#its like motherfucker what the hell are you saying

[everythingne]

double dealing: two wheeler (ls2)

there's no real need for you to get on two wheels--considering logan's four work just fine. but it comes in handy sometimes (requested by @dozyisdead, thank u love!!)

double dealing verse / last logan installment

notes/warnings: this delves into more of the 'double dealing' esc side of this whole little series sooo... illusions to planned car accidents, minor injury, smuggling documents

a call from Alex so late at night is unprecedented. Sure, its not the most random thing on the planet, but its odd considering you're not even in Austin yet. Zipping along the highway, you send him an auto reply message, a quick 'I'm on my bike, I'll stop and talk to you soon!' but the Thai driver doesn't seem to care.

He calls again. And then again, and by the time you've found a safe spot to pull off--down an exit ramp and in a gas station, he's called sixteen times.

It's two in the morning, so you park your bike to get gas anyways, and answer his incessant calls.

"Alex, what the hell is going on?" You huff out, poking the 'Regular' button on the gas pump as you hear the phone connect.

"Hey, Carrie... what highway are you on?"

Oh, motherfucker. You think, he's using codenames.

You shove the nozzle into the tank, clicking back the pump's trigger as the fuel pours out. It can't move fast enough, "Uhm... after I get gas, I'll be back on I-10, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, uh..." Alex sighs and you can picture the way he's gripping his shifter as you hear his car roaring under his voice, "Bandit's caught in the mix transporting some goods, we think there was either a mix up with Godfather's intel or if Payday's got some sort of bet going on."

You watch the price of the gas click up, your hand tensing as you wait for the meter to fill, murmuring to Alex, "Doesn't he have the newbies with him?"

"That's the reason we're calling you in." Alex's car screeches and you can imagine him Jersey sliding into an exit lane, "I'm with Lion and Shades, we're gonna divert the goods with Bandit, see if we can figure out what Payday and The Minister are doing. All I need to know is if you can fit the kids on the bike."

The loud clunk of the gas filling up has you slamming the nozzle back in its holder and closing your tank, kicking up your stand as your bike roars to life, "If Ollie can hold on to the other kid tight, then yeah, probably."

"Meet us at the Walmart in Manor--off 290." Alex says and you nod sharply, pulling out of the gas station. You're not far, like maybe twenty or so minutes out.

"Got it. See you in twenty." You say and end the call. You don't know Texas well enough, but luckily tou knew Manor was somewhat close by. You'd gotten off at Exit 720 for Brenham, following Highway 290 up to Austin. Originally planning to stop for gas and food when you got low, which ended up being in McDade.

McDade to Manor, twenty minutes roughly. But you were sure you could shorten that.

The streetlights pass in a blur of color as you dip between the few cars--and ride alongside the big rigs, in the mostly empty roads. You can't even really think, or breathe right, until you pull up alongisde three cars in the back corner of a Walmart parking lot. Which is.. painfully American. Alex's--or, Smokey's 1970 Pontiac LeMans, Max's--or The Lion's 1999 Subaru WRX, and finally George's--or Shades' 2000 Porsche Boxster.

"Here's the deal," George is quick to say as you click up your visor so they can see you better. You find taking the whole helmet off would be redundant. You'd just delay departure at that point.

"Bandit's got two newbies with him. They were supposed to be with Goss but he was out of commission. So, we figured since this is a low urgency run, it would be fine." George rubs his jaw and shrugs, "seems like someone caught wind."

"Which," Alex cuts George off, "makes no sense. No one should be going after this, it's a deal from the county police chief. If we do this run, they won't bother us with the racing, classic corruption shit, y'know? We do it everywhere, building rapport, doing favors, and what not."

Max nods, walking over to lean next to George, "Obviously, we don't want the kids--if you can call Franco a kid, I guess, in all this shit so soon. They're supposed to do the basic shit, the street racing, the parts running. Not this stuff. We also wouldn't pull you into this unless it was dire."

You nod. Logan had told you countless stories about 'ascending' through the ranks. How the most senior racers, like Fernando or Lewis, handled the most egregious shipments and situations while newer drivers like him or Oscar did base level stuff. You were also surprised to find out all of it is voluntary, and for a lifetime, when Logan did a run with Sebastian Vettel a few months back.

So, even if Logan went to Indycar or NASCAR, or wherever--if he was in the area and they needed him, and he wanted to, he would go.

"We need to get Franco and Ollie out of that car. They aren't even really indoctrinated into this all yet." George hums, "The others in the area are on a bigger drop, or just not able to come out. Hence, why we reached out to you."

"You know Bandit's driving style well." Alex hums, "and while we distract Payday and whoever's with him--I think it's... Minister, we should be able to get him to a secure location and pass the kids to you."

Max eyes your bike carefully. You can tell he's not too keen on the idea of shoving you and two lanky boys on one bike, but it's all you have. He hums, then murmurs, "Can you even fit with two of them?"

"It'll be a tight squeeze and not at all safe but... I think as long as they hold on we can make it work." You eye your bike, having absolutely no idea how to make it work, "If possible, could we do it somewhere close to a drop off point?"

"Yeah." George nods, "I can call Hotshot again and see if he's in Austin now can swing by and take them from you... probably somewhere between Austin and Cedar Park. Bandit's southbound, maybe twenty minutes out from Cedar Park now, so we should get moving."

You nod, "So I'm just trailing Bandit?"

"Pretty much." Alex nods, "stay close, follow hand gestures. We'll have to get you a radio to communicate with us for next time."

"If. There's a next time." Max hums, then nods his head to his car. George quickly follows suit, but Alex pauses to give you a fist bump.

"We got this. Don't worry about it." He smiles. As the cars roar to life, you follow suit, and out of the highway the four of you go. Just a year ago, when you had been in Australia with Logan and Oscar, when you'd gotten all tangled up in this... you hadn't owned this bike. But afte expressing your love for highspeeds and the feeling of the wind rippling across your skin, you'd sold your car and bought the bike.

Less practical, sure, but a hell of a lot more fun. Plus, Logan's car could fit your suitcases and whatever you needed for traveling, so it didn't matter to you.

The three cars in front of you move at perfect speeds, and at Alex's command, you all go dark and slowly exit off to 183, where Logan should be travelling southbound. Luckily, you are able to spot him zipping down, two cars hot on his trail. The first car dips in, a sporty Porsche Cayman, and nearly knocks the back of his car.

Logan dodges, but nearly skids into the gaps in the guard railing. You don't want to imagine it piercing his car, but you can't help it.

You grit your teeth as Alex turns on his lights and dips across the grass median with Max behind him doing the same. They bound acorss, but perfectly time slipping into the gaps in the guardrails right behind where Logan's speeding down the highway--Alex nearly plowing into the side of the Porsche.

George stays on the other side of the road and signals for you to follow him off another exit. Blowing two red lights--and praying that this run is successful so that won't come to bite you in the ass later, you end up about two miles behind Logan and the rest.

Pulling up alongside George, he waves for you to stay back, and peels forward. You stay within eyesight, but hold off a few hundred feet. You can see Alex has put himself between the Porsche--which you think is Lance's, and the Toyota 86 you know is Checo's. All three cars are a bit dented up, you assume from the cheap shot pit maneuvers Lance was attempting.

Max comes up alongside Checo, and through hand gestures, you see the Toyota come back, falling alongside George. And you're waved up. You come between the two cars and a small parcel is handed to you from Checo, and you toss it into George's passengers window--very precariously, before backing up again at your cue. You don't want to think of what it is.

Looking ahead, it seems like they're having a harder time getting Lance to get off Logan's ass, and so you drift off to follow the right hand lane as they see what they're doing.

Eventually you realize they're trying to box Lance into the left lane. Max splitting the lanes in the front, Alex on his right side with Logan ahead of him ready to peel off, and George and Checo holding up the back in the back.

You can imagine the radios filled with excessive swearing as Lance nearly ramming into the back of Max's car is met with George tapping the back of his car.

Finally, Logan dips off to an exit and you gun off, following him and glancing aside to see George swerve big time to avoid Lance just absolutely obliterating the side of his car. You follow down, flicking your headlights off when Logan does. Your heart is in your throat as Logan merges off into a side street and slows down significantly. You boht move, only lit up by streetlights, before coming to park under an overpass.

As Logan's car slows to a stop, you glance back behind you. Other than houses and trees, the area seems vacant. Logan's car shuts off and you follow suit, propping your bike up on its stand and throwing your leg over as you clamber off it and watch the three across from you.

"You guys alright?!" You shout and the three nod. Logan helping the two climb out of the back seat. Even in the hush of the back road, there's a lot of tension from Ollie and Frnaco, the two almost jittery as Logan slams the drivers door closed once they've gotten out.

You can't blame Logan for being pissed, the lives of two kids who weren't even really involved was in danger.

You take off your helmet, setting it on the seat, and make your way over to where Logan's popped open his trunk and is digging in it for something. You look over to where Franco and Ollie stand off to the side, murmuring amongst themselves, then back to Logan as he places his helmet in your hands with a bit more force than needed.

Unluckily, you catch a glimpse of what he's been asked to smuggle--a few guns, semi-automatic weaponry you try to blink out of your eyes as the trunk slams shut. It's the loudest noise in the area, other than the hum of someone's air conditioning unit down the side road.

"You can fit them?" Logan asks gruffly and you shrug, reaching out to intertwine one of your hands. A soft, soothing rub of your thumb along his skin as you hum out your reply,

"Don't have much of a choice."

Logan lets out a low whistle, and you can imagine when there's more time and more context, you'll talk about the whole thing during a late night drive. Probably back home in Florida.

"We both need to get moving." He murmurs and you nod, pulling him closer by the hand for a chaste goodbye kiss, and you're both murmuring at the other to be quick and safe. The night chill on your hand is more prominent when Logan lets go, making his way back over to his car.

Opposite of him, you make your way over to Franco and hand him Logan's helmet. Ironically, it fits well enough. So you shove your helmet on Ollie's head.

"Listen," You point at them and challenge them with your best attempt at a stern, motherly tone, "I have no idea if this is going to work, but you two need to hold onto me like you will die if you let go, because you will."

Your phone buzzes, and you look down to a text from Alex. 'District park nearby, go there.'

You quickly plug the address into your phone, luckily the place is only fifteen or so minutes away. Logan starts his car and you wave him on as he peels off into the night, and after four or five attempts, you manage to squeeze both Ollie and Franco onto the back of your bike. Driving much slower than you usually would, you take the backroads to the park, and are delighted when you see Lando waiting outside the gates.

It's a bit of an adventure getting them both off again, and as you kill your bike and pop it onto the stand, Lando claps, his voice chiming with his hysterical laughing, "I'm impressed no one fell off!"

"i almost did!" Franco complains, popping Logan's helmet off his head and shaking out his hair, "because Ollie can't sit up all the way!"

"I had nowhere to go!" Ollie whacks Franco's arm, and as you watch, you can't help but laugh to yourself. It's just absurd. How the hell did you get all tangled up in this? You have a feeling it won't be the last time.

After the Austin GP, you're sitting on Logan's trunk. Your bike is parked alongside his car, the modernity of your bike somehow working with his older bodied car.

"Ay!" A voice chimes and you glance over to where Ollie jogs over with an almost happy hop to his steps, very much like a puppy, "guess who finally got a callsign!"

"A radio nickname," A much slower Charles Leclerc trails behind Ollie, but pauses at the sight of your bike and whistles, "Nice two wheels, Logan."

Logan hums in confusion before looking at what Charles is ogling, and you can't help but giggle at the mans shock when Logan informs him the bike is yours.

"I wasn't aware your girlfriend was cooler than you." Charles smiles, crossing his arms, and Ollie launches into the story of fitting him and Franco onto the back of the bike. And now, you feel like Charles thinks bikes are death traps a little bit more, just judging the white sheen that crosses over his face in the track lights that illuminate whatever race is going on.

"Did you ever figure out why Payday was on our ass?" Ollie asks Logan, and you watch your boyfriend sigh, leaning on his trunk and smiling at Ollie.

"I did, yes.." He trails off, glances to Charles, and then out onto the track, "we'll call it... bad faith and bad intel."

"Come on, I've got a name now! I should get to know." Ollie complains, and you smile as Alex and George drag Lando and Oscar over, laughter ringing in the air. These were the moments with the racers you loved the most.

"You're just a driver." Charles hums, giving Ollie a whack on the arm in good faith, "Not even a runner yet, Ollie. Don't get a big head about it now."

Ollie nods, a little bashful, and is quickly swept off in conversation with the group about what car he's gonna get and 'not-tracks' they want to take him on to see how he can drive out on the highways. Logan pats your thigh to gain your attention, and when you glance over, Alex hands you a little box--inside, a kit for a motorcycle radio.

"We convinced Max." He smiles, "Welcome in Carrie."

You smirk, giving Alex a fistbump as Logan leans into your side, the night stars twinkling above, the rumble of cars zipping by on bet fueled races. Nights like these you could get used to. But you might need to invest in a side car or something.

double dealing taglist (open!)

@colmathgames2 @sialexia

general tag list (open!)

@d3kstar

[oflgtfol]

i hate the english

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OOH YEAH BABY! PARTY TIME BABY! MUSIC! DRINKS! SOCIAL PRESSURE & A PSYCHEDELIC BREAK DOWN! WELCOME TO VAMPIRE SOCIETY MOTHERFUCKER! ARE YOU SCARED? DO YOU UNDERSTAND YET? ITS OKAY IF NOT. FIRE DISSOLVED IT! ITS ALL GONE NOW. HAVE FUN!

