#let the blob come back

[616swanda]

This is peak spoiler design i don’t make the rules

[jjoneechan]

sorry for spoiling the surprise 😔

[t0omanyeyes]

.

[apatheticsunday]

Batfam Eldritch Horror

AKA "inspired by that one post about Danny being a flerken and living with the Batfam" idea! Except he looks pants-shitting, "oh dear god, what is that" terrifying.

I just love slightly feral animal-like Danny in a... shape. It's not immediately identifiable as a cat or dog, maybe he has a few too many legs that kind of look like a tail at one point? And when he skitters up walls like a particularly small dog-sized tarantula, it's terrifying enough to make seasoned criminals squeal.

Let's imagine Danny had some sort of accident with a portal and was Wizard-of-Oz'd into Gotham, a literal hellmouth of a city with so many curses that it'd make John Constantine start to sweat. And this city also has... weird Ecto. (In my brain, there's a connection between the Lazarus Pit and ectoplasm, like pit waters are the sewers of ectoplasm or something.) It's enough for Danny to still exist but he can't seem to stay human-shaped. It's better than being a Blob Ghost, but not by much. His fur-scales-feathers-skin-something look dark as the midnight sky.

And who should stumble on this weird-looking Thing aside from Damian, secret animal-whisperer and passionate Pokemon collector? Damian, who known what a scared feral animal looks like and who can coax it into his arms? It doesn't matter that Danny has maybe five or six limbs. He can make himself slightly smaller at will (not in a Magical-Girl-Transformation way, mind you. When he changes shape, there's the distinct snap of bones breaking and wet, fleshy sounds of his organs, muscles, ligaments, tendons, everything shifting).

Damian has literally been trained by the League of Assassins under the Demon Head. He's likely seen more people's insides than an ER surgeon; he's killed more than enough people in incredibly grotesque and violent ways to be totally unphased by Danny changing shapes. Maybe he'll actually be sort of touched, a bit pleased, that his new Thing pet would change itself so violently so Damian could hold it.

What would Damian name it? He's outwardly violent and aggressive towards others, but pretty passionate and heartfelt once he cares for someone. Alfred the Cat comes to mind. So maybe Damian takes one look at this supposedly scary Thing and thinks, "It looks like Father."

As in, Dark as Night? A shadow inspiring fear amongst criminals? Spoken about in whispers, sometimes laughed off as a joke but still cautiously reverent, just in case?

Danny's new name is Batman.

Of course, this causes some confusion when Damian comes home to Wayne Manor and says, "Batman and I will retire to my room." In front of Bruce, who naturally and kind-of-correctly assumes his son picked up another animal while on patrol. Bruce had a hard time explaining this to a very concerned Dick, who was holding up a wooden stake and a bible (Dick totally wasn't going to kill Bruce if he turned out to be a vampire but it's always good to be prepared!), after Damian apparently made a wayward comment that "Batman refuses to eat anything besides raw meat."

And Danny is having a great time!! Sure, Damian treats him like a pet, but he gets affectionate pats on the head, incredibly expensive steak, and a soft place to sleep. He awkwardly dragged several blankets from the living room to Damian's room to make a bed in the kid's closet. (Alfred watched from behind the couch as this six-legged hairy-ish catlike Thing determinedly waddled with three blankets in its mouth, occasionally tripping on its own legs. He went back to dusting the crown moulding silently. So, that's why Master Damian requested uncooked sirloin steak twelve times in last few days. Hm.)

So, the Batfam accept there is another Batman in the family. Except they haven't actually seen Danny (aside from Alfred and Damian).

Until Dick needs to talk to Damian and goes into the boy's room. But it's empty?? He could've sworn he heard somebody talking or something in here, but maybe not? He turns to leave and then hears it again: a soft kind of thump coming from Damian's armoire. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face as his Older Brother Instincts kick in. Jason used to hide in closets and try to scare Dick when he was little; Damian, despite being a child soldier and trained assassin, was still a little kid at heart, right? The kid's clearly hiding from Dick to scare him or something.

(Damian was in the Batcave, studiously typing "Google, what non-Earth animals reside in Gotham, please?" into the Batcomputer. I like to think that Damian uses the internet like a 85-year old man who thinks a Google employee personally replies to each question.)

So, Dick creeps forward and abruptly slams open the armoire doors!! Only to let out an unholy shriek of terror as Danny, who was taking a nap, frantically skitters out of the closet looking like a Frankenstein cat-dog with bat wings. He crawls under Damian's bed as Dick scrambles into the hallway.

The cat-dog-Thing is out of the bag now. Damian looks utterly deadpan as he explains that Batman is his pet and not to concern themselves with it; Bruce, Tim, Jason, and a white-faced Dick disagreed. They need to see it to make sure the Thing won't harm anybody, especially considering it's fucking living with them!! How do they know it won't try to eat them in their sleep??

"Batman does not eat raw human meat, Todd. Why are you concerned now? It has resided with us for two months now."

"Two months?" Dick nearly faints (again).

"Yes, Batman is very well-behaved, Master Dick." Alfred, who's been feeding Danny for the last two months and has seen all the little quirks the Thing has, offers a consoling half-smile.

Ultimately, the Batfam decide to keep Batman in exchange for scary dog privileges. They'll have to think of another name for Danny considering having two Batmans in Gotham would be pretty confusing (especially if one of them decided they did, in fact, like raw human flesh).

