#but i expected better from the rest of you

[jjunberry]

❝ forever with me ❞

synopsis ⟢ can't promise that things won't be broken but i swear that i will never leave,please stay forever with me…when you’re forced to sit next to the one person you despise the most during a road trip, things get tense as emotions are at an all time high.

pairing ⟢ nishimura riki x fem!reader

genre ⟢ enemies to lovers, forced proximity, non-idol au, slice of life, angst, fluff

warnings ⟢ arguments, cursing, niki & reader being assholes, jungwon and jake playing cupid??

wc ⟢2.2k mlist ⟢

your eyebrows furrowed at jungwon, who stood across from you. “you have got to be kidding me,” your arms crossed. he smiled sheepishly, “i’m sorry but this year, it’s your turn for the back seat.” the back seat which you’ve always avoided since every year niki sat back there. “jungwon, this trip is a four hour drive, you want me to sit next to him for four hours?” jungwon sighed at your question. “with the drivers rotating, you two don’t drive so it’s easier this way.” curse you for not having your drivers license.

“i am not happy about this,” your arms crossed as you plopped down on your couch. jungwon sat next to you, resting his head on your shoulder. “it’s only for the ride there, you can manage yeah? just take your headphones.” you sighed and nodded, “i’m only doing this for you and the others, don’t expect a peep out of me.” jungwon smiled at your words, knowing there was no way you’d keep quiet against niki.

the days leading up to the road trip, you tried your hardest to avoid niki. key word tried, he always finds a way to get under your skin. whether its taking your seat while out to eat, or cutting you off in line at the mall. it never failed to get a rise out of you. the boys could practically predict what the two of you’d say to each other.

“at least say excuse me, you gremlin,” jake mocked you. “move, you always take to long anyway,” sunoo was quick to mock niki’s response. they of course never did this in front of you two, afraid of even more warfare. despite how funny the arguments could be, they also got quite annoying. the constant bickering was enough to have the group want to rip their hair out.

niki was in no better spirits about having to share his precious back seat with you. he barely liked to share with the guys but to have you back there? the boy wanted to just unpack and not even go. “it’s not that bad,” jake said watching niki angrily shove the remaining items he had into his bag. “it is that bad actually, she’s insufferable. how can i sit next to her for four hours?” niki looked at jake with furious eyes. “look if you drove then maybe you’d be better off, but it’s easier this way”, jake shrugged. niki seriously needed to get his license, he rolled his eyes. “see you in the morning man, just take your headphones and ignore her i guess”, he patted niki’s shoulder before leaving.

you were the last stop before they could go on the road. niki was already annoyed. he only had his wired headphones, the car they rented had a small back seat, so he’d be even closer to you then he wanted to be. he rolled his eyes watching you stumble to the car with your bags. his eyes followed jungwon who jumped out to help you. the trunk opened and jungwon placed your bag in the back, handing you your smaller one. “thank you wonnie,” you grinned, hugging him. “you’re welcome.” he opened the sliding door to let you in.

in the second row sat, jay and jake. the middle was occupied by sunoo and sunghoon. heeseung was driving and jungwon had the passenger seat. “hi everyone,” you greeted them before climbing into the very back seat. niki furrowed his eyebrows when you finally sat down, your shoulder brushing his slightly.

with the reduced space, your legs and shoulders were touching his. niki began bouncing his leg, the annoyance of sitting next to you already bothering him. you looked at him, you wanted to scold him for bouncing his leg, but you remained calm for everyone’s sake. once heeseung checked that everyone was ready he began driving.

everyone was conversing amongst themselves, you tried to occupy yourself on your phone, by looking out the window. niki was like a statue next to you, besides his leg that was still bouncing. you leaned up, propping your head on the back of the middle row seat. “hi,” sunoo giggled seeing your head pop up between himself and sunghoon. “hi,” you grinned.

he motioned with his head, “doing okay back there?” you sighed,” i guess so,” niki let out a groan shifting away from you causing you to fall back from the seat. “stop leaning against me,” niki snapped. “spoke to soon,” you whispered to sunoo before returning to your seat. “sorry jeez,” you scoffed, leaning away from him as far as you could. niki rolled his eyes at you.

a few minutes had passed, you subconsciously began tapping your fingers against your leg. to whatever beat you had in your head, niki clenched his jaw at the rhythmic pattern. it was unbelievably irritating, “can you not?” he asked. you turned to him confused, “what?” he rolled his eyes, “stop tapping your fingers it’s annoying.” you narrowed your eyes at him, “yeah? well so are you bouncing your leg but i didn’t say anything.”

he rolled his eyes and stilled his leg, you smirked slightly before stopping the tapping. you laid your head against the window, feeling sleepy. however the small bumps the car hit were uncomfortable. your smaller bag only had a few things in it, not holding the small stuffed animal you were looking for. it was a small bear, you’ve had since childhood you literally always bring with you. turning so you could reach in the trunk, your body kept bumping into niki. the boy groaned, “what are you doing now? can’t you just sit still?,” he tried to scoot away from you. “i was looking for something,” you grumbled clutching the bear and turning to sit back down. “seriously?” niki noticed the bear you were now holding.

“that could of waited,” he snapped. “i’m going to use him as a pillow, it’s..you know what, i don’t have to explain myself to you.” you placed the bear in a spot to cushion your head. niki scoffed and adjusted in his spot. his leg pushing into yours, “could you maybe not be a dude and save me some room,” you asked pushing his leg back over with yours. “i can’t help it,” his eyes rolled. that’s all his eyes ever did when he looked at you. “we have to stop for gas, if anyone wants snacks or to stretch their legs,” heeseung spoke. once he pulled into the gas station everyone piled out of the car. your arms stretched above your head, a soft groan falling from your lips. goosebumps covered your skin as a chill breeze went by. “can i borrow a hoodie, anyone?” you spoke. they all nodded saying to just grab one from the back. opening the trunk you dug through the bags until you came across what you were looking for. pulling out a large gray zip up hoodie, you smiled once the sleeves covered your cold arms. jungwon came bouncing out of the gas station with a bag full of snacks. “here y/n,” he said, handing you a bag of skittles and a bottle of sprite. “thank you wonnie,” he smiled and got into the passenger seat.

you dreaded sitting next to him again, but everyone was ready to get back on the road. niki had his head turned away from you when you got in. your chest tightened but you refused to let him get to you. “can you scooch over a little bit?,” you asked, squeezing into your seat. his leg was partially on your side. he let out a scoff before pulling leg closer to his side. taking your seat, you pulled your hood up and leaned against the window. niki’s eyes drifted to the hoodie you were wearing, his hoodie. he felt his heart pounding against his chest, you looked so good in his clothes. sunoo turned towards you, holding out his bag of gummie worms, “want some?” you nodded reaching into the bag and grabbing two. “thank you,” you grinned.

niki was silent, a storm was brewing inside him. he didn’t think it was fair that you got along so well with the boys. why couldn’t you get along with him like that? why did you two hate each other so much? truth is neither of you could pinpoint any moment that could of caused the mutual feeling of hate between you both. “riki would you like a gummie worm?” sunoo asked holding the bag out to him. niki looked at it seeing no blue left, then he noticed the blue gummie worm in your hand. “no someone already took the last good flavor,” he huffed. your eyebrows furrowed and you handed the gummie worm to him, “here,” his eyes widened as he stared at it. part of him wanted to take it, he didn’t know what caused him not to. “i don’t want it after you’ve had it in your hand,” he grabbed a red one from sunoo before turning to ignore the both of you.

sunoo turned back around to ignore the brewing argument, but you shrugged and said nothing. trying your best to not fight with him.

it wasn’t long before another fight broke out. the bouncing of his leg? a fight. the tapping of your nails? a fight. sunoo pointing out you were wearing niki’s hoodie? a fight. “y/n isn’t that riki’s?,” sunoo pointed towards the gray hoodie on your body. you looked towards the hoodie and shrugged, “yeah i guess so i just grabbed one,” your eyes quickly glanced at niki who had a scowl on his face. “maybe ask before wearing someone else's clothes,” his voice was cold.

“but i did, i asked to borrow a hoodie.” you were quick to defend yourself. “well you didn’t ask to borrow mine so why are you wearing it?” his eyebrows were furrowed. you turned towards niki, angry. “why are you so upset about it? it’s just a hoodie, i’ll take it off. i’m trying to be nice but you’re being a prick,” your hands reached for the zipper pulling it off and tossing it towards him.

your perfume filled his senses as he folded the hoodie and set it beside him. his heart was racing for many different reasons, the glances from the boys made him more angry. “no one wants you here anyway, so of course i’m being a prick,” niki seethed. “i’ll have you know the boys want me here, otherwise i wouldn’t of been invited,” niki laughed. “you’re only here because they pity you, because you cling to them—to everyone like an abandoned puppy. nobody wants you here.”

it felt like your heart stopped. “riki that’s not true,” sunoo spoke up. you drown them out turning towards the window ignoring the boys attempts to speak to you, ignoring niki’s longing glance. his own heart wrenching as he caught sight of the tears welling in your waterline. he put his headphones in and turned towards his window. the familiar sounds of his alternative playlist playing. his leg continued to bounce yet this time you were dead silent. ignoring him all together, he hated to admit it but he missed the attention.

what felt like hours passed before niki couldn’t take it anymore. he plucked one of his earbuds out, handing it to you. you looked at the earbud, then up at him. he wasn’t looking at you, but the thought of hearing music was better than whatever silence your latest fight had caused. swallowing the lump in your throat, you placed the earbud in your ear.

the familiar lyrics of ‘if i’m james dean, you’re audrey hepburn’ filled your ears. your eyes widened not expecting niki to share the same music taste as you. taking the risk you scooted closer to him, to shorten the length of the headphone wire. he let out a deep breath, relaxing his body resting closer to yours.

niki took the peace between you as his chance to apologize. the car intensely quiet, he didn’t trust his voice to come out as a whisper. niki’s hand wrapped softly around your wrist, pulling your arm towards him. he waited to see if you’d pull away, when you didn’t he took a breath. using his finger he carefully spelled out ‘i’m sorry. your breath was caught in your throat, as your heart was hammering against your chest. niki stopped spelling but his hand remain on your wrist, his fingers itching to lace with yours.

taking a chance you opened your hand, palm up. niki was quick to lace his fingers in yours. the song continues between the two of you. sealing your feelings for each other. you leaned your head against his shoulder, your body relaxing against his. niki sighed contently resting his head on yours, his hand holding yours like you’d disappear if he let go.

your relationship was far from mended, the two of you were content with the comforting silence you created. the music and movement of the car was enough to lull both of you to sleep.

in the front seat jake and jungwon shared a knowing look, jungwon grinning knowing he purposely took your headphones. jake smirked knowing their plan worked, and they’re friendcation would be peaceful afterall.

author’s note: eeeek my first riki fic 🥳 hope you all enjoyed it ♡!!

taglist: @jjunieworld @304files @babymochibeargyu @miaroseindreamland @seuliecore @seobluv @ray0magdalene @mimisxs @ppeachyttae @capri-cuntz @eneiyri @50-husbands @riksaes @imma-jiki @luvvhaos (if your name is bold i couldn’t tag you)

love , echo ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪

© jjunberry - all rights reserved. please do not repost on any social media sites, translate, or modify any of my works.

[u5an5]

Just watched Deadpool & Wolverine with polish subs based on dub and I have to be honest, there's much more funny stuff than I expected, considering that the rest of it made me glad I'm not watching it with actual dub

So, things that picked my interest:

Instead "207 when I watch Gossip Girl" he straight up says "207 when I watch porn" (Gossip Girl isn't especialy popular show here so reference wouldn't mean anything for majority of audience anyway, but to straight up say it instead replacing it?)

"Ok peanut, 'guess we're getting that team-up after all" got replaced with "Okej ptysiu, nie ma to jak seks grupowy", which translates to "Okay cutiepie, nothing better than group sex" (??? we're still in the first 5 minutes of the movie)

"you know what they say, when one door closes, your locker at work opens" translated to "Jak to mówią… Jak zamykają od przodu, to ładujesz się od tyłu" which translates roughly to "Like they say... when they close the front, you get in the behind" which I find kinda funny

Peters line about seeing Wade in suit comes of gayish cause he doesn't say he wants to see him in the suit again, he wants to LOOK at him in it again, you know what I mean

intead "This guy looks ready to throw it all away for me" he says "This cutie would gladly get hugged by my bowels" which is a lot more straightforward than I expected

Wades spiel to comic acurate height Wolverine is much more insulting and instead being all "what a cwute short king you awe" translates to "Oh fuck, a furball dwarf? Was there even dwarf like that? Furballs mommy drank lots of booze when she was pregnant? Maybe daddy was a ratferret? Don't even come near me, 'cause you surely have ticks"

"I need you to come with me, right now" to "Zapraszam cię na randke, i to natychmiast" meaning "I invite you to a date, and I mean right now" (Logan replies with "Złotko, nie kręci mnie to" which translates to "Sweetie, I'm not diggin' it" and by "it" I'm honestly not sure if he means Wade himself, the fact that Wade said he's only here because he's the Wolverine just a second ago, or because his suit looks like fetish gear)

"It's quite common to Wolverines after 40" to "It's normal when going trough menopause, I get it"

they replaced "peanut" to different endearments to not be repetive but the most often used one is "ptysiu" (ptyś is a choux pastry; if I had to translate it as english endearment, I'd go with cutiepie). its cute imo

Logans "bub" also got replaced by endearments/insults losely fitting situation but the stupidest one has to be Logan calling Johnny "misiu", which translates to "little bear" and let me tell you, it's HILARIOUS cause it's equvalent of calling a random guy "sweetie" but in the "your grandma asking if you want seconds (yes you do, no you don't have any say)" way

"my boy's wicked strong" is translated to "mój chłopak zna się na rzeczy". It's slightly like the papi situation from spanish dub cause yes, "chłopak"'s direct translation is often "boyfriend" but it is also used as "boy", "guy" or "dude", usualy towards guys younger/about the same age as you. However, the addition of "mój"/"mine, my" makes it much more angled towards boyfriend, wherever they wanted to or not. There are at least three different ways to translate it and make it less gae I know and the've still chosen this one.

They made, in my opinion, the "its a common curtesy to ask" "Its good thing I don't give a fuck" lines better by translating them to "you shoud've ask, thats polite thing to do" "and you can politely fuck off"

they replaced Star Trek reference with Star Wars one, using Han Solo instead Spock and idk. on one hand they did it to THE spirk moment but on the other they made, and I may be reaching, but it seems like covert reference to "I know" scene so ??? (star trek is nowewhere near as known as star wars here so they would probs replace it either way but it also can be just "star trek and star wars sound so much alike, they have to be basically the same, right?" haha joke)

them instead innuendos using the most over the top forms of insult that no one ever heard is kinda funny but only because I only had to read them; if I ever heard somone call somebody "kutasina" irl I would find a way for at least one of us to not be able to hear anything ever again ("cockleter" is my best attempt to recreate this horseshit)

If you guys want to share some treasures from your native dubs/subs, feel free to

[andcars]

# 𝗙𝗖𝟰𝟯 ─── MAKE IT UP OFF-TRACK MASTERLIST . . . REQUEST ME . . . TAGLIST . . . AO3

YOU'VE RACED WITH HIM AND you've been under him. still, it hurts you when he outqualifies you. it almost hurts as much when you both still think you're just fuck buddies. ────── original prompt req.

PROMPTED DIALOGUE . . . # “You’ve been staring for a while” PROMPTED TAGS . . . # praise kink, rivalry, friends with benefits, jealousy ADD. TAGS . . . # quickie vibes, sex in the hospitality, author has a language kink, but also deepl translations WORD COUNT. . . # 1.6k

────── AO3 VERSION

P11. Fucking P11.

Everyone else is in the garage as you come in, all angry and disappointed. You were tenth of a second behind P10 and you weren't able to push it on the last lap because you went off track limits.

What’s done is done. You can’t work with a car that clearly doesn't wanna work with you. The better part of you wants to let this go and simply rest for tomorrow. Call it a day. Think of how to dominate tomorrow. Sleep it off.

But Franco walks to the garage at P7 and proceeding into Q3. The plan gets thrown away immediately.

You don’t hate the guy, of course not. You’ve met him times before when he was still in F2. If, of course, meeting him included hotel rooms and secluded bathrooms. You met him a lot, if so.

It’s not his fault that he’s better than you, as of now. You should be happy, really. But fuck, it should hurt how some rookie is better than you in a car you’ve driven for a year.

Despite all of this anger bubbling in you, you can’t stay mad at him. You could never stay mad at him, you think. Yet it hurts all the same.

You look away as your eyes meet. Not giving him a chance to even confront you or attempt to comfort you, you leave.

It’s pivotal now to talk with your strategist. He’s expecting you, unfortunately. Knowing damn well that your next duty was to come to him to see how to improve your performance, he already had your data pulled up.

Your, and their, wrongs are being talked into your ear and out the other. The farthest screen turns black, and you see Franco in the reflection. His blurred figure is towards you, his panting from the race still evident on him.

It’s difficult to pretend to care about racing right now. It’s not like they say anything different anyway. The rear wings are fucked, the tyres are fucked, the wheel can’t turn, and your head is just in the wrong direction. All the same things said before.

To the driver’s room you go. Q3 starts and you don’t do anything. The TV screen shows the delayed race as the crowd cheers from the opposite sides of the wall. Franco is in danger, with Mercedes finally coming out from the pit—you don’t expect anything more.

After the stretched minutes alone in your room, a knock comes on your door.

You say, “I’ll be out soon, tell James to get some patience,” with your head in your phone. No fucking way you’re going to be dealing with them while you’re still pissed.

The door opened and you grunt. Looking up, Franco was grinning at you.

“I’m also hiding from Jego,” he says, the grin on his face annoying, “can I come in?”

“And we both get caught?” It doesn’t matter what you think, he puts his feet in anyway.

The couch is uncomfortable. If they aren’t spending money on the car, they might as well spend it on the seats. With you laying across the couch, he kneels between your legs. You raise an eyebrow at him as he undresses his fireproof suit.

You ask, “You seriously wanna fuck?” and he laughs.

“¿Me dirás que no? (Will you tell me no?)” he murmurs, getting on top of you with his hips pressing against your ass. “Did you know I placed 6th today?”

“Mhm.”

“No?” He places a kiss on your cheek. “Didn’t watch me? What were you doing in here?”

His lips ghost over your neck, the warmth of his breath sending a small shiver down your fine. You know he felt it when he chuckles in your skin.

“Getting fucked my brains out,” your voice is flat. “What were you doing out there?”

“Ah, amor (love), you won’t get me like that,” he whines and kisses you once in one side. Then twice the other. He says, “You are so mean though, telling me things like this. Do you wish you were with someone else? Hm? ¿No me querés más? (You don’t want me any more?)”

Franco comes up to part your lips open with his tongue. You gasp a little, your arm limp over his back. His mouth wide open, chest pressed against yours, tongue just brushing against your lips, he says—

“Quiero coger. Te quiero comer a besos. Quiero que me hagas tuyo, mi amor. Don’t go making me jealous because you are.” (I want to fuck you. I want to lavish you with kisses. I want you to make me yours, my love)

His hand is gentle on yours, playing on the hem of your pants as his kisses turn wet. Desperate. Loving. It hurts you how careful he is with you when you spent the past hour hating him in your head.

And he’s always so gentle. He always used to ask you if you liked it, his words almost always in Spanish. As if he’s lost in you, he doesn’t know what words to use.

He no longer needs your permission now. A finger rubs between your clothed cunt as his hand pushes your shirt up to hold your tits. He moans more than you, in love with your body.

“So good,” he murmurs, “don’t ever look for anyone else. For me, please?” You moan against his cheek as he focuses on rubbing your clit through your pants. “I can make you feel so good. Amor, I can be yours.”

In moments like this, he’s too drunk on sex to know the words he’s spewing. He reaches for the lube and condom hidden in your desk. His movements are sloppy. You swear he struggles a little in opening the cap up.

He asks you something in Spanish. It’s out of your vocabulary, so you tilt your head.

“I don’t need to prepare you, right? You’re still loose?” You can see his hips grinding against the palm of his hand. His cheeks are flushed, and you see drool coming down his chin. It’s pitiful.

You nod. “Yeah, just give me a bit to adjust if you wanna—fucking hell.” It’s out of your control when you laugh. Franco eagerly shoves his pants down alongside yours.

“What has gotten you so eager?” you ask.

“I got P6,” he smirks. That little fucker.

His cock is rubbered and wet when it enters you. He moans loud as your hand comes to his cheek. It’s catlike, the way he goes soft against your hold.

Shifting slowly, he grinds inside of you. The soft rubbing inside your walls almost has you mewling. But you keep your eyes on him, ignoring the pooling pleasure between your legs.

Telling him, “You’ve been looking at me,” has his lips pouting. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were in love with me.”