[spotsupstuff]

I wanna learn more about Blessing / Boreas. What’s up with all the bat flies with him? What’s his city like?

-rubs my hands together like a fly- uuuuuu boy, time to shake my blatantly favorite child Hell yeah huhuhuhuhuuu

the batflies enter the scene a good while after the Mass Ascension- they are his coping mechanism after Zephyr collapses and goes dark!

from the comic where they talk about Euros' n Sparrows' relationship, one can probably guess how close these two are. Boreas might be the big scary dog of the whole Eo family that punches things in the face rather than take any miniscule amount of shit, but when it comes to Zephyr he is very open and sweet. she's the only person who can actually influence his opinions and ideas greatly, because he loves and trusts her enough to allow her to do so. so when she collapses, he takes it the worst out of everyone. in a very quiet way. his pain if for him to keep, nobody else can know he's hurting

bear witness to Ňuňu

this lil shit was basically Boreas' therapy dog. just.. very very feckin teeny

child...

she is as smart as your typical bat, but the thing was that when she accidentally made her way into his chamber, he didn't have much will in himself to send the animal to eeby deeby so she got to flutter about. and as animals do, girlie used the empathy trap card to figure out this person who doesn't seem to be posing any danger is Sad. so she landed on his head, crawled up to look into his eyes and chirped

n that was the straw that broke the camel's back and Boreas had his first grief-inflicted breakdown ever. Ňuňu stayed during it and even after it, so emotionally-empty-feeling Boreas decided to take her in. hardly can replace Zephyr, but at least he isn't alone

Ňuňu later brought friends and Bee decided that he will look after them then. even after Ňuňu passes away, he still houses and raises them. the younglings like sleeping on his antennas so he has to watch himself to not move them too much sometimes. Euros has a folder full of photos like that

to his city- the name kush is:

originally from me looking for latin words for Rage. ended up going with Desaevio, because Bee is indeed positioned in a fitting place for the word

and the storm connection plus the last two are the main reasons why the Ancients called the city as such. after project Abet Zephyr ended in such a failure, they had to vent some stuff out. and we are going to claim that it is anger because that isn't as pitiful as shame or embarrassment

(the fact that almost every translator i put it into gives me "i'm sorry" works wonderfully, too. because what else will ultimately Boreas do, but quietly mutter to himself a mantra of apologies when he'll be lying in his chamber 30 seconds from his death, drowning in his regrets and mistakes?)

Desaevio was capable of comfortably supporting over 5 million people (no other Iterator city ever reaches that far- the max is ambitious Gen 3 cities that only ever reached around an estimate of 2.7 million) but at times housed over 6-7 million. despite lying close to the geographical location of Bergen in real life, Desaevio is very far from reaching such nice vibes (the old towns Boreas' structure overshadows come close, though). it is way closer to New York, but more dystopian. if u look up dystopian city on google images u get to see pretty closely what it looked like. combine it with Coruscant from star wars for bonus authencity with the layering

made up of skyscrapers, with endless layered bridges for means of transport (most commonly expres trains), with what little decoration of the buildings chipped away by time without anybody caring enough to restore the beauty- the grey, gloomy expanse of Desaevio is as majestic to witness as it is absolutely harrowing

with it being a layered city and one with Boreas' consciousness/structure, some wonder when does one truly leaves the borders of the city and enters the giant's actual insides. it's hard to tell, with old models of Iterators not being all that enclosed and isolated like Five Pebbles is. there is no karma gate to tell you when exactly the walls turn from homes for people to homes for wires, tubes and alien-like organic life of a colossal Hivemind

despite the whole "Iterators are above the cloud level" thing, i like to imagine that it rains in Desaevio either way. at least- some levels are just straight up Wet like after rain. but it'd be those normal rains like we have, not the annihilating ones that the old towns need to bear with down below. or maybe it's just the upper layers' waste water seeping through the ceilings

most of light of the lower levels comes from streetlights, neon signs and Boreas' own systems once deep enough

cameras and such security systems litter all the streets and every public room- and the private homes are still accessable by overseers- and All of that feeds directly into Boreas' memory cache

this omnipresence is why Boreas later suffers with the fuckin

nobody is as unhappy with Boreas' omnipresence as Boreas himself. no wonder he's always ticked off, imagine being a witness to All of New York's road rage 24/7

[loud-whistling-yes]

Are all dudes who are both history and economics nerds just. Like That (derogatory).

[larrythefloridaman]

maybe J0hn for the character bingo? owo

love this man ive been attached to him since he first showed up <3 dont have too much new i can think of to say about him though

[qqueenofhades]

I've seen a lot of doom today. Thank you for the bracing positivity!

Look man, idk if I would call it positivity. I'm fucking furious that the media and/or the billionaire class could have chosen at any time, ANY TIME, to carry out this coordinated ratfucking on Trump, and nope, they did it to Biden. Not coincidentally after he openly started espousing even more leftist/progressive tax and wealth policies. I'm also fairly certain that Putin (who is well used to playing the American elections ratfucking game) is involved here somehow, because he desperately wants Biden out and Trump back in. Two plus two, etc.

The elected Democrats who went along with this and/or who contributed to fucking Biden over also have a hell of a lot to answer for, and I hope we, the voters, let them fucking know. The only way this makes sense is if Biden is actively dying of Covid right now and/or if it's bad enough to permanently damage him. In that case, he might have had a modicum of actual say about this, rather than falling victim to the Anonymous Sources who stabbed him in the back every step of the way.

That said: Kamala is a genuinely good candidate. I am excited to have the chance to vote for her. This does turn the whole Referendum on Two Old White Men With Mental Issues narrative on its head. She might be able to reach some constituencies that Biden couldn't. I don't know for sure if all the Democratic/never-Trump GOP votes will translate, but I am so motherfucking tired of fascists thinking this will be a walk in the park. They asked for this, they fucking got it, people are really fucking mad (including me and like, everyone), and if all this maneuvering gets our first female AND Black president, the fascists are going to absolutely fucking lose it and cry for eons. And idk about you, but I want to see some sore loser fuckboys cry cry cry. I want revenge for 2016. I want Trump dead and fucking gone and yknow, Black women have played a huge role in his bad bad times so far. So it's only fair, I suppose, that Kamala gets the chance to finish the motherfucker off. I don't know if it's positivity, but that's what is fueling me right now. So yeah.

[teabringer-fics]

ocean of tears | aegon x f!reader

summary: modern au. alicent hightower calls you in the middle of the night to inform of you two things: viserys targaryen, her husband and the ceo of your company, is dead... and your employment is now contingent upon tracking down her oldest son, aegon, and dragging him back to hq before daybreak. later, a conversation in the dark turns into a possible lifeline for westeros's reluctant heir.

word count: 11k | read on ao3 (honestly recommended bc of the insane word count but you do you boo)

tags: corporate setting, angst, extended treasure hunt, grief, a bit of viserys bashing, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, a lot of plot, depiction of anxiety, boss/employee relationship, it's very long (i feel like i'm rattling off prescription medication side-effects when i do these)

a/n: i'm back on tumblr bitches! do all that good commenting jazz if you even make it to the end of this whopper pls 🫠🫶

This is gonna be torture/before it’s sublime…

You wake to the sound of a distant and yet insistent melody, distorted at first by the confusion of interrupted sleep. It takes your eyes a few moments to adjust to the pitch-dark, and by the time you’ve successfully fished your phone out from amongst the tangle of sheets the din has died, leaving you in a cold sweat, startled, imagining your parents in a fatal car crash, your sister, studying at Oldtown, gone missing in one of those bizarre, yet commonplace turns that lands her at the center of a true-crime podcast.

You tap the screen just to be blinded—”motherfuck” or something along those lines escaping your mouth—and are still squinting through the glare when it comes alive in your hand.

Alicent Hightower

Mobile

You slide to answer and raise the phone to your ear.

“M-Ms. Hightower?” Shaky and stupid even to your own ears. You glance briefly at the time display on the upper-left corner: 2:56 AM. At the other end, Ms. Hightower’s voice is posing a question which you fail to understand and, still reeling from the relief of knowing that this late-night, early-morning phone call has nothing to do with your family, you plug your other ear and ask, “Sorry, what?”

“Aegon! Where is Aegon?” Ms. Hightower demands. You tamp down the urge to repeat “what?”, although on the inside your thoughts are written in large capitals: WHAT??? The hour is ungodly, she’s scared you half to death, and how in seven hells are you supposed to know where her son is—you hold the phone in front of your face again, as if this will elucidate matters or else trigger your body into waking from its bizarre dream—at 2:58 on a random Tuesday?

Digging deep for whatever scraps of professionalism exist inside you at this time of night, you clear your throat and say, “Aegon? I’m sorry, Ms. Hightower, I have no idea. Has something happened?” The thought of Aegon Targaryen, uncontrollable playboy partier and heir to the largest fortune in Westeros, meeting a tragic end in a nightclub restroom, or wrapped around a traffic pole after five drinks too many, doesn't elicit the same panic response as thoughts of your sister’s hypothetical kidnapping. But you do register a sensation like a stone falling in the pit of your gut. It lingers at Ms. Hightower’s continued silence.

Is she crying? You strain your ears. There are no sniffles, no choked sobs that would indicate a mother’s frantic grief. Only a maddening stillness that makes your skin prickle and your heart beat, pounding, at the center of your throat.

Then it ends.

“Viserys is dead.”

You would think this three-word, straight-forward pronouncement would illuminate the perplexing state of affairs that led to Alicent Hightower calling you almost at the witching hour to ask about her son, but instead the silence widens in your head, an emptiness like a sudden fall replacing the weight of suspense, and it takes all your faculties to say, “Ma’am, I am so, so sorry for your loss. When did it happen?”

You might as well have not spoken at all.

“You are to tell no one, do you understand? Consider yourself bound by the NDA you signed upon your employment. No one is to know about this, not before we have a plan in place and certainly not before the markets open. This could be catastrophic if we don’t manage to get ahead of it.”

“I understand.”

“I am counting on your discretion.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you repeat.

You are buzzing with adrenaline, still sweat-damp and nervous but locked into Work Mode. Viserys is dead. So it finally happened. The man has been threatening to kick the bucket for years now—mostly in private, but of late hiding it had proven nigh on impossible. The papers speculated, blogs ran the gamut of gossip, and now the day has come, under cover of darkness, with his shrewd widow at the helm.

Her voice comes clear, urgent, utterly in command. “I know it’s late, but I need you to track down Aegon. He’s not answering any of our calls. I thought you might have better luck, being his personal assistant. I've sent Aemond and the Cargylls out to look, but so far no luck. This is important—probably the most important thing you have ever been asked to do. Aegon needs to show his face here before Rhaenyra does. His grandfather and I are doing our best to keep things afloat, but once news of this reaches—”

“Rhaenyra doesn’t know that her father has died?” you ask without thinking, your tone openly aghast.

Again, the silence.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent replies, her accent sharp enough to cut glass, “will be informed in due course but this is about more than just her. The company cannot fall to ruin. I will not let my husband’s legacy be destroyed in a single night. For better or for worse, Aegon must claim his inheritance or we run the risk of hemorrhaging shareholders. Rhaenyra made her choice—she made it the moment she threw her lot in with Daemon. The time to act is now, before they make their return from Dragonstone.”

In the background, you hear the sound of a door being opened and closed, letting in muffled voices from a different room. Whoever the newcomer is, Ms. Hightower orders them to wait. “Listen,” she goes on, “I know it’s ugly, it’s bloody and it feels underhanded. But she’s left us no choice. Tell me now if you don’t have the stomach for it. If you refuse I’ll consider it your resignation effective immediately.”

Well, that’s no choice at all, is it? You like having a roof over your head, food on the table (not that you make it to your own table very often these days). Rent prices in King’s Landing are exorbitant. You need this job. You don't want to fail.

“I’ll find him, ma’am. I promise.”

“Good girl. I knew we could count on you. Bring him here when it’s done.”

The line goes dead, your phone dark.

Shit. Why did you promise? If Aegon’s own bodyguard can't find him, his own brother, there’s no telling where he might be. And to stake your whole livelihood on it? Seven hells…

“Shit, shit, shit,” you say aloud, taking five seconds for self-pity before flinging yourself out of bed and putting on the first thing you can find, probably your discarded work clothes from the day before. You yank your hair into a disheveled knot, propping your phone on the dresser so you can call Aegon on speaker, vibrating with anxiety as the dial tone rings once, twice, six times, before going straight to voicemail. Of course… of course it couldn’t be that simple. You try again, hunting for your car keys—damn the mess—and when he doesn’t answer, you yell at your phone, “Siri, call Aemond Targaryen!”

The call connects. Surely, Alicent’s most responsible, Type-A progeny will have the courtesy to make himself available to you in your hour of need.

“Come on, come on…” you mutter, letting out a triumphant “aha!” as your fingers close behind a keychain fallen between the cushions of your ratty old loveseat.

No dice. Once more, you are met with a canned voicemail prompt.

Beeeeep.

“Aemond, for fuck’s sake, answer my fucking call! I’ve spoken to your mother… Call me back as soon as you get this. Bye.” With that you swipe your purse from the minuscule kitchen counter and race out the door, pushing impatiently at the lift buttons, tapping your foot all the way down to garage level, racing to your car so fast that you knock the wind out of you when the door fails to unlock on the first try. You take a breath—pull it together—, point the fob at the driver’s side door, and wait as patiently as you can until the telltale double-beep of the mechanism letting you in.