[jaysng]

shaving his face | kmg

you offer to shave mingyu’s face for the first time, despite having no idea what you’re doing—and he lets you, all smiles and patience. between messy foam, playful threats, and him trying (and failing) to stay quiet, the slow morning turns soft in all the ways that matter. [wc. 1k]

PAIRING. husband!mingyu x wife!reader

GENRE. fluff

NOTE. come back after god knows how long, hoping that you enjoy this.

“okay. sit. don’t talk. don’t move.”

mingyu raised both brows as he lowered himself onto the small stool in the bathroom, the one you usually kept tucked under the sink. it wobbled slightly under his weight.

“you sure this thing’s safe?”

“well, if it breaks, that’s on you for being massive,” you muttered, grabbing the can of shaving foam and shaking it aggressively.

he smirked, adjusting the towel around his shoulders. “wow. love the support, babe.”

“just shut up,” you said, but you were smiling too.

he obeyed, lips twitching as he pressed them together dramatically and tilted his chin up. he looked ridiculous—bare-faced, sleepy-eyed, hair still damp from his shower, and way too amused for someone about to have a first-timer drag a razor across his face.

you stared at him for a second, holding the razor awkwardly. “you know i’ve never shaved anyone else before, right?”

“mm-hmm,” he hummed.

“like, i know how to shave my legs and stuff, but this is your face. your pretty face. what if i mess up?”

he opened one eye. “you won’t. i trust you.”

you groaned and leaned in to press some foam onto his jaw. “you’re so annoying. why are you always sweet when i’m trying to be mad at you?”

he smiled, lips still sealed, and made a little mmm sound to tease you.

you rolled your eyes and started carefully spreading the foam across his face, moving slowly like it was some kind of art project. the cream coated his jawline and chin easily, but then he opened his mouth slightly to speak—

“stop.”

you pointed the nozzle directly at his lips. “i’m warning you.”

he blinked, then tried to say something again, just to be difficult.

so you squirted a big blob right over his mouth.

“there,” you said proudly. “you talk too much anyway.”

his eyes widened. he made a muffled noise and reached up to wipe it, but you slapped his hand away.

“nope. hands down. let the professional work.”

he laughed through his nose, head tilted back slightly as you brought the razor closer to his face.

you moved slow at first, dragging the blade carefully across his cheek. every tiny scratchy sound made you more nervous, but mingyu didn’t even flinch. he just sat there quietly, eyes flicking up to yours every now and then, like he was studying your face more than he cared about his own.

you paused halfway through and frowned. “do i… go up or down?”

he tapped the counter behind you twice with his fingers — his way of saying ‘down.’

you nodded to yourself. “right. that makes sense. i think.”

he made another sound, like a muffled laugh, but you just wiped more foam on him to shut him up again.

“this is harder than it looks,” you said under your breath. “you have such a big face.”

he pointed to himself proudly. big face, big brain.

you rolled your eyes and kept shaving.

it took longer than you thought. he had a lot of facial hair, and you were being extra careful not to nick him. your hands were a little shaky at first, but eventually, the rhythm settled. foam, razor, wipe. again. again.

at one point, you felt his eyes on you again — really watching you this time — and you glanced at him.

“what?”

he shrugged slightly.

“you’re staring.”

he raised both brows and gestured like you’re cute, duh.

you narrowed your eyes at him. “stop being romantic. i’m holding a blade.”

he smiled through the foam. “mmph.”

finally, you finished the last section on his neck and stepped back, exhaling like you just ran a marathon.

“okay. done. don’t touch anything yet.”

he sat still, eyes curious, while you grabbed a damp cloth and gently wiped the leftover cream from his skin. the towel was warm from the water and smelled like your fabric softener. you could feel the way his skin was smooth now under it, freshly shaved and clean.

he didn’t say anything, just let you wipe his face like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“there,” you said softly. “mission complete.”

he reached up to touch his face and let out a soft, impressed, “woah.”

you blinked. “what? did i miss a spot?”

he grinned. “no. it’s good. really good.”

you looked at him suspiciously. “you’re not just saying that to make me feel better, right?”

he stood up and leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands on your waist. “nope. you actually did a great job.”

you felt yourself smiling as you leaned into his chest. “i was scared the whole time. you’re lucky i love you.”

“i know,” he said, kissing the side of your head. “i could feel the love in every terrified little stroke.”

you smacked his shoulder lightly, laughing. “shut up. go get ready. you’re gonna be late.”

“don’t wanna leave now,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. “you just pampered me. feels wrong to go.”

“mingyu.”

“okay, okay,” he sighed, finally pulling away and heading to the bedroom.

you stayed behind to clean up the mess — foam on the sink, water on the floor, the little towel you used to wipe his face. five minutes later, he came back out fully dressed, wearing that navy button-up you loved.

you paused when you saw him. “you look really good.”

he smiled and opened his arms dramatically. “because my amazing wife shaved me.”

you laughed, stepping into his hug again. “yeah, yeah. just don’t let anyone else touch that face today.”

“only you,” he said easily. “always.”

you walked him to the door and kissed him goodbye — once, then again, because he always stole a second one.

“text me when you get there,” you reminded him.

“i will.”

“and don’t skip lunch just ‘cause you’re busy.”