“I am in love with you,” your cheeks flush, and you’re not sure if it’s the sudden thrust of his cock or his words. “I’m in love with the way you race, how you over-perform a dying car, how you move.”

His eyes drop to where you two meet, jittering his hips a little. With the quick thrusts, you’re caught off guard and moaning out his name. He looks very satisfied with it.

“Oh, amor—” his words turn gibberish to you as he starts to move. His pace is uneven, driven by the thought to take you carefully and the urge to bring the both of you to climax. Not a single word is getting into your head.

But his voice is so loving. He’s panting between every other word, lips pouted and eyebrows furrowed. His voice is getting louder, and you put your hand against his mouth.

“Shut - oh, God… Shut up,” you whine, feeling the cockhead rub against your g-spot. “You’re so fucking… good. Just like that, fuck me.”

He shuts up when he goes down to kiss you. Both his arms wrap around you, embracing you as he finds the right angle to make sure you’re still getting stimulated. His hair is rubbing against your clit, the little tickle in them getting you to moan a little louder.

You feel dizzy. It’s not the lack of air during the kiss, you know it. He’s just holding you close to him while he takes you like you’re his lover. Your heart curls in itself, punishing itself for its own stupidity.

But fuck, you want to focus on the now. The way his hands are going up and down your back, soothing you as you get lost in the pace of his thrusts. The way his body towers over you, completely enveloping you in his hold. 

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, his pace barely slowing as you assume he cums inside of you. You whine when he bottoms inside.

Franco knows you. He knows you too well. He grinds inside of you before pulling out. Still, he doesn’t let you think another thought before he’s flicking your clit.

“Shit, fuck, Franco!” he smiles under your silent praise as his other fingers tease at your hole. “I’m gonna cum too. Just like that. Don’t fucking stop.”

He only leans down to spit on your pussy, easing the rub as you’re moving your hips along him. You cum with your back arched and your hips off the couch. His hand stills on your clit as his eyes are fixated on the way cum leaves your pussy.

You drop back down when he places your hips on his lap. “Don’t get it dirty,” he reminds you, tying the condom and throwing it in the bin. “It’s embarrassing to explain to the cleaners.”

His humour comes in at the worst moments. You grunt and he only laughs. “It’s not even funny. You’re just telling the truth.”

“It’s funnier in Spanish,” he promises.

You think about how it probably sounds just about the same.

🗒 𝗣𝗔𝗣𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗟 . . . first time writing for bro ! i'm so open to writing more of him so i added him in my taglist options, so if you wanna be tagged for future fics of him 👀 you know what to do . if you already sent me a form before , you can resend another with him included ! anyways , fixing up the next few fics soon . ˎˊ˗ ᝰ. ──── 📨 @delululeclerc @hiireadstuff

you support me best on tumblr with reblogs and comments ! ── by andcars ⟡

[immortalmrwavell]

Getting The Job

(Original story posted November 7th 2021. Original story title “Better Life, Cop Life”) This story has been mildly Updated!

Recently Eric’s life had been going down the drain. First he split up with his boyfriend Jake after discovering he was cheating. Then he lost his job due to staff cuts. And to top it off he then lost his old apartment since it was all in Jake’s name. Now his ex was living in their old place with the guy he cheated with while Eric was struggling to find a new job while living in the cheapest apartment he could find. As he applied for shitty job after job he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done to deserve all this? Was it all some kind of cruel universal joke?

As he was job hunting, one of the positions that popped up was a job at a small clothing shop called “Threads for Life”. The description of the job itself was extremely vague but he assumed it would just be retail. Working a till and serving customers etc. So he applied.

Surprisingly they were the first to get back to him about his application and in such a short time frame as well. They emailed asking for him to come in for an interview. Of course Eric accepted. Why wouldn’t he? The only weird thing was how close this shop seemed to be. It was just down the road from his old apartment and still rather close to his current one but he could swear he’d never seen or heard of the shop before. He just chalked it up to him being unobservant and forgetful.

On the day of the interview Eric found the shop just where it was said to be. Even after seeing it though, nothing clicked. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t here before. He shook the odd feeling off however as he stepped up to the front door perfectly on time and looking his best.

Upon entering he was greeted by a middle aged man who introduced himself as the owner of the establishment, Tony. The two exchange greetings before Tony ushered Eric to follow him. Eric expected to be taken immediately to an office but instead Tony simply walked through the many isles of clothing with him while chatting casually about the shop and its history.

Before Eric had assumed this to be a simple clothes shop. One that sold shirts, pants and all the rest like most other shops. And it did. But something Eric was quick to notice was how most of the clothes seemed to be matched together in outfits. Rather than being separated into different sections, almost all the clothes in the shop had already been prematched. There were plenty of casual combos like t-shirts and jeans or shorts and tank tops however as they moved from aisle to aisle there were a very noticeable amount of clothes that seemed more like costumes.

Some were more understandable like suits. But a lot of the others?… Eric took note of medical scrubs, fireman uniforms, motorcycle gear, handyman clothes, police uniforms, cowboy costumes, construction clothes and so much more. Eric also couldn’t help noting that none of the clothes seemed to be marketed towards women. He supposed the shop specialised in men’s attire specifically. Still he couldn’t help but find the layout of the store to be… strange.

“Soooo… Eric was it? Before I can give you a job. I want to ask you a couple questions.” The owner said as he sat down on a cushioned stool near the back of the shop, prompting Eric to do the same.

Eric of course agreed to this as questions were standard procedure for almost any interview so he was ready for it..

“Okay first question then. Growing up, did you ever have any dreams of who you’d eventually become? What job you’d want to strive for? What kind of man you’d want to become?” Tony asked.

It was a strange question for sure but Eric still pondered it for a moment before answering. “Well I don’t think I was ever dead set on anything but I remember wanting to be something along the lines of a fireman… or a police officer maybe?”

Tony nodded, seeming pleased with that answer. “Okay then second question. Are you content with the current direction your life has taken or would you still like to fulfill that childhood dream if you could?”

Eric chuckled at the bizarre question. “Well… my life hasn’t exactly been going in a good direction recently. If I could change some things I would. But if you’re asking me whether I’d wanna become a cop then… I just don’t think I have what it takes.” He gestured down at his body. “I’m thin and lanky. Don’t really go to the gym that much and I’m not all that good with confrontation. To be honest I just don’t think I have the right mindset to be a cop you know?” Eric huffed before looking back up at the owner. “And no offense but what does that have to do with me working here?”

Tony didn’t answer at first. He just smiled before standing back up again. The owners eyes glanced around the store, mainly at all the costumes and then turned back to Eric.

“Alright. I think I can give you a job.”

Eric was surprised when he heard that. All he’d done was answer two silly questions. He tried to query as to how those questions even mattered but Tony simply asked Eric to follow him. Confused as ever, Eric did just that.

The pair made their way back down the isles of outfits. They passed by the suits, doctors scrubs and all the other costumes yet again. Only the weird thing was now that Eric was getting a closer look at them, he started to notice how real the costumes looked. They weren’t just silly fake costumes you’d wear to a party. They were the real deal! Actually looking as though they belonged to real firemen and real doctors. Even the tradie outfits looked dirty as if they’d been used for actual tradie work.

Tony stopped in front of the police uniforms. Eric was quick to notice just how real those looked as well. Not just uniform but genuine looking police badges as well. Not to mention the radio, utility belt and even a body cam that all looked completely real. As if they’d been taken directly from actual cops and put on display.

“Pick one.” Was all Tony said.

“What? Seriously?” Eric was baffled. This had to be some kind of joke right?

“Oh come on. Humour me a little. Pick one out.” Tony urged, patting Eric on the back. “Though if I were you I’d certainly pick that one.” The shop owner pointed out a specific uniform amongst the selection. Eric didn’t really see why it’d matter which one he chose as they mostly looked the same anyway.

Eric sighed. “Fine, I’ll pick that one then. Now what? Want me to go try it on.” He joked only to be met by an affirming nod from Tony.

“Changing rooms are just over there.”

Eric raised an eyebrow at the man but decided what the hell. He took the uniform off the rack along with the equipment. Tony then picked up the large black boots and placed them on top of the uniform in Eric’s hands. Eric shook his head as he turned and walked off towards the changing rooms.

He shut the blue curtain behind as he stepped into one of the stalls. It was a fair bit bigger than he’d expected it to be. Eric sat the uniform down on the bench before striping himself down to his boxer briefs. After setting his own clothes to one side, he began to get dressed in the police uniform.

First thing he did was pull on the pants which he found to be rather baggy. He sat down to prevent them from falling as he grabbed the shirt, pulling it on and buttoning it up. He made sure to tuck it into his pants before grabbing the utility belt and strapping firmly around his waist. He still couldn’t believe it had a real taser attached to it and everything. Lastly Eric slid his feet into the heavy black boots which were clearly a couple sizes too large.

With that Eric stood up to take a look in the mirror. He looked ridiculous. The uniform was far too big and baggy on him. He looked like he was playing dress up more than anything. He slid his hands into his pockets as looked at himself a little more, amused by the uniform. Though as his hands dug around in the pockets, he realised something was in one of them. It was small and metallic. Eric pulled it out to reveal a name tag with “J. Desmond” engraved on it. Jokingly Eric decided to pin it to his shirt for a laugh.

Eric shook his head again at how silly this all was. Why had Tony made him put this one anyway? With a shrug he was just about to start taking the uniform off, not wanting to look stupid when he stepped out of the changing room. But before he could even start unbuttoning the shirt, he began to feel…weird. Like a warm wave of pure pleasure began flowing over him. A wave so incredible that he almost didn’t notice his body starting to change.

His upper body was first to see a transformation. His back widening significantly as his flat chest began to bubble and swell into two thick hefty pecs. Pecs that grew larger until they started to strain his shirt slightly. The same shirt that’d been hanging loosely off his frame moments ago now starting to fill out at an alarming rate. Especially as his shoulders bulged to the size of cannon balls while his traps grew to match. His waist grew larger but tighter at the same time as fat melted away in place of pure raw muscle. Showing itself even more so in the form of abs. They weren’t chiseled washboard abs, they were thicker and softer than that but still impressive all the same.

But his arms. They were what really caught Eric’s attention. Partly thanks to the cop shirt he was wearing being a short sleeve which gave him a full view of their transformation. He got to watch as veins pulsed across his skinny twig-like arms as though they were being pumped full of unseen energy. And then with pain or warning they started to swell. His previously non existent biceps began hulking into reality as the muscle beneath his skin inflated. It should’ve been impossible. Seemingly gaining mass from nothing. But his eyes witnessed it all. His forearms expanded rapidly while his hands cracked and thickened. His biceps continued to balloon with power and size until they stretched his sleeves. Only then did they finally stop. His veins subsided as his arms reached their new colossal size.

His upper body might’ve been massive now but his lower body was getting ready to catch up. Eric’s waist and hips had already widened enough for the waist of the cop pants to fit securely. Now it was his legs turn to catch up.

In seconds they put on an unbelievable amount of sheer muscle mass. It was as though someone had plugged an air pump into his legs and started filling them up. But it wasn’t air. It was pure real muscle. Eric couldn’t help but groan a little as his pants began to feel tighter. He leaned against the wall of the cubicle for support as his thighs and calves continued to bloat thicker and more powerful by the second. The once baggy cop pants now fit him like a glove. But it wasn’t just his legs. His backside started to swell as well. His once average butt growing into a juicy muscular bubble ass that strained against the back of his pants perfectly. Not to mention his feet cracking and lengthening similar to hands. Growing multiple sizes until they fit perfectly inside the black cop boots he had on.

When the next change kicked in, Eric’s eyes widened as one of his hands instinctively flew towards his crotch. Grabbing his bulge tightly as even that began to swell and grow. His eyes began to roll back as his cock snaked down one his legs, growing girthier in the process. Meanwhile his balls followed suit as they bloated into fat heavy nuts full to the brim with cum.

His body was complete but his head still had to change. A stinging sensation came over his face as it started to morph. The shape of his head and all of his features altering dramatically until he was unrecognisable from the man he once was. His new look being much sharper and masculine in a way that would’ve screamed high school jock had he been a little younger. All the while the light stubble he’d always carried grew into more of a short well kept beard while the messy mid length hair he adorned shortened into faded crew cut.

“Fuuuuuck…” Eric groaned as the transformation subsided at last. There was a clear difference in his voice. It must’ve been altered with the rest of his body. He found himself looking back into the mirror with amazement. No longer was he that scrawny pale figure of a man he’d seen reflected all his life. Now he was… buff. Really buff! And hot as fuck!. It was unreal. The uniform that was more or less falling off him moments ago now clung to him as though he were made for it. He couldn’t stop himself from running his hands up and down his torso, feeling a set of strong abs hiding under his shirt before drifting back up to squeeze his power new pecs through the fabric. He never thought he’d actually have fucking pecs but here he was now! Groping and kneading them.

In all the excitement his cock began to firm up. Eric could feel the blood rushing to his crotch as his growing erection created a clear outline in his pants. He smirked as he brought both hands down towards his crotch. Gently he rubbed his hands across the length of his dick through his pants.

Eric looked back into the mirror before bringing both arms up into flex. His already hard cock twitched at the sight of his biceps bulging, threatening to rip his sleeves in the process. The strength he felt flowing through his arms… No, his whole body was intoxicating! With his left hand Eric proceeded to grasp and squeeze his right bicep. It seemed impossible, like he was living in a lucid dream!

Just then Eric thought of something he’d always wished he could do. He’d never been buff enough to do it before. But now? He lowered his arms to his sides, stood up straight before flexing his chest. His pecs bounced. Eric’s eyes widened in amazement at the sight of his new muscle tits jumping underneath the shirt. He bounced them a few more times before cupping them again with a sense of pure wonder flowing through him. “These feel fucking amazing…”

Once he’d finished admiring his pecs, Eric remembered something else that’d grown. He turned his back to the mirror and looked behind. His cock twitched extra hard this time as he caught sight of his muscular new cop butt straining against his uniform pants. He couldn’t help himself. Before long his greedy hands were reaching back and grasping at his thick bubbly ass. “Oooohh fuuck.” He growled, feeling just how hefty they were. “My ass is fucking huge!…” Eric murmured aloud, lost in the pleasure. So lost in fact that he didn’t even notice Tony peering through the curtains. Watching with a horny gaze as Eric squeezed and groped his fat new ass. Even watching as Eric went as far as to place his hands just under his ass cheeks and start jiggling them, dumbly laughing as he did.

Eric felt his cock pulsing and bucking uncontrollably as he played with his cop butt. So much so that he couldn’t hold back anymore. Soon enough he spun back around to face the mirror again before unzipping his pants. Tony continued to creep in on the show while Eric shoved a hand into his underwear, struggling to free his erection. With a little effort however Eric was able to let out a satisfied sigh as his girthy python sprung free. The thing must’ve been around 9 inches long and insanely thick. It was every man’s dream cock.

A slapping noise could be heard from the changing rooms as Eric began smacking his cock against his hand while he admired it. Every smack sent a pleasurable shiver through his body. He had to stroke it. He was just able to wrap his hand around its full girth before he started to pump. It had to have been at least three times more sensitive than his old cock as Eric couldn’t stop cursing while he pumped it.

He began to jerk faster as he looked over his new body in the mirror again. His handsome bearded face and buff body. How thick his legs were. How buff his arms had become. How massive his chest had grown. Just looking at it all reflected back at him allowed him to jerk off furiously. He then looked down at his cock. He loved seeing it. Soooo thick and excited as some precum started to drip from the tip. With how sensitive it was and intensely he was pumping it, Eric could tell he was gonna to blow any moment.

He turned to his left, getting a perfect side view of his body. He couldn’t help but fixate on how much his ass stood out. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching his free hand back towards it again. Before long he was groping his ass and jerking his cock all at the same time. The new cop was having the time of his goddamn life!

“Fuuuuuuuccck!” That was enough to send him over the edge. Tony, who was still watching, saw Eric's ass clench and his cock erupt with an enormous load. One so big that it shit cum all over the benches adjacent to the new cop as well as his old and now ill fitting clothes. His cock continued to buck and twitch for a good few moments afterwards. Shooting a few more times as it covered the floor in front of him with cum.

“See. I knew you’d like that one.” Tony finally made himself known as he pulled back the curtain.

Eric whipped around, still panting a little. “Fuck I… my deepest apologies sir… I couldn’t stop myself.” He tried to reason.

“No need to apologise Officer.” Tony smirked as he glanced down at Eric’ softening cock, still dripping cum. “Most find it hard to contain themselves after what you just went through. So no need to worry. I’ll even get it cleaned up for ya.” The store manager smiled innocently.

“Officer?…” Eric repeated what the other man had said to him as though it weren’t the truth. It sounded weird and off putting to hear someone call him that. So why did it sound so right at the same time?

“Well you are a Cop now. Officer James Desmond to be precise, so you better get used to hearing it.” Tony nodded towards the name tag that was pinned to Eric’s shirt.

Hearing that name triggered something inside Eric. Memories of being Cop flooded his mind along with a bunch of other unfamiliar memories. He still remembered who he used to be but now he had a whole new life filling his head that made his old one feel like a fleeting dream. A new life as Officer James Desmond.

“Thank you sir. You have no idea how grateful I am for all this…” James stated, his new manners kicking in right away. Immediately after he tucked his fat new cock back into his pants before pulling up the zip. “But I’ve got to be back at the station in half an hour.”

“No worries Officer! I completely understand. You head off and I’ll be sure to get all your ball batter cleaned. Might take me a while though.” Tony joked, earning a chuckle from James.

“Heh sorry sir. Got myself a pair of bull balls down here.” James gave his crotch a quick squeeze. “Well I’m off. If you ever need anything don’t hesitate to ask for me down at the staton.” He said, passing by Tony as he exited the changing cubicle.

“Oh don’t worry I will.” Tony replied, giving James’ ass a smack as he passed. He continued to watch James’ ass shake as he sauntered away up until the sexy new cop reached the front door.

James hopped into his car, not even noticing it’d been morphed into a cop car, before starting up the engine. As he drove towards the station he couldn’t help but daydream about plunging his cock into some other hot cop’s ass or having another cop fuck his new bubble butt. Surely some of his buddies down at the station would be down for some fun. According to his memories he seemed to recall catching his own partner checking out his ass a couple times…

Back at the shop. “Another life bettered and another hot stud on the streets. A pretty good day I’d say” Tony sighed to himself with a smile before turning back towards the changing room. Looking over at the huge mess of Cop nut he now had to clean. “Well… best get to work.”

[machveil]

Can't believe you're gonna make me simp for this man while I'm at work-

LET ME KISS HIS SCARS BETTER REPEATEDLY DAILY ON THE BED ON THE DESK ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER WHERE NO GOD CAN SEE OR JUDGE I WILL WORSHIP THE MAN WITH WAR WOUNDS THE WAY HE OUGHT TO BE -🐸

Kiss it Better

sometimes a kiss makes things feel better— or a few dozen! headcanons for smoochin’ their scars: Simon “Ghost” Riley, John “Soap” MacTavish, König, Sebastian Krueger

Simon “Ghost” Riley:

Simon Riley has been on the receiving end of a lot, he’s used to it - mishaps during training, wounds during deployments, not to mention the occasional bumps and bruises from daily life. what he wasn’t used to receiving was the feeling of your lips on the rough, patchy parts of his skin

”What’chya doin’, love?”, voice warm as he watches you press kisses to his scarred chest. he’d told you about some of them, grazes and nicks, close calls with blades, “Nothing, Si.”. a content hum resonates in his chest, a hand resting on the back of your head as you continue - kissing from scar to scar

he was indifferent towards the scars - a part of his job, but when you littered kisses over them? the warmth that bloomed in his chest was welcomed. lounging in bed with you, the tv idly playing in the background as he combs his fingers through your hair, the domestic moment is pure bliss for Simon

pressing his own kiss to your hairline, he cracks a smile when you chuckle, nipping at his collarbone. “Careful, you’re supposed t’be kissin’ ‘em, lovie.”, he says, tugging your hair a little.