The engine starts. You tear out of the underground car park and emerge onto a King’s Landing lit by artificial lights, active and just a little bit seedy. You pass shuttered coffee shops, bougie restaurants, convenience stores, residential buildings with spotless terraces and “For Lease” banners hanging out front, all as you white-knuckle the steering wheel. Viserys is dead… Viserys is dead… shareholders… market opens… Rhaenyra…

What a mess.

Your nerves are already frayed, which is why (understandably, you think) when the center console lights up and a ringtone blares from the too-loud car speakers, your foot slams down so hard on the brakes that it makes your head whip before a yellow light. “Mother save!” you curse—and then, seeing that Aemond has deigned to call you back: “Thank the Seven!”

“I can’t talk for long.” His smooth, chilling voice makes you shudder as it envelops you, and you reach to turn down the dial so that, at a more reasonable volume, he can ask, “Have you found him yet?”

What am I, a magician? You roll your eyes, trying very hard, and perhaps failing, to rein in the sarcasm when you say, “Um, no. I just wanted to touch base with you. Where have you looked?”

“His city flat. All his usual Flea Bottom haunts. The Street of Silk. I even talked to those worthless idiot-goons he calls friends.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, well… that’s strange.”

“No shit.”

The light changes. You drive forward, headlights pointed towards Flea Bottom anyway, because never in a million years would you think to find Aegon anywhere else.

You sigh. “Never mind, I guess I’ll figure something out. Where are you?”

“On my way back to HQ. If Aegon doesn't wish to be found, then Stranger take him. Someone has to steer the ship and be there for Mother.”

“Right. Well, d’you know if—”

“I have to go. Call me when you’ve found him.”

Call Ended

You blink at the screen. Did Aemond Targaryen just hang up on you? Seriously?

Cold bastard…

In the three years you’ve spent working for the company, your feelings for Aemond have never coalesced. Some days, you prefer his company to that of his elder brother, especially when deadlines are tight and Aegon is, predictably, nowhere to be found. But there’s no denying that he sets you on edge, his brilliance and ambition matched only by his ruthlessness. If anything, he reminds you of a pristine besuited robot you could never hope to understand. For all that he holds you in something like regard, puts up with you because of your usefulness and because Alicent, in her own strange, imperious way, likes you, and you suppose that not up-and-quitting when faced with Aegon’s shenanigans affords you a few points in his esteem, at the end of the day, you’re one of the staff. Ceremony is for family. Hence, the abrupt hangup.

Annoyed, you try calling your errant charge again. “Please leave a message after the…” “Aegon, you little shit, I am not getting fired because you decided to get shit-faced in some seedy hole in the wall as a toxic grief response—answer your fucking phone!” Never mind. Too strong. Wrong tone. You press the command to re-record, putting on your best phone voice, aiming for gentle, kindly, reassuring. “Aegon, it’s me again… It’s fine if you don't want to talk but at least shoot me a text so I know that you’re still, you know, alive. Your mother is worried sick and Aemond—” Basically told you to go to hell and fuck yourself sideways. “—has been trying to get in touch. Please, just… send me a smoke signal… telegram… note-via-carrier-pigeon?” You blow out a breath, press End on the steering wheel, and note the time: 3:37 AM.

The thought that Aegon may have done something irremediably stupid returns. It’s not like you’re friends, exactly—not even remotely. You’re his assistant, a job which, shortly after you acquired it, you realized nobody else wanted. It’s thankless, literally; irregular, at times demeaning, at others boring to the point of tears, chaotic, unpredictable… But you’ve gotten used to the routine. You know Aegon’s moods. You’re used to him, and you’d like to think that, by now, he’s used to you. It’s not an ideal job by any means, but you get by and if, say, he got hit by a taxi cab after stumbling drunkenly into the street, you think you might actually feel kind of awful about it.

You call him again.

Still nothing.

Up ahead a familiar building looms, brick-lined, discreet. You feel ridiculous sidling up to the door and knocking in a pattern of tap - taptap - tap - tap. The door opens a smidge and a voluptuous, curly-haired redhead peeks out, her big green eyes blinking out into the dark. “I need to speak to Sylvi,” you say without preamble. Her face folds into a scowl.

“Well, I need a million quid and a stud with half a brain and a massive cock, luv. Patrons only.”

“I’ve been sent by the Hightowers,” you quickly say, shoving your foot in the door to stop it closing. “Just tell her that I’m looking for Aegon.”

She rolls her eyes, clicks her tongue at your request. Though she shuts the door in your face and you hear her footsteps receding, you hope that the overt name-drop will make her cooperate. Impatiently, you tap your foot in the street, watching a few people pass you by on the footpath. Nothing to see here, folks… I’m standing in front of a brothel but not of my own free will.

The door opens. “He isn’t here,” Ruby declares, crossing her arms in front of her—quite frankly—perfect breasts. Whenever you’ve had to pick up Aegon from his latest bender with the ladies of the night, you’ve moved through the vestibule feeling like an absolute troll. Sylvi must be paying her girls their weight in gold if looks are anything to go by. Perhaps it’s time to consider a change in profession…

“Really? Did she tell you that?” you ask, crossing your arms skeptically in front of your own less endowed chest.

“I’m telling you he isn’t here,” Ruby huffs. Fleetingly, you wonder whether Aegon’s ever slept with her, if he likes them bold and Botticelli-like, or if his tastes run elsewhere.

Nope. You throw the mental image of Aegon fucking anyone out of your mind. You are a modern woman, damn it—you don’t get flustered at the thought of good honest sex work… or sex… or your random, uncontrollable boss having it with Venus-looking women with perfect tits.

You clear your throat. “You wouldn't by any chance be lying to me about that, would you?”

“His brother was already here—tall one… delicious… lot more intimidating than you.”

“Cheers, but also, how dare?” (Upon further reflection, Ruby might be exactly the kind of girl Aegon would favor. They’re both equally annoying.)

“Listen, I’ll tell you the same thing I told ‘im: your guy isn’t here. Maybe he’s at some other cathouse in the neighborhood but I hardly doubt it. The madam doesn’t like being stepped out on, if you know what I mean. She’d have the arse-hair off any establishment that tried poachin’ her clientele.” She leans back, seemingly proud of having strung this rebuttal together.

You sigh. Back to square one.

“Thanks for the help anyway.”

“Nuh-uh!” Ruby holds out her hand, the sash of her elegant robe loosening, revealing an expanse of gleaming rosy-pink skin and the curve of her left breast. You wish you’d bothered to at least run a brush through your hair. “What, d’you I work for charity? I’m paid for my time, luv.”

“Clearly, I’m not having a good one!” you protest.

Ruby just stands there, wagging her palm in your direction until you reach inside your jacket and pull out your purse. This had better count as a business expense, you think, pulling out a fifty- and then a hundred-stag note.

“Is that all?” Ruby asks.

“Gods, are you serious?”

“I get paid twenty-five moons for a basic experience.”

“What experience?” you demand. “Freezing your arse off in the cold for no reason? I don’t recall getting off!”

Her eyes narrow. “Want to make it a full dragon?”

You zip your mouth shut and part with the notes.

“Ta!” Ruby sings, waving at you with a girlish grin and once again shutting the door in your face.

Aegon, when I find you… Grumbling, you reenter your car and call him again, but you know better than to expect a reply. Making a U-turn, you take a side road and drive parallel to the Street of Silk, looking for the favored watering hole of Aegon’s “worthless idiot-goons,” as Aemond so colorfully put it. His cronies may have helped him hide from his brother until the danger of discovery had passed; if that’s the case, you think you might strangle them all on sight.

“Well, if it isn't my Girl Friday!” The Honourable Leon Estermont crows when he sees you coming. “Fancy a line?” Next to him, Martyn Reyne is wiping his nose and throwing back what’s left of a dangerously pink drink. All around you, the club is a flashing hub of darkness interrupted by neon lights, the music thumping.

You knew enough to head straight for the VIP section located on the upper floor, and from this platform—if you even bothered to look—you could see a mass of bodies writhing down below. The air smells of smoke, alcohol… sweat, even sex. The idiot-goons are reclined on a tufted leather sofa, which disturbs you—you don't want to know what kinds of activities have gone on up here. You’ve never been invited. The most you’ve experienced is hauling a stumbling Aegon into a waiting car driven by one of the Cargyll twins.

Once, but only once, he almost threw up on you.

You prefer the brothel, if you're being honest. At least there, transactions are straightforward, the workers plain. You don't know if these two would bother pissing on Aegon if he were on fire. The thought makes you angry. You shoot Leon the fakest of smiles.

“Not for me, thanks, I like my neurons just the way they are. Also, I am not remotely your anything. When was the last time you saw Aegon?”

“Aegs?” Leon pipes up, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise. “What, is he missing or something? Those freaky bearded twins came ‘round earlier, asking the same thing. Bores, the pair of them.”

The song shifts from a techno beat to something raunchy, with a lower bass. It makes your bones vibrate, your head pound. Leon bends over the chrome table to snort more of Father-knows-what, then leans his head back, moaning, eyeing you up and down in a way that makes you want to hose yourself down with disinfectant. “Come on, Friday, take a load off! You’re off the clock.”

“Actually, I’m not.”

He laughs. “Aren’t you? That’s the problem with you lot—you don't know how to loosen up. And instead of figuring it out, you like blaming the rest of us for knowing the right way to live.”

The rest of us. You lot. The haves and have-nots.

Incredulous, you blow out a breath. “There is so much wrong with that sentence, but something tells me it would be pointless to even start. Last—time—you saw—Aegon—when?” You snap your fingers in front of his face, all pretense at civility abandoned. You want to hit him over the head with an ashtray.

“Sheesh! I don’t know! Two days ago, maybe? A day ago? Yesterday?” On his left, Martyn’s legs are splayed, mouth half-open. He’s drooling onto his own chest, probably snoring beneath the sound of obnoxious music. Leon doesn't notice at all.

“Fucking useless…”

“Hey!”

You stomp down the spiral staircase, feeling like you've wasted—you take out your phone: 4:50 AM—more than an hour of your life in a pointless search. Your eyes prickle with frustration. Now is not the time to give in to the panic-driven water works.

Brusquely, you go to your recent calls and tap Aegon Targaryen (14). Fourteen… the number is insanity. The man’s father is dead, what could he possibly be doing?

“Aegon, seriously…” you grouse into the phone, wiping your nose, too tired to hide the edge in your voice, the exhaustion, the anger, the—fine, you’ll admit it—worry. “Now I'm starting to think you might actually be lying in a ditch somewhere. I’ve looked everywhere, no one has heard from you… listen, forget about your mum, forget about everything just… pick up my call, you absolute fucking twat—”

“I could have you fired for that.”

“Aegon!” His name is a gasp. You don’t know whether to laugh or get on your hands and knees, kiss the floor and thank the Seven. “Aegon—where… what’ve you—wait.” Your eyes narrow into resentful slits. “Were you screening my calls the entire time, you blockheaded douchebag! Tell me where you are!”

“Phone died.”

“Well, clearly it’s made a miraculous recovery!” you scoff. “Tell me where you are, I’ll come get you.”

“’m at yours.”

“Come again?”

“Yours.” Either his voice is slurred or the reception in the area is shit. “‘m at your flat.”

“You’re out in the hallway?”

“No, I’m inside your flat,” he responds, and has the audacity to sound impatient at being made to repeat himself. “Fucking tiny, by the way.”

You stop in your tracks, having handed the valet a tip you can’t afford after your stand-off with Ruby. “And how, pray tell, did you manage to get inside my fucking flat?”

Aegon either fails to notice or doesn’t care that your voice is pitched menacingly low. “You keep a spare under the mat. Fucking mental of you, by the way. Is getting potentially kidnapped a secret kink of yours?”

“YOU USED MY KEY?”

“No.” You picture the exact movement of his shoulders, that little uncaring shrug that has, on more than one occasion, made you picture him getting pecked at by an army of ravening birds. “I had a copy made ages ago.”

“You Targaryens have no sense of personal property! Gods!” you exclaim, ignoring the side-eye you got from the valet, reentering your car and buckling your seat belt. You start the engine, feeling like you’re going out of your mind. The phone is pressed between your ear and shoulder as you sputter, “That is so… so incredibly wrong! You do know that, right? You do know that’s what’s fucking mental? You can't just make a copy of my keys and keep them to use whenever you fucking please! Just—ugh! Just stay there, you weirdo, and don’t go anywhere! I’m five minutes away.” Lies. You’re more like twenty, but you don’t want him to think he has a wide enough window to make an escape.

After violating what probably amounts to a half-dozen traffic laws and speeding all the way back to your building, you feel marginally calmer, except for the residual stress and the thought that maybe, just maybe, you’ll enter your flat to find Aegon vanished once more into thin air, your job gone along with him. You retrace your steps, taking the lift to the sixth floor, holding your breath as you try the latch and find it unlocked—so much for the judgments he made about your inadequate sense of safety.

In your absence, he parted the drapes just enough to see by, and in the meager light coming in from public street lamps posted across the way, you make out a shape bent over the dining table, unnaturally hunched, its head almost hanging over the edge.

Though the door shuts with a metallic clang that sounds like a gunshot in the deep quiet, not even this makes him stir, and but for the steady rise and fall of his back you would think him unresponsive, passed out like his feckless friend Martyn back at that infernal club. You round the table. Aegon shifts just enough to look at you and you can tell that his eyes are heavy-lidded, bleary. But alert. Conscious.

You let out a breath and feel your shoulders sag in relief.

“You look like shit,” you say to him. “Are you wasted?”