“i won’t.”

you watched him leave, the front door clicking shut behind him, and let out a breath.

quiet mornings like this were your favorite — where nothing big happened, but everything still felt soft and full. shaving cream in your hair, mingyu being annoying in the best way, your little apartment filled with sleepy laughter.

this was marriage.

this was love.

this was yours.

do not copy or repost my work // @ jaysng

[hugsandchaos]

Imagine a ghost hunter or just someone who believes all ghosts are evil ranting on live about how bad ghosts are, and there phone is suddenly snatched into the air and Phantom flies away with the camera and goes “Shut up and let me show you something important” and then he puts the phone down in an unknown location, leaves, and comes back with a group of ghost blobs. He kneels down in front of the phone and starts listing their names and habits. Examples:

“This is Casper, Casper thinks first aid kits are edible. He is wrong and I keep finding bite marks on my first aid kit no matter where I hide it.”

“This is Raven, she likes to nap on me whenever she can and pick fights with orange cats.”

“This is Orbit, they’re convinced that I’m their child and treat me as such.”

[seongwars]

Word Count: 497 Warnings: yandere!Caleb, dad!Caleb, dash of fluff, hints of breeding kink, baby trapping and coercion, 2 swear words, mention of pregnancy, not proofread Summary: Caleb comes home from another expedition

a/n: I had to take a break from writing strangers by nature because i was making myself sad so uhh here's a caleb drabble

“Daddy’s home!”

Your four year old jumped up from his Legos, bolting to the door with your chubby toddler hot on his heels. The front door creaked open just in time for Caleb to brace himself as the boys launched into his arms.

It wasn’t easy, being the wife of the fleet’s colonel. Caleb’s expeditions often kept him away for weeks at a time, leaving you to hold down the fort with your two boys and the endless chaos they brought with them.

But moments like this made it all worth it. Seeing the way the boys lit up as they reunited with their father made all the waiting worth it. Not to mention the nasty, sloppy, back bending, toe curling, eye rolling, reunion sex–hence your five month baby bump.

Despite the exhaustion etched into his features, Caleb still made time for all of you. He was the kind of man who wouldn’t miss a parent teacher conference, who insisted on reading every bedtime story no matter how tired he was. 

On Saturday mornings, he’d stand in the kitchen, attempting to make dinosaur shaped pancakes while the boys watched in awe.

“Daddy, how do you do that?” your four year old learned forward on the counter with his elbows. Beside him, your two-year-old waved his chubby hands in the air, babbling his own version of the question.

“It’s all in the flick of the wrist, buddy,” Caleb grinned, flipping the pancake. 

Sometimes the “dinosaur” ended up looking more like a blob, but to the boys, it was nothing short of magic. They clapped and cheered as Caleb plated his creation, declaring it a Whateversaurus Rex or the dinosaur of the day as conjured by your husband. 

And so, yes, you’d let this man keep you pregnant. How could you not? Every time you thought about saying no, about maybe slowing down and letting your body recover between pregnancies, he’d look at you with those adoring puppy eyes and pull you into his strong arms, leaving you utterly undone.

But you didn’t notice the way his eyes darkened when you said yes again, or the way his touch lingered just a second too long on the curve of your belly. To you, it was devotion, a husband marveling at the miracle of life, his love for you and your growing family. 

But to him, it was victory.

Because Caleb wasn’t just a loving husband. He was a man who refused to let you slip through his fingers. The thought of you walking away, of a life where you weren’t his in every sense of the word, was unthinkable.  

Everytime he had you folded into a mating press murmuring “just one more for me, baby" he was ensuring that you stayed right where you belonged—bound to him in every possible way as he fucked his seed over and over into your cunt.

You belonged to him. And he’d make sure it stayed that way forever.

[nightingale-prompts]

Health Code Violation- DC x DP prompt

"Hold on there. You're not permitted beyond this point." The floating teenage boy said as he tucked his clipboard under his arm.

After a battle with another world-ending villain Superman was killed in action and after a short debate the decision to revive him using the Lazarus Pit was made. However, the league members who were carrying his body to the pit didn't expect it to be blocked off with caution tape. A teenage boy with stark white hair and wearing a hard hat and orange construction vest.

"What are you doing out here kid? And what is with the tape?" Barry asked shifting Clark's heavy ass body from crushing him.

"I'm here to take a look at the leak." He said pointing a thumb in the direction of the green pit.

"The leak?" Diana echoed in confusion.

"Yeah, your planet has a leak. A few actually. Our realm hasn't been managed well and now that the old king is gone we need to fix some things. Right now the leaks need to be sealed." He said. "Also what's with the dead guy?"

"We were bringing him to the Lazarus Pit to revive him." Barry said blankly.

The teen shook his head in astonishment almost dropping his clipboard.

"You are what?! With the what?!"

"The Lazarus pit...?" Hal laughed nervously his face in a half-quirked smile.

"You call it a Lazarus Pit? Guys this is a pool of contaminated ectoplasm. Basically sewage. This thing is full of dead people juice. All those leftover emotions and obsessions are stewing in there. You toss that body in these pool and you'll make a revenant full of anger. It doesn't even have an ecosystem to cleanse it. It's like stagnant water." The teen said waving his pen around before pausing "Wait a minute....you people have been using it? No wonder it's so polluted! What is wrong with you?! Are you trying to contaminate your planet? Do you want zombies?"

It was kind of weird to be scolded by a kid, for everyone but Bruce. He thought of a more pragmatic approach. He didn't like the pit but he acknowledged it's usefulness.

"I understand. But we do want to save our friend and the only way is to use the pit."

"That's a big ask. The pit is one thing but bringing back the dead willy nilly? ...But I guess that's my domain now.. "

The teen mumbled to himself before sighing.

