out of his eyes and looks back up at you. “I-… I know HR have this whole thing about, like… internal… relationships, and- and stuff? So I didn’t ever… you know—”

You hold your breath, clasping your hands behind you in the hopes he doesn’t see how they start twitching. His own, you realise, are deep in the pockets of his slacks. For the same reason?

“I wanted to. Trust me. For— shit, for so long, but I didn’t know if you’d go for it, and I really didn’t want to have, like… anyway — uh-…”

The blush that was formerly only given away by its presence on his ears has migrated to his cheeks now, and is starting to spread dangerously towards his temples and down his neck. He keeps glancing everywhere around your head, as if he’s chasing pixies in the air with his eyes. It's adorable, but...

“And… I guess what I wanted to say, is—”

“Yes,” you say before he can finish. He’s never been the most outgoing but you’ve still never seen Jihoon fall over his words like this before; you’re starting to feel agonised by how long it’s taking him to get to the point. 

(Especially when said point is what you’ve been waiting a small lifetime for.)

“I didn’t even ask—”

“You didn’t have to,” you laugh. He breaks into a chuckle as well. His shoulders relax. He exhales through his pretty, pursed lips. 

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” He asks, finally, thumb tapping against his forearm. 

“Free as a bird, actually.”

“I’ll pick you up at 7?” 

“I’ll be waiting.”

He lifts one hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, still laughing, screwing up his eyes and his nose in a way that makes him look entirely too kissable. You have to forcibly remind yourself that there’s nothing you can do about that right now, though, that someone could walk through that door any second and technically, he still works here until 5:30pm today.

Tomorrow night? Well. That’ll be a different story.

“I’ll let you go back to clicking through your emails,” he says then, pushing off from the wall. “Text me later?”

“Keep your voice down,” you grin, settling your hand back on the doorknob. “Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Jihoon bites his bottom lip as he nods and starts to back away, ultimately beginning on the walk back to his own department. You, however, need to let yourself calm down before you can so much as think about going back into your office: you fan your face with your hands and take a couple of deep breaths first, and only when you’re sure that there are no visible signs of glee left on your face do you re-enter, walking as nonchalantly to your desk as you can and pretending like every middle-aged, bespectacled set of eyes aren’t waiting for you to spill the gossip. 

You don’t need to spill anything, though. Pressed to the bottom of your keyboard, clear as day, — he must have done this as soon as you stood up — is a bright yellow Post-It. His immediately recognisable — but almost illegible — handwriting in the thick, black felt-tipped pens he always uses decorates the note, accompanied by a signature smiley face in the top corner. 

The ink is dry. The paper is a little curled. He wrote this before he came to find you, the giddy voice in your brain tells you. The words he’s written down only heighten that feeling. 

He gets you. He always has.

Don’t be a stranger, okay? Miss you already. - J.

thank u so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it! as always, likes, reblogs, comments & feedback are so so appreciated.&lt;3