“Unfortunately, not anymore.” He makes a rolling gesture with his free hand, one of his eyebrows quirking in typical Aegon fashion. “Stone-cold sober me… well, maybe not that first bit.”

“Mhm. I’ll make you a coffee.”

At the machine, you take a moment to close your eyes and listen to the water steam and bubble before it begins to drip into a generic white mug, one you hardly ever use, being rarely at home. You had thought that once you’d seen Aegon in person—made sure he was all right, your job not halfway over a cliff as Alicent had implied—you might feel better, like everything was resolved, or at the very least no longer your problem. But all you do is feel confronted with a wreckage you’re not sure you’re equipped to handle.

You’ve seen Aegon drunk out of his mind before, bloodshot-eyed, raving-mad, slurring his words, stumbling, laughing maniacally, starting brawls that one or both of the Cargylls had to finish. But this… Dejected, broken. How do you deal with this? And then, even though you’re trying to be understanding, you can’t help the surge of anger that makes you turn around and stomp over to his side of the table. How could he be so selfish? To leave his family in the lurch, add to their troubles, add to yours?

You brace your hands on your hips. “What on earth possessed you, by the way? You disappeared! Do you have any idea—? No… Where have you—? Wait. You do know your father is—?”

“Defunct? Departed? Without ghost?”

Had he reacted more violently, you might've been inclined to pick a fight. Instead, Aegon’s droll resignation makes you feel like a world-class prick who just picked on an orphan.

You deflate, arms falling immediately down to your sides. “I’m sorry.”

Aegon snorts. “I’m not. Just wish he'd had the fucking decency to leave a will.”

“There’s no will?”

“Why do you think everyone’s going out of their fucking minds? It’s Mum’s word against Nyra’s. I say let her have it. Whole thing’s cursed anyway.” He sits up with a groan, puts his elbows on the table, rubs his hands from his eyes all the way to the pale tangle of his hair—Viserys’s eyes, Viserys’s hair.

What sort of a billionaire doesn’t leave a written will? The man had two wives, a conniving brother, five adult children, not to mention an international conglomerate with hundreds of employees and scores of attorneys looking out for its wellbeing—he had to know that being ill-prepared would've caused this kind of clusterfuck.

Carefully, you lower yourself into the other chair, watching your boss like a skittish animal you’re afraid of scaring off. “Aegon… where were you tonight? Not even your friends seemed to know about your father or where you had run off to.” He keeps silent. The machine lets out three ill-timed beeps and you rush to the counter to take the mug by its handle and set it down in front of him. “Here, drink this. You need to sober up.”

“What for?”

“Your mum wants you back at HQ.”

He shakes his head, crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Forget it! I’m not fucking going.”

“Fine. Just drink your coffee.” Just drink your coffee, dear, you might have said, sounding, even to your own ears, like a child’s mother. He narrows his eyes.

“She sent you to manage me.”

“I’m your assistant, Aegon! What do you think I’ve been doing the last few years?”

“I don’t know, making copies?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself!” The profusion of air that leaves his nostrils can’t be called a real laugh, but it’s close enough given the circumstances. You smile.

You watch him blow over the rim of his cup before he takes a sip, the motion childlike, almost delicate. You sit down and track the subtle movements of his lips in the shadows, his throat working as he swallows. In that moment, nothing is as important to you as the simple repetition of him lifting the cup and setting it down, over and over, until you’re sure he’s had at least half of what you gave him.

He seems lucid, sits straighter than when you first walked through the door, and you’re thinking now might be a good time to coax him into your car when he breaks the silence.

“He even had to die in the most useless way.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t tell me what I do and don't mean!” His fist pounds the table. One second he is glaring daggers at you, the next, he begins to cry—curled in on himself, shoulders heaving violently, his body wracked by sobs that suck all the air out of the room with a grief so vast you feel you’re drowning in it, flailing as you try to pull him back towards safer shores.

“Aeg…”

He tugs his arm away. Helpless, you try again, closing your hand around the delicate wrist, reaching for something, anything, to make the outpouring stop.

But nothing can make it stop. He cries until the tears peter out and he whimpers, clasping your hand, not so much for comfort but as an anchor. His hold is brutal, unyielding, and then gradually it loosens until the clamor subsides. Embarrassed, he lets you go and wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms.

He picks at his fingernails when he’s anxious. You can't see them in the dark, but it’s a habit of his you know by heart.

You ask the question because you want to take his mind off his father, because you’re curious and you feel like the answer is important somehow—to you, and to him. “What were you doing tonight, before you took my call?”

He freezes. His hands drop and he folds them almost primly on the surface of your faux-wood dining table, avoiding your gaze in such a fashion that you think, if the lights were on, you would find him blushing as well as stammering. He mumbles an unintelligible response.

“What?”

“I was at the Sept!”

“Of Baelor?” You lean forward as if this will help you picture Aegon Targaryen, of all people, resorting to a place of worship during a time of need. “You were in a sept? Willingly? And you didn’t burst into flames?”

“Fuck you,” he laughs, another breathy thing but stronger this time.

“I’m glad I didn’t wager any coin on your whereabouts or I’d be bankrupt right now.” Especially after Ruby. You tuck that story away for a later time, hoping it brings some much needed levity after the funeral or in the near future. There won’t be much humor, you know, in the days to come. “Why the Sept? I know your mother attends services but I didn’t think…”

“For the quiet?” he replies. “And I figured no one would come looking for me there.”

“Well, you thought right.”

“I have my moments… not that he ever thought so.”

“Aegon.”

He waves you away. “I’m not looking for sympathy.”

“Well, I think you're bloody entitled to it—if not now, when?”

He doesn’t reply. He finishes his coffee. The sound the mug makes when it rolls between his hands sounds like a marble, repetitive, ominous. “It was always Rhaenyra… He wanted Rhaenyra—are we all just supposed to forget that? Pretend it never happened? The last twenty years of my life—”

“Like I said, you don't have to go.”

“Is that what my mother told you?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” His bitterness, and the truth lying behind it, that Viserys loved his eldest daughter best and treated her half-siblings like less than a footnote in his life, hits you with a wave of restlessness. He’s right; there’s no use telling him otherwise, and nothing Alicent does now can wipe away the resentments of the past. It was always Rhaenyra.

It was always Rhaenyra.

You get up from your chair and rush to the sink to fill a clean glass with water. “Here,” you say, setting it down in front of him like it should cure all of his ills.

“You’re being fussy,” he complains.

“I’m being assistant-y.”

“You’re treating me like a basket case.”

“Well… you haven’t always been the steadiest bulb in the box, have you?”

You mean it as a joke, but Aegon doesn't take it that way. He slides the glass over and stares into the depths, his expression hangdog, miserable. “You’re right… I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I—”

“No, I’m a nightmare to work for. I know it, my mother knows it… No one wants me at the helm—let Aemond fight our sister for it, if it’s that important to him.”

“Your mother will say you’re the firstborn son, the natural head of the family.” He scoffs. “There was a time—” A time when he took interest, when he had just graduated from university and sought actual responsibility from his father only to be made redundant at every turn. Let the more experienced men handle it. Keep quiet and watch. Your input isn’t necessary. You’re more of a family representative, anyway. Gradually, he had lost interest, lost confidence. If no one cared, why shouldn't he get blackout drunk during work hours? Show up weary and hungover to important business meetings? Say the wrong thing and blow up tenuous relationships cultivated over decades?

Aegon must be thinking the same thing. “It doesn't matter anymore,” he says. “Nothing—” Nothing matters anymore.

“Aegon…”

“Would you choose me?”

You feel your stomach drop.

“If you were on the board, one of the shareholders… do you think I could do it? Would you choose me over Rhaenyra?”

“I—” Your face heats, your mouth goes dry. You want the floor to open up and drop you in the basement, hide out on the next boat to Pentos. Of all the things he could have said, you would take anything, literally anything, over this. “I—”

“You can't even say it.”

“You’ve stopped trying, Aegon! Maybe if you did… maybe if you applied yourself. You have your mother in your corner, your grandfather, Aemond, people at the company who would take your side. If you wanted it—”

“Bullshit.” He snatches his coat from the back of his chair, stands fast enough that you actually believe him about not being wasted. All you can do is chase after him, grab his arm when he's halfway to the door, just to the side of your cramped, unused kitchen.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I didn't come here so you could lie to my face! Me or Rhaenyra?” he spits through the gritted teeth.

This is do or die, you know—either you tell the truth and risk hurting him or shatter years’ worth of trust in a second. Even if Alicent pats you on the back and says “job well done,” Aegon will never want you again. He’ll drive you away, make your life miserable if he has to, anything to get you out of his sight.

Your throat is clenched almost to closing when you say, “Rhaenyra… I would… I would choose Rhaenyra. But that doesn’t mean—”

“What? That I’m not useless? That my father didn’t find me a disappointment up to the bitter end?” He turns away, and you can see his jaw clench, the shadow of stubble around his cheeks. “Are you close with your parents?”

You nod.

“Then you don't know. You never will, and there’s no use trying. Tell my mother you couldn't find me.”

No use. You tug on his arm, but he is determined to get to the door and manages to open it a crack before you push it closed, squeeze your body around him to act, irrationally, like a human shield between him and the exit. “Don’t go,” you plead. “I’ll tell her whatever you want, but don't go. Don’t go out there like this.”

You know exactly what he’ll do if he leaves the building: he may have given his vices a mostly wide berth when he first got the news of Viserys’s death, but now, raw with grief and anger and Alicent’s heavy expectations, he’s liable to find the closest bar and drink himself under the table and into oblivion. To call the dealers Aemond threatened six months ago if they ever sold to his brother again. To go off the deep end… for good this time.

Aegon frowns. “Why do you even care what happens to me?”

“Because.”

The word hangs in the air, inadequate. If you tried to explain the feeling, he might call it pity, and perhaps that's what it is: three years' worth of annoyance, resentment, frustration, concern, three years of watching him walk into the office with black eyes or reeking of booze from his latest bender, of watching him and his—admittedly—disgusting friends squandering their fortunes on women, drugs, and self-indulgent purchases. As a man, Aegon has proven himself to be crass, irresponsible, petulant, entitled, completely unreliable. But you have also, on certain rare occasions, seen the set of his face when he thinks no one else is watching.

The fear. The exhaustion. The way his hands shake beneath glass tables. The desire to please, and the ignorance as to how.

The truth is, when he’s not being an absolute tosser, you do see him as something fragile, to be pitied. If you said that out loud, he would hate you and probably fire you on the spot. And it might be for the best, you think. What do I want with this insanity?

But standing there between him and the door, his gaze boring into yours, the faint smell of alcohol, cigarettes, and coffee on his breath, you know that you do care what becomes of him. Even if he fired you—even if Alicent fired you—even if you quit—you would still dread the coming of a day when you would pick up your phone and find a news alert: Aegon II Targaryen, Son of Viserys, Dead at 25 or 26 or 30. It’s as if, in this moment, having been forced to look at him—to really look at him, not just as an unwilling charge, a fully grown man-child you’re forced to contend with every day to make your living—you can see his life unfurling, past, present, and future… ignominious, burdened, without purpose.

How can he stand it? A mere glimpse of it leaves you breathless. Exhausted from a night of fraught nerves and virtually no sleep, you feel your heart kick in your chest like a frenzied horse. How can he stand it? How can any of them? Who would want to be a Targaryen?

“Hey, hey, what's wrong? What’s wrong?” Aegon asks more insistently. He puts his hands on your elbows, lowers you to sit—for lack of a better alternative—in front of the door when your knees weaken and your body sags. “Hey, listen to me, you’re alright, you’ve just got to breathe… Breathe…”

Frantically, you shake your head. I can’t.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot. If you couldn't breathe, you’d be passed out right now. In and out… look at me…” He takes a breath. “In… out…”

It takes a few minutes, but the feeling subsides, leaving you trembly and more than a little embarrassed.

“What in gods’ name is wrong with you?” Aegon asks, stroking his hands up and down your arms.

“Long day?”

He rolls his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be stupid, I give people panic attacks all the time.”

You let out a watery laugh.

Aegon shakes his head at you. “I won’t let her fire you, if that's what you're so worked up about.”

“That’s not…”

“You’re not my keeper. She should never have called you in the first place. This isn't your mess to clean up, you’re meant to take messages and go on coffee runs and… keep track of paperclips—”

“Stop trying to make me laugh.”

“Why? It’s been your cheap ploy all night. That, and fussing like a mother hen.”

You sigh. This isn't at all how the night was supposed to go. You were meant to be the helpful one, the adult, the one one in control, the one who could be relied upon. But you're not in control. Not of yourself, certainly not of Aegon. If anything, he’s the one sitting next to you on the floor acting sanely, not having a secondhand existential crisis like a world-class fool. (Aegon, to his credit, had the good sense to lose his shit in the privacy of a sept, without any witnesses.)

“Listen,” you begin, “what I said before…”

“Forget it.”

You don't want to forget it. You want to tell him “You tricked me into saying something I didn't want to say”, something you can't take back, something which, while technically not a lie, obscures a more important truth—what that truth is feels too broad and frightening and, worst of all, pointless, for words. And yet you want him to know. Too many people have failed to bother. The last thing you want is to be added to that list.

“I meant what I said… about Rhaenyra. But for the record, and for whatever minuscule thing it might be worth, I wish that I didn't.… I really, really fucking wish that I didn't.” His hand on your face takes you by surprise, his fingers sweeping against your right cheek.