"Look, I want to help. I really do. But the pit is unstable and there are many more on this planet with the same issue. We can't risk an apocalypse and the chance they get into the wrong hands. This is for the safety of your planet." The teen said as mannerly as possible as he dismissed the heros.

"Come on, please. Our friend is dead. You don't want our friend to die." Barry said pleadingly.

"Very mature of you. A bit of shame might help you...alright fine but don't badger me again." The silver-haired being said taking out a small syringe and taking a sample of his own blood.

"It's diluted compared to the pure stuff but 10x stronger than the stuff in the pool. It's safer and once he's kicking again it'll drain out of his system." He tossed the needle to Barry and returned to taking samples of the pit. "This biohazard requires an ecologist. I'll have to import some blob feeders to clean up the toxins. Then either seal this up or link it to the network. But these dumb mortals are just going to keep dumping bodies into it."

The teen mumbled to himself as he tried to find a solution.

A week later all the Lazarus pits had disappeared. The Al Ghuls were scrambling as the source of their powers dried up.

Clark was alive and feeling better than ever. No pit rage at all.

Eventually the boy returned.

"I had a talk with the ancients and they agreed to let you have one ecto pool. Only one thought and it has to be managed by me. As long as you don't try abusing it by going into it while alive or not asking permission I'll allow you to use it. Also, be mindful of my cleaning wisps, they work very hard to keep the natural flow of the ecto cycle going." The teen said holding up a green little ghost blob and petting it.

[ghoulphile]

sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position. 

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.” 

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”

[emacrow]

Thank you for accepting the courtship.

Raven was using an ancient forbidden ritual to Pariah King of the infinite realm to stop Trigon and Darkseid to stop them from taking over this universe. The proper gift in term in the book for the ritual to be accepted said to be her firstborn whenever she were to have one, and it seemed the ritual was accepted.

She expected some old man in dark ancient armor to come out of the summoning ritual portal, except it wasn't Pariah King who came out.

A aurora crown floated upwars, then a white blob emerged only to be white long hair that kept going upward, growing longer and longer tall silhouette nearly 12-14 feet tall.

Hundreds of thousands of tiny stars in the white hair swirling toward the face with pointed ears, forming into three glowing yet dull green eyes with darken specks of stars underneath the eyelids and cheeks, a blackish blue like breaking open like a tear to reveal sharp gleaming white teeths, a dark blue tongue.

The clothes that this entity form beneath that resemble 1980s hazmat clothes that flickered from and to a royal clothes with jewels of tiny planet yet unnerving as if it haven't decided which to be and out of place that nearly made Raven's eyes wanted to avoid looking at it.

She didn't falter nor didn't flinch as this being glanced at the ritual symbols, tilting his head as if interested before before the three eyes looked back at her that made her heart wanted to stop as the used to be dulled eyes sparkled a bit.

Then, the being grew smile that would've made the Joker cry, Much to Raven's inner horror and nearly every empticlones in nevermore screaming at her to run and hide.

"I, Phantom, Prince and Savior of the infinite realms from the Mad King, Defender of Pandora's box, Balancer of Time, accept your gift." The voice was barely a whisper that almost sounded rich smooth as velvet, yet loud enough to hear clearly to raven.

With a simple wave of his long, arachnodactyly fingers as if waving off an annoying fly before shrinking slowly with a gleam of white light evenly enveloping to reveal a 9'4 foot tall lanky bat adoption bat guy.

Black long-haired, put in a clumsy doubled braided with blue and red flowers, held polka dotted scrunchies, girly hair clips with unicorn themes, soft blue eyes that were redish in the corner and a soft delicate face that Raven definitely wasn't ogling in her nevermore mindscape.

"Thank you for accepting the courtship."

"Your welcome."

....

....

Raven's mind blanch a bit realizing what he just said.

"Wait, What?"

...

...

Danny was doing just fine, just fine indeed as he was sitting in Jazz’s house, his niece rebraiding his hair as he shoved another giant handful of Fudge brownies into his mouth.

Ellie was moving into her boyfriend six month ago, and there was nothing Danny could do seeing his little girl move on without him.

Empty nest syndrome Jazz and his parents told him. Sam suggested another online dating, but being a famous, well-known Savior of Earth after Disasteroid came a lot of girls and even boys who see danny as a hero or for his fame and fortune instead of Danny.

Not to mention the ghosts, the stupid eyeballs trying to present another candidate for him to Wed which he refused.

He has used raising ellie as the common excuse that turned into actually doting parenting, but now..

He couldn't go back to his haunt castle after she moved out without burying himself in her childhood room, holding her old worned out red beanie hat that she didn't wear anymore.

Kids grow up and move on from their parents, but they always come back when in need.

He did something out of impulse due to his empty nest syndrome, which was going a bit haywire by the day and Sam, Val and Tucker won't let him bring them over to hang out especially when they are busy.

He made a ritual with clockwork help that randomly appeared in any other dimensions, then his own to pick the right person to court at the right time.

Now all he has to do is wait.

(I got inspired by this post here <- )

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

hiiii!!! i love your no doubt series💗💗can i request one where jake does a voiceover of y/n’s makeup routine/grwm🥹🥹

hiiiii !!! thank you so so so much :'))) and YES THIS ONE IS SOOOO PRECIOUS AHHH srsly everyone's ideas are so adorable im freaking out. i think jake would be sooo locked in and so focused and determined bc you simply asked him to do this for you but then he would get sooo easily distracted and just start rambling on about how gorgeous you look and it just unravels from there LOLLL

──── GRWM ft. MY BOYFRIEND ! ✨🪞🎀 ↳ requested // part of the no doubt series !