“Could leave a couple new marks for you.”, you mumble, smiling against his skin when he gently scratches your scalp

John “Soap” MacTavish:

for every kiss you place on his scars he’s doubling them and giving them back. Johnny is a sucker for when you kiss his scars - getting them can be horrifying depending on what happened, but when you’re pecking his arms? peppering kisses over his scarred muscles? he’s thinking about banging his knee into your coffee table ‘accidentally’ so you’ll kiss it better

“Wait, go back— missed a spot, mo ghaol.”, Johnny happily says, hand cupping your chin as he smiles at you, guiding you to press a kiss to his shoulder. the scar is barely visible - probably a nick from training or bumping into something, but he’s more than happy to feel your lips against the small mark, “Ya started this, gotta kiss ‘em all.”, he insists

he’s living for the attention, thumb pressed to your cheek as he gently guides you to each scar - some completely visible, others you have to squint at. and he’s gushing, cooing sweetly at you about how nice your lips feel against his skin, how you should do this more often

and he when you’re done? he’s pressing you down against the couch, a hand holding your wrists above your head as he kisses you silly - he’s laughing, dopey smile on his lips as he sloppily pecks you. “Hold still, mo chridhe! You’re squirmin’ too much—“, he chuckles, accent thick between quick kisses

“John! John— let go! It tickles!”, you complain, his stubble rubbing against your neck as he playfully bites at you

König:

it took a while for König to reveal his marred skin to you - scars, freckles, and moles all hidden beneath his uniform and civvies. despite his confidence and cocky nature as a Colonel, behind closed doors König worries. ever since his childhood people had pointed and mocked him, and back then he wasn’t charging into the field receiving wounds

but he trusts you, and when his sniper hood is awkwardly tugged off by large, calloused hands? his icy blue gaze meets yours, his face on display - a small scar over against his eyebrow, a cut across the corner of his lips, a scattering of roughed up skin against his cheek. he doesn’t explain what happened, how he got his scars and wounds, but you don’t pry. instead, when your first instinct is to press a kiss to his long since healed cheek?

he freezes, breath hitching - König was expecting you to be appalled, to leave his apartment with knit eyebrows and disappointment in your eyes. he wasn’t expecting such gentle, careful adoration. and when you move to kiss his crooked nose, the bridge slanted slightly, he feels his chest tighten with relief, heart hammering. “Oh, liebling—“, shaky hands moving to hover above your hips, he swallows, “You don’t have to.”, he murmurs

his stomach flips when you kiss the corner of his lips, right where the nick against them is. he lets his eyes flutter shut when you tell him you want to, the he’s handsome and ever so charming - words he never thought he’d hear

“So pretty—“, you mumble, moving to peck the small scar the splits his eyebrow, “You look perfect, König.”

Sebastian Krueger:

prideful bastard, he’s showing off each and every scar - telling you exactly what happened. it doesn’t matter that his body has a reminder that he was nicked by a blade, “Ja, the man that did this won’t lay a hand me again, meine Herz.”, it’s almost like he’s bragging about them

Krueger cracks jokes about some of his more serious wounds, waving off anything he considers boring. the small scrape on his hip? ignore that he accidentally hip checked the corner of a table, look at this one! it’s the size of your thumb, you want to know where he got it? no? oh, you don’t want to listen to his stories, kleiner Vogel? you’re hurting his feelings, you should kiss his scars to make it up to him

he just wanted to share some stories with you, isn’t it mean that you’re denying him? he’s holding your face, palm to your chin and his thumb slightly digging into your cheek, “Du willst mir nicht zuhören, kleiner Vogel? Fine, how about you give me some attention then, Klingt das gut?”. he grins when you press a kiss to the scar on his chest, humming at the feeling of your lips against his skin, “Schau dich an, isn’t this nice?”

in fact, Krueger likes it so much that he’ll seek you out just to feel you kiss his old wounds - settles you in his lap, crowds you against the kitchen counter. his eyes light up whenever you initiate, chest twisting with excitement as you peck his collarbone, where a nasty little wound had been years ago

softly smiling as you press kisses to the healed, rough bit of skin, you glance up at Krueger, “Tell me about this one?”

I love these silly little guys - I hope you enjoyed these fluffy, domestic interactions with these soldiers🎀✨

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I absolutely LOVEEEE how Stan’s reaction!!! I wonder how Ford would react since he’s like the miracle child of the family

A/n: I'm gonna take a crack at Ford's, I think he would have to be really pushed to the limit and went for the whole Ford brought reader to meet his parents since it's a break from College so he has a bit more of a back bone.

Ford was excited, he couldn't wait for you to meet his parents. He knew his mother would love you and his father....he just had to.

He had too

Giving your hand a soft squeeze, he smiled knocking on the door. It was a normal night, well as normal as it could be for his family. Stan teased him, his mother loved you just as he thought she would and his father well he couldn't really get a good read on the man.

Though it was when his father pulled him aside that Ford could feel his heart slamming in his chest.

Giving his father his father a smile, Ford looked up at the man with a hopeful look in his eyes. "So....they're amazing right! I can-."

"They're not good enough for you....end it with them."

Smiling faltering, Ford looked up at his father in confusion. "W...what?"

"Look at them...they're a mess....end it with them. Honestly son, I expected this behavior from Stanley but you....do better."

"Do...better?" Ford frowned, digging his nails into his palm he gave his father a seething look. "Stan is with someone and...and I love them! I'm not...I'm not ending a relationship that makes me happy because you're a bitter old man!" He snapped then lowered his gaze taking a step back.

"I'm....I'm not doing this while someone I love is in the next room...they don't think I'm a freak....I thought you'd be happy...I'm going to marry them and...and you're not invited to the wedding...just stay away!"

Not wanting to hear his father's response he left the room. Taking a deep breath he made his way to where you were then sat down next to you to take your hand.

Giving him a smile you gave his hand a light squeeze titling your head. "You okay."

Bringing your hand to his lips, he returned your smile resting his head against yours. "I'm better now."

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Crash Course

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Word count: 798

Pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary: As Y/n recovers from her injuries, an unexpected visit from Lando leads to a heartfelt confession, shifting their relationship from fierce rivalry to the possibility of something more

______________________________________________________________

Y/n lay on the medical bed, her side wrapped in gauze, the sharp sting of the injury finally dulled by painkillers. The medical team had assured her it wasn’t anything too serious—just a few cracked ribs and a deep cut from the impact. She'd be back in the car soon enough. But as she stared up at the ceiling, her mind wasn’t on the injury.

It was on Lando.

The way he had looked at her, the worry in his eyes, the unexpected softness in his voice—it all played on repeat in her head. She had spent months thinking of him as nothing more than a rival, someone she needed to beat, someone who annoyed her with his smug attitude and relentless determination. But now, the walls between them seemed to have crumbled in a matter of moments.

The door to the room creaked open, and Y/n instinctively tensed, expecting a doctor. Instead, Lando slipped in, quiet and cautious. His usual cocky smirk was gone, replaced by an expression she barely recognized—concern, maybe even something more.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low as he moved to stand beside her bed.

Y/n forced a smile, trying to play off the awkwardness that had settled between them. “I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse.”

Lando’s lips twitched upward in a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked down at her for a long moment, like he was wrestling with something, then pulled up a chair, sitting beside her bed.

“Listen, Y/n… about earlier—” he began, but Y/n cut him off, shifting slightly to sit up straighter despite the protest from her ribs.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” she said quickly. “We both screwed up. I was pushing too hard. We crashed. End of story.”

“It’s not just about the crash,” Lando said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked nervously to hers. “I was angry, sure, but… when you nearly collapsed like that—” He hesitated, his gaze softening. “It scared me. More than I thought it would.”

Y/n stared at him, her chest tightening—not from the pain, but from the weight of his words. This was the Lando she had never seen, the one behind the constant rivalry and playful arrogance.

“I didn’t realize I was hurt,” she admitted quietly. “The adrenaline… I just wanted to get to you and tell you off.” She tried to laugh, but it came out weak and half-hearted.

Lando’s lips curled into a small smile. “Yeah, I figured. You always have something to say.”

She looked down, avoiding his eyes for a moment. “You said you don’t hate me,” she whispered. “But… all we’ve ever done is fight.”

Lando let out a slow breath, leaning back in the chair, his gaze never leaving her face. “That’s because I didn’t know how else to deal with it. With you. I wanted to win, to prove I could beat you, but… I also didn’t want to admit how much I admired you.”

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. “Admired me?”

Lando shrugged, his expression softening. “You’re fierce, Y/n. You fight for every inch on track. You don’t back down, not from anyone—not even me. It drove me crazy because, deep down, I knew I liked it. Liked you.”

For a moment, the room fell into silence, the weight of his confession settling between them. Y/n searched his face, trying to find any hint of mockery, but all she saw was honesty. It was disarming.

“I’ve been so focused on beating you,” Y/n murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I never stopped to think about anything else.”

Lando leaned closer, his voice soft but intense. “Maybe we should start thinking about something else.”

Y/n’s gaze flicked up to meet his, and in that instant, the tension between them shifted. It was no longer fueled by competition or rivalry, but by something deeper, something that had been building beneath the surface for far longer than either of them had realized.

Before she could say anything, the door creaked open again, and a nurse stepped in, breaking the moment.

“I’m sorry, but we need to check on the patient,” the nurse said kindly, though her presence felt like a bucket of cold water over the moment.

Lando stood, nodding to the nurse before turning back to Y/n. “I’ll… I’ll check on you later,” he said softly, his eyes lingering on hers for just a moment longer than necessary.

Y/n nodded, watching as he left the room. As the door closed behind him, she sank back into the bed, her mind reeling from everything that had just happened.

Her rival. Her competitor. And now… maybe something more.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

SUCROSE

Sugar Daddy!Older!König x Organic Chemist!Civ!FReader [NSFW, 4.3k]

You're an organic chemist that sugar babies for a laugh, because your days are dull and long. König is an old, battered soldier of fortune that has been sugaring you with an intensity bordering on religion. Neither of you are going to say the quiet part out loud.

CW: unprotected vaginal sex, doggy style, descriptions of nuclear annihilation, descriptions of the opioid crisis, criminally emotionally constipated adults. Barely edited.

König’s place is Spartan. Most things about him are. But he tells you to do whatever you want, you've got his black card if you want anything, and you raise a brow in question.

“Anything, huh?”

He gives you a dry look. “Anything. Literally, I do not give a shit.”

Almost sounds like a dare.

You don't make yourself too-too at home. This thing is still new—the arrangement, the dynamic, the thrill. You know better that it could burn out at any second and leave you all the way hanging. Not a worry, because you are in charge of yourself, and this is only for fun. 

You've been too abrasive for too long to have faith in the idea that others will look out for you. That's always been your duty to yourself. It's sacred. It's safety. 

But he breathes you deep, wanting you in a way that feels like need. 

He likes it when you just come over to his place, because you don't invite him to yours. He likes it when you don't wear anything fancy in particular. He likes it when you put on his boxers and his t-shirt and crash on the bed with him. 

“Bad work day?” he asks, gaiter pulled up over his nose, hiding his face while some bullshit plays on the TV and his fingers rub tenderly behind your ear. 

“Hm.” It's a huff of a laugh. You stay resting on his chest. Your fingertips have only just slipped under the waistband of his sweats, resting on the small paunch at the bottom of his belly. “Didn't want you getting too comfortable alone.”

“Never been,” he laughs in return, a low and rough haa. “The sentiment is appreciated.”

You feel bad for trying to make the joke. You've never been comfortable alone, either. “It's just something you learn to live around,” you further, hoping like hell he understands, because you lack the words otherwise. 

“Yeah,” he hums, his arm tightening where it wraps around you, because he does. “Yeah.”

There are the quiet nights like those, when he just likes having you pulled tight to his body, running your hand over his stomach, ignoring the litany of scars—surgical, and violent, and otherwise—marring his hide. 

Then there are nights where he's a nightmare, and it is a riot to play with him. 

+

There's no preamble, only action. He sends you money for dinner, and the moment you're done, you're asked over to his place. 

“Do you want me to pick anything up for you? To eat,” you clarify, standing on the curb outside of the first restaurant he ever took you to—it's become a regular in your rotation. You're still in your work clothes. You don't even feel particularly human, just functional. 

Fuck's sake, you didn't even expect him to call tonight. 

“No,” he says, his voice tense, even on the phone, “just you. Now.”

You're barely able to knock on the door before he's snapping it open, gaiter pulled up, wearing Dickies and a fleece. 

“You g—?” You don't even get to finish asking, body in flight.

You yelp in surprise as he snatches an arm around your waist, the other sliding up your sensible, frumpy skirt, curling under your thigh. 

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, and your stomach flips at the bizarre, alien sensation. You've never been small. Delicate. Petite—what a vile word, an ideal adored by many, one that you've never embodied, and never could. There is no amount of plastic surgery or product that will ever make you desirably little. A stupid and furious bead burns down into your sternum, one that turns its face from all the boys and men that moaned for you, buried balls-deep in your tight cunt, only to spin a tight 180° and bitch that they wanted a woman they could toss around, manhandle, feel powerful for moving. 

They would fuck you, and want you, but only at the demand of curiosity, lust, novelty. Who would claim you. Who would ache for you. 

König pulls you onto his hip, gripping your ass cheek tight in one hand, and carries you to the bed.

“On all fours,” he growls, turning and swallowing hard, fishing out his wallet, and as an afterthought catches up with him, he adds, “please.”

Your heart is racing from the way he'd bodily executed his decision with you. Your brain is shocked into a standby state, working on intuition and instinct. You arrange yourself on hands and knees, ass up in the air, and pull your panties down, hobbling your knees. At least those kinda cute, and you have the thigh high hose on, sheer and black with lines down the back. 

You thank every fucking deity you know that you hadn't done your laundry and had clean long-johns to wear under baggy jeans today. 

He drops things in front of your face. Papers.

“What,” you grunt, not a question, a complete incomprehension. 

“Read those.” As if that wasn't clear. He hooks his hands under your hips, making you grab for the papers when he drags you to the edge of the bed. There's popping and a grunt as he gets on his knees behind you, and you barely tighten up your throat enough to catch the bark that wants to escape. 

“Fuck—don't!” you snap, frenzied, but he licks a hot, wet stripe from your clit to your asshole, about ready to bury his face. 

His fingers keep your ass spread open and they tense with frustration when he snipes back, “Vas? What the fuck could you—”

“Just fuck me, I'm already good.” You hear another sound of frustration out of him, something that feels like don't be dumb, since you both know exactly how fucking big his cock is, even for your well-played cunt. “You already got me going,” you hiss, shifting your hips, hating that you feel you have to admit this at all, “you—when you picked me up. That did enough. Just—it's time to fuck.”

His hands relax, sliding to push your ugly skirt up over your hips. “Just from picking you up?” he asks, as if that should be impossible. 

“Yes, just from picking me up,” you shoot back, this close to hiding your face in your arms. “I don’t get picked up. I don’t get—moved. Whatever. It was new. That doesn’t happen to me, unless you’ve somehow missed how I’m fucking built.”

All the air goes out of the room as you pull the admission like pulling your own teeth. A crack in the careful facade. A hairline fracture. You are not perfectly unflappable. You are not wholly without insecurity. You are as weak and human as everyone else. 

What a strange, ugly feeling to allow passage through your chest; a slow, inky swimmer swooping around your lungs and stomach, turning everything it touches to ice. You’re supposed to be untouchable, aren’t you? You’ve gone years without that odd, festering jealousy rearing its head. You’re not sure why it does so now.

König just taps the papers again, his breathing strained and heavy, bending to kiss your neck, just below the spot behind your ear that makes your skin snap with static electricity. “Let me eat your pussy while you read those. Don’t like condoms. Don’t want to use them anymore,” he grunts, the teeth he presses into your neck making you realize that he’s pulled down his gaiter.

It’s a weird enough request that it resets your brain. It allows you to read, your head fogged with discordant lust and curiosity as he sinks back behind you, bathing your pussy in heavy, slow attention with his split tongue teasing your clit.

It’s paperwork. A clean result from a recent STI test, and the discharge paperwork from a vasectomy. For your high-geared mind, it has taken an embarrassingly long time to click. He doesn’t like condoms, and doesn’t want to use them. The papers are assurances to you. He’s clean. He won’t get you pregnant.

In the five percent of your brain that is not being used to process the complete annihilation of your soaked pussy with pleasure, there’s a floor-rolling bout of hysterical, giddy laughter that has taken up residence, darting through the fine links of your firing neurons. 

This is a romantic gesture. He is a frightening, stone-faced man, who is twin to you in strangeness, and this is outpouring of bizarre softness and startling understanding. Is there anyone else in the world that has fucked you, let alone exists, that would know the way you find comfort and security in medical results and discharge papers on official letterheads?

If there is, you’ve never met them, and you don’t think you will.

Between his moves—a filthy, slurping plunge into your cunt, figure eights around your swollen and throbbing clit with the halves of his tongue, and almost delicate, sucking kisses that puff your labia—you still find the energy and wherewithal to bust his balls, even as he’s making you so wet that it slicks your thighs, “Alright. So, how do you know I’m clean?” It is a sentence you can barely manage as your body shakes.

There comes a laugh, rumbling and serrated, as he nips your shaking thigh with his teeth, paired with a familiar clap on the ass like you’re a breeding mare prized not for progeny but sentiment and a fondness for your rotten, crank attitude. “You’re mean as a fucking snake, Schatzi, but I know you’re not mean enough to let me tongue-fuck you if you had something.”

You maybe should not laugh at such a succinct round-up of one of your most defining character flaws, but you are, and you grin sharply looking back over your shoulder at him as he rises. His hands—huge, warm, coarse, careful—slide over your hips to savor your shape.

“Further up the bed,” he coaches you, leaning forward just long enough to press a heavy kiss to your mouth, pushing his tongue past your lips so you can taste yourself mixed with his natural metallic tang. 

One of your hands comes to his jaw, pulling him back in when he tries to move away, for just one selfish moment more, swirling your tongues together, needful of his heat and his closeness and the feeling of your noses crushes together as clumsy as college freshmen set loose in a wide, free world.

“You don’t do fuck-all in half-measures,” you mutter, hand finally sliding away, your lids clicking open crisp. You love seeing the scars mutilating his mouth, the way that flush brightens the coppery tint of his skin. The silver in his hair seems brighter, and the gold of the wheat-colored strands giving the silver a home seems deeper, more molten. 

He is a beautiful man. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, and the look he gives you reads weakness.

What a rotten old soldier. What a battered old war dog. 

You don’t want to think about what it means if the weakness isn’t a figment of your imagination. If it is symptomatic of a larger trend; an oncoming crisis, a trend that sweeps and fells and swallows up entire communities, with a bent toward becoming endemic to the local culture, and almost impossible to kill forever after.

+

The opioid epidemic has always come in greater, and greater waves. 

The first in the nineties, off natural and semi-synthetic painkillers, a slow swell beginning with easier manufacturing, laxer laws, and gargantuan pharmaceutical conglomerates pushing-pushing-pushing the easy writing of prescriptions on countless doctors. Generational seeds buried in families, in communities—germinating at inhuman rates, weaving addiction into the DNA.

The second came with the second decade of the new millenia. A resurgence in heroin, when the world began to come down on doctors with fat Rx pads and quick-writing fingers. When you cannot find a fix legally, you will find it illegally, and it comes at much higher a cost. 

There were always more waves, and different ones, and quieter ones. There were always synthesizers, cookers, designers, manufacturers—legal and illegal alike. 

Fent, roxie, percs, bars. Heroin, krokodil, bath salts, flakka. Uppers. Downers. Barbiturates, benzos, phenobarbital. 

It all ties into dopamine, and the ancient, pointlessly leftover biological mechanic of addiction. The sizzling, bumpers-and-bells-and-bright-lights screech of a reward center well-fed. 

König is a beast of a man, and his brain is brutally hardwired for addiction. He's an alcoholic in on-off recovery, he's a medical req amphetamine junkie. He no longer chases adrenaline like most men chase tail, but he sprints after it in his tense, jerking dreams. 

He's just a dog, with wet sad eyes, and his heart chases after trucks that will never see him around blind turns. His surety that the next roaring beast coming around the switchback bend will finally love him back is the thing that is going to kill him. 

+

König can't spell for shit, and his grammar is a barely functional mess of punctuation and weird spacing, but he has a terrifying mind for numbers and nuclear engineering. He's told you before that it takes 10^-20 seconds for an atom to split to kickoff nuclear fission, the process that powers atomic bombs.

You're a doctor, and it didn't at all feel stupid to ask, “Fuck. How can you even comprehend how fast that is?”

You walked side-by-side with him in winter coats. He shrugged at the time, and said, “Hm. Alright, you're at the market. You're looking at apples, or arugula, or fish, or whatever the fuck. We don't know who hit the button, but the missile carrying the warhead is going twenty-four thousand K-P-H. Fifteen thousand miles per hour. You're in Berlin. As soon as the launch is registered, everyone starts launching.”

He stepped closer, elbow bumping yours. When he registered your hard swallow, he slid his arm around your neck and pulled you into his side. 

“So the bombs are launched,” you prompted him, tucked into his side. “When do I die?”

“You died ten minutes before World War III ended,” he hummed, pressing his nose into the spot before your ear, brushing his gaiter-covered lips over your cheek and ear lobe, “you were turned into pure carbon staining the ground, and you never knew there was a bomb.”

10^-20 seconds for the bomb to perfectly obliterate any and all existence of your entire life. Annihilation so utter, there would be no DNA leftover. 

Bombs, destruction, drugs, addiction.

Control. Control. Control.

König will never know that you passed through the eye of the needle in close to the same fucking unfathomable shard of a second, fighting tooth and nail to choose between launching off the bed, denying his low-simmering feelings, and black listing his entire existence in your memory—versus embracing the insane, helpless plummet, releasing your death grip on the demand of understanding and autopsy of everything unknown. 