“What are these for?” He blots your tears away, ones you didn't know you had shed. His voice is hushed and disapproving. Without thinking about it, not even once, you pull him towards you by the back of the neck and crash his mouth into yours. Clumsy and graceless, it is less a kiss than a desperate exchange of air.

Stupid, stupid… Something at the back of your head is conscious enough to ring the alarm, but it is Aegon and not warning bells that is most immediate, solid and real and here. The heat of his mouth. The sound of his breathing. The staggering hesitation of his tongue when it brushes against yours.

Immediately, as if barraged by warning bells of his own, he pushes you away. “I don’t want your fucking charity.” His words are snarled, dangerous. He is a wounded animal and you should let him be. But you can’t. The seeing—you wish you didn’t know him so well, not now, on this night and in this moment. You wish you could shove your knowledge into a box of indifference and leave him to his fate, to face his mother, his brother, and his half-sister, his father’s ghost alone, but you can’t. A fierce possessiveness buzzes through your veins alongside the shock and stress and fear.

You feel tied to him somehow.

Perhaps it's naive to want to save him. The Targaryens are a dying breed, a glorious capstone creature just before its inevitable extinction. Rhaenyra will never go quietly—in the end, they will eat each other alive, if not this morning, then some other day, and a different house will rise in their place. They always do.

There will be other billionaires, other jobs, other men.

But at present, the most important thing to you, more important than your job or your reputation or your morals or basic common sense, is to make Aegon Targaryen believe you… to throw him a rope and feel him take it. And you know—because by now you think you’ve learned the major ins-and-outs of him, the dark passageways, narrow roads, the winding alleys no one dares to travail—that the only way to do that is to hurt him. “You are… an idiot,” you hear yourself say.

His face freezes, only his eyes giving the injury away.

“You’re right, maybe no one at the company except for your own mother wants you at the helm. You’re late to everything. You don’t give a fuck about anything of any weight. You’re a fucking embarrassment around waiters, and half the time a complete dick to Aemond… although, granted, he’s a complete dick to you as well and has a stick up his arse that'll probably never come out without surgical intervention. Your friends are clowns—I mean it, fucking nincompoops with shit for brains. You are borderline actually an alcoholic, and sometimes it feels like you haven't bothered yourself to open a book in the whole of your existence. You have everything, stuff people would kill for, and you appreciate none of it. But I get it… You think I can’t ever hope to understand because I love my sister and my parents call me every week and send me nameday cars, but I do. I’d be like that too, maybe, if I had Viserys for a father. Maybe you’re right… maybe the company is cursed and the best thing you could do for yourself right now is take the next flight out to Lys or Dorne or literally anywhere on the fucking planet and forget about it—forget about your name, your family, the company, all of it. I can take you,” you say. “My car is downstairs, I can drive you to the airport, I can make up a story and throw your mother off the scent if you really want me to. But I also think you’re tired of being this person… You’re a shitty liar, Aegon Targaryen. Maybe the top seat isn't for you, but you're looking for an excuse to stop being the guy who lands on trending pages for being an eternal fool. CEO won’t do that for you… your mother can’t do that for you… gods know that getting high off whatever backstreet shite Reyne and Estermont procure definitely won’t do that for you…”

“Let me guess,” he quips, “only you can.”

“Ha! No, that’s—this is—that is not what this is. What, are you crazy? I’m not your shrink, and anyway, it's not like I’m being paid a small fortune every week to exorcize whatever the hell’s wrong with you and your privileged-yet-unbelievably-fucked-up family. All I’m saying is… work your shit out, Targaryen. Fucking communicate! Don’t let your father, of all people, have the last word on who you want to be, especially if you feel like he did fuck-all to deserve it!”

“Are you finished?”

“Done. That’s my two-cents. So you can stop your whingeing about pity and charity and all of that nonsense. Only one of us has their bed in the same room as their dining table, and only one of us was pulled out of sleep by your terrifying mother who whacked me over the head with an NDA before I was even fully conscious.”

“That sounds like her.”

“She hasn’t even told Rhaenyra that your father is dead.”

“…that sounds like my grandfather.”

You sigh. “I didn’t kiss you out of charity, you numpty. I—I just wanted to. I just really wanted to… I still do.”

“I’m no good for you.”

“Probably not.”

“You’ll end up hating me… you’ll quit.”

You let out a mock gasp. “No one to guard your paperclips? How will you cope?”

“I don’t know,” he says, dead serious. “Not anymore.”

There is no humor in the set of his face. He is all grim, all self-despisal, all—could you be imagining it?—thwarted longing. You are beyond the facetiousness he uses as a shield. He wants you. You can see it in his eyes, in the labor of his breathing, in the way he leans ever so slightly towards you and then leans back. I’m no good for you. You’ve decided you don’t care.

“Aegon, kiss me,” you whisper into the dark.

He’s on you before you’ve finished, kissing you desperately, with tongue this time, the slow wet drag pulling a moan from you which you have neither the time nor the presence of mind to regret before he’s kissing down your jaw, your neck. You feel his teeth scrape against the soft hollow behind your ear and you climb into his lap, ungainly, perhaps, but it matters not when you settle to find him hardening beneath you.

He groans into your shoulder, hooks his thumb inside the open collar of your button-up top to part the material and suck at your clavicle, while his other hand, on your hip, guides you to rub against the seam of his trousers. It occurs to you that he must not realize the way he’s writhing beneath you; if anything, he seems only half-aware as he rambles, underneath his breath, “Need you… gods, I need you…”, before ravaging your tongue again.

Impatiently you undo your shirt buttons. Aegon’s hand moves over your breast, first over your bra, then directly over your naked flesh when you fling it aside, along with your top, to land who-know-where. Your nipples pebble underneath his thumbs. You roll your hips. The placket of his trousers catches you directly and you groan, arching your back, bearing down on him so that a breathy, rumbling laugh escapes his throat.

Aegon’s laugh feels better than his tongue in your mouth, than his hands on your breasts, than the ridge of him growing long and hard beneath you. Oh no… you shouldn't like to hear him laugh.

“Should we get off the hallway floor, d’you think?” Only you can hear the nerves behind his humorous inflection, the wobble in his voice that tells you a part of him is expecting this to be the end, the moment you give in to regret or common sense and send him on his way, push him out the door and never speak to him again. He avoids your gaze, trains his eyes somewhere around the vicinity of your collarbones and he looks, in the faint light coming through your half-parted curtains, like a little boy bracing for the worst.

You pull his head up to your level, kiss him slow and deep, rock your hips, relish in the tightening of his hand around your waist. “Yes,” you say into his open mouth. You feel him relax, feel the exhale of relief that moves from his body into yours before he kisses you with renewed vigor.

He anchors his hands on your lower back, then throws you off balance, lowering your body onto the chilly tiles and laving down your neck to the valley between your breasts, slotting his knee against you—by chance, you think at first. Then his movements become deliberate, impossible to deny. His hands are all over you, running up your sides, pressing along the dip and rise of your hipbones. Your heart pounds beneath his lips. “This isn’t how we get off the hallway floor,” you protest.

“But your bed is so far away!”

“Not so long ago, you were calling my flat tiny,” you remind him, with no little store of resentfulness.

He grins—“I guess it’s all a matter of perspective”—and lets you turn away so you can press your palms against the floor and push yourself into a standing position.

Aegon stays on the floor, splayed, smiling up at you until you offer him a hand. He lets you lead him to bed, where your sheets are rumpled, the duvet fallen on the floor. Neither of you cares enough to notice. After laying you down, he takes the time to unbutton your slacks, take off your shoes, slip your trousers down your legs, pausing only to drop a kiss at the curve of your ankle, the side of your knee, the inner portion of your thighs. When the mattress dips beneath you, you know that he is kneeling at the foot of the bed. You feel two of his fingers going down your slit, over the gusset. Your breath comes in shallow pants. You aren’t ready, but there’s enough for it to dampen the tips of his fingers and make them slide through.

Your mouth parts, hungry, expectant. For a moment, your eyes lock, and you have enough wherewithal to freak out about the fact that he—Aegon, your boss, Alicent Hightower’s son—is looking at you with a fuck-me gaze and that you, despite all common sense, are pressing your clothed cunt against his hand and whimpering—actually whimpering—for him to touch you.

Between you the tension stretches, and then breaks. Aegon dips his head and puts his mouth on you, the heat of his tongue following the same path as his fingers. It glides and it flicks and it tastes you hard enough to make you throw your head back against a pillow, but it doesn’t make contact with your heated skin. You buck your hips against his face, pull at his hair, and he lets out a moan which, if you aren’t mistaken, is laced with a deep, buoyant laugh. He’s enjoying this… The thought makes your muscles clench and pulls a long, fluttery gasp from you. And then, only then, does he bare you fully.

The night air and his warm breath hit you in a way that has you squirming, halfway up the finish line before you feel his lips close around your swollen peak, suckling and laving, gathering your considerable moisture on his tongue only to spit it back out onto your naked cunt.

His fingers move through the mess, gently probing, rubbing circles against you one minute before he turns his wrist and enters you. You moan, feeling two of his fingers stretching you out. In truth, you can’t remember the last time you were fucked, probably around the same time you started working for the Targaryens, and now that the floodgates have opened you don’t know what to do, how to behave. As his fingers work you and he nuzzles his face against the top of your mound, his stubbled cheek rubs against your clit in a way that makes your breath catch and your toes curl, and all you can think is more—not just his cock inside you, but more… more of him… You want him to have you any way he wants.

You clamp your eyes shut and try not to think about the implications of that.

His fingers make an audible sound when they move inside you now. Between squelching and moans and the rumbling in his throat, the room beginning to acquire the heady smell of sex, you’re getting close, so close, to coming undone on his mouth. “Just a little more,” he hear him say to himself, “just a little more…” He brushes against something that makes your eyes roll, your neck tense, your legs spasm around his shoulders. You clutch the sheets and feel the silence that overtakes your body as the knot of pleasure breaks and you hang—back arched, tense—suspended over something that snaps and leaves you boneless, powerless, at his mercy when he withdraws to throw off his clothes and kiss his way up your chest, slipping his tongue in your mouth and notching his hips against yours.

You feel him hard against your tender core. He slides against you, deliberate, slow. You whimper and try to squirm away from him, but he nuzzles the side of your face and strokes your hair, makes calming sounds like the ones he would make for a nervy horse. He doesn’t rush things. Only holds you and touches you where you’ll allow, only occasionally bucking his length against your inner thigh. Slowly, the sensitivity subsides and you kiss him in earnest, restless and eager, moving your hand down to hold him, first loosely and then as tightly as he seems to like. His lips part. His breaths are ragged as he moves over you and thrusts his cock into your hand, the head damp, the length of him pulsing hotly in your palm. You think about stopping, pushing him onto his back, swallowing him down as far as he’ll go. But he stops you.

“Tell me this isn’t just because my father died.”

“It’s not,” you say, your hand going still.

“Swear it.”

Your first thought is What a ridiculous thing to say, but it isn’t ridiculous, not to Aegon. So much of his life has been defined by his father, by what Viserys did or failed to do, and if he won’t have the old ghost here, in the bedroom with you, well, it’s not such an unreasonable thing to ask.

“I swear it,” you say, holding one half of his face and staring levelly into his eyes.

He nods. “I think you might be the only person in the world who doesn’t think that I’m a fucking joke.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Aegon, can we stop bloody talking about your father? Fuck him! He didn’t know you.” Not like I do, is what you want to say, but too soon, too soon. You kiss him to stop the words from falling out. “I want you… I want you. Is that really so hard to believe?” You take his hand and let it delve between your slit again, to feel how wet you are, how ready. To feel the needy moan you push into his mouth… the way you angle your hips until his tip is nestled, just so, at your entrance. “Do you want me to swear upon the Seven?” you ask him, tightening your walls so he can feel you squeezing around his leaking cockhead, inviting him in. “I’ll do it if you want me to… Mother, Father, Maiden, Smith—”

Aegon puts his hand over your mouth. “Shut up or you’ll remind me of my mother.”

You begin to laugh, a bubbling, ecstatic thing which he knocks right out of you when he pushes in to the hilt. You gasp, only vaguely aware that you never asked him to wear a condom, but he feels so good, too good to stop now. He hitches one of your legs and snaps his cock into you, increasing the pace. You moan at the length of him, the breadth of him, the way his fingers dig into your flesh, the sound of his stones hitting the back of your thighs, rhythmically, over and over again.

His eyes are shut, his teeth clenched, you feel him trembling above you, torn between taking and delaying his own relief. Always something to prove. Annoyingly, he is dampening the moans in his throat just as you want to hear him—gods forbid you think less of him. “Aegon… it’s okay,” you speak into the curve of his neck. You kiss his shoulders, tighten your thighs around his hips, bear up on his length.

From his lips pours a sound of mingled pleasure and distress. He is trying so hard not to finish, but can no longer keep up with the measured thrusts he first started with. His pace falters, he grinds against you, fucks you deep into the mattress in a way that, had he lasted longer, might have drawn from you another peak. But it doesn't matter. You feel his body start to shudder and you want it, want him to cum, want him to come undone, want him to cum inside you—what are you thinking?—want him to feel good, want him to feel so good… Not even with a gun to your head can you later recall everything you said to him in those crucial seconds before he spilled inside you with a deep, audible groan.