"Okay, okay—hi, um. This is Jake. Y/N told me to do this voiceover thingy and I'm 100% sure I'm gonna do great because I watch her get ready everyday and it's just so mesmeriz—"

"Jake, you didn't hit the record button yet."

"Oh."

Tiny pause—click.

"Okay, hi everyone. I'm going to do my girlfriend's voiceover for—oh shoot okay you're already starting, we're moving fast."

You're tying your hair back in the video, face bare and freshly washed.

"Look at you—so cute already. Honestly this is kinda unnecessary, you look good all the time, why are you even getting rea—oh wait, okay you're putting on some...lotion? Cream? I don't—what is that?"

Jake turns, voice muffles as he whispers to you behind him, who's already giggling from watching.

"Baby, what is that?"

"It's primer, Jakey. Go back to the video, you're missing it!"

"Oh shoot, you're right. Okay, okay. So we did primer and now I think we're doing...sunscreen? I hope that's sunscreen. Protect your skin. I worry about you sometimes."

The video continues, now with you dabbing on concealer.

"God, you're so pretty."

"Jake, stay focused!"

"Sorry, sorry—okay. This is...concealer. I think. We're tapping it in with...a beauty blob? Beauty egg—beauty blender! Yeah, blender. And look at you go. So cute. So professional."

The video cuts to you doing your eye make up.

"Oh. Oh no, this part makes me so nervous every time. You're like, holding that pen right by your eyeball. I can't watch—oh my god, please don't poke yourself. Baby. Babe. Be careful. Ohhhhh, sharp wing. Okayyyy, pop off baby."

Your endless giggles are in the background of the audio as he falls quiet, genuinely too busy staring at you.

"How are you even real? You look so good."

"JAKE! Focus!"

"I KNOW I KNOW, I'm trying! Okay, now blush. You're smiling so you get that perfect spot on your cheeks I like to kiss. And now you're doing that thing where you put it on your nose and it makes you look like a literal angel—ugh, do you even see yourself right now? Everyone's gonna think I paid you to date me. I swear I didn't. Well. I mean. I would. I would pay you—wait no that sounds messed up—"

Your laughs are now out of control from where you sit behind him, both his hands grabbing the phone, carefully watching the video that continues to play.

"Okay, um. Now we're doing lips. This is lip gloss. It's shiny. It's soo shiny. Babe, I'm distracted again. Oh my god, you're so hot."

The video comes to an end with you posing at the camera, doing a little peace sign.

"Oh my god. Baby. Baby. You look so good. Can we go out tonight? Let's cancel our plans with the others. Wait, no actually let's not go out—you look too good. Let's just stay home and cuddle and make out. Forever."

"JAKE. END THE VIDEO."

"Oh shi—right, okay bye! Love you!"

The video ends with your chaotic giggles before Jake tosses the phone aside and tackles you into bed.

no doubt m. list

tag list! pt. 1 (open)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[my-castles-crumbling]

clay - jegulus raising harry - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 431

“...no, he needs yellow hair!” James heard Harry yell indignantly from the kitchen, and he smiled to himself as he walked through the house, having just come home.

“Ah, of course. Yellow hair. Let me just…” Regulus replied softly, his back to James and his body blocking whatever he and Harry were working on diligently at the table, their attention completely absorbed in their project.

“My two favorite boys,” James said in fond greeting, moving to circle his arms around his boyfriend’s waist and press a kiss to Regulus’s cheek before peering over his shoulder. “What are you and Regulus up to, Haz?”

“Regulus is teaching me how to get my anger out,” Harry said seriously, eyes focused on a small clay figure in front of him with light blonde hair and pale skin. Though the blob wasn’t the most distinguishable, it was clearly a human.

Regulus, meanwhile, was creating a just-as-poorly-made figure with long black hair and gray eyes, and little black squiggles all over his body.

“Who are those supposed to be? And how does that get your anger out?” James asked slowly, stepping forward to get a better view and frowning at the ‘art’ in front of him.

“That’s Uncle Pads,” Harry explained, gesturing to Regulus’s sculpture, as if it was obvious. “Reggie’s mad at him for being bramatic.”

“Dramatic,” Regulus corrected, smirking. “He cursed at me for eating the last biscuit. Isn’t that mean, Harry?”

“Cursing is wrong,” Harry nodded solemnly. “And this,” he gestured to his blond-haired figurine, “is a boy from my playgroup. He’s all…” the four-year-old scrunched up his nose and waved his hands in the air while making a snobbish expression.

James chuckled at the boy. “Okay, but that doesn’t answer my other question. How does this help with your anger?”

Regulus gave James a mischievous look. “Ready, Haz?” he asked the bespectacled boy.

“Ready!”

“Three, two, one!”

Bam!

Together, Regulus and Harry slammed their hands down on their creations, smushing them completely under their palms and giggling together.

James gaped. On the one hand, only Regulus could come up with something so…unique to take out his anger. But on the other? Seeing his son and the love of his life laugh together like this made his heart melt.

“Wanna make one, Dad?” Harry asked after his giggles subsided, gesturing to the unused clay.

He tilted his head. But really, the whole thing was adorable, and where was the harm? “Yeah,” he said decisively, reaching forward. “My boss pissed me off today.”