Your hand loosens on that chain.

+

“Yeah, fuck it. Fuck me,” you say, recovering from the staggering out of body experience. 

He leaves you ass-up in the cold of his apartment, windows open, and returns with his laptop and his black card, throwing them down in front of you. His hands clap your skin as they land on your hips, anchoring him as he pulls himself into place behind you, stroking his cock needlessly because it can't possibly get any harder or fatter.

“Buy whatever you fucking want. You've got ten grand. You don't spend it, you don't cum,” he grunts in a hoarse voice, and that's every bit of warning you get before he plunges his cock in your soaked, swollen pussy, bucking and grunting as you spasm around him and try to scurry away out of instinct. His hips slam against your ass, hands dragging you back against him, and you feel and hear the noise ripping in his throat like the gut-growl start of a chainsaw.

There’s a wolverine in your throat—something, perhaps, that fought hard, and died even harder than that in another life—and it does not take kindly to being bossed, bucked, bitched. It bares its fangs through your mouth, goading you to turn your head, to catch König’s eyes and lock onto them like you’ve caught him in unkind crosshairs. 

“Do I still get to cum if I just make one big, fat buy?” you ask hoarsely, the silver of your teeth flashing between your lips like a threat, eyes wild and too-bright. “Maybe I buy you a decent fucking couch? A good dining table?”

That mauled mouth of his curls into a smirk, and his hand skates up your back—turning threat and  tenderness into a single entity—gripping the back of your neck firmly, but not cruelly, as he redirects you to the screen. 

“You could. Of course, you fucking could. I’m not a liar. But.” He bends low, snapping a sharp and sweet love bite against the skin of your neck, in a spot that your collars will barely hide. “That would be fucking boring. I don’t think you’re boring.”

The tone begs you to tell him he’s wrong in a challenge.

You laugh, backed into a clever corner, gripping the sides of the laptop, dragging it closer as he starts a slow, rolling rhythm, sliding his cock in and out of you. Just taking his sweet time, warming you up all over again, getting those stiff hips of his to unlock, too—more used to marching and storming, now, than fucking.

You start by faking him out as he stretches your wet, throbbing pussy with his grappling-to-relax rhythm, pulling up a Tiffany Co. hardware necklace selling for $4,100.00. Its greatest sins are that it is not only ugly, but, far worse, it is boring. 

“Schatzi,” he growls, fingers tightening on your hips, and, good fuck, it makes you laugh. That earns you the slam of his hips flush to your ass, stealing the air from your lungs, and his huge hand tightens in the back of your hair, bringing your eyes back up as your head swims and your stomach jumps.

“Got the hint,” you wheeze, clicking off the tab, trying to focus on anything but the size of him inside you, pounding you like a brutal metronome. His breathing is tight, and every stroke of his cock sails him straight across your g-spot. Makes your brain shimmer like the bath bombs and body lava you load your carts with. Makes your guts feel filled with poured platinum, same shade and shine as the teal sapphire pendant earrings you purchase.

The orgasm builds in your lower belly—a broiling heat, a ten-ton tightness, driving your pelvis down with its demanding weight—and König stays steady fucking you, relentless with his perfect, unerring rhythm. Somehow that makes it so much more difficult to withstand. 

The first time you had fucked, he had lasted so long you thought he wasn’t going to fucking cum at all, but, no. He was just beastly in bed, sweat pouring down his temples and chest, eyes smirking over his mask until you ripped the fucking thing down and kissed him. He’d tasted, wonderfully, of your pussy and pleasure.

The stamina of a maniac, and the patience he professes that his younger self could’ve never maintained.

At $8,370, your focus gives, and you almost collapse, elbows sliding out from under you. You bury your head in the blankets beneath you, smelling his cologne and the faint odor of his sleep sweat, and it turns your stomach into a cyclone. You’re kissing the razor’s edge of finishing, so close you feel it flooding your blood like the skull-crack cold of a fresh IV line of saline on a hot, sick stomach.

All at once, he stops, one hand heavy-spread across your lower back, the other tight around the shape of your hip.

“H-huh, f—fuck,” you moan, pathetic and brainless.

“You done?” he asks, breathing hard. He grunts like the grit of a stone mill when you nod your head, then shake it, body too confused to settle on an answer. “Think about it. You’re almost there. Tell me how much you have left to spend.”

You turn your head in the blankets, taking a sideways glance at the screen. It’s hard to tell. His hand slips lower, between your legs, cupping your pussy and applying pressure, though he doesn’t play with you. 

Simple math. You’re a doctor. This should not be difficult. But Sisyphus would have an easier time pushing his damned boulder up his hill than you are with basic subtraction.

“One—one-six-three-nil.”

“Mm. Mhm. Sixteen hundred. I’m almost done, want you to cum, too. Get creative.” His voice is hoarse, tight with restraint, and even in your stupor, you can tell he’s struggling as much as you are.

With a sluggish nod, painfully conscious of his cock sitting heavy and throbbing in your cunt, you pull yourself up on one shoulder, slumping as close to the laptop as you can manage. The next page you go to belongs to his bank, and his fingers knead into the small of your back as you one-handed type his account information (the gift of an obscene amount of trust, or the hallmark insanity of a man who simply does not have a spare fuck to give).

Takes ten seconds to transfer a solid two grand into your checking account, and König doesn’t even chuckle. 

He fucking moans. A weak, broken-legged sound that shakes his entire body so thoroughly it rings through yours like church bells.

His grip tightens, and he muscles you onto your back like an afterthought. Slops your legs back open and drops all his weight on top of you, burying his face against yours as he fucks right back into you. He’s done dicking around (you would laugh at the stupidity of your own thoughts, had your brain stem not been atomized by this exact man), hitting a nightmare rhythm of thrusting and grinding that rubs your clit, and just tosses what’s left of your mind in the damned incinerator.

The build is so fast and reckless—a nigh-on lethal vent of pressure that leaves you half-blind and shaking, finally allowed to sprint after what felt like a lifetime of restraint—that you’ve already started to cum, and your mind is only just now catching up with your body. König’s breath is furnace-hot, rolling over your skin like the lungs of a bellows press, your cunt spasming and clenching his throbbing cock wildly. 

When the world finally takes back control of your facilities—putting a fading, slow halt to your paint smear perception of reality—König is crushing you with his weight. His hands grip at the underside of your thighs, and he breathes into the hair behind your ear. “Will move, soon,” he assures you, but you shake your head. 

“Stay put. Your weight feels good,” you respond, chest beautifully crushing under his body, and it calms your heart with the comfort of pressure. 

Lazily, and without much thought, you graph out chemical sequences across his back. Prolactin, dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins, serotonin. All the good shit, overwhelming your blood stream.

+

You're the one to get up for water, calling him ‘old man’ in a snort that earns you a swat to the bare ass, and another gravel-grit laugh. He looks grateful for it all the same—that small measure of care and familiarity. 

Dog, dog, dog, your mind chants. He's just an old dog aching for a fleece bed and a kind hand. The stone in your stomach sinks heavier, and you turn your thoughts away from it. 

When you return, you collapse in the bed beside him after handing over the glass. He's propped himself against the headboard, legs splayed wide and lazy, the heaving of his chest from exertion shallowed by rest. His profile is harsh in the unfiltered light of his side table lamp, and the cold air blowing in through the cracked windows is a relief on your friction-chafed skin.

His skin is gold in this light, like his lightning-streaked hair. His form is sleek and powerful, even in repose. The bulk of him eats up half of the king-sized bed, dressed in barebones linens, and you think of tragedies. How perfectly-built demigods always came with a fatal flaw that became their death, and how nature couldn't figure out a way to give stronger hearts to massive creatures. 

Their bodies simply demanded too much fuel to keep alive for too long. They are powerful, undeniable, and gone so very quickly.

But looking at König, maybe god is too magnificent a term for him. You know he'd despise it. Bomb is a better fit. 

Yeah, no. That is the better fit. The type of man he is? One with his nature? He'd be dead before he even realized he'd detonated. And he'd kill as many people as he could with the blast radius. 

“You ever think about going back to school?” you ask in a fucked-out rasp, as your lips cut into a lopsided half-smile, and he laughs, smirking.

“I fuck you stupid, or…?” he teases, his teeth glinting in the light of the room, eyes pale and calm like cold water.

‘No,’ is the real answer, and it continues, ‘I have only just discovered the fear that comes after realization, and I have let myself pass through the keyhole to the other side. I have never seen this place, one where there is enough room for another person besides myself, and it frightens me. It could be filled, and it could be emptied, and I know that I do not have the resilience to live with that void.’

“Shit. I think you did,” is what you snort instead, pulling the sheets up over your hips. “I'm going to doze for a little while. Then, I'll call an Uber home.”

König says nothing, making an unsure noise of thought in his throat, but you know he won't pursue his offer, because you will turn it down, and he is fragile when it comes to rejection. 

Coward that you are, you allow the invitation to spend the night die in his chest, cemented by him leaving the bed shortly after to shower.

You are not ready to admit to even yourself that there is room for him. What else is there to do but run from it?

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (14)

- 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+

- Previous part: 13

- Next part: 15

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

The sea air is heavy with salt and sorrow as the royal family steps off the ship onto the black stone of Driftmark. Waves crash against the shore, a mournful symphony that echoes the grief in every heart gathered here. The Velaryon banners flap in the wind, their vibrant colors a sharp contrast to the somber mood that hangs over the assembled nobles.

You stand with Rhaenyra and your sons, Jace and Luke stiff by your side. Joffrey is in Rhaenyra's arms, his small face confused by the sarrow he doesn’t yet understand. Viserys and Alicent’s children stand apart, an invisible line drawn between your family and theirs. It’s an unspoken separation that feels almost tangible, like a chasm you cannot cross.

Viserys, frail and bent with age, is supported by Alicent. She’s wrapped in mourning black, her face a mask of solemnity, but there’s a tightness around her mouth, a stiffness in the way she holds herself that you recognize all too well. Aegon, Aemond and Helaena stand close by, watching your family with guarded expressions. Even now, on this day of loss, the divide is painfully clear.

The funeral rites are performed with all the gravity and tradition expected of House Velaryon. Laena’s casket, intricately carved and draped in blue and silver, is lowered into the sea. You watch Daemon, his face a mask of stoic grief, his eyes dark as he stares at the waves. There’s a loneliness in his stance, a pain that no words could touch. You know what it is to lose, to feel helpless against the tides of fate, and your heart aches for your uncle.

As the ceremony concludes and the crowd begins to disperse, you make your way toward him. Daemon stands apart from the others, his gaze still fixed on the spot where Laena’s casket vanished beneath the water’s surface. He does not turn as you approach, but you know he’s aware of your presence.

“Uncle,” you say quietly, your voice carrying just enough to reach him over the sound of the surf. “I am sorry for your loss. Laena was a remarkable woman.”

He glances at you then, his violet eyes shadowed. “Thank you,” he replies, his voice low and rough, as if the words cost him more than he can bear to give. “She deserved better than this.”

You nod, standing beside him, the two of you looking out over the endless expanse of the sea. “If there is anything you need, anything I can do…”

Daemon huffs a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. “What can anyone do, except let the dead rest and the living grieve?” He falls silent for a moment, his gaze drifting to the Velaryon children, huddled together in their own pain. “They will need strength now, and guidance. We cannot let them be consumed by bitterness.”

“I will help where I can,” you promise. “But I know they will look to you.”

Daemon’s lips twitch in something like a smile, though there is no warmth in it. “The wandering rogue of House Targaryen, a role model. Gods save us all.” He sighs, the sound heavy with more than just grief. “And you, how is life in the Red Keep these days? I hear the Hightowers have made themselves quite comfortable.”

You stiffen at the question, glancing over to where Viserys stands, isolated despite the presence of his children and wife. Alicent’s gaze keeps straying to you and Rhaenyra, a watchful, calculating look that makes your skin prickle. “Comfortable would be one way to put it,” you reply, keeping your voice low. “They hold much sway over the King now. More than they should.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, a sharpness returning to his gaze. “I warned him, years ago. Warned him what would happen if he let that snake Otto slither too close. And now his daughter’s there, her children in line before yours.”

You glance back at your own sons, standing awkwardly with Rhaenyra, their young faces solemn and unsure. Jace and Luke keep glancing over at their half-uncles, the silent anomasity between the two sets of siblings visible even from a distance. “Viserys still loves us, still claims me as his heir,” you say softly. “But every decision, every move is shadowed by Alicent’s influence. They’ve all but taken over the Small Council.”

“And yet you remain,” Daemon murmurs, his tone unreadable. “I’d expected you to take your family and fly far from that viper’s nest.”

You shrug, watching as Rhaenyra kneels to speak softly to Jace, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “For now, it’s best we stay. The closer we are, the more we can watch and counter them. And besides,” you add, your gaze flicking to your father, looking frailer than ever, “Viserys is not long for this world. When he’s gone, the realm will look to us. We need to be ready.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens, his eyes dark. “He’s grown weak, blinded by his need for peace and love. He doesn’t see the knives being sharpened behind his back.”

“No, he doesn’t,” you agree quietly. “But we do. And we’ll be prepared.”

You fall silent then, your eyes once more drawn to your sons. Jace and Luke stand straight and tall, though you can see the stiffness in their shoulders, the uncertainty in their eyes. You watch as they exchange a few words with each other, the bond between them strong despite everything. You take comfort in that, at least.

Daemon follows your gaze, his expression softening slightly. “They’re good boys,” he says, a note of pride in his voice. “Stubborn and fierce, like their mother. And their father.”

“They’ll need to be,” you reply, a grim smile touching your lips. “The road ahead will not be easy.”

“No,” Daemon agrees, his gaze shifting back to the sea. “But they have you and Rhaenyra to guide them. And they have the blood of the dragon. That counts for something.”

You nod, feeling the weight of the future pressing down on you. But for now, there is nothing to do but stand here, beside your uncle, and honor the memory of a woman who was lost too soon. 

The sea continues its mournful song, a lullaby for the dead and a reminder to the living. And you, like the tide, will endure.

Rhaenyra stands quietly among the mourners, her eyes fixed on the sea where Laena’s casket has just disappeared beneath the waves. The ceremony is over, but the heavy weight of grief still hangs in the air, a palpable presence that settles in the hearts of all gathered. She glances at her three sons—Jace, Luke, and Joffrey—standing close by, their small forms huddled together, their faces solemn and uncertain.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. This is not just a time for mourning but a moment to show unity and strength, especially in the face of the silent but glaring division between her family and the Hightowers. Her gaze flits to you, standing a little distance away with Daemon, your head bowed as you speak quietly with him. The sight of you brings her a fleeting sense of calm amidst the turmoil.

Turning her attention back to her children, she kneels down to their level, her voice soft but steady. “Jace, Luke, Joffrey, I need you to go and speak with your cousins, Baela and Rhaena. They need to know that they’re not alone in their grief.”

Jace shifts uncomfortably, glancing over at the twins, who are standing with their grandmother, Rhaenys. The Queen Who Never Was has her arms wrapped around her granddaughters, her regal bearing barely concealing the depth of her sorrow. “But, Mother,” Jace murmurs, “what if they don’t want to talk to us?”

Rhaenyra reaches out, brushing a lock of hair from Jace’s forehead. “It’s not about what you say, my love. It’s about showing them that you care. Just being there for them is enough.”

Luke looks up at her, his young face twisted with uncertainty. “Are you sure we won’t make it worse?”

Rhaenyra’s smile is gentle, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You won’t. They need to see that their family is with them, that we’re all here to support each other.”

Joffrey, the youngest but no longer a baby, steps forward, his little face serious. “What if they cry?” he asks, his voice small and hesitant.

Rhaenyra’s heart aches at the question, but she forces herself to remain strong. “Then you comfort them, Joffrey. Sometimes, it’s okay to cry. It shows that you care.”

Joffrey nods slowly, still unsure but willing to follow his mother’s lead. With one last glance at you, Rhaenyra gently ushers the boys forward, watching as they make their way over to where the twins stand. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, your presence a solid anchor in the swirling chaos of grief and uncertainty. She draws strength from knowing you are here, that you are with her.

Baela and Rhaena are huddled close to Rhaenys, their faces pale and streaked with tears. They look so small and lost, so unlike the vibrant, lively girls they usually are. Jace hesitates, glancing back at Rhaenyra for reassurance. She gives him a nod, her eyes encouraging.

Taking a deep breath, Jace steps forward. “Baela, Rhaena,” he begins softly, his voice trembling slightly. “We’re really sorry about your mother. If you need anything, we’re here for you.”

Rhaena looks up first, her big, sorrowful eyes meeting Jace’s. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “But nothing will bring her back.”

Luke moves closer, his heart aching for his cousins. “We know. But we want to help, even if it’s just being here with you.”

Baela’s gaze is fixed on the ground, her jaw clenched. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge their words, but her hand tightens around her grandmother’s. Joffrey, standing beside Luke, reaches out and gently touches Baela’s arm.

“It’s okay to be sad,” he says quietly, his young voice earnest. “We’re all sad.”

For a long moment, there’s silence. Then Baela finally looks up, her eyes fierce despite the tears brimming in them. “I don’t want to be sad. I want her back.”

Jace takes a step closer, his face serious. “I know. We all do. But she’d want us to be strong, to be together.”

Rhaenys watches the exchange, her gaze softening slightly as she looks at Rhaenyra’s sons. “You’re good boys,” she says, her voice steady despite the pain etched in every word. “Your parents have raised you well.”

Rhaenyra, watching from a distance, feels a swell of pride and relief. She glances at you again, your eyes meeting hers across the space. There’s a wordless exchange between you, a shared understanding of the challenges your children are facing and the pride in how they are handling it.

You give her a small nod, and she takes a deep breath, drawing strength from your support. She knows this is only the beginning of the trials they will face as a family, the divisions and rivalries that will continue to test them. But for now, here on this rocky shore, they are doing what they can—standing together, offering what comfort they can in the face of loss.

The boys remain with their cousins, their presence a small but solid comfort. Rhaenyra stays where she is, watching them, her heart heavy but filled with a fierce determination. Whatever lies ahead, whatever storms may come, they will face it as family. As Targaryens.

The night on Driftmark is dark and still, the only sounds the distant roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs and the occasional mournful cry of a seabird. The funeral had left an oppressive silence in its wake, grief heavy in the air like a storm about to break. Inside the guest chambers, Jace and Luke lie sleeping, their small forms huddled under the thick blankets. Joffrey sleeps soundly beside them, his tiny hand clutching the fabric of his pillow.

A soft whisper breaks the silence.

“Luke… Jace…”

Luke stirs, blinking groggily as he turns over to see Baela and Rhaena standing by the door, their faces pale in the faint moonlight streaming through the window. “Baela?” he mumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What is it?”

“Someone took Vhagar,” Baela whispers urgently, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “Come on, you have to see.”

Jace sits up immediately, his heart racing as he throws off the covers. “What do you mean, someone took Vhagar?” he asks, his voice low but insistent.

“We don’t know,” Rhaena whispers, glancing anxiously at the door. “We just know she’s gone.”

Luke glances over at Joffrey, who’s still fast asleep. He carefully slips out of bed, trying not to make a sound. “We can’t wake him,” he murmurs. “He’s too young.”

Jace nods, his expression set with determination. “Let’s go.”

The boys follow their cousins out of the room, moving quietly through the darkened corridors of High Tide. The stone walls are cold and damp, the silence around them oppressive. As they reach the outer courtyard, the reality of what Baela and Rhaena have said begins to sink in. Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the world, gone? How could anyone have taken her?

They slip outside, the chill night air biting at their skin. Ahead, in the dim light of the moon, they see movement—two figures approaching. As they draw closer, the faces of Aemond and Aegon become clear, the older boys walking with a swagger that sends a surge of anger through Jace and Luke.

Jace and Luke exchange a glance, a silent understanding passing between them. This was the confrontation they’d promised themselves before leaving King’s Landing, after Aemond had insulted their father. They wouldn’t back down now.

“What’s going on?” Jace demands, stepping forward. “Where’s Vhagar?”

Aemond’s smirk is sharp, his eyes gleaming with a strange triumph. “I’ve claimed her,” he says, his voice filled with a smug satisfaction. “She’s mine now.”

Baela’s face contorts with rage, her fists clenched at her sides. “She was my mother’s dragon!” she shouts, her voice breaking with a mixture of grief and fury. “You had no right!”

Aemond’s smile doesn’t falter. “She was your mother’s dragon,” he agrees, his tone condescending. “But now she’s mine. And she’s the most powerful dragon in the world. She could eat all of yours in one bite.”

Luke steps forward, his young face twisted with anger. “Vhagar was ours to claim, not yours. You can’t just steal her!”