You remain that way for an unmeasured length of time, arms wrapped around each other, sweat cooling, breath coming slowly back to baseline. Then, with a kiss to your cheek that is sweet and almost chaste, he parts from you. You wince at the loss, the mess pooling between your thighs, and for a moment you fear that this is it—Aegon will walk out the door like he’s done to so many others. Goodbye. Thanks for the good time. Instead, he rests his head on your shoulder, tentative, an uneasy dog craving affection but not wanting to get in the way. You kiss the top of his head, let him doze. Even when he shifts away from you to lie on his stomach and bury his face in a pillow, he keeps his arm thrown across your middle.

The gesture is oddly moving. You think about it until you wake, just a little after 7:00 and see that the sun is newly risen in the sky. For a few minutes you match your inhales to Aegon’s, his exhales, the brief pauses in between. You’ve never felt closer to him than now, and with that comes a feeling like he’s yours somehow. Yours…

He wakes on his own, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He turns his head to squint against the daylight, and though you’re trying to be chill and sophisticated about it, you hold your breath and wonder what his reaction to you will be.

“Seven hells,” he curses, burrowing face-first into his pillow. “Did we only sleep for two hours?” We. The little word calms you, even as he drags his body to sit at the edge of the bed.

Without overthinking it, you wrap your arms around his chest and kiss the side of his neck. He sighs, caresses your arms and holds loosely to your wrists. Soft as you can, you ask, “What’ll you do?”, and press your cheek against his thin, pale shoulder.

“I’m going to see my mother. I’ve kept her waiting, and I can’t just hide from her like some pathetic—” You squeeze him and he breaks off. “I need to speak with her. After that…”

“Whatever comes after that comes after that.”

“Wow… you’re a regular portrait of wisdom.”

“Hey! You came here, remember!”

“That, I certainly did.” From the smirk you see spreading across his face, you can tell he isn’t referring to the simple act of having walked to your flat.

Your face heats. “Idiot.” You say it without bite and it comes out fonder than you meant it to. He smiles. “Do you want me to take you?”

“I can manage.”

“I know… but you don't have to.”

“Fine.” The word is vulnerable. Immediately he has to clear his throat, stand, and begin to dress. You do the same.

You should really have considered having a shower, especially after the long night and the hasty sex (the sex… a part of you still can't believe it happened except for the dull ache between your thighs and the way you keep stealing glances at Aegon, remembering his hands on you, clinging, seeking, sorrowful) but there is no time. The markets open at 9:00. Alicent will want to speak with him before then, draft a last-minute press release, calm the shareholders, the board. As it is, you and Aegon are walking a thin line. You settle for picking a clean black dress out of your closet, and are in the process of trying to fix your hair when you feel him coming up behind you, his hands gentle on your back as he zips you up.

The gesture is so simple, so earnest, that it breaks down every pretense and you have to admit to yourself that, even if you’d had the time, you don’t want to wash him off or have this quiet moment you’ve shared come to an end.

In the car, he sits with his head propped against the passenger window, deep in thought, fiddling with his hands, and especially with the signet ring that depicts his family crest.

Try as you might, you can't read his thoughts and you don't want to pressure him by asking what he plans to do. He could very well be on his way to starting a war between his family, or he could end it—walk away, probably earning the resentment of Aemond and his mother. Either way, there isn't a right choice to be made, only one he thinks he can live with.

Once out of the car, he takes your hand and doesn't let it go, not in the lift up to the lobby, not when you swipe your keycard for the executive floor and the doors open to a hushed, semi-lit chaos. He doesn’t speak. He keeps his head bowed, wary, observant, but he is calmer somehow—you can tell that he’s decided.

Together, you walk around a small handful of department heads speaking into phones. Their assistants cross the floor, exchanging fretful looks while clutching file folders, tablets, cups of coffee. Along the far wall, glass-encased offices are mostly empty except for Conference Room 1, where Alicent Hightower stands at the head of a table at which are seated her father and the head legal counsel, the company’s financial officer, a few of their allies on the board. Aemond, too, is there, immaculate even at a distance. He is the first to spot them; his lips purse, even as his one visible eye remains defiant.

“See you on the other side?” Aegon asks, finally letting go of your hand. You tug his fingers before he can pull the conference room door and he turns to you, waiting, watching you rack your brain for the right thing to say. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right” and its many variations seem like the veriest wrong, platitudes, lies.

“You can handle it,” you tell him at last, “whatever it is.”

Aegon appears doubtful at first, then he exhales. His face settles, his shoulders square. He has a look about him you've never seen before… Perhaps he and Aemond have more in common than either of them think. Perhaps he is more like his mother than he believes.

He strides through the door and everyone turns to look at him, the heir apparent or the prodigal son. You leave him to it, thinking, To war, then, or whatever it may be.

[crucialplayer]

Thoughts on Mars placements 

!! everything is based purely on my experiences with signs, written with no other purpose than to share my observations and be unserious.

Aries mars. Practical jokes lovers, gentle touch haters. Hit u while laughing. Love the banter, sometimes a lil too much. Go for it (whatever it is) fiercely and without a single backthought. Explosive in conflict, but in a sense of crying screaming throwing up banging against the wall. 

Taurus mars. Life could be on Mars but they still be going on and on about that one thing. Sudden outbursts of anger. It might seem out of the blue but they’ve probably been brooding some hurt for a long time. They just hoped it’d go away… naturally. Also surprisingly horny. 

Gemini mars. Mind fuckers. That one guy defending polygamy «as a concept» rather too enthusiastically. Can talk their way out of hell with one leg already in the hottest boiling cauldron. I suppose it’s a placement most people will find charming at some point (says a lot about society…). 

Cancer mars. Rumors are true, the sky is blue, and they are manipulative. Watching anybody else display vulnerability is the same as watching a children’s play to them. Ur rawest and most disturbing moment? To a cancer mars its a chill Tuesday morning. Humanization of a silent treatment. 

Leo mars. You’d gather that its serious by the sheer scale of their reaction but I promise its not. 9 times out of 10 will cause a huge scene and won't be able to remember it 2 days after. Very defensive. Won't put themselves out there if they’re not guaranteed a 10-minute standing ovation. 

Virgo mars. They believe that they make sense but usually they don't. They’re calculating but it’s like they do it backwards resulting in some of the most unhinged decisions made. Want to be praised for… um… existing as they are. Kind of a menace in conflict. 

Libra mars. If u think it's hard for you to wait for them to make up their mind imagine how they feel. It’s similar to watching a plant move without a time-lapse. Cry when they’re angry. Go with the flow not because they’re chill but more cause it's easier for them. 

Scorpio mars. They ARE vengeance and I'm scared. Slash 3 tires after one fight mars. Not the person you’d try to make jokingly jealous. For further information read the lyrics to… really any Taylor Swift song. 

Sagittarius mars. Don't think before they do and think after they’ve done smth only if u make them. The kind of people that will try everything once just to know how it feels (and then present that to everyone as if they’ve found god by bungee jumping one time). Very easy to dare. Also are always checking someone out. 

Capricorn mars. Blood is cold, the heart is beating twice per minute. ISN’T IT lonely on top of the world fellas??? If u get them to like u your love language better not be words of affirmation. Instead of arguing chances are high they disappear for a while or just go into a rock regime. 

Aquarius mars. Are only attracted to intellectuals so naturally in a room full of sweet gentle people will go for the most narcissistic motherfucker out there. They’re sorta very patient but I feel maybe it's just them dissociating… Ponder a lot before making a move. 

Pisces mars. I'm afraid no one knows whats going on there. It's like they’re never actually present. Therefore often times can have a delayed reaction to smth, which people might read as passive aggression. Very sentimental, will write u a song or a poem on a second date. Also low LOW energy. 

[seichv]

❛ WITH YOUR MOUTH.❜

clean up after yourself when you make a mess. 2.3k words.

contents: nsfw content (mdni), f!reader, daddy kink (mentioned like once), oral (both receiving), p in v, creampie, squirting, toji calls you: brat, sweetheart, slut, baby, etc.

note: i have risen from the dead friends ;D seriously though, its been a while since ive written... life's been wild of late and i was lacking motivation but im back on my zoom now hehe (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

you might have fucked up.

down spills the coffee that you chucked at toji, the brawny man standing motionless with a look of amusement as the hot liquid poured down his body, the sound of the cup tumbling onto the ground echoing in the kitchen. what exactly led to that? you may ask. quite frankly, you don’t even remember. it was likely another one of those days where you had a stick up your ass just because; with your bratty attitude leading you to get all pissy about every little thing.

and here you are, your pupils dilating as you freeze in place while watching toji’s expression. it remains indifferent for the most part, as you would expect from someone like him. that’s until his eyes trail back up to meet your face, and there’s something about his gaze that just shifts in a way. you’re gulping, your body stiffening in alarm. there’s a faint chuckle that escapes his lips before he speaks up with that gravelly voice of his. 

“c’mere.” he tells you. you know better than to disregard him, so you start stepping closer to him. though just because you’re listening to him doesn't mean you’ll do away with the bitter expression you got going on, as it's still very prominently plastered onto your face. and these steps youre taking, they’re slow as fuck. you’re definitely mistaken if you think that he’s got the patience for that shit right now.

because of that, in a blink of an eye you’ve got your throat seized by one of his meaty hands, yanking you closer and forcing you to maintain eye contact. his figure looms over yours, and you can almost see some veins seeping through his neck. “you just had to pull that shit on me, huh?” you could practically just say that he’s spitting venom with the way he's speaking. you narrowed your eyes, sucking in a sharp breath before speaking. “well, had you not been a total jackass—” 

“yeah?” toji cuts you off, his face lowering some more as his head tilts to the side, giving your throat a little squeeze. you've got some real nerve with the back-talk, and he really isn't in the mood for tolerating that shit anymore. he looks down at his drenched, coffee-stained shirt, his tongue poking out to lick the scar at the corner of his mouth before he lets out a deep, exasperated sigh.

“clean up the motherfucking mess you made,” he says. now, that would initially give you the thought of wiping the ground with a towel or mop, and maybe doing him the favor of throwing his shirt in the laundry, right? 

“with your mouth.”

… wait, what?

your eyes go wide, and you're glaring up at the man like he’s got 10 heads. he doesn't look like he's joking, really. and that’s because he’s not. it takes you a hot minute before you could get words out of your mouth. “... huh? the fuck is wrong with you? clean the damn floor with my mouth?! what’s that supposed to mean, you gross bastard—”

“to hell with the fucking floor.” he interrupts. “i didn’t say nothin’ bout the floor, dumb brat.” toji adds, his fingers trailing up toward your jaw, taking your face in his hand as he turned it side to side as he spoke, as if he were trying to get your attention. i mean, there's only one other mess other than the one on the floor. the mess on him. before you could open your mouth to muster up a response, toji speaks again. “tch, yeah. keep staring at me like a dumb little girl,” your body temperature begins to soar with his words. “take off my shirt.”

you honestly cannot believe this man. you blink rapidly with furrowed eyebrows, stuttering like a broken record. “toji, what are you even going on about right now—” 

“nah, sweetheart. don’t give me that crap.” what is this, the 1000th fucking time this man has interrupted you? goddamnit. “take. off. the. shirt.” toji repeats himself, putting emphasis on each word like he’s talking to a complete moron. you started chuckling to yourself in disbelief, shaking your head with a look on your face that read, ‘he’s got to be kidding.’

“yeah, no. toji, give me a fucking break.” you responded, snickering between your words, and ooh toji was just itching to bend you over the damn counter and fuck you till you’re screaming… to get those vocal cords to rupture. there will never be a single day where he’d hesitate to get you to straighten the fuck up.

before you know it, both of toji’s hands grab your wrists, almost painfully. he then starts walking, backing you up to the kitchen counter. once he’s got you pushed up against it, he pulls your hands onto his abdomen, staring dangerously into your eyes.

though you wouldn't want to admit it, you can’t help but feel a growing ache between your legs at the feeling of those shredded abs of his. his body is something different. toji’s eyes flicker up and down from your hands and back to your eyes, a smug grin laying across his face at how small your hands are on his big, muscular body. you take your bottom lip between your teeth, your tough and bratty facade slowly diminishing as you leisurely began lifting toji’s shirt, a satisfied hum escaping his lips at your compliance; though it took rather longer than he wanted.

you now have got quite the nice look at his abs, and there goes the throbbing sensation again in your cunt. fuck… he’s hot. “yeahh, now you got that mouth shut, huh? drooling and gawking over my body. hah, go on then.” toji boasts, his teeth showing through that damn smirk. you’re unable to hold it in any longer, your hands dragging toji’s shirt up as he pulls his head out, letting the fabric drop to the ground with your stomach churning at the sight of his bare upper body. you quickly kneeled, your composure flying right out the window. 

your mouth latches onto his lower stomach, your tongue roaming along his skin. if your eyes peered a bit lower, you’d be able to get a peek at the growing bulge in toji’s sweats. you can hear slightly muted curses coming from under his breath, and you were being sloppy with it, your lashes batting as you looked up at him. your tongue started traveling upward, just barely reaching his chest until a grunt-like huff is let out from toji.

he now pulls you off by the hair, coaxing a small gasp for your lips. “fuck .. you’re putting that slutty mouth on my cock now.” he mutters, reaching for his pants before you take care of them for him, eagerly dragging them down along with his boxers, his girthy length springing right out.

without another second to waste, your tongue lolls out, one of your hands wrapped around the base of his dick while you slapped the tip on your wet muscle, drawing a throaty grunt from him. he loved it when you put on a show for him like that. you then take him all the way in, a nasty moan slipping from your throat at the way his big cock had given you a whole mouthful. saliva drips down from your lips, and you begin bobbing your head up and down, the lewd noises blaring in your ears. 