“No cursing!” Regulus and Harry shouted at once, making James laugh.

[charliegyrth]

My Best Friend Comes Back

A Gay Weight Gain Story

I checked my reflection.

I didn’t really like what I saw. Sure, my face was handsome and my outfit looked good, but my recent weight gain was more noticeable than I thought. Despite being pretty loose, my XL shirt still couldn’t hide my new love handles.

I wasn’t obese or anything (5’10” and 188 pounds) but because my weight had accumulated so much on my waist (and because I didn’t have the broadest shoulders), I looked terrible. Worse, I looked curvy. Like a woman. I knew that Mason was going to give me shit about it.

I mean, I was excited to see him again. He was my best friend and it had been three long years since we’d actually seen each other in person. We Zoomed every once in a while, but he hadn’t seen all of me since he moved to Thailand. Back then, I was 145 pounds. The skinny friend in comparison to Mason’s shorter, more muscly body. He always joked about my “chicken legs,” about how a strong wind would blow me away. I could only imagine what he’d say now that I’d gotten chubby.

He hadn't noticed anything during our Zoom sessions. (I was good at angling my face to hide my new double chin.) I also didn’t use social media, so no clues there, either.

My guess was that he’d show up at my doorstep, take one look at my thicker chest and wide hips, and roast me like a stand-up comedian. His blunt, snarky honesty was the thing I liked about him most, and the thing I absolutely hated when he directed his comments at me.

Still, I wasn’t going to let my nerves derail our visit. I had a good job, a good life. A lot to be proud of. (Minus a boyfriend, sadly. My singlehood was a big contributor to my weight gain.)

I adjusted my shirt one more time and walked into the living room to prepare some welcome snacks. Chips and soda, nothing fancy. I figured we’d hang out here and catch up on the last three years. I’m sure he had some wild stories from Thailand that he still hadn’t told me. Knowing him, he probably went clubbing with the king or something.

The doorbell rang, and I jumped up to answer. I felt weirdly nervous.

“Open up!” Mason called from the other side. “This is the police.” He hadn’t changed at all.

Then I opened the door and realized that I was dead wrong. Mason was twice the man he used to be. Literally.

He had to be at least 350 pounds. He’d become almost spherical, with a round drooping stomach stuffed inside an ill-fitting shirt (with vertical stripes!). His arms and legs had developed the kind of rolls that you’d see on an infant. Standing just 5’7”, he looked like a fleshy, lumpy snowman.

He smiled at my shocked reaction before waddling in. Rather than give me a hug, he reached out and shook my slight moob. “Dude, you got bitch tits.”

I was speechless.

He walked past me and flopped onto the couch. It creaked under him. He immediately grabbed a handful of chips and crammed them into his mouth. “So. When were you gonna tell me that you got fat?”

“I… What?”

He shoved in another handful of chips. “Pop a squat, man. It must be hard for a guy your size to stay standing for so long.” He laughed.

I sat next to him, feeling heat radiating off his obese body. I looked him up and down. This had to be a joke, right? He was wearing a fat suit. The Mason I knew was an absolute gym nut. He’d never lose control of his own body like this.

Besides, his face was still the same. Slightly rounder cheeks, but not by much. His whole head didn’t match with his body at all.

But the more I looked at him, the more I realized that this was real. He’d turned into a total blob.

“So what’s new?” he asked through another mouthful. “I mean, besides all the buffets you must be hitting.”

“I’m good,” I said, still deeply confused. Did he not know that he looked like this?

“Yeah? Still play basketball?”

“Not for a while,” I said, staring at the faded stretchmarks on the bottom of his gut. (His shirt had ridden up to just below his belly button. “Um, do you?”

He laughed. “What do you think?”

“No?”

He threw his chubby arms into the air. “Jesus, man. You’re hopeless! Just say it, okay?”

“Say what?”

He looked at me like I was the world’s dumbest human. “Jason. Do you notice anything different about me?”

“You’re fat.”

“Seriously, man? That’s all you’re gonna say? I’m fat?”

“Well, you are.”

“I ain’t fat, Jace. My BMI is 56.4. I’ve reached ‘class three obesity.’ That’s a bit more than fat. God, you’re still so awkward.”

“And you, um… I mean…” I paused. “What happened?”

“I became the man I’ve always wanted to be. Why else do you think I up and moved to Thailand?”

“For work?”

He reached for the chips again, but his belly was weighing him down. He flopped backward, causing ripples through his stomach and making his moobs audibly thump against him.  “A little help, man?”

I took the bowl and placed it between us.

He rolled his eyes and repositioned it on his belly. Easier access. “Got any dip, man? I haven’t eaten in an hour.”

I left the room to see what I had in the fridge. There was a family-sized tub of sour cream dip, so I brought that back in.

He snatched it out of my hands and dumped the whole thing onto the chips. Then he scooped into it with both hands and fed himself. Left hand, right hand. He was trying to be messy. “Yeah, I went there for my job. Which was great, by the way. But mostly, I wanted to get away from everybody I used to know and allow myself to grow without all the judgment.” He paused to swallow. “You’re not judging me, are you?”

“No! I’m totally… You’re…”

“Just kidding, man. I knew you’d be cool with it.”

“So you made yourself fat on purpose?”

“Class three obese, my friend. And yup, sure did. What do you think?”