Aemond’s expression darkens, his smirk fading. “She chose me. And now you’ll have to live with it.” He turns his gaze on Jace, his eyes cold. “Or would you rather challenge me, Jacaerys? Let Vhagar settle it. Your little dragons wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Jace’s jaw tightens, and he takes a step closer, his fists clenched. “Maybe they wouldn’t,” he says, his voice low and steady, “but my father’s dragon, Silverwing, would burn your old beast to ashes. You think you can insult my father and get away with it?”

Aemond’s face twists in disdain. “Your father is nothing but a reckless fool, who only cares for himself. He’s not half the dragonlord he thinks he is.”

Before Jace can respond, Baela steps forward, her eyes blazing with fury. “Vhagar was my mother’s!” she yells, her voice shaking. “You had no right! None!”

Aemond’s smirk returns, but before he can speak, Jace lunges at him, the fury he’s been holding back all evening exploding to the surface. The two boys collide, falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs, fists flying.

Aegon moves to step in, but Luke is already there, shoving him back. “Stay out of this!” he shouts, his voice high and furious. “This is between us!”

The courtyard erupts into chaos as the children clash. Rhaena tries to pull Baela back, but Baela breaks free, launching herself at Aemond with a scream of rage. Jace and Aemond roll across the ground, each trying to land blows on the other. Aegon grabs Jace, pulling him off Aemond, only to be shoved aside by Luke.

It’s a wild, desperate fight, all the anger and grief of the past few days spilling out in a furious storm of fists and shouts. Aemond manages to break free, staggering to his feet, his eyes wild with fury.

“You’re all just a bunch of inbreds!” he snarls, wiping blood from his split lip. “I have the true blood of the dragon, and now I have Vhagar! I’m more Targaryen than any of you!”

Jace roars and charges at him again, but Aemond is ready. He swings, landing a punch that sends Jace sprawling. Before Aemond can follow up, Luke steps between them, his small form trembling with rage.

“You don’t deserve Vhagar,” he spits, his voice shaking. “You don’t deserve any of it.”

Aemond sneers, stepping closer. “And what are you going to do about it, little one?”

Luke’s hand moves instinctively to his belt, where the small Valyrian steel dagger you gifted him for his nameday is sheathed. He pulls it out, his hand steady, the blade catching the moonlight as he holds it up.

Aemond’s eyes widen in shock and then fury. “You think you can scare me with that?”

He lunges at Luke, his hand reaching out to grab the dagger, but Luke moves faster, his arm swinging in a desperate, instinctive arc. The blade catches Aemond across the face, a line of red blooming across his cheek and eye.

Aemond screams, a raw, terrible sound, as he stumbles back, clutching his face. Blood pours between his fingers, the wound hideous in the moonlight. The other children freeze, the shock of what’s just happened crashing over them like a wave.

And then, there are footsteps—heavy, urgent. Ser Harrold Westerling appears at the edge of the courtyard, his face going pale as he takes in the scene before him.

“What in the name of the gods—?” he begins, rushing forward. But it’s already too late. Aemond’s eye is gone, his screams echoing into the night, the others standing around him, horrified and frozen in place.

Ser Harrold shouts for help, his voice urgent, commanding, and within moments, the courtyard is filled with guards and attendants, their faces mirroring the shock and horror of what’s just occurred.

Luke drops the dagger, his hand shaking, his face ashen. Jace steps forward, his heart pounding in his ears, his eyes locked on Aemond’s bloodied face.

“It was an accident,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “It was an accident…”

But even as he says the words, he knows it won’t matter. The damage is done. The divide that had been brewing for so long has now erupted, and there will be no going back.

As the adults converge, shouting orders and lifting Aemond’s screaming form from the ground, Jace and Luke are pulled away, their hearts pounding with fear and guilt.

And in the cold, unforgiving night of Driftmark, the bonds of family are stretched to their breaking point.

The flickering candlelight casts a soft, intimate glow over the chamber as you and Rhaenyra move together, bodies entwined in the heat of your shared passion. The soft sounds of your lovemaking fill the room, mingling with the gentle rustle of sheets and the quiet murmur of the sea beyond the windows. This moment, stolen in the midst of sorrow and tension, is a brief escape from the heavy burdens that weigh on both of you.

Rhaenyra’s hands grip your shoulders, her breath hitching as you press deeper, your lips finding the curve of her neck. You’re both lost in the sensation, in each other, when a sharp, insistent knock at the door shatters the quiet.

You freeze, your heart pounding, and Rhaenyra’s eyes snap open, her expression shifting from pleasure to sudden worry. The knock comes again, louder this time, accompanied by a voice.

“Prince, Princess, forgive me, but you’re needed immediately!”

You close your eyes briefly, frustration and concern warring within you. “What is it?” you call out, your voice rough, still thick with the remnants of your passion.

“It’s one of the guards, my lord,” the voice replies, strained. “The King has called for an emergency meeting in the great hall. There’s been an incident with the children.”

Rhaenyra sits up abruptly, the color draining from her face. “The children?” she whispers, her eyes wide with fear. You can see the thoughts racing through her mind, each more terrible than the last.

You pull away, your body already cooling as the urgency of the situation seeps in. “We’re coming,” you call back, your voice steadier now. You turn to Rhaenyra, your hand brushing against her cheek. “We need to go.”

She nods, though her eyes are still distant, her hands trembling as she reaches for her robe. You both dress quickly, the easy intimacy of moments ago replaced by a cold, gnawing dread. Every movement feels heavy, your mind spinning with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last.

You can hear Rhaenyra’s breathing, quick and shallow, as she ties the sash of her robe, her fingers fumbling in her haste. “What do you think happened?” she asks, her voice strained. “Do you think—”

“I don’t know,” you interrupt gently, reaching for her hand. “But we’ll find out soon.”

With a final glance at each other, you move to the door and pull it open. The guard outside looks tense, his face pale in the dim light of the corridor. “Your Graces, the King is waiting in the great hall. He seemed… very distressed.”

“Thank you,” you say curtly, your hand still clasping Rhaenyra’s. “Lead the way.”

As you walk through the dimly lit halls of Driftmark, the air feels charged, every shadowed corner holding a sense of foreboding. Rhaenyra’s grip on your hand tightens, her eyes darting around as if expecting answers to spring from the very walls.

The night is unnaturally quiet, the only sound the echo of your hurried footsteps on the stone floor. The guard moves ahead of you, his back stiff, and you can’t help but feel the tension radiating from him as well.

“Do you know what happened?” you ask the guard, keeping your voice low.

He hesitates, glancing back at you. “Only that there was a… confrontation between the children, my lord. I’m not privy to the details, but from what I heard, it was… serious.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, and she stops short, her breath catching. “The children—are they hurt?”

“I—I don’t know, my lady,” the guard stammers. “I’m sorry. I was just told to fetch you.”

You exchange a glance with Rhaenyra, your heart hammering. You can feel the fear in her eyes, mirroring your own. The thought of your sons, hurt or worse, makes your stomach twist with a sickening dread.

“Let’s keep moving,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm, though your mind is racing. “We’ll know more soon.”

As you continue down the winding corridors, you can see servants and guards moving about, their faces tight with unease. Whispers follow in your wake, but you pay them no mind. Your focus is on reaching the great hall, on finding out what has happened, on making sure your children are safe.

You and Rhaenyra burst into the great hall, the heavy doors slamming against the stone walls as you rush inside. The scene before you is pure chaos—voices raised in anger and fear, bodies milling about in frantic confusion. Your heart plummets at the sight.

On one side of the room, Jace and Luke stand with Baela and Rhaena, Daemon already at their side, his face a mask of simmering rage. The children look disheveled and frightened, Luke’s hands stained with blood, his face pale and tight with anxiety. Jace’s jaw is set, his eyes blazing with fury, while Baela stands rigid, her small frame vibrating with barely contained anger.

Across the hall, King Viserys sits hunched on the dais, his face pale and drawn, Alicent hovering anxiously beside him. Aegon stands nearby, his usual swagger gone, replaced by a tense, watchful look. Aemond is seated in a chair, Grand Maester Mellos just finishing the last stitch on a savage wound that runs across his cheek and where his eye used to be, a patch hastily tied around it. Blood stains his skin, his tunic, and the floor beneath him.

You take a step forward, your voice cutting through the tumult. “What happened?”

The question hangs in the air for a heartbeat before the room erupts into a cacophony of shouting voices, each one clamoring to be heard over the others. Rhaenyra moves to Jace and Luke, her hands on their shoulders, as if her very touch could shield them from the storm of words and accusations flying through the air.

The doors swing open again, and Corlys and Rhaenys stride in, their expressions thunderous as they take in the scene. Corlys’s eyes flash as they fall on Aemond, the fresh wound stark and terrible. “What madness is this?” he demands, his voice booming across the hall, instantly silencing the clamor.

“Madness indeed,” Alicent snaps, her voice quivering with fury as she glares at you and Rhaenyra. “It is your children’s violence that has caused this! They are the ones who should be telling the tale!”

“Violence?” Daemon’s voice is a silken drawl, dripping with contempt. “From what I’ve heard, it was your precious son who instigated this.”

Viserys, his face flushed with a mixture of confusion and frustration, raises a shaking hand. “Enough! All of you, silence!” His voice cracks through the room, forcing everyone to fall quiet, if only for a moment. He turns his weary gaze to the children, his eyes lingering on Jace, Luke, and then on Aemond, the wound on his son’s face making him flinch visibly. “I want to know what happened. Now.”

Jace, his voice trembling but clear, steps forward. “Aemond insulted us. He insulted my father,” he says, his voice growing louder, firmer. “He called us—he called us inbreds.”

A ripple of shock sweeps through the hall, followed by a tense, stunned silence. Viserys’s face drains of color, and he takes a faltering step toward Aemond, his hand trembling as he reaches out. “Aemond, why would you say such a thing?”

Before the boy can answer, you step forward, your voice cutting through the tense quiet like a blade. “Because it’s something his Hightower Faith-loving mother would say.” Your words are cold and precise, each one landing like a blow. The room seems to freeze, all eyes turning to you.

Alicent’s face goes ashen, her breath catching audibly. She stares at you, a mixture of shock and wounded disbelief twisting her features. It’s as if the air has been sucked from the room, the silence now heavy with accusation and unspoken truths. She takes a step back, her hand clutching the fabric of her gown, the strength of your words shattering something fragile and deeply buried within her.

Viserys’s head snaps toward Alicent, confusion and betrayal warring in his eyes. “Alicent…?” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Her face is a mask of conflicting emotions—anger, pain, and something like heartbreak, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She looks at you as though seeing a stranger, the weight of your accusation pressing down on her like a crushing weight.

Daemon, standing at your side, lets out a low, amused chuckle, his lips curling into a smirk. “Bold words, nephew,” he murmurs, his eyes glittering with dark satisfaction. “Very bold indeed.”

You hold Alicent’s gaze, your own eyes hard and unyielding. “If you won’t own your words, Lady Alicent, at least have the decency to control your child,” you say, your voice icy with disdain.

The silence in the hall is thick, suffocating, as everyone waits for what will happen next, the air charged with unspoken tensions and shattered façades.

And then, with a deep, ragged breath, Viserys straightens, his frail form trembling but his voice firm. “Enough,” he says, his eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the shocked, tense faces of his family. “This has gone too far. I will have order.”

But even as he speaks, the sense of impending disaster lingers in the air, the threads of control slipping through his grasp, the rift between the families widening, the fractures deepening with every breath.

“This infighting must cease!” he declares, his voice strained with desperation. “We are one family, and we will not tear ourselves apart!”

Alicent’s face twists with rage and disbelief. “That is not enough!” she cries out, her voice sharp and filled with venom. “Aemond has been permanently disfigured. And Prince Lucerys brought a dagger into a fight with clear intent. This cannot be dismissed, Viserys!”

Viserys lifts a trembling hand, his patience wearing thin. “Alicent—”

But she cuts him off, her words like a whip cracking through the hall. “You must stop shielding them! You cannot let your grandchildren escape punishment for this. There must be consequences.”

His frail body stiffens, anger and exhaustion warring in his eyes. “What would you have me do, Alicent?” he demands, his voice rising in rare fury. “They are children!”

Alicent’s gaze, cold and unyielding, locks on Lucerys, who stands pale and wide-eyed beside his brothers. “I want justice, Viserys,” she says, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. “I want one of his sons to lose an eye, as my son has lost his.”

A gasp ripples through the room, shock and horror painting every face. Rhaenyra pulls your boys close, her eyes blazing with fury and fear as she shields them with her body. You step forward, placing yourself between your family and the Queen, your own anger simmering beneath a cold veneer of control.

“This is madness,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “You’re speaking of mutilating my child.”

Alicent’s eyes, burning with a desperate, almost manic intensity, shift to Ser Criston Cole. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Targaryen.”

Cole hesitates, his face tightening with conflicted emotion. “Your Grace, I swore to protect you,” he says, his voice strained, “but not for this.”

“Cese this insanity!” Viserys roars, his voice cracking through the room. He points a trembling finger at Alicent, his eyes filled with a mixture of grief and disbelief. “This ends now! I will not have this—”

But before he can finish, Alicent lunges forward, grabbing the King’s dagger from its sheath at his side. The Valyrian steel blade gleams menacingly in the torchlight as she whirls toward your children, her expression wild, her intent unmistakable.

“Rhaenyra!” you shout, stepping toward Alicent, but you’re not fast enough.

Rhaenyra moves like lightning, pushing past you and intercepting Alicent before she can reach the boys. The two women collide, Rhaenyra’s hands gripping Alicent’s arm, struggling to hold back the dagger.

“Stop this, Alicent!” Rhaenyra snarls, her voice shaking with rage and desperation. The room is frozen, every person watching in horrified fascination, too stunned or too fearful to intervene.

“Let go!” Alicent hisses, her face twisted with fury and despair. “You did this! All of it! You poisoned him against me! You took him from me! You’re responsible for everything!”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flash with anger. “You’re mad, Alicent!” she shouts back, her voice filled with contempt. “You can’t stand that he chose me, that he saw through your manipulations!”

They struggle, Alicent’s face contorted with rage as she tries to wrestle free. Rhaenyra holds firm, but the blade shifts dangerously between them. And then, with a sickening inevitability, the dagger slips from Alicent’s grip, the sharp edge slicing across Rhaenyra’s forearm.

A collective gasp echoes through the hall as blood wells up, a dark crimson line marring Rhaenyra’s pale skin. Alicent freezes, her eyes widening in shock as the dagger clatters to the floor, the sound like a death knell in the tense silence.

For a moment, everything is still.

You move before you even realize it, rushing to Rhaenyra’s side. “Rhaenyra!” you breathe, tearing a strip of fabric from your robe and pressing it against the wound. “Hold still. I need to stop the bleeding.”

Rhaenyra looks down at the blood seeping through your fingers, her expression stunned, as if she can’t quite believe what’s happened. Alicent, her face drained of color, stands rooted to the spot, her hand shaking as she stares at the blood on it.

From across the room, Otto Hightower’s voice rings out, harsh and commanding. “Alicent, stop this madness! Stand back!”

Alicent blinks, her father’s voice breaking through the haze of rage and pain clouding her mind. She stumbles backward, her eyes locked on Rhaenyra, confusion and anguish warring in her gaze.

Rhaenyra, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts, looks up at you. “I’m fine,” she says, her voice firm despite the pain. “It’s not deep.”

You nod, though your hands shake as you press the cloth harder against the cut, willing the bleeding to slow. “I’ve got you,” you murmur, your voice fierce and steady. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The room remains tense, everyone watching the two of you, the weight of what has just occurred hanging heavy in the air. You can feel the eyes of the entire court upon you, but your focus remains solely on Rhaenyra, on the woman you love, the mother of your children, and the blood that stains your hands.

A week has passed since the night of blood and betrayal, but the echoes of that fateful confrontation still linger over Driftmark like a storm that refuses to fully dissipate. You and Rhaenyra stand on the cliffs overlooking the bay, watching as the ships of King’s Landing sail away, their white sails billowing against the backdrop of a leaden sky. In the distance, the dragons of Alicent’s children take to the air, their wings beating a steady rhythm as they follow the ships below.

Rhaenyra’s eyes are fixed on the departing figures, her face tight with a mix of emotions. “I can’t do this anymore,” she murmurs, her voice raw with a vulnerability she rarely shows. “I don’t want to go back to King’s Landing. I don’t want to put our children through any more of… whatever this was.”

You nod, understanding the unspoken weight behind her words. “Viserys hoped this would heal the rifts between us,” you say, your voice steady but tinged with bitterness. “But all it did was deepen them.”

She turns to you, her gaze fierce despite the sadness that lingers in her eyes. “I won’t let them be in that viper’s nest again. Not after this. They’re children—they deserve to grow up somewhere safe, somewhere we can protect them.”

“Then we’ll go back to Dragonstone,” you agree, your hand slipping into hers, squeezing gently. “Away from the court, away from the Hightowers’ poison.”

Rhaenyra’s shoulders relax slightly at your words, some of the tension easing from her frame. “But we can’t just run and hide, can we?” she asks, her tone thoughtful. “We’ll need allies, support… and a plan for what comes after we don't appear in the capital.”

You nod again, turning your gaze back to the bay, where the distant figures of the dragons are now just dark specks against the sky. “I’ve already spoken with Corlys,” you tell her. “He’s agreed to our proposal—Jace to Rhaena and Luke to Baela. The Sea Snake seemed more than pleased. His blood will sit the Iron Throne one day, through our sons.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen slightly, and a smile, though small and hesitant, tugs at her lips. “That’s… that’s good news. They seem to get along well enough with the girls.”

“They do,” you say, a faint smile of your own touching your lips. “It’s not just about alliances, Rhaenyra. They need each other. They’re stronger together, and they’ll need that strength for what’s to come.”

She nods, her gaze drifting back to the horizon. “They’ve been through so much already. I want them to know love and loyalty, not just duty and fear.”

“They’ll have that,” you promise, your voice firm. “We’ll make sure of it.”

She leans into you, her head resting against your shoulder, and for a moment, the weight of the world seems to lift, just a little. You watch the ships disappearing into the distance, the dragons following, and feel a surge of resolve settle in your chest.

“We’ll build our future on Dragonstone,” you say quietly. “Where we can watch over them, guide them. And prepare for whatever challenges come our way.”

Together, you watch as the last of the ships vanish beyond the horizon, and then you turn away, walking back toward High Tide. Your initial plans to stay close to Viserys disappearing like waves that clash against the cliffs of Driftmark.

[itneverendshere]

maybe wheezie or even sarah needing rafe to pick them up from school or attend a back to school night. like the school calls rafe to pick up sarah after getting in a fight. or the teacher calls him in to discuss that wheezie struggling in math

thank you for the request!!! 🫶🏻🫂 i think rafe's always had a soft spot for wheezie so i did this one for her cause i personally can see their dynamic being really cute.

 we're both older now - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

Sitting in the passenger seat of Rafe’s truck, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at him. His hands were on the wheel, jaw clenched just enough for you to notice, but not enough to freak out.

It’s been months since rehab, and you swear, you’ve never seen him like this before—so focused, so... responsible. It’s kinda hot.

But that’s not what you’re here for. Not right now.

You’re headed to Wheezie’s school because, apparently, she’s been struggling with math. She didn’t want to tell Rafe because Ward’s rarely at home these days and she didn’t want to bother him. When you found out, you could’ve smacked her. You get it—Rafe’s been under a lot of pressure lately—but you don’t think she realizes how much he cares about her. That’s why you two are heading to a parent-teacher meeting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s not. 

“I should’ve known something was off,” Rafe mutters, breaking the silence.

You look over at him. “You couldn’t have. Wheezie’s good at keeping stuff to herself.”

He shakes his head, his grip tightening on the wheel just a little. “I’m her brother. I should’ve noticed.”

You reach over, resting your hand on his arm. “You’re doing your best, baby. That matters.”

He lets out a breath, his tension easing under your touch. God, sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s the same guy who used to pick fights at every chance he got just a few years ago. It’s been almost a year since his last relapse, but every day you see him fighting to be better—for himself, for you, for his sisters. And honestly? It does something to you, seeing him like this. 

You pull into the school parking lot, and he parks the truck, turning off the engine. For a second, he just sits there, staring straight ahead. You know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering if he’s good enough to handle this, to handle all of it.

“You got this,” You say softly.

Together, you walk into the school, and after a quick conversation with the receptionist, you’re led to Wheezie’s teacher’s classroom. The room smells like dry-erase markers and stress, the kind you remember from my own high school days.

Except, this is a private school, completely different from what you were used to, and back then, you loved school. You were good at it too—really good, actually. Straight A’s, honors, full ride to a decent college…but life had other plans.

You look at Rafe as you wait for the teacher to start the meeting. He’s sitting up straight, listening intently, and your chest tightens a little.

The same guy who used to blow off any responsibility now sitting here, laser-focused, ready to step up for his little sister. The teacher starts talking about Wheezie’s grades, how she’s been falling behind in math, and you can see the guilt in his face. You squeeze his knee under the table, trying to ground him, but honestly? This was hitting a little too close to home for you, too.