“shiiit… look at you. fuckin’ pacified by this dick, huh?” his voice is gruff yet slightly shaky, and god… you’re obsessed with hearing his noises, how you make him feel. “one minute she’s yappin’ like a bitchy little brat, next minute she’s mmf— taking this dick down her throat like a dirty slut... tch.” his words had your pussy leaking, you can feel your panties beginning to soak. your eyebrows curled inward as you kept your eyes on him, tears threatening to prickle at the corners of your eyes from how full he was stuffing your mouth, hitting your uvula.

in the middle of sucking him off, you pulled up your shirt with one hand, just enough for your tits to show out. now both your hands begin to fondle with your tits as you continue to suck him off, and this draws a long ass moan from toji, watching you slobber on him with no hands had him fucked. you can see how his lower abdomen was caving in with each breath he took, and that's when he takes a hold of your jaw, pulling you off of him, your lips sliding off with a pop. you had him on the brink of cumming, and he didn't want to just yet. he needed your pretty pussy.

you lick your lips with a smile, standing up on your feet as toji hoists you up by the waist, propping you up onto the counter. he hauls your shorts down in an instant, a string of your slick following your panties and toji sneers at the sight. “pretty pussy’s all wet f’me, hm?” you nod eagerly, and he slides a thumb down your clit, causing your hips to jerk, which has him chuckling to himself yet again. “mhmm… relax yourself, needy girl.” 

toji hikes your legs up, your hands hooking beneath your knees so you could hold them up for him. he gets between your legs, blowing on your clit and prompting you to clench around nothing. “tojiii…” you drag his name out in a whine, before toji kisses on your pussy.

“didn’t i tell you to relax? don’t fuckin’ ‘tojiii~’ me.” he mocks, finally diving in to your heat, his tongue delving right between your folds. your head immediately falls back, your lips parting open while lewd little mewls flee from your lips. he’s a messy eater, a mixture of your arousal and his saliva smearing all over your pussy lips and drizzling down his chin. it’s slurp after slurp, your body twitching with no stop, your eyes rolled back to your skull with your toes curling. “ohh, fuuck… toji–!” you croak out, your thighs shaking as you start to fail to hold your legs up, his mouth had you stupid already. as he notices this, he holds them for you with force, but throws him over his shoulders.

 because now he's standing again, spitting on your cunt one last time before he does so. “keep those eyes on me when i fuck this pussy, you hear me?” toji says, and you quickly nod in abidance. 

he’s so fucking girthy, his thick length stretching you like elastic. his veined hands grasp at your waist, his hips starting to snap into yours at a steady pace. he’s reaching deep, hitting all the right spots inside you that triggered the sluttiest moans from you, your back arching as your walls clamp down on him. “only now you wanna get your shit together, hmm? only when i stuff you full of this dick?” he grunts, the sounds of your skin slapping blasting all throughout the place. “mngh–! y-yeah… feels so g-good…!” you blabber, the tears you had poking through your eyes were now starting to blur your vision. his cock was just made to fuck you, he felt so damn good.

“h-hah… that’s what i thought.” he grumbles, the pace of his thrusts immediately escalating. now the next thing he does drives you fucking mad. he grabs your arms, pulling them up so that they’re around your neck. he then snakes his hands beneath your legs and now has them over his forearms, letting your feet dangle. he’s got you off the counter, and starts fucking you standing, picked up in his arms. a squeal breaks loose from your mouth, your arms clinging around his neck for dear life. “oh m’god, yes–! ‘m cumming, d-daddy!” you cry out, your body going limp like a ragdoll, like a toy just for toji to fuck relentlessly. 

you can feel that coil in your lower stomach that's just mere seconds away from snapping. and he does this thing when he’s close, his jaw clenches and you can see how the veins in his neck contract. that gives you the sign to clench around him even harder, a loud groan breaking out his throat.

“fuckin’ milking my shit when you s-squeeze me like that… holy fuckkk, baby—” toji’s breathing is uneven, coming out in raspy huffs. and it's only a matter of time before you let out your final moan, a real salacious one at that. you shook violently, gasping for air as you squirted all over him, your orgasm hitting you like a damn bus.

toji���s jaw goes slack, his head falling back as he chases his own high, still ramming into you despite you being fucking gone. tears start to spill from your eyes from the overstimulation, your eyes barely even able to stay open properly. 

his load finally spills into your cunt, coming in thick, hot spurts. he twitches inside you, before placing you back down onto the counter and pulling out slowly, his cum oozing from your hole. he steps forward and cups your face, pressing a kiss on your nose before letting his forehead rest atop yours. “you alright, pretty?” he murmurs, and you look up into his eyes, nodding slowly with a soft smile. he grins, wiping the tears that stained your supple cheeks with his thumb.

“you did real good f’me, baby.” he murmurs, his words going straight to your core, fluttering in your stomach. he then catches your eyes wandering away, staying on the ground. he then turns to look as well, and his eyes fall upon the absolute mess made of the floor. it was the coffee you had threw at him, now mixed with your squirt. oh, fucking hell.

“... well, good luck with that, sweetheart.” toji says, laughing to himself as you land a smack to his arm.

“oh, fuck you toji!”

[fanofthelamb]

I need more of ur narilamb developments IMMEDIATELY that shit is AMAZING I love a Narinder who can out-crazy the lamb.

(is anyone going to inform lamb that u don't need to marry someone to torment them or-)

ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE. more narilamb shit under da cut <333 (aka MORE DOODLES!!!)

nari's crush on the lamb started at their first meeting. there was just something that hit a TINY bit different about the lamb. he won't admit it but even now thinking about how the lamb was back when he was in chains makes his heart skip a beat. ruthless, violent, full of pure hatred... its just kinda sexy, isnt it? (that's only you, narinder.)

the lamb absolutely HATES all of narinders hobbies, too. especially his plays. they think its beyond pathetic that he would want to prance around on stage in silly costumes and play pretend with others. that was not a hobby fit for the ex-god of death, why couldn't he just do something better like making shit with bones or drawing with ashes?! something edgy like that....

..... which is why it was so shocking to him that the lamb is his #1 supporter. they helped him find a play to host the plays, assigned people to specifically work on costumes and props for him, crusade like it's going out of style to make sure he has more than enough materials. it doesn't make any sense to him, but he appreciates the help! (they are madly in love with him and even though they don't like his hobbies they will be DAMNED if he can't enjoy them.)

of course, making sure narinder is cared for isn't the end of the lamb loving narinder. they also have been snuggling and petting and loving on him randomly too. (and testing out his statue abilities) mostly when they THINK he's asleep, but once in a full moon they might come give him a smooch when he's up and moving.

narinder doesn't get much luck returning the favor though. most of it ends with the lamb beating the hell out of him. (out of love <3) not that narinder can't take it, and even if he can't, isnt that what resurrection rituals are for?

even while in chains, i can't say who out-crazied who. the lamb has also done some pretty fucking vile shit because of their own little crush. both of these motherfuckers are absolutely NOT ok and they make it each others problem. narinder HAS cooled down a decent bit now that he has hobbies to focus on besides of thinking about the lamb and revenge all day. the lamb no longer has a goal to think about and just tries to focus on running the cult now.

... anyway!! more narilamb nonsense. i hope it fed you well? ^^"

[maokomi]

⠀「 “Dress slutty babe, I can fight,” but can they really? *ೃ༄ 」 

ᥫ᭡ Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

.ೃ࿔*:･「𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬.」 modern au, gn reader, established relationship crack ?? This shit aint serious so don’t treat it like it is lmfao

.ೃ࿔*:･「𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠.」 Xiao, Kazuha, Zhongli, Kaeya, Kaveh, Cyno

Wrote this drunk, no editing, no looking back at my regrets last night. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. 

⠀「 XIAO*ೃ༄ 」

YOU BET UR ASS THIS MAN CAN FIGHT

Tells u to dress slutty with his whole chest !!!

Wear whatever you want to feel good about yourself and to feel comfortable. That’s all that Xiao cares abt tbh. 

If he sees anyone leering at you in your hot outfit though? His munchkin ass is on them in a heartbeat.

Doesn’t matter who. Doesn’t matter how tall they are. He’ll bark up at them like a chihuahua. Scale them like a fuckin rabid cat or smthn.

Xiao said he can fight and he will !!!!!

⠀「 KAZUHA*ೃ༄ 」

Compliments you in your sluttiest outfit !! Hell, mans helps you pick it out!! 

CAN FIGHT Can !! Beat !! Ass !!

Except he chooses not to 😌 because he is a lover💞💕 not 🙅‍♂️🚫 a fighter ☮️🕊✌️😌

But he makes it very very very clear to anyone and everyone who so much glances in ur general direction that !! HELLO HE IS UR MAN

Holds ur hand. Keeps an arm around your middle. Plays with ur hair. The whole shebang baby

But if someone grows the gonads to actually approach you while Kazuha is so blatantly flirting with u right then and there ?? 

Kazuha doesn’t even have to get up.

He fucking ROASTS the motherfucker alive. All cool and suave. Keeps his voice level while he tells the newcomer all the reasons why their parents are disappointed in them.

Kazuha fucking cooks them bro I dont know what to tell u Rest In Peace to that dumbass I guess

⠀「 ZHONGLI*ೃ༄ 」

Bold of anyone to think they can steal u from a man who walks in with this much rizz 🤨

Zhongli wears a whole ass custom Valentino suit & shoes to go to a club no way in hell is anyone gonna try to chat u up baby doesn’t matter how slutty u dress

Esp when ?? Ur slutty outfit matches Zhongli’s fit ? Absolute power couple I rest my case

Sugar daddy Zhongli supremacy I said what I said

I restate my point: No one is gonna think they have a chance against Zhongli. They’re all scared they’ll get murked on their way home if they so much as try. 

Kinda soft but they fr dont even have a chance bc Zhongli just has to compliment u and u light up like an actual Christmas tree, you get so goddamn happy that anyone even trying to fight him is already fighting a losing battle.

⠀「 KAEYA*ೃ༄ 」

Baby, bold of u to assume that Kaeya’s not gonna be dressed sluttier than u 🤨

Hate to break it to you buttercup but Kaeya’s not gonna be the one royal rumbling tonight— nu uh, that’s you.

Have you seen the titty window this man rocks? 

Skip the accessories whenever you go out Kaeya, because you are going to beat some ass, and earrings and necklaces only get in the way 💕

It’s tiring having to keep everyone’s eyes off of ur boyfriend but it’s okay because whenever you go to the bar for a quick time out, Kaeya always has a kiss and a drink ready for u before u go back to fucking people up <3

⠀「 KAVEH*ೃ༄ 」

I love him but you’re on your own honey

Claims that he’ll kick ass— that you can wear whateverrr you want, that you look so hot, that you look amazing and that he’ll fight anyone who comes near u

Hypes you up and hollers and makes u feel like a million bucks because he’s a good, supportive bf

But in the midst of it all you forget he’s some broke ass architect who probably hasn’t taken a solid punch in his life

When someone approaches u he puffs up his chest and stands in front of u with his most intense bitch face, says smthn that he thinks tough guys says like, ‘you wanna fight? Let’s fight.’ Or some cheesy shit like that

The moment the other dude swings tho its over 💀 Kaveh yells and has to hide behind you 

It’s okay tho because he’s cute <3 (even if he’s broke)

Hope you didn’t wear anything breakable baby bc youre the one who’s gotta fight for urself

⠀「 CYNO*ೃ༄ 」

Doesn’t even have to fight bro.

Doesn’t matter how slutty you dress— you could walk into a bar with just the bare minimum on and no one would look your way.

Not because you’re unattractive, because that is far from the truth.

No— it’s because of Cyno’s arm wrapped around your shoulder and the absolute death stare he gives anyone who looks your way with even a hint of lechery in their gaze.

Crazy shit, I tell you. Motherfucker’s eyes look like he’ll pounce on anyone who so much as wolf whistles your way. No one wants to get fucked up by a dude who looks like he’ll go blue eyes white dragon on their ass.

[slamminslamminmcgill]

all im saying is ✨Logan with a knot✨ and Wade overstimulating you bc you cant get away -🦐

shrimp anon more like shrimp COLORS bro your vision is INSANE!!!!!!

soooo idk conventional a/b/o rules and i kinda don't care so im picturing a heat cycle as once a month endeavour. and bc you're on T you're a HORNY motherfucker and you're angry and violent so it's basically whoever can get their hands on you or knot in you first will take care of you. then as long as you get bred at least once you're fine. then you calm down and it's big aftercare hours bc your post-heat clarity endorphins are going CRAZY

now since your heat only comes once a month, wade treats it as a special occasion. and it wouldn't be fair of him to do the honors EVERY month, now would it?

so even though he's home with you, and logan's not, and won't be for a while, wade wilson will refuse to fuck you. it's not his turn. he did it last month.

and your heat is MISERABLE. imagine the worst period cramp you ever had, combined with hot flashes, searing rage, and it gives your cunt the sensitivity of a fucking bear trap. you'll clamp down on anything that touches you.

so no matter how much you suffer. no matter if you scream, cry, beg, grovel, bite, or commit acts of gratuitous violence against him.

he will hold out.

he will hold out until logan gets home and finds you naked, cuffed to the bed by your hands and ankles, a chewy ball-gag in your mouth getting crushed by your gritting teeth, and wade's holding a wand vibrator to your cunt.

he waves gayly at logan, "hey pinkie pie, merry christmas! wanna come open your gift?"

"jesus christ, are you fucking torturing him?! the hell is wrong with you?!"

"with ME?! where's your holiday spirit?"

logan just stares at him blankly, puzzled by what this psychotic dipshit could possibly be talking about. in response, and in the spirit of the season, wade sings him a song.