If I got past my total shock, I had to admit that he looked pretty hot. I couldn’t believe I was thinking that. I’d never once been attracted to bigger guys before. The ones in my life had always been so self-conscious. Always wearing inconspicuous clothes, rarely smiling, positioning their arms to awkwardly and futilely hide their stomachs. You could tell from how they moved that they hated their bodies.

Mason, on the other hand, chose this body. He flaunted it. His clothes were tight for a reason. He moved with such confidence and pride that I couldn’t help but see the beauty in his fat.

I didn’t tell him that, though. Instead, I said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I hoped you would notice. Every time we talked on Zoom, I expected you to say something. But no, you were too busy looking at your own image, trying to deemphasize your new double-chin. Very cute, by the way.”

“But you never mentioned…”

“Overeating? Force-feeding sessions? Stopping all exercise? Nope. I did not. But I can tell you about all that now. If you’re interested.”

I was interested, but I was still too afraid to say anything.

He ate more of the chips and dip by the handful, moaning in pleasure. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. “These are so good, man.”

“But you were always so… athletic before.”

“I know, right? It sucked. I couldn’t grow how I wanted, so I grew muscle instead. It was more ‘acceptable’.” He made air quotes for that last part, sending splatters of dip into the air.

“But you seemed so confident.”

“Dude, I’m always confident. I mean, how can I not be? I’m awesome.” He ate some more. “But you seriously never wondered why I always joked about how skinny you were? Why I made all those comments?”

I shrugged. “Want some soda?” I had Coke and Sprite on the table, but I knew he'd have trouble reaching it.

“Got any soda that isn’t diet?”

“No.”

“Shoot. How about ice cream?”

“Uh, yeah. Some vanilla.”

“Cool. Just melt that down and pour it into a cup, please. Thanks.” He acted like that was a normal request.

“Sure.”

As I was microwaving the carton of ice cream, I took a long moment to sort through my thoughts. Mason had changed himself forever, but he was still the loud, awesome guy that I’ve always known. He was happy.

And he was beautiful. That was probably the most surprising part of this whole thing. When he was fit and hot, I had zero romantic feelings for him. But now…

The ice cream was properly melted. I assumed he was going to drink the whole thing, and I didn’t have any cups big enough, so I just brought the carton back into the living room.

“Low fat?” he said disappointedly after reading the label. “Whatever. Every little bit helps, right?”

The chip and dip bowl was empty now. He’d placed it back on the couch. His hands were covered in dip, though. I should’ve brought a towel.

Except… I think he liked making a mess.

And I was fine with that. I’d clean my couch later.

He grabbed the container and immediately started chugging. A trickle of cream oozed down the edge of his mouth and formed a rivulet across his left tit.

“Since you’ve been back,” I asked, “have you seen anyone else?”

He stopped chugging. “Yeah. My family absolutely freaked. They think I have some thyroid disease or something. Which… maybe I do. My doctor in Chiang Mai has put me on a ton of different medications. I can’t keep track anymore. But yeah, they’re not happy. But I haven’t seen anyone else. Just them and you. And the fine folks at McDonalds, Wendys, Panda Express, and, um, that buffet place.”

His frankness helped me push past my own awkwardness. It was getting easier to ask him questions now. “And what did your parents think when they saw you eat?”

Mason came from a rich family, so their house was fancy and spotless. I couldn’t imagine how they’d react to their son dripping dip and ice cream onto their designer furniture.

He pulled the ice cream away from his mouth and looked me dead in the eyes. “I’d never eat like this in front of them. Just you.” His tone was strangely serious.

“And why am I so special?”

“Because you like it, too.” He grabbed my wrist with his food-stained hand. He gently placed my hand on the top of his belly. “Maybe I’m wrong, Jace, but I always felt that we were, like, kindred spirits or something. Best friends, of course. But also, I don’t know… on the same wavelength. One of the reasons I came back when I did was because I saw your face chunking out and I saw how self-conscious you were about it. I knew I had to finally show you what I was doing to myself to see if you’d finally, like, come to your senses.”

I was speechless. Again.

“Feel it,” he said.

I squeezed into his belly, kneading the soft flesh. My fingers sank in deeper than I’d expected. I’m sure he had a ton of food packed inside, but that did nothing to affect the softness. He felt like the world’s most comfortable pillow.

He was right. We were on the same wavelength.

I took a moment to trace my fingers along his stretchmarks and feel the depth of his belly button. I should’ve never been ashamed of my own weight gain. I should’ve appreciated it, savored it.

“Am I right or am I right?” he asked, all confidence.

To answer the question, I took the ice cream container away from him and brought it to my lips. I drank every last drop, loving the sudden sense of fullness.

Mason had taught me so much, and I knew he was going to teach me so much more.

The End.

Thanks for reading! Out of all the characters I've written, I think Mason is my favorite. I just love his energy. Let me know if you'd be interested in a prequel story about his time in Thailand. I have some ideas...

You can find all my stories here.

[sweetheartspence]

౨ৎ booked & busy - s.r. ౨ৎ

you doze off while studying for finals. spencer is there to take care of you.

pairing: spencer reid x grad student!reader genre: fluff content: established relationship, gn!reader, reader is not taking care of themself, spencer uses pet names, tooth rotting fluff wc: 818 a/n: currently suffering through finals and cannot get my brain to focus. so this itty bitty blurb is the product. i wish i had a spencer to make sure i took care of myself. requests/asks are open! my masterlist!!