“I can help her,” You hear yourself say before you’ve even really thought about it. Rafe turns to look at you, surprised, and you shrug like it’s no big deal.

The teacher blinks, probably not expecting the girlfriend to jump in with a solution. “What did you score on your final exams?”

You move in your seat, not expecting the question but not exactly shy about your answer either. "I got a 1600 on my SATs," You said, trying to sound casual about it, even though you could see Rafe’s eyebrows shoot up next to you. 

The teacher’s eyes widen slightly. "That’s impressive," she says, "You must’ve had a lot of options for college."

You shrug again feeling that familiar feeling of bittersweet regret. "Yeah, I had a full ride to a few places.”

“And you didn’t go?”

The way she says says it—like she can’t imagine why you wouldn’t go—hurts a little. 

"Yeah, well... life happened." You try to brush it off like it doesn’t bother you.

Rafe’s hand slides over to yours under the table, interlocking your fingers and giving you a gentle squeeze. It’s subtle, but it’s enough for you. To remind you that you made the right choices, even if they weren’t easy ones.

The meeting wraps up pretty quickly after that.

The teacher gives Rafe some advice on how to help Wheezie stay on track, and you both thank her before heading out of the classroom. As you walk down the hallway, he stays quiet for a bit, and you can’t really read what’s going through his head.

By the time you get back to the truck, he turns to you, his brow furrowed slightly, like he’s still processing everything. "You got a perfect score on your SATs?"

Three years into the relationship and he’s still learning things about you every day.

You let out a small laugh, brushing some hair behind your ear. "Yeah. It’s not a big deal."

"That’s kinda insane," he says, looking at you like he’s seeing a whole new side of you. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

You shrug for the millionth time today, suddenly feeling a little shy. “I don’t know. It just never came up. It’s not like it matters now, anyway.”

"It does matter." His voice is firm, and when you glance over, you can see how serious he looks. "You gave up a lot to help your sister. That’s not nothing."

Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow down the emotion rising inside you. The way Rafe says it, like he actually gets it, means more than he probably knows. "I just did what I had to do."

He nods slowly, like he understands that feeling all too well. "You didn’t have to offer to help Wheezie today. But you did.”

You don’t want to make a big deal out of it. "I want to help her. She deserves it."

Rafe doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with this soft, almost disbelieving expression. Like he can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re still here, beside him, helping his family without a second thought.

"You’re amzing, y’know that?" he murmurs, his voice low and warm in that way that makes your stomach flip.

You feel your cheeks heat up, a shy smile tugging at your lips. "Stop."

"I mean it." He reaches over, cupping your face gently with his hand, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. His eyes soften as they meet yours, filled with so much adoration it makes you want to hide. "I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m really fucking grateful."

You bite your lip, glancing down at his other hand on your knee before looking back up at him.

"You’ve been working hard. For yourself, for us. I see that."

His jaw tightens just slightly, and he looks down, almost like he’s not sure how to take the compliment. But when his eyes meet yours again,

"I’m trying," he says quietly. "I’m trying to be better."

"And you are," you whisper. "Every day."

The months of hard work, the late nights when you’ve held him through his doubts, the mornings when he’s shown up for his family even when it was hard. It’s all there, between you, unspoken but understood.

Rafe leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Thank you," he whispers. "For everything."

You close your eyes, letting the moment settle around you. "I’ll always be here," you whisper back. "We’ve got this."

“I don’t think I would’ve made it this far without you.”

You swallow hard, trying not to let it hit you too deep. But it does. Because for all the mess you’ve been through—his ups and downs, his relapse, his constant fight to be better—it always comes back to you. To this.

“I’ll always have your back,” You remind him quietly. “You know that, right?”

He nods, like there’s absolutely no doubt in his mind. “I know. You’re really good with her," he says after a beat. "With Wheezie. And with Milo."

You smile, leaning back in your seat. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta look after the kids, right? Might as well be me."

Rafe’s lips twitch into another smile as he leans over, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, "Thank you, baby.”

“For what?”

“For sticking around,” he says, pulling back slightly to look at you. “Even when I didn’t make it easy.”

 “You make it worth it, Rafe. You always have.”

Because seeing him like this—happy, strong, responsible, and healthy—it’s more than just him trying. It’s him becoming the person you always believed he could be, from day one on that stupid country club. And that? That’s something you’d stick around for any day.

When you and Rafe pull up to Tannyhill, the sun’s already setting. You grab your bag from the backseat, and he takes a deep breath, his hand hovering near yours like he needs to hold onto you just for a second longer. When you step into the house, you’re greeted by the usual stillness that fills the place. It’s huge, but it always feels too quiet.

Wheezie’s sitting at the kitchen island, hunched over her phone, clearly trying to distract herself. Her leg’s bouncing nervously under the stool, and you don’t even have to say anything to know that she’s been dreading this moment.

As soon as she sees the two of you, she freezes, eyes wide, "Hey," she greets, her voice shaky.

Rafe glances at you, and you give him a small nod. You know he’s trying to figure out how to handle this—he’s never really had to play the role of ‘responsible older brother’ before. But he’s doing it. He’s trying. And that’s what matters.

"Wheeze," Rafe starts, as he walks over to her, and you can see the panic rising in her eyes as she sits up straighter like she’s preparing for the worst. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

She bites her lip, glancing between the two of you. "I-I didn’t want to bother you," she mumbles, her voice small. "You’ve been dealing with a lot, and I thought— I don’t know. I thought I could handle it on my own."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s quiet for a second, and you can feel Wheezie’s anxiety practically buzzing out of her. She’s probably expecting him to yell, to go off on her, but instead, he takes a step forward and pulls her into a hug.

"You ever keep something like that from me again," he mutters into her hair, his tone firm but warm, "and you’re grounded."

Wheezie’s eyes go wide in shock, like she wasn’t expecting that at all. Her arms wrap around him a little awkwardly, but you can tell she’s relieved. She pulls back after a second, staring up at him with those big brown eyes of hers. "You’re not mad?"

Rafe shakes his head, but his expression is serious. "I’m not mad. I’m worried, Wheeze. I’m here, okay? I got you."

"I’m sorry," she whispers.

He sighs again, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at her. "Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it again."

She nods quickly, and you step closer, offering her a small smile. "You’re not in trouble, Wheezie. I’m gonna help you with the math stuff, okay? I promise."

Wheezie looks over at you, clearly surprised, and then back at Rafe. "You’re… really not mad?"

Rafe rolls his eyes but in that big-brother way that’s full of affection.

"No, Wheeze, I’m not mad. But next time you’re struggling with something, tell me. That’s what I’m here for."

She nods, relief washing over her features. "Okay. I will."

Rafe reaches out and ruffles her hair, something so casual and brotherly it makes your heart swell.

"Good. Now go do whatever you do, and remember—grounded if you pull that shit again."

You slap his arm, “Will stop cursing in front of her?”

He shoots you a half-smirk, looking completely unbothered. "Please baby, she’s sixteen. You think she doesn’t curse?"

Wheezie lets out a small laugh, covering her mouth as if she’s trying to keep it together, but you can tell she’s relieved. 

"Yeah, but maybe not in front of her big brother," you tease, raising an eyebrow at him.

Rafe shrugs, looking like he couldn’t care less. "If she’s smart enough to hide it from me, more power to her."

Wheezie giggles again, and you can’t help but smile. "Yeah, yeah," you sigh, rolling your eyes at him playfully. "You’re a great role model, Rafe Cameron."

He groans, “Please don’t use the full name.” The corners of his mouth tug up in a grin that makes your heart skip. “Alright, no more big brother lectures tonight. We’re good, yeah, Wheeze?”

Wheezie nods, still smiling. “Yeah, we’re good.”

[moonlight-prose]

since you kindly offered this brilliant piece I have a thot for you. giving logan nasty nasty head as he’s trying to eat dinner 🤭

note: i sat with this for several hours after we hung up and i could not get it out of my head. he's a munch. we know this. it's a fact (disney grow some balls and say it outloud). but my god is he a whore for some good head. give him sloppy toppy and he's wrapped around your finger; he's yours, ready to put a ring on it and drag you to the courthouse himself.

Dinner is a quiet affair in the Howlett household. It's mixed with soft conversation and intimate jokes. Comments about your days, hands held over the table as candle wax dripped over the yellowed cloth. It's warm - domestic.

But on nights when adrenaline ran a bit too high and wine began to drip heat down your spine, you found that you couldn't resist the pull of him.

He sat in his usual chair, legs spread and eyes tracking your movements as you left the kitchen. A bottle of wine in one hand, his whiskey in the other.

His grin is soft. A docile man who'd been tamed by the lover he never expected. And you can feel the heat begin to curl around your stomach. Tugging on the nerves that thrummed beneath your skin. He'd never realize how far gone you were for him; how every move and choice depended on whether or not he'd smile your way.

"Smells good sweetheart." His voice is low, the grit of husk behind each lilted drawl.

You could feel warmth flicker to life beneath the supple skin of your cheeks as his gaze continued to track how you sat in your chair. Eyes dragging down the figure clad a t-shirt that had seen better days and jeans with a gaping hole in the knee.

There was no denying you dressed for comfort. Logan still felt his cock stiffen at the sight of you in dark washed denim though.

The smile is pulled from the depths of your chest. "I couldn't decide what to make."

You know you sound flustered. You know your voice is higher than normal.

You know he caught it by the sharp glint of his teeth poking through an already crooked smile.

"I'll eat anythin' you make," he admits with a soft clack of his fork tapping his plate.

The double meaning isn't lost on you. In fact it shoots a hole right through your chest, floods your body with that syrupy thick heat that you feel drip down to the tips of your fingers. His nostrils flare - eyes glancing down to the table that covers your lap - before he's filling his mouth with food.

Honestly you can't even recall how it happened. The entire ordeal a hazy cloud of lust that had you slipping out of your seat, and dropping to your knees beneath the table. His eyes went wide as your hands pushed at his legs, forcing them to spread. And when he made no move to stop you, the rest clicked into place with ease.

Logan smells of his cigar he smoked after work. He smells of spice and the musk of sweat and leather from his jackets that hung in the hall closet.

He is everything you could possibly want in a husband. Everything you asked for checked off with a flourished hand and a welcomed smile.

"Baby what-" He chokes on his food when your hands undo his belt, the button of his jeans, and pull him free with a choked whine. "Oh fuck."

That. That's what you were looking for after a day filled with his absence. The stifled moan at the back of his throat when your tongue licked up his cock - whining when the taste of him burst across your taste buds. You couldn't deny yourself him when he let you suck on the head, spit trailing down your chin and into his lap.

His hand moves to cup the back of your neck, fingers tightening around his fork, and it isn't until you've got him halfway down your throat does he understand what you want.

The clink of metal scratching porcelain sends heat down your spine. He moans around a mouthful of food as your head bobs, mouth sucking him in deeper, further, until he hits the back of your throat and makes you gag.

"You're fuckin' filthy for me aren't ya," he mutters, thumb rubbing into your skin. "Makin' me eat while you get dinner of your own."

Your eyes roll back, pussy clenching down hard around nothing. Because fuck he's right. You'd stay on your knees until pain flared up. You'd keep him down your throat until you lost the ability to speak.

You'd suck him dry morning, noon, and night to hear the noises that slipped past his lips.

"'M gonna give you want ya want baby," he grunts.

His hips rock up off the chair, hand pushing your head down further until your nose was buried in the dark hair tinged with the musky scent of him. It's wet and messy and spit has formed into globs that roll down the expanse of your throat.

You're so far gone all you can do is give a choked moan, body trembling as your lungs screamed for air.

That's the fucked up part though. You'd die on his cock if it meant getting to please him.

He cums with a harsh snap of your name, chest heaving and plate long forgotten. Shudders roll down your spine, slick pooling between your thighs as he spurts down your throat. Spilling out the sides of your mouth.

"Eat your dinner sweetheart so I can have some fuckin' desert."

[kikyoupdates]

For Tomorrow's Sake ⭑˚💫⭑ 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑠𝑡'𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒

various!jjk x f!reader

reverse harem, isekai, jujutsu kaisen x fem!reader, slowburn

You never believed reincarnation was possible, least of all in the fictional world of Jujutsu Kaisen. However, from the moment you meet Gojo Satoru, it’s impossible to deny. Whether it’s a miracle or some kind of curse, you find yourself growing up alongside the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. Unfortunately, you know what the future holds in store. You know exactly what kind of tragedies await. Perhaps that’s why you were brought into this world. If it means saving people from a gruesome fate, you’ll gladly suffer in their place. You’ll do whatever it takes. All for the sake of a better tomorrow.

prologue | story masterlist | next

When faced with the demands of the strongest sorcerer, your family can’t possibly protest. Well, not that they would have wanted to, anyway. They must be happy they don’t have to deal with you anymore. 

Out of sheer spite, your mother insisted you live with the rest of the clan and be forced into a life of cruelty and discrimination, but even she would never dare defy Gojo Satoru. Besides, her wish has already been fulfilled. You still won’t have a shot at a normal life. Even if you had been given the right to choose for yourself, now that you’ve met Satoru and discovered what world this is, there’s no way you would ever take the easy way out. 

For better or worse, you will be a jujutsu sorcerer. 

True to his word, Satoru was able to convince the Gojo Clan members to let you stay with them. You’re not sure exactly what he told them, but he may as well be their deity. Granted, he’s still only a kid, but in the grand scheme of things, bringing in a single girl to stay at the estate isn’t that big of a deal. It isn’t a difficult request to fulfill. Based on the way everyone turns up their noses at the sight of you, however, you can tell they aren’t too happy about it. 

“No one here will ever hurt you,” Satoru promises. He keeps glancing over at you every few seconds as he leads you through the grounds of the estate—which is massive, might you add. He’s a lot more attentive than you were expecting. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re a weak, helpless baby bird. Which you might as well be, in all fairness. 

You nod and smile brightly. “Okay. Thank you, Satoru. I’m really happy to be here.” 

“Are your injuries really painful?” he asks with a frown. “We don’t have anyone here that knows how to convert cursed energy into positive energy. But if I try asking, maybe they can reach out to another clan and bring someone over to heal you.” 

“You don’t need to go to the trouble. I’ll be okay.” 

Satoru watches as your grin somehow gets even wider, despite the fact that the bruised, swollen parts of your face must be aching uncontrollably. He’s not sure why you’re always smiling so much. It’s not like you ever had any reason to smile. Not with how horribly your family has always treated you. 

Then again, that’s exactly what drew him in. Your warm, sunny disposition, which is so starkly different from what he’s used to. Even if it doesn’t make much sense, a smile suits you. He likes seeing you smile. 

He’s already decided that he’s going to protect that smile of yours.

You’re given a nice place to stay. Satoru insisted that you live in the same building as him. It’s obvious that he wants to keep you nearby, in case anyone dares to try anything. Although you’re willing to bet that they won’t risk upsetting him. Not when he’s made it clear that you’re off-limits. 

It’s kind of crazy how much power and authority a literal child has. 

Gojo Satoru is in a class of his own. The details of his upbringing were never openly disclosed in the anime or manga, but you know for a fact that he didn’t have anyone he could truly call a close friend. Not until he met Suguru. 

You may be hopelessly weak for now, but if nothing else, you’ll make it so that he never has to feel lonely.

That night, you settle into your big, spacious room. You didn’t bring anything along with you for the move. It’s not like you had any personal belongings to speak of. Certainly nothing valuable, either. Your new room is a bit empty right now, save for a few decorations here and there, but you resolve to brighten it up and make it your own. All in due time. 

Before you tuck in for bed, Satoru stops by. 

“Hi,” he greets, poking his head into the room. “You don’t mind if I come in for a bit, right?” 

“Of course not,” you smile. “Go right ahead.” 

He nods and steps inside. There’s a clan member waiting by the doorway, and they flash you a brief glare before turning their back towards you and sliding the door shut. As expected, you’re far from popular. They probably think you’re just a hindrance, or maybe even a distraction. You’re not sure if they’ll ever change how they feel about you, but it’s definitely better than staying with your own family. 

Besides, as long as Satoru likes you, that’s more than enough. 

“Is this room okay?” he asks, kneeling down onto a cushion. “If you don’t like it, I can get you a different room instead.” 

“It’s perfect,” you reassure. 

“Really? You can be honest. I can tell that you’re the kind of person to hide how you feel because you don’t want to upset anyone else. I already know your dad is the one who beat you, but it didn’t look like you were going to rat him out.” 

“I just didn’t want to stir up even more of a fuss. Besides, seeing other people get hurt won’t make me feel any better. I’m happy enough just to be here. Again, thank you, Satoru. For helping me.”

You sure like to thank him a lot. He’s not really used to being thanked—for anything, really. He’s being trained and brought up as the strongest sorcerer. It’s a given that he’s meant to save and protect those who are weaker than him. But you don’t take any of that for granted. You’re never shy about showing your appreciation. You want him to know how much every one of his gestures means to you. 

He likes that. He likes it a lot. 

“If it’s alright, I’m going to try and go to sleep now,” you say. “I’m pretty tired. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Oh. Did you want to spend the night in my room? Like a sleepover? Would you be allowed to do that?” 

Satoru blinks. The invitation catches him off guard, and he watches as you pat the spot beside you, on your futon, still smiling brightly. 

He turns away in a hurry, cheeks red. 

“I-It’s fine,” he stammers. “I should sleep in my own room. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It seems like you are, so… I’ll leave now. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” you happily reply, but Satoru is already out the door, nearly tripping over his feet in the process. 

You giggle at the sight. He’s so adorable. You can’t even express how happy you are to be here. The future may look grim, but you’re determined to change it, no matter what it takes. 

That night, you dream of a world where Gojo Satoru is saved. 

“Satoru. Here, try this. I made yummy rice balls for us to eat. There’s a secret ingredient inside. Can you guess what it is?” 

Satoru reaches out and takes a rice ball into his hands, furrowing his brows as he looks it over. As far as rice balls go, it looks pretty normal. It’s actually rolled up really neatly. He’s surprised you made this yourself. You did a pretty good job. 

“Secret ingredient, huh?” Satoru shrugs. “Sure, I’ll try it.” 

He takes a big bite, and although he’s not really sure what he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t this. 

“Gross!” he exclaims, immediately spitting it out of his mouth and onto the ground. He then proceeds to stare at the inside of the rice ball he just bit into. “Did you… you actually put chocolate inside of this? Disgusting! What’s wrong with you?!”

You frown. “What, you mean you don’t like it? I actually think it’s pretty good. I was sure this combination would be a hit.” 

Satoru watches, horrified, as you bite into your own rice ball, smiling all the while. There might actually be something wrong with you after all. He’s starting to realize that you’re slightly unhinged. 

“Remind me not to eat anything you make ever again,” he shudders. 

“I’ll pick something better next time, don’t worry. Oh! How about this? What do you think of rice balls stuffed with ice cream—” 

“No.”

This is what most of your days look like. It’s been just over a week since you arrived at the Gojo estate. Your injuries have almost fully healed. Also, you’re no longer required to do chores at virtually every waking moment, so whenever Satoru isn’t busy with training, you spend all of your time together.

Satoru has to do a lot of different things. It’s not just honing his jujutsu abilities, day in and day out. He isn’t allowed to slack off when it comes to academics, either. It’s clear that his family intends for him to be perfect in any way possible. They refuse to let him settle for anything other than the best. 

It’s a lot of pressure for a kid. Satoru makes it look easy, but nevertheless, you feel sorry for him. Which is why you always try to make sure that he’s having fun when he’s with you. You want him to have some semblance of a childhood, at the very least. 

Of course, you still can’t grant him the freedom you wish he had. It’s always inevitable that someone gets in the middle of your time together. 

“Master Satoru. It’s time for you to work on your studies.” 

One of his usual attendants comes to pick him up. Satoru clicks his tongue in visible annoyance, but as always, he doesn’t protest. He has a strong sense of duty and purpose. A determination to uphold his responsibilities as the strongest. 

Before he leaves, though, he turns back towards you. 

“I want [Name] to come with me today,” he says. “She can at least sit in the room while I’m doing my work, right?”

The attendant blinks. He’s bewildered, of course, and you’re not sure what else to do but bat your eyes at him with a bright, hopeful expression. You may be weak, but you’d like to think that you’re a pretty cute kid. It’s about time someone developed a soft spot for you. 

“She’ll distract you,” the attendant refuses. He narrows his eyes at you in frustration, so apparently, you’re not that cute.

Satoru pauses for a moment, then grabs you by the hand and pulls you close. 

“I want her there,” he insists, interlocking his fingers with yours. “She’s coming. I’ve already decided.” 

“Master Satoru, you can’t—” 

Too late. It seems like he’s in an awfully stubborn mood today, so for better or worse, you find yourself in the same room as him while he has his lesson. 

It’s a bit awkward. Satoru told you to sit right next to him the whole time, and although he doesn’t allow himself to get distracted, it still feels weird to be sitting in on a private lesson. While the teacher glares at you the whole time, no less. 