"🎼it's the mooost wonderful tiiiiime, of the mooonth~!🎵"

now he gets it.

"oh... okay. so then why did you tie him down like that?"

"well, we had a little INCIDENT earlier..."

--

you had managed to grab one of wade's guns and shot him in the chest

"OW!!! you RESOURCEFUL little shit!!! GRRR, oh~ mysweetboybabydarling i'msoproudofyou, butnoi'mnot, BAD BOY!!!"

--

"no, i mean why didn't you take care of him your-fucking-self, wilson? you really gotta make this my problem as soon as i walk in the fuckin' door?"

"your PROBLEM?! i hand you some prime-time, limited-edition, hot and bothered, ripe for the breeding, tranny boy BUSSY on a silver platter, and that's somehow NOT where your dick wants to spend its evening? am i hearing that right? please tell me i'm not. please tell me you're not this stupid, pookie bear."

instead of arguing back, logan goes quiet. he's thinking. and then, he laughs. that low, husky laugh that you have when you're marveling at the nerve of whatever dumb motherfucker is talking to you. or maybe, when that dumb motherfucker is making a point.

"heh... y'know what? fine." logan angrily strips his clothes off, one by one. his tanktop, "you want me to be the one to knot him? huh?" his belt, his jeans "can't do anything yourself, can ya?" and lastly, his boxers. then he grabs his cock and shakes it at wade.

"so then get me hard, you faggot." he clicks his tongue twice. "c'mon."

wade throws himself at logan's knees and gives him that gawkgawk4000turbotyphoon treatment to get him up. logan sighs in relaxation, grateful that wade was putting his mouth to such better use. once his eyes flutter open, he nods at you, finally giving you even a modicum of attention while you're under intense distress, and he merely waves at you nonchalantly, like how a pedestrian does to a car that lets him cross.

"hang tight, bub. be with ya in a second."

wade works him over until his knot is just barely starting to swell. he then takes his fattened cock and slaps wade across the face with it.

"take his chains off."

"hm... are you sure you want me to do that, princess? he's feisty, y'know. might get yourself bit, if you're not careful."

logan slaps wade again, but this time it's a bitchslap, using the back of his hand. and his claws.

"take. his fucking. chains off."

"mmm, right AWAY, your majesty~!"

[hatchet-boy]

Judging SPN Seasons By How Messy It Would Be If Sam And Dean Started Having Sex

Season 1: freshly reunited. no one else in their world but them. they are obsessed with each other. they would fuck like feral dogs and it would make them so much worse. also dad is there. unspeakably messy. 12/10

Season 2: dad just died. the grief sex would be more tears than come and at least one of them is probably saying johns name mid fuck. dean might have to kill baby brother (TM) and so the obvious reaction to this would be extremely possessive sex. sam would not like that attitude (with the one exception of if it happens when hes drunk in playthings). messy in even grosser but marginally less feral ways than szn one. 13/10

Season 3: milder. still obsessed with each other but more settled into it now. deans turn to maybe die and sams turn to be uber-doober possessive about it. unlike sam, dean would be extremely into that. and his deal is comin due so he might as well. sad and tragic,, but not that messy. probably still more tears than come. 6/10

Season 4: dean just came back from hell to find sam fucking his new demon girlfriend. the angels are there. they're still hunting but Stuff Is Going On and god knows they need to be grounded with each other to make it through. sex would probably help. would do the opposite than make things messier. would be vicious. definite chance dean might try to feed sam his blood. 4/10

Season 5: apocalypse fuck. oh fuck. ruby is dead. angels and death and demons and god and destiny. sam and dean are the most experienced and secure theyve ever been and yet. the whole damn world is about to explode. and yet they are still tortured and annoyed by the goofy everday hunting horrors. fucking would be nice for them, would remind them they belong to each other. they think theyre gonna die so the consequences wouldnt matter a whole lot. less insulated and worried about holy judgment so the incest thing may be a bother now. 2/10

Season 6: you fuck your brother but its not your brother he's different in ways you cant explain but you havent seen him in months and you thought you lost him and hes not quite right but fuck he looks like him and talks like him and knows everything about the two of you and he fucks like a greek god and hes mean as a motherfucker in bed but you can take it its fine its worth it its sam godammit-

15/10

Season 7: stranded up the creek without even a twig for a paddle. both brothers are destroyed and traumatised and forcing each other forward by force of necessity and a brotherly hand on the back of the neck. at least its just them alone together (dean please ignore the hallucination of lucifer sitting in the corner and judging our cock size-). sex would go terribly and be the most unsexy sex ever sexed. but they would probably like the closeness if sam could handle it. messy but wouldnt ruin them long term. there would be a terrible Dick joke. 8/10

Season 8: WHOA BOY WHAT A DOOZY. BOTH BROTHERS HAVE PARAMOURS ON THE SIDE WHOM THE OTHER FUCKIN HATES. DEAN IS PURGATORY FERAL AND HAS ONE EYE ON A VAMP. SAM IS SOFT HAS HIS PINKY FINGER TWINED AROUND SOME RANDOM GIRL. WHY DIDNT YOU LOOK FOR ME?? // YOU TOLD ME NOT TO!! // YOU TRUST A DAMN VAMPIRE OVER YOUR OWN BROTHER?? // YOU HIT A DOG... meanwhile sam is doing the trials losing his mind again and dean is losing his mind about that. letting you down was my biggest sin//there is nothing i would ever put in front of you. messy. 10/10.

Season 9: less than ideal with sam possessed by and angel. dean is rocking with the guilt and confliction. the mark of cain is also making him a bit feral again. theyre safe together in the bunker but thats already claustrophobic enough sex might just suffocate them both. pretty messy. 7/10

Season 10: your big brother is an angry angry man but its not his fault right??? its because of the mark right?? he cant control it and you love him and you want to stay in the safe house/bunker/tomb with him you dont want to leave anymore and you need him. youve both been through enough. you deserve this. there would be minimal messiness caused by sex with your brother rn. exception to those few weeks where he was a demon. 2/10

Season 11: gods sister is here and its the apocalypse again. dean hates what he has with Her. at least his sammy is here. at least theyre together. still crazy about each other. gay incest sex is the most reasonable reaction. god might find out- but then again, he and his sister are pretty wacked out together too, and are we not made in gods image?. 1/10

Season 12: Mom is here and so is lucifer and his kid and also the cunt ass brits. not ideal. minimal messiness so long as no one finds out. and fuck all them anyway its pretty clear sam and dean can only ever really trust each other. sex would be affirming and safe here. they are absolutely fucking in the kitchen to the smell of toast and coffee. dean discovers he has an std because no its not normal that your balls have iched like that for the past four years you need to go to a doctor and dean i swear on the impala if you gave it to me- . 3/10

Season 13 to 15: fellas is it gay to have sex with your brother who you've been functionally married to for over a decade? probably not right ha ha. if they havent already fucked by now theyre not going to. theyre just gonna be intensely platonically married until they die. they both have erectile dysfunction by this point . sex would mean everything to them but change nothing they would still be old and married in their bunker with the devils kid tomorrow regardless. they dont care what people think anymore. fuck all messiness. 1/10

Post Season 15 Finale/Heaven: we deserve a soft epilogue my love sammy. mildly concerned about being kicked out of heaven for incest but with everything else theyve done they still made it there. it would be the least of their sins. lovely soft and nothing hurts. can you make a sex tape in heaven? 0/10

[savingcrxws]

eyes on fire | carmen berzatto headcanon

carmen berzatto x ex!reader (but not for long...)

warnings. language, mentions of suicide & death (mikey)

authors note. thinking of turning this into a fic but i just wanted to get these thoughts thrown onto a page for now | EDIT 7/7: ITS A FIC! HERES PART ONE

you hated carmen berzatto, to say the least

you had been each others first s/o and spent a lot of the end of your teenage years attached at the hip

every berzatto family function (no matter how messy they always ended), every school dance, every hell's kitchen rerun--you and carmy were together

mikey liked to call you guys soulmates, watching how you and carmy just seemed to click like that- a statement that never failed to make carmy go flush in the face (que richie faking barfing in the background)

you were one of the first people that carmen told about his wishes for the future-how he wanted to take up the restaurant with his brother and continue the berzatto tradition

you loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about cooking with his family-the way he gave his all into his aspirations

"well you gotta make sure i'm the first one to eat those fancy sounding dishes when you start working at the beef, carm"

"absolutely, babe. i wouldn't have it any other way"

however, like everyone after high school, you and carmy hit a rough patch that sunk your relationship -- you were planning to go to college for business administration and carmy was leaving chicago to go to culinary school

you two definitely attempted everything in your power to stay together-late night skype calls, daily texts, hell you even offered to fly to new york to spend time together

but the more swamped you got with school and the more carmen got slammed with cooking (especially right before he went of to Noma), the more the truth begun to show itself

the breakup was messy, because it was less a breakup and more of ...

you: what are we doing right now? like, as a couple?

carmen: i think that i need to focus more on my career right now

you: oh, so..are we breaking up right now? (read 9:57PM)

you: carmen? (read 10:15)

you: ok, asshole, be that way (delivered)

that's right, that motherfucker ghosted you

despite the tumultuous ending of you and carmen's relationship, you were still close to sugar and mikey (and, unfortunately for you, richie)

sugar was adamant on flying over to copenhagen and have a "conversation" with her brother herself + mikey and richie were not too far behind on the cause

"it's fine guys. let's just all agree that carmen is a soft little bitch" you said, trying to lighten the mood even though you knew that you were still racking thru the pain being broken up with so suddenly

you deal with the breakup harshly at first, but you put a lot of that emotion towards your own growth

fast forward a couple years, you graduated college and are on the up-and-up in chicago as a successful business marketing manager

you get closer to the berzattos, strangely, as carmy gets more distant

you don't think of carmy much anymore but it grows harder as he wins awards and recognitions in his field that honestly make you..proud, in strange way

then, mikey dies...and a lot of things change for you

you help sugar and richie plan the funeral, and something sour sinks into your stomach when you don't see that familiar head of dirty blonde hair during the service

some months pass and you try to gather yourself and get back to normal after mikey's passing

richie invites you down to the beef one day to "catch up" randomly

you go, if not to just see tina and the rest of the crew but are met with great surprise when you see him

carmen motherfucking berzatto, in the flesh, standing behind the bar yelling to richie about something nonsensical

he stops yelling when he hears the door open and literally freezes in place when he sees you

you stare at him for a second, taking in the man who once had your heart, noting the new tattoos and the new way he styled his hair and he seems to be doing the same

then, richie breaks the silence--"oh my goodness, what are you doing here, sweetheart?"

you and carmy speak at the same time

"richie, you motherfucker"

"richie, you dick"

[kastheory]

steve did not bully eddie in "the past" steve was a grade below him for 3 out of 4 years of his high school career freshman steve heard this weird loudass sophomore talking w his friends at 100 decibels in the hallway about fighting elves in the woods or something (steve did not know what larping was nor care to find out) and then he went to class bc are you insane hes not fucking w a sophomore you dont normally fuck w people ahead of your grade especially if they yell at people and wear chains and get into fights in the woods (with elves?) and you dont even have classes w them. you dont even care much about them in the first place beyond passing gossip like HAVE YOU GUYS EVER BEEN IN HIGH SCHOOL. sorry. anyway.

then steve keeps catching this guy in his periphery over the next two years shouting about board games and controversial food opinions and metal bands that steve likes a few songs from but could not ever imagine giving that much of a shit about. like at all. and by (steve's) year 3 the motherfucker is bouncing off the walls giving speeches about what the hell ever and saying he cant fucking WAIT to get out of this FUCKED UP PLACE!!!! YEP ITS TRUE IN LESS THAN ONE MEASLY YEAR ILL BE SAYING MY SWEET SWEET GOODBYES TO THIS BRAINLESS CONFORMIST PRISON!!!! and hardly anyone reacts beyond rolling their eyes or snickering to their friends about it and this includes steve because who cares literally who cares. this guys been causing a ruckus since the beginning of time and hes weird and unpredictable and not worth trying to shove in a locker he would probably evade the attack anyway like a nimble mouse or squirrel he might even try to bite you. and steve didnt shove anybody in lockers in the first place so who cares and yeah he has pretty eyes and a funny way of talking and moving around but WHO CARES

and then steve goes through the first round of nightmarish shit that would become a yearly ordeal and then wraps up junior year in a perfectly normal not haunted whatsoever fashion. and then hes a senior and in his subtly cringefail era (ongoing) and that freak guy is STILL HERE for some reason and kinda pissed off and possibly a bit devastated about it so okay great now steve has a few classes with this angry weirdo loudguy but. crucially. he has had a lot of OTHER SHIT to deal with lately (MONSTERS ARE REAL) (GIRL DIED IN HIS POOL) (GF RESENTS HIM) (HAS NO FRIENDS) (COLLEGE APPS) so the only effect eddie's constantly loudmouthed & often unwarranted input during class ever has is that it adds a little flavor to the constant metaphorical and literal headache of steves life.

and then he goes through round 2 of shit and finishes his senior year with little hope for a satisfying future ahead of him and never once thinks about that guy again except when his fellow grads whisper about oh my godd did you hear that the freak flunked out again hahaha and yep sure enough eddie's not there at the graduation ceremony. and he thinks huh i wonder what his fucking problem is and then he MOVES ON. the end. thats the extent of """their past""" at least in terms of any actual interactions btwn the two of them i promise okay listen to me. i was there