“Do you know what the answer to this question is?” the teacher asks, pointing to one of the questions in the textbook Satoru is learning from. 

Satoru chews on the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. “It’s… B. The answer is B.” 

“Sorry. I’m afraid that’s not correct,” the teacher says. She scribbles something down onto a piece of paper. “It’s alright. That was an exceptionally advanced question, so I can’t blame you for—” 

“It’s C.” 

To be honest, you didn’t mean to voice your thoughts aloud. It was a reflexive, absentminded remark. The answer was just so obvious that you ended up blurting it out. 

But now, both Satoru and the teacher are staring at you in bewilderment.

Satoru turns towards the teacher with a frown. “Is she right?” 

“...yes,” the teacher replies, looking somewhat reluctant to do so. “But it was a multiple choice question, so I’m sure it was just luck. Let’s move on to—” 

“[Name], what about the next one?” Satoru asks, pointing towards another spot on the page. “Try answering this one, too.” 

So, you do. You don’t just answer that question, but the next one, and the next one after it, and the next one after that, and so on and so forth. The teacher looks both amazed and horrified. Even Satoru can’t seem to hide how taken aback he is. They’re both staring at you like you’ve been hiding this incredible intelligence all along, when really, you’re kind of cheating. You died when you were sixteen years old. Satoru is incredibly smart for his age, but even taking that into account, your years of lived experience give you an obvious advantage. 

Still, you have to admit, it feels kind of nice. Finally being acknowledged for something, that is. 

Satoru’s lesson ends, and you can see the teacher whispering to the other Gojo Clan members about what just happened. Their eyes all widen in shock as they glance your way. They believe you’re ‘gifted’ all of a sudden, and while it doesn’t mean much for a jujutsu sorcerer, at least they might think a bit more highly of you from now on. Maybe they’ll finally approve of you being by Satoru’s side. 

“I didn’t know you were smart,” Satoru admits. “To be honest, up until now, I thought you were kind of dumb.”

“...oh.”

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” 

“Is there a good way to be dumb?” 

“I just meant that you seemed a bit dumb, because of how straightforward and simple you are. And you’re nice to everyone, no matter how badly they treat you. You’re easy to take advantage of, so… yeah. I thought you were dumb. Sorry.” 

Satoru chuckles sheepishly. You snort in response, amused by his uncharacteristic shyness. You suppose it doesn’t really matter whether people think you’re smart or not. From the moment you were born, it was clear that you would have to defy everyone’s expectations. You’re going to have to work harder than most in order to prove yourself. In order to have a chance at saving people.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Satoru remarks. 

“What thing?” 

“It’s a thing you do sometimes. You drift off, and even though you’re usually smiling all the time, your face will get all serious for a few moments.” 

“Oh. I guess I have a habit of getting lost in my thoughts. Sorry. I just really want to get stronger. I end up thinking about it a lot.” 

Satoru doesn’t know how to respond to that. It’s strange that you’re so fixated on improving yourself. He’s the strongest, so of course, there’s a heavy burden upon his shoulders. He has to be the best. It’s both his birthright and his destiny. There’s simply no way around it. 

But as for you…

Come to think of it, do you actually need to become stronger? 

He’s already decided that he’s going to protect you. Even if he hasn’t known you for very long yet, he likes having you around. There’s no reason why he can’t look after you. It’d be nice if you got stronger too, he supposes, but it’s not like you’d ever be stronger than him. With him by your side, your future is already assured. 

Which is why it’s weird. There’s this urgency and desperation he senses from you, almost constantly. It’s not like your family is around anymore. And even if they ever tried to take you back, he wouldn’t let that happen. 

And yet, you’re still determined to become stronger. It’s almost like there’s something you’re not telling him. Something more than just a simple desire to prove yourself. 

…then again, maybe he’s reading into things too much. 

Word travels fast, and soon, pretty much everyone in the clan has discovered that you possess intellect far beyond what they imagined (not really, but whatever, you’ll take it). Satoru keeps insisting that you be allowed to sit in on his lessons from time to time. They reluctantly allow it, and sometimes, you even help answer some of the questions he has—instead of the teacher whose literal job it is to do so. She doesn’t seem to like you very much, unfortunately.

One night, as you’re preparing to go to bed, Satoru stops by your room again. 

He does this a lot. He usually makes a point of saying goodnight to you before he goes to sleep. It’s adorable, and it warms your heart to see that he’s starting to care for you so much. Sometimes, you still can’t believe this is the life you’re living. 

You were expecting him to poke his head into the room before exchanging a few words, as usual, but this time, he turns up with a futon of his own. 

“I’m sleeping here tonight,” he declares. 

You blink. “Oh. You got permission?” 

“Yes. They whined about it a lot, but I said I didn’t care. It’s not even a big deal. You said before we could have a sleepover, right? Unless… you changed your mind.” 

He averts his gaze, looking a bit bashful. Perhaps he’s worried that you’ll refuse. Although you’re not sure who in their right mind would turn away this adorable little sweetheart. 

“I definitely didn’t change my mind,” you grin. “I’m always happy to have a sleepover with you. We can stay up all night telling each other scary stories! I know a few really good ones.”

“Why would I be scared of some stupid stories?” Satoru brushes off. “I’ve already exorcized all kinds of cursed spirits. And none of those were scary, either. I’m too strong to have anything to be scared of.” 

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t heard them yet. You act tough now, but I bet you’ll be crying later.” 

Satoru rolls his eyes as he lays his futon down next to yours. He doesn’t think much of it at first, but once he’s lying down, facing you, and when he realizes just how close the two of you are… he’s embarrassed to admit that his heart starts beating a bit faster.

“If this is weird, I can leave,” he mumbles. 

“It’s not weird at all. Like I said, I’m happy you’re here. Ah. You’re not just trying to come up with excuses so you don’t have to hear my scary stories, right? I see right through you, Satoru. You’re not sneaky.” 

Satoru laughs. It’s a pleasant, melodic sound, and you hope you’ll be able to hear it more often from now on. 

Before you can start telling your stories—you really do have some good ones you’re excited to share—Satoru scoots in a bit closer, then gently places his hand down on top of yours. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and since you’re not sure what he’s referring to, you just frown. “I mean, it’s okay if you’re not strong, because I’m strong enough for the both of us. Before, I said I’d be your friend if you showed me how you planned on getting stronger, but… it’s fine. You don’t need to do that anymore. I’ll still be your friend. I don’t care if you’re weak or not. So, don’t worry about what anyone else says. I’ll stay with you no matter what.” 

Through the dark of night, you can’t tell, but he’s blushing profusely right now. He feels like he just said something really cheesy. But he’s not going to take it back. He doesn’t regret it. He means it wholeheartedly. 

You, his first ever friend, are irreplaceable. 

More time passes, and as much as it pains you to admit, you still haven’t gotten any stronger. 

While Satoru is busy training, you do the same. You try your absolute hardest to make some kind of progress, and yet, the changes are minimal—if any. It’s as if your body simply isn’t cut out for this, which is a bitter irony. To think that you’ve been reincarnated into a world where you have the potential to do a lot of good and help a lot of people, but your weakness is holding you back. 

The knowledge you have is invaluable. You know that. Even if you’re not all-powerful, you still have the ability to make a difference. But this is Jujutsu Kaisen. A world in which death isn’t just possible; it’s more common than surviving. If you don’t have any way of protecting yourself and others, who’s to say you’ll even last long enough to save everyone? 

It hurts. You hate being weak. You hate that your efforts yield no results. Unlike in the real world, where people can usually make up for talent or skill through sheer dedication and hard work, here, your fate may as well be sealed. 

“Not like that,” Satoru says, shaking his head. “Do it like this.” 

He proceeds to give you yet another up close demonstration of his cursed energy at work. He flattens several pop cans in one fell swoop, while you’ve been struggling to do the same to a single one of them. 

You exhale tiredly. “Stop saying it like it’s second nature. You have better control of your cursed energy than anyone else. I can’t possibly compare.” 

“Well, I don’t really know how else to explain it,” he shrugs. 

Your shoulders slump. A while ago, you had your sixth birthday. Which means it’s been slightly more than a year since you’ve gone to live with the Gojo Clan. A whole year, and still, you’re as weak as ever. You know it’s still too early to give up, but it’s hard not to feel discouraged when you have Satoru by your side, and every day, you’re reminded of the fact that you’ll be helpless to change his fate if this continues. 

“You’re getting upset again. Even though I keep telling you that it’s okay if you don’t get stronger. You have me. You won’t ever need to be scared.” 

Satoru smiles and wraps his arm around you, pulling you into a loose hug. During your time together, he’s become a lot more cheerful and expressive, which is of course due to your influence. It makes you happy to see, and you’re overjoyed that he cares about you to this extent. If you didn’t know what the future holds in store, you would’ve been more than willing to sit back and let him protect you.

He doesn’t realize that he’s destined for an early death. He’s so sure of himself, so confident in his strength, that he doesn’t even consider it to be a possibility. Which is why you do need to become stronger. Even if he doesn’t understand why. 

You hug him back for a few moments, then pull away—much to Satoru’s disappointment. 

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“To train some more. I already talked to one of the clan members earlier. They agreed to help teach me. Reluctantly, but still.” 

“But we’re supposed to be having a lesson together soon,” he says, making a point to pout at you. 

You smile weakly. “Sorry. I’ll be there next time. I just… can’t afford to slack off. If I keep working hard, then eventually, something will give.” 

Of course, as you expected, your supervised training session doesn’t go much better. You can see the clan member repeatedly rolling their eyes at your lack of talent. The only reason they’re helping you at all is because Satoru insisted they honor your requests. 

Once again, you’re left feeling hopeless and deflated. You wonder if you’ll ever see any improvement, or if you truly are beyond salvation. Destined to be so weak that you can’t protect a single person. 

Not even your dearest friend. 

You stare down at your feet, gaze glassy, and for a moment, it feels like you’re about to cry. Isn’t there anything you can do? Anything at all? Some kind of trick that will allow even a weakling like you to have a fighting chance?

Some kind of… trick? 

All of a sudden, your eyes widen. 

Since meeting you, Satoru’s life has become a lot more fun.

He enjoys having you here. He never thought it would make that big of a difference, being able to spend time with a kid his own age. And not just any kid, but someone who’s taught him how to smile, laugh, and appreciate simple moments he used to take for granted before. He’s glad he made the decision to visit you again that fateful day. If he hadn’t done that, every day would still be just as monotonous and boring. Every day would be unbearably predictable. 

Satoru can never predict what you’re about to do next. It’s strange, because at first glance, you seem like a simpleton, but you always manage to find new ways to surprise him. 

Like right now, for instance. 

“[Name],” Satoru calls out. As always, he knows exactly where to find you. He can tell everyone’s cursed energy apart, and although yours is scarce, it easily stands out the most to him. It’s comforting and familiar. He’s fully committed it to memory by now, and if he wanted to, he could write a whole essay describing it. 

It doesn’t take long for Satoru to find you. For some reason, you’re standing in place and staring off into the distance with a vacant expression. You’re also holding something in your hand. Is that… a knife? 

“[Name],” Satoru repeats. He frowns as he steps closer to you. “What are you doing? What’s the knife for?”

You don’t respond at first, but then you turn towards him, in a rigid, unsettling manner. Your eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them before. Even your lips are slightly parted, as if something has you in awe.

“I understand now,” you mumble breathlessly. 

Whatever it is that you understand, Satoru definitely doesn’t. He’s unbelievably confused. And seriously, what’s with the knife? It’s starting to freak him out. 

Satoru knits his brows together. “What are you talking about? You’re being weird. Also, put the knife down before you end up hurting yourself.” 

“Okay. But first, let me show you something.”

You take a hurried step backwards. Satoru still doesn’t understand what’s going on. You’re never this cryptic. It’s throwing him off, and for some reason, he’s getting a bad feeling about all this. 

That bad feeling turns out to be right, because moments later, he watches as you drag the sharp end of the knife across your skin.

“Don’t—!”

Satoru cries out, but it’s already too late. There’s blood everywhere. It’s a deep gash. A serious injury. You’re wincing, looking lightheaded from the pain, as if you’re about to pass out any second. Satoru instinctively knows he has to get help, and yet, he’s too shocked to move. This has never happened before. He’s never watched someone get hurt in front of his eyes—someone he cares deeply about—and been helpless to do anything about it. He’s the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. A special, chosen existence. But right now, all of that feels pointless, because you’re in pain, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

“It’s okay,” you breathe out. “Just… watch.”

Satoru is about to cry out again, more desperately this time, but suddenly, he sees it. 

Your body is… healing?

It’s true. The gash on your arm, the one you just inflicted with the knife, has already fully healed. You pause for a moment, then wipe the blood off your skin, so that he can see more clearly. Sure enough, it’s gone. There’s no trace of the wound that was there a second ago. Almost as if what happened just now was a figment of his imagination.

“Reverse cursed technique,” Satoru mumbles in disbelief. “You… when did you learn how to do this? You never mentioned it before. And I didn’t notice any changes in the flow of your cursed energy, either.”

“I learned it just now.” 

“What?” 

“A few minutes ago. Before you came to find me. All of a sudden, I just knew how to do it. The knowledge appeared in my mind.” 

Satoru frowns. Something isn’t adding up. Converting cursed energy into positive energy is a very complex technique. Few individuals are actually able to pull it off. Even he doesn’t know how to heal himself. But such an ability was able to manifest in you? He supposes it’s not impossible, but given the nature of your cursed energy, and your overall lack of skill… it seems unlikely.

“I wanted to become stronger.” You pause for a moment, then shake your head. “Sorry. I needed to become stronger. So, I did. I wasn’t sure if it would work, but just now, I was able to confirm it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I think you already suspect it. That I didn’t obtain this ability naturally. I was frustrated that nothing was working, no matter what I did. I just couldn’t seem to improve, regardless of how hard I trained. So, I… took a gamble. I made a Binding Vow.” 

Satoru blinks. “A self-imposed vow?” 

You nod enthusiastically, but it still doesn’t make any sense. Would someone really gain the ability to use positive energy through a simple vow like that? It’s the first Satoru’s ever heard of it. And since healing is a rare, valuable power, most people would love to get their hands on it. If it was that easy, surely everyone would opt to do it, one way or another.

Once again, Satoru has a bad feeling about this. 

“I already knew that by imposing restrictions on yourself, through a Binding Vow, it’s possible to increase your cursed energy and empower your technique,” you say. “I wasn’t sure if it would work for me. Converting cursed energy into positive energy is complicated, after all. I knew I had to make it a pretty serious restriction, in order to have any chance of succeeding. Even then, it still might not have worked.”

You pause yet again, while Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat, and the next second, you’re smiling brightly, like always. 

As you utter the most horrifying words Satoru has ever heard. 

“In exchange for gaining the ability to use reverse cursed technique, I’m never allowed to use my cursed energy to harm anyone else, whether it’s a human or a cursed spirit. And if by some chance I do… I’ll die. Instantly.”

Satoru’s jaw drops open.

“...what?!” 

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[ryuzakistoe]

The Red String (Isagi Yoichi x Fem!reader)

fluff, fem!reader, some mentions of the bllk plot

a/n: I absolutely love the red string theory I think its so beautiful 🤧❤️

The red string theory is a beautiful concept often used to symbolize fate, indicating that there is someone out there connected to you by the same string.

No matter where they are, whether they are at opposite ends of the world, in different states, or right beside you, eventually, your lives, hearts, and souls will become connected by an invisible red string, binding your destinies together. It is a wondrous and beautiful thing.

It's truly one of the most enchanting ways to become intertwined with someone, becoming a unified whole, fully aware that from now on, your lives will be forever connected. The belief of that truly fascinated you.

Well, it did fascinate you.

Here you were, resting by a bench at a nearby park, mulling over the recently shocking events.

Your boyfriend—well now ex-boyfriend, decided to break up with you as it was ���for the best’,

How could it have gone to this conclusion? Was it something you did that upset him?

You could've sworn that your relationship with him was healthy, while he himself proved it was not.

It was pretty idiotic of you to believe in the 'red string' theory and expect it to come true, especially when you thought he was the one.

This only existed in fairytales, you should've known better.

As you were overwhelmed by all the negative thoughts and sadness, you seemed to be oblivious to the presence that was now walking up to you.

“Hey, you okay?”

You quickly whipped your head up to the source of that voice as you were met with a boy who seemed around the same age as you in a white, soccer tracksuit. It also looked like there were fresh tears in his eyes…or were you imagining it?

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” you mumbled as you wiped the warm tears with your sleeve. You felt embarrassed to be showing your tears in front of a stranger you just met.

“You sure? Wanna talk about it..?”

~~~🌷~~~

You couldn't believe it. What suddenly overcame you to vent all your emotions and thoughts onto this boy?

Though you couldn't lie…it did feel good to let all these emotions out.

“Wow…sorry ‘bout that. He seems like a real ass.” isagi spoke as he listened to your rants.

"Yeah…it was out of nowhere—oh sorry for unloading all of this on you out of the blue. I just realized you probably have a lot on your shoulders already." You apologize, feeling a wave of guilt.

Isagi shook his head, “Nah its alright. What I went through can't even compare to what you just endured.” Isagi spoke.

Feeling a bit curious, you decided to ask, “Really? What happened?”

Isagi let out a quiet sigh as he replied, “Well, I lost a pretty important soccer match.” isagi mumbled as he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck.

“You're right, that can't even compare to mine.” you joked as a small chuckle slipped past your lips.

Isagi’s gaze shifted towards you before he also let out a small laugh.

Something about that laugh of yours…was somehow alluring to Isagi.

The sight of your smile and the sound of your laughter seemed to suit your face much better than the frown you wearing earlier. That's what Isagi believed.

You looked beautiful—gorgeous even.

After the laughter subsided, isagi decided to speak up, “well, that match did determine if I was going to nationals or not.” he uttered.

“Oh uh Really? Sorry about making that joke then— i take it back..” you muttered, feeling the guilt once more.

Isagi chuckled dryly and reassured you that everything was fine, saying, “mm no, no, no—its fine really.”

With a nod, you spoke, “oh alright then.” Although, despite his words, you still felt a lingering sense of guilt.

The conversation soon drifted into silence as the both of you just sat there.

Surprisingly, the atmosphere wasn't awkward, it was comfortable—relaxing even.

After a couple of seconds Isagi decided to break the comfortable silence between you, “Well then, its best if i get going. Its already getting late. You should head home too.”

You gazed up into the sky as you took in the scene. The sun was almost dipped beneath the earth as the sky morphed into layers of orange, red, and yellow.

“mhm alright, It is in fact getting late.” You smiled as you stood up from the bench.

“Yeah, make sure you get home safe uh….” Isagi trailed off as he realized he never got your name.

“Y/n. Y/n L/n.” You replied, finishing Isagi’s sentence.

“Isagi Yoichi.” He hummed as he also recalled he never told you his name.

Isagi said his goodbyes and began to leave, but then he abruptly turned back. "Oh, wait L/n!" he called out.

“hm?” You hummed as you turned your body around to face him as your name was called out.

“If you ever need to talk to someone again, ill be here! In this same spot at the same time!” He offered.

You smiled, “okay! Ill keep that in mind Isagi!” You replied back as you sent him a wave before walking away.

Maybe you’ll consider that offer.

~~~🌷~~~

After some careful contemplation, you made the decision to return to that exact location.

There was something about Isagi Yoichi that lured you in. You felt a strong desire to learn more about him.

So there you were, waiting on the same bench at the time he said he would visit.

He hadn't arrived yet, so you decided to wait a little, assuming he was running late.

…

Time ticked by and he still wasn't here. Did he stand you up? Did he lie?

No, he doesnt seem like that type of guy to do that. Although…they do say to not judge a book by its cover.

What if he's actually a bad guy? What if he joked about all of this? What if he never truly cared about your problems? What if-

“Oh hey L/n! Sorry I was a bit late. Had soccer practice.” Isagi chuckled as he hurried over to you.

Huh, guess all your ‘what-ifs’ were really just ‘what-ifs’

He really did keep his word.

You sent a smile down his way as he also returned your smile with a warm one.

“Thats okay Isagi.” you spoke as he took a seat next to you.

…

The conversation between the both of you was rather enjoyable.

Both you and Isagi found the both of you conversing about your hobbies, dreams, likes, dislikes, etc.

You and Isagi grew to learn more about each other as the hours passed.

You learnt about Isagi’s passion for football meanwhile Isagi learned about your passion for becoming successful in life.

You became more attracted to Isagi, as Isagi became more attracted to you.

Isagi would treasure every smile you gave when he made a subtle joke or showed interest, and you would do the same.

You would treasure the way his face converted into pure happiness as he talked about football and other hobbies he enjoyed.

You found it…cute.

“So L/n, what school do you go to?” Isagi asked as this sudden question popped up in his head.

”Oh I actually go to Ichinan High School” you responded.

Isagi’s eyes widened in shock and excitement as he also coincidently went to that same school.

“Really?! No way! I go to that same school too!” Isagi grinned as his eyes lit up in delight and eagerness.

"Really?! How come I never see you around then?" you asked, feeling a surge of excitement upon learning that he also attended the same school.

“Uh well… I really don't know.” Isagi sheepishly grinned as he rubbed the back of his neck.

You giggled at his excuse and aloofness as you found his answer somewhat funny and dumb.

That sight of your smile—Isagi loved that.

He couldn't recall when he started to feel himself craving your smile.

But every time you did, all he knew was that it made him feel all warm inside. He loved that feeling.

If Isagi could, he would want to keep that smile plastered on your face all the time. But for now, all he could do was cause that smile to form on your delicate face.

“Hey L/n, what classes do you have? I could try to meet up with you.” Isagi smiled as he was internally thrilled.

After telling him your schedule, Isagi started planning out where and when to meet you in the hallways or classes.

“Yeah that could work.” you nodded as you both agreed where to meet.

~~~🌷~~~

Every day, you and Isagi began to hang out in school.

He would walk you to class and walk with you to the cafeteria. He would basically walk you anywhere he could. Although Isagi would be late to most of his classes.

But it was worth it if it meant Isagi could be near your presence and smile at all times.

Day by day, both of yours and Isagi’s feelings for each other would grow stronger and increase significantly over time.

Even the slightest physical touch would send you both into a blushing mess.

This went on for weeks until Isagi got sent a letter about a soccer program from “Blue Lock”

…

“When are you leaving?” you asked, feeling upset at the thought of Isagi leaving you.

“In couple days.” he sighed as he placed the letter down.

Isagi couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with a sense of pity and guilt by the look on your face at the idea of him disappearing for a while. And by a while, I mean months.

“Listen Y/n, if you don't want me to go then I won't-”

“No Yoichi. I want you to go. I want you to pursue your dream.” you sadly smiled as you cut him off.

Isagi asked with a hint of uncertainty, carefully studying your expression for any signs of doubt or hesitation. “Are you sure?”

“Im sure.” you nodded as you held your smile.

Isagi's face lit up with a warm smile as he wrapped his arms around you in a tight, heartfelt hug. "Thanks, Y/n," he said, his voice filled with genuine gratitude.

You reciprocated his hug as a you felt a few tears trickle down your face and onto his shoulder.

“I'm gonna miss you Yoichi,” you muttered into his shoulder as he held you tightly.

“I'm going to miss you too Y/n,” Isagi quietly whispered as he rested his head on top of yours.

~~~🌷~~~

The day came sooner then expected as Isagi was preparing to leave.

"The bus will be arriving soon, huh?" you said, attempting to engage in casual conversation with Isagi.

“Yeah in a couple minutes.” Isagi nodded as he looked at his phone.

The tension in the air became awkward as the both of you stared at each other, your eyes reflecting the sorrow you held.

“Y/n…if you really don't want me too-”

“No Yoichi. I want you too.” you spoke sternly as you cut him off once more.

Isagi smiled at your words as the bus soon arrived.

As the bus came to a halt, Isagi faced you once more, “Y/n, when I come back, I'll become the best in the world. That's a promise.” he confidently grinned.

“You better keep that promise.” you chuckled as you watched him board the bus.

As Isagi was heading inside, his next actions and words left you in a state of shock, catching you off guard with his intentions.

“I love you Y/n.” Isagi smiled as he gave you a quick kiss on the lips and boarded the bus.

You were startled by his words as you watched the doors close, your eyes widening in surprise.

Did you hear that right? Did that really just happen?

Isagi glanced at you through the window and couldn't help but let out a smile laugh at your reaction.

You looked adorable is what Isagi thought.

The bus soon left as it was heading to its destination.

What the hell.

You slowly brought your fingers to your face as you softly touched your lips.

Warm.

Your lips were warm.

Now, you knew you weren't just hallucinating or imagining it. It happened. It actually happened.

He kissed you.

Not to mention he even said he “loves you.”

You couldn't help but feel a bit upset but excited and happy by these actions.

Happy by the fact he confessed his love for you but sad that you didn't get the chance to tell him how you felt.

Well, now you had an idea: the next time you see him, you would get back at him.

“Damn you Yoichi…” you smiled.

~~~🌷~~~

A couple months passed as it was announced Blue Lock was versing U-20.

Now this was a match you definitely wanted to see.

After all, Isagi would be there. But also, they would be up against U-20, where THE Sae Itoshi would be playing.

You wanted to see if Isagi really improved and kept his promise. And, of course, that could only be proven if the U-20 was defeated.

…

The crowd erupted into roars and cheers as both teams emerged onto the field.

Your eyes immediately scan for a familiar patch of dark blue hair, and once you find him, you notice that he looks more…serious.

Well, I mean who would be serious in a match like this?

Starting off, the U-20 seems to have taken the lead as Blue Lock starts to fall behind.

Soon enough Blue Lock catches up.

You couldn't help but scream with the crowd. This was more exciting than you had anticipated. The final outcome of the game left you feeling anxious. You really hoped Blue Lock would win.

And win they did, with none other than Isagi Yoichi scoring the final goal.

The crowd erupted into cheers as you screamed along with them, overwhelmed with joy.

After the crowd dispersed, you chose to remain in order to meet with Isagi.

After a couple of minutes, you see him emerging from the building. His eyes light up once he sees your figure up ahead.

“Y/n!” Isagi yelled as he ran up to you and embraced you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground while spinning you around in his arms.

“Im so proud of you Yoichi!” You exclaimed as he spun you around before finally placing you down.

“Did you see that goal Y/n?!” Isagi excitedly spoke as the sparkles in his eyes never faded.

“Mhm! I did Yoichi! You’re amazing!” You nodded, your grin never faltering.

Isagi held a looks of longing in his eyes as he embraced you in yet another hug.

“I missed you so much Y/n.” He whispered as he held you close.

“I missed you too Yoichi.” you breathed out as he held you tightly.

Isagi reluctantly let go before a small blush coated his cheeks.

He looked off to the side before quietly mumbling, “So…did you think about it…?”

You raised an eyebrow at him before finally realizing what he meant.

“Oh, you meant that day at the bus?” You asked as you saw Isagi nervously nod.

…

“Sorry Yoichi…”

Hearing those words made Isagi’s heart drop; it felt like his insides were being twisted.

Did you not feel the same way?

Isagi stood motionless as his face paled. He felt himself grow cold as he replayed your words. Was this really happening?

He stood on the brink of tears for what seemed like an eternity before finally managing to utter a few words, "I understand, Y/n..."

Immediately regretting your actions you began to tell him the truth.

“No no no—i was just playing Yoichi! I feel the same way! I was just getting back at you after what you did on the bus!” You quickly spoke as you began to reassure him.

Isagi released a deep, heavy sigh, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. It turned out that it was all just a playful joke.

Isagi enveloped you in another hug, relief evident in his voice as he spoke, "Thank goodness, Y/n. I was genuinely terrified. You have no idea."

"Yoichi, I'm truly sorry! I promise, I only did it to get back at you," you exclaimed quickly as Isagi let go of the hug and flicked your forehead.

You let out a groan as you held your forehead, “Yoichi what the hell?!”

“I love you Y/n.”

You paused.

The unexpected comment caught you off guard, especially considering he had just playfully flicked your forehead.

Although you didnt hesitate as you replied back.

“I love you too Yoichi.”

~~~🌷~~~

It’s been many years now as you were now living your life with Isagi Yoichi.

In his presence, you experience an unparalleled level of joy that you have never felt before.

He was your other half.

Your Yin and Yang.

Your soulmate.

But you like to believe that it was he who was at the end of the other string.

You were certain that he was the one you were destined to be with. There was no doubt in your mind about it.

The red string intertwined your destinies, uniting the two of you in an unbreakable bond.

Perhaps you were meant to meet him on that bench.

Perhaps you were meant to befriend him.

Perhaps you were meant to fall in love with him.

Either way, the string served as a powerful symbol, intricately weaving your paths together, as if it were written in the stars that your fates were entwined.

The two of you are nothing without each other.

The two of you were meant to be together.

At least, thats what the red string elicited.

a/n: this was rushed omg and I couldn't find a song to match as well😢

HES SO ADORABLE THOOO OMGGGG

[nikoniclove]

would like to say i love love love your henry. he's so sweet.

Aww thank you. Here’s a short blurb for you because I needed the practice actually writing something short.

Henry is 2.5 when he figures out how to beat the door knob covers and get his door open. It coincides with him learning how to get out of his crib unbeknownst to his grown ups. It’s also how he scares the absolute shit out of you in the middle of the night when he taps your nose. “Mama! Mama!” You shriek because you’re very much not expecting a tiny version of JJ to be bopping your face and waking you up from a dead sleep. Your reaction startles the adult sized JJ, who bolts upright in bed ready to protect her family. “Hehe,” he giggles. “That funny. Hi Mama! Hi Mommy!”

JJ rubs her face slowly, trying to catch her breath, before she flicks on the lamp. You catch Henry in your arms, pulling him in for a cuddle. “How did you get out of your crib, buddy?”

“Me climb,” he explains proudly like it makes perfect sense.

“Right, right. Obviously. Silly Mama. Of course you climbed,” you mumble. “It’s still time for bed. The sun isn’t awake yet.”

“Mama,” Henry whines. “Time for play.”

“Very much not time for play, H,” JJ groans. “Mama’s right. Still sleepy time. How about some snuggles?” He crawls over you, wiggling into the fraction of space between you and JJ. “Mmm, much better. I love you, buddy.”

The contented quiet lasts less than a minute. “Mommy?” JJ hums an incoherent garble of a sound. “Soccer?”

“Sleepy time, Henry. Soccer later, after breakfast. We can play in the backyard, I promise,” JJ insists.

“Why?”

“Why what,” you clarify.

“Why sleepy?”

“The sun is asleep.”

“Me not sleepy,” Henry explains.

“I see that, but Mama and Mommy are sleepy,” you attempt. “And Mama and Mommy need sleep to play with you all day long once the sun is awake.”

“Mama coffee,” Henry decides.

“Yes, I’ll have coffee when the sun is awake, but right now it’s still sleepy time. I bet Mommy’s already back asleep.”

“Mommy’s trying really hard,” JJ laughs lightly. “What if Mama makes French toast when it’s wake up time?”

“Oooh! With dip dip?”

“With syrup, definitely, but only if all three of us get some more sleep before the sun comes up. Mama needs more rest to make the tastiest French toast you’ve ever had in your whole life,” JJ bribes. Henry agrees blessedly. He snuggles between you and JJ, happy as a clam to have independently escaped his crib and his room.

[afyrian]

line three - lovely little detail m.list

    "i just can't get a handle on him," you lean against the employee lounge's counter, fingers clenching a small stir stick as it swirls around the contents of your mug.

  the creamer and sugar disappear into the dark cup of coffee, your mug feeling warm against your knuckles. biting your lip, you watch as sakusa talks to atsumu. there's an air to him, the way he stands with his arms crossed over his chest, a warm smile on his lips. while atsumu looks likes he's coming from the pits of hell, bags heavy underneath his eyes. 

  his late night talk show typically ended when yours started, giving the two of you to chat before he left for the day. and yet you had never seen sakusa with him, never smiling, joking about something you'd love to hear. "no, you just love a mystery," yachi exclaims, holding her tea close to her, the small paper tag resting off to the side. 

  "no-" you start, looking over at her, shaking your head, "no. he's a new coworker who won't talk much. you know how much bo- my old sound engineer talked. i miss it sometimes and it makes me more jittery in between calls," you shrug, pursing your lips in an attempt to come off as nonchalant. 

  "and him being attractive is what? just a lovely little detail," she rolls her eyes, smiling over at you as her eyebrows arch upwards.

  shaking your head, you look up at the station's old clock above the door. it has seen the test of time, but some of the managers like to say it's been there since the station opened. that it's there as a good luck symbol. the chipped glass and cobweb weaving between it and the ceiling would seem to differ though. 

  "don't you have some sewing to do?" you question, knowing you have just under ten minutes before you have to reconvene in your booth. 

  “don’t you have some sewing to do?” yachi mocks, grabbing a small packet of honey for her tea, “fine, you don’t want to admit it. but just know i do know the office’s code of conduct about employee relations and my lips are sealed.”

  bringing her index finger and thumb up to her lips, she runs it along her lips, flicking her index finger as they reach her cheek. her eyes move rapidly between you and sakusa, tilting her head slightly in his direction. before yachi can make it out the door to get back to work, she calls out to sakusa and atsumu. “you guys are coming to that celebration thing tonight, right? i’m trying to talk y/n into coming,” she smiles, knowing full well you never wanted to go. 

  “oh yeah, the twenty-fifth anniversary? i’m going to be late, but i think sakusa’s gonna be there early to help get some seats,” atsumu nods, knocking his knuckles against the table, letting out a short echo in the lounge.

  “really? y/n should join him, she always has good luck with those sorts of things,” yachi waves her hand, like it’s no big deal, and she’s not feeding you to the metaphorical wolves. 

  feeling your whole body go jittery, you want to blame it on the coffee in your hand, but you know better. the thought of something as daunting as sitting silently with sakusa, without your gear around you, is terrifying. “oh y/n, you should meet him down there, he’ll be getting there around five,” atsumu brings his hand up, hitting sakusa in the stomach. 

  “okay.. i’ll think about it, but we should get heading to the booth, get ready for the show,” you nod, running your finger around the rim of your mug, trying to change the subject and hopefully get back to work.

  getting to know sakusa and truly working with him sounds like a dream… but the way yachi is going about it sends your heart rate spiking. “i’m right behind you,” he mutters, following you out of the lounge, sliding past yachi as she looks over to atsumu with an odd expression.

  sakusa says something behind you, talking quieter than he expected he would, his long legs carrying him over to you. he scratches his eyebrow as he catches up to you, grimacing as you look back at him, “what’d you say?”

  “you don’t have to come tonight… sorry if atsumu made it seem like you have to,” sakusa shrugs, hands pushing into his jean pockets. 

  “oh no, it’s okay. yachi’s right, for some reason every time we go to a restaurant i have the impeccable luck of always having seats available. and with most of the crew coming, you’re probably gonna want you,” you smile, nodding as you talk.

  the slightly hidden humor in your voice brings a small smile to sakusa’s own face. “okay, that would be cool,” he mutters, following you into the booth, shutting the door behind him, “it’ll be at the restaurant and bar down by onigiri miya, atsumu’s brother’s restaurant.”

  “okay, i will see you there, sakusa. make sure to bring a good attitude and an affinity for bar food,” you point at him, suddenly feeling an air of confidence as you sit in your chair, the cushions feeling comfortable against your back. 

  nodding, he walks into the sound booth, hiding his face from you. pulling the microphone down to you, you pull your headphones on, smiling to yourself. watching as the timer counts down to when you’re starting. glancing towards the sound booth, his hand is up by his mouth, eyes adamant about staring down at his equipment.

  tapping the table with your finger, you wonder if possibly you’ve gotten through to him. if possibly you’ve broken the shell that he keeps himself hiding behind. as the clock ticks down to one, you take in a deep breath, “hello everyone and welcome to talk it out. today, before we begin our usual conversations, i have a bit of an announcement. it’s the stations twenty-fifth anniversary!” 

  a short cheering noise carries through your headphones as sakusa sets it off. “today between our talks, i’ll be giving some facts about the station and my time here. but that’s for when the time comes, line one, what would you like to talk it out about with me today?” 

taglist (open): @eggyrocks @causenessus @applepi25 @softpia @bakery-anon

@jadeoru @yessimo @lale-txt @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @sugacor3

@quikhs @todorokiskitten @mollyrolls @honeyfewr @pookiebearcave

@phoenix-eclipses @madiexuberant @kameyyy @cr4yolaas @asrichin

[triannel]

HI!!! I adore how you write bill, an my own birthday is tomorrow an im ✨Terrified✨✨,, n was wondering ifff. You could do a sorta angst-fluff where its the readers birthday, but every single one of his birthdays has been awful. And like, now that bills here with the reader he feels like maybe he wont have to Just survive his birthday? That even with his god awful family, it might be ok. Like yeah the meds help, but it doesnt fix anything if the people youre with are why youre fucked yknow? IDK and maybe bill decides to take it upon himself to remove the readers family😋 cant be a neglected middle child w all the responsibilities of the eldest if youre an orphan/J AN I DONT MIND HOW CLOSE YOU STAY TO THIS I LOVE YOUR WRITING ANYWAYS!!

(,,,o n also the reader maybe be a grungey scene kid kinda guy? Lots of piercings, an is more feminine than his parents think he should be, especially as a trans guy, So thats smth. Love bones n bugs and shinies an is like if a dog n crow were a guy,, n supr srry if this is a bad req!! Im jus excited cus i love bill, and im also stressy out cus of my burthdayy >_<“) SO NO PRESSURE TO RESPOND ESPECIALLY IF THIS IS TOO LONG OR ANYTHIMG!!!/gen

-🌙

Hello and Happy Birthday 🌙 anon! I've managed to whip this up and I hope it gives you at least some sort of comfort for today. I really do hope you're situation gets better soon, take care of yourself and have a great day! (Also, don't worry, I never really do mind long asks.)

BirthDate

Oneshot | Bill Cipher x Reader | Fluff/Comfort?

Warnings: Mention of Death, Implied Abuse, Implied Trauma, Implied Bad Birthdays, Bill Cipher lol

Quickly stepping upstairs, you lock yourself in your bedroom, blocking all the noise emenating from downstairs. Exhaling, you drop to your bed, letting yourself relax into comfort of the soft mattress and fluffy pillows.

Only needing rest by this point, you close your eyes. Wanting nothing more than to leave this place behind.

"WHOA, DIDN'T EXPECT TO SEE YOU SO EARLY!" A voice suddenly spoke, booming loudly for you to hear.

Ah yes, there he is. You can't exactly say he's your best pal, but right this moment, you truly do feel more at ease with him than being back there.

"It's honestly been a long day so..." You shrugged for a moment before continuing, "Does it bother you?" You ask, giving a lighthearted smile.

"NOT AT ALL, I WOULDN'T BLAME ANYONE BY WANTING TO MEET YOURS TRULY," he spoke, blinking slowly in a dramatic way to show off his 'impressive looks'.

You chuckle slightly, shaking your head, "I mean, I don't think I'm exactly the one to choose to be here..." speaking your thought aloud just to perhaps tease him a little as you glance at him for a moment before slightly chuckling once more.

You never really did know how you even get to meet him to be honest, he somewhat always manages to show up in your dreams, so overtime you guessed that he might be the one approaching you...That, or it might be because of something else entirely.

For a moment, you thought you saw him become nervous for a second, but maybe it didn't happen at all as you only saw it for less than a second.

"WELL, JUST WANTED TO CHECK HOW YOU'RE DEALING WITH KNOWING YOU'RE ONE YEAR CLOSER TO YOUR DEATH," he flatly said, in a weird, eerie way. He always did love being weird so this type of behaviour wouldn't be uncommon by this point.

"Right... Well, what's the agenda for this time then? Or are you busy?" You ask, avoiding your 'birthday' in question. You'd much rather not talk about your birthday at all to be honest. Not a single one ever went well...

Adjusting his bowtie, he started to speak, "WELL..."

Snapping his fingers, your surroundings completely change.

The rest of your 'dream' went on a relatively good note. Having a cup of tea, playing chess, you both did the usual activities you both would do when meeting in your subconscious mind. But the only thing is that, he seemed to be more...well a bit more charming and noticeably, but only slightly more open to your suggestions on what else to spend time on.

He'd usually take the wheel and drag you through any activity he wants, but this time though, this time he was a bit more...considerate.

Now playing a board game with him, you take the dice and roll it. Getting one, Bill chuckles slightly at your misfortune for a second before taking the dice from you.

He might be treating you like this because it's your birthday, but you'd doubt it... Well at least for now-

"EY, IT'S YOUR TURN TOOTS," he snapped his finger a few times in front of your face.

Chuckling, you mutter an apology before taking the dice. Rolling it in your hands, you then let it go. As the dice lands on the floor, it lands on a six, letting you be the winner for the match.

"Yess, I won!" You raise your arms, smiling back at him.

"CHECK AGAIN." Bill spoke, pointing at your piece. Looking down at the board, you see a newly added tile in front of your piece, moving the finish line out of reach. You raise your eyebrow, giving him the side eye.

"WHAT? I DON'T MAKE THE RULES," he raised his shoulders, smiling mischievously with his eye.

Shaking your head, you chuckled at his silly banter while giving him the dice for his turn.

It's unexpected but, this dorito triangle man truly has made a significance on making your birthday much more bearable. Be it his choice to do it or not, you're honestly just glad to at least have some semblance of joy sprout on this day.

I haven't been able to post for a week because unfortunately I became rlly busy at the moment and it isn't helping that I do tend to procrastinate at times. I'll post more regularly later, but for now at least, I'll post this here. Once again, happy birthday 🌙 anon!