Your eyes are starting to blur after reading the same sentence for the fourth time, making no more sense out of it than you had the first three times. You're sitting cross legged on the couch, surrounded by papers, articles on the topic you're writing a dissertation on. God, this is your passion, but sometimes you wish you had picked something a little bit easier.

You scrub your hand over your face, sighing and knocking your glasses askew. There's too many big words, and you haven't gotten nearly enough sleep to process all of them. You've been so busy drafting this paper that you haven't been sleeping properly, and Spencer hasn't been around to make you. You chew absently on your thumbnail, shuffling a stack of papers around, trying to find a specific one. Had it even been in that stack? Did you completely imagine that quote?

You sigh again, setting your highlighter to the side. The words are swimming behind your eyelids, becoming little blobs on the page. You're honestly not even convinced they are words. Maybe this author is just making words up, and gaslighting you into believing they're real because of their credentials and the fact that it's been nearly a week since you've gotten a proper rest.

Maybe if you just close your eyes for a moment, you could get them to focus...

---

Spencer is headed back to your shared apartment. He's just gotten home from a long case across the country, lasting nearly a week and a half, and hadn't let you know that he was coming home. He was intending on surprising you, but when he walks in, he finds you fast asleep on the couch, your head tilted back, your mouth slightly open.

Spencer's heart nearly melts in his chest. God, did you have to be so cute? He wonders for a brief moment why you're not sleeping in your bed, but clocks the articles spread out over your lap and the couch. He smiles, and makes his way over to the couch, careful not to disturb you.

Spencer gathers up the papers, stacking them neatly and setting them aside on the coffee table. He gathers you carefully into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, and carries you off to bed.

---

You wake up horribly disoriented. When did you climb into your bed? You blink slowly, reaching up to rub at your eyes. And your glasses are off...

You sit up, looking around the room, blinking blearily, and you see a man sitting on the other side of the bed. He's reading, his fingers skimming along the pages, his lips pursed in concentration. He looks over at you as you sit up, his dark curls falling into his eyes, and immediately his features soften. "Hi, baby," Spencer says fondly, reaching out for you. He wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you to him, closing the book and setting it carefully on the nightstand. The tips of his fingers slide underneath the material of your shirt, tracing along sensitive skin.

"Hi," you say breathlessly, surprised to see him. "You're... home."

"Try not to sound so excited," Spencer smiles, tucking a stray piece of your hair out of your face. This is his favorite way to see you- soft, sleepy, a little lost, and all his.

"I'm- I was studying, and now I'm in bed," you tell him, your eyes widening almost comically. "Christ, I need to finish that chapter of my dissertation, I have pages due this weekend, and-"

"Sweetheart," Spencer interrupts gently. "You need to sleep. You can't do anything while you're this tired. You'll end up having to rewrite the pages anyway, and that's just going to make more work for yourself."

You bite your lip, considering this for a moment. You know he's right, you're too tired to really focus, and the bed is warm and inviting. Spencer is looking at you with those soft eyes, the expression he saves just for you, and you suddenly can't find it in yourself to move away from him.

"Okay," you whisper, tucking your nose into the soft hollow under his jaw. It fits perfectly into the spot, like it was made for you.

"Okay," Spencer repeats softly, placing a kiss on your forehead. "Go to sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up, and I'll make you tea, and we can figure out a work schedule for you to get your pages done."

You sigh, nuzzling further into his neck, hiking a leg up to drape it around his thigh. "You're too good to me, you know."

"Just giving you what you deserve," Spencer murmurs, running a gentle hand through your hair. "Go to sleep."

You fall asleep like that, tangled up in one another, the smell of him surrounding you. Old books, rain, and a hint of lemon.

It's the best sleep you've gotten in weeks.

[emilys-bangs]

etch | e.p

Tags: established relationship, fluff, too much tension for *checks notes* 1k words, reader gets a (hip) tattoo, emily short-circuits, no design or color mentioned

Summary: You get a tattoo. Emily somewhat loses her train of thought. Requested here.

Word count: 1.1k

Emily sheds her clothes as she walks further into the apartment, toeing her shoes off at the door, shrugging out of her blazer and draping it over the back of the couch as she goes, not really caring about the mess she’s leaving in her wake. She’ll pick them up, she always does, but for now she needs all confining materials off her body. 

It’s quiet. Sergio trots up to her as she’s dumping her bag in the laundry room, curling around her ankles with a trill. Emily smiles and bends to scratch between his ears. “Hey, handsome. Why’s it so quiet here, huh? Y/N didn’t pack up and leave us, did they?” 

Sergio pushes his head into her hand. Emily laughs, dragging her nails through his fur. “Let’s go see, then.”

He chases her ankles as she walks out, her eyes scanning the apartment for a glimpse of you. It’s quiet, yes, but not lifeless; the lights are on, the faint scent of coffee lingers along with a discarded mug on the table. “Babe?” She calls out, pushing open your bedroom door. Sergio follows as she locks her gun in the safe.

“Here.”

A sliver of light pours out from the crack between the bathroom door and the frame, your voice muffled behind it.

Emily gently nudges Sergio’s paw off of her thigh, placing a consoling kiss on his head when he meows. “We haven’t been abandoned yet, Serg. Must be doing something right, huh?” She straightens and nudges the bathroom door open, eyes widening when she sees you standing in front of the mirror.

You’re topless. And peeling a transparent piece of film from your hip, stretching it away to expose a thick, shapeless blob caked just under your navel. Emily stares as you greet her with a smile and toss the film in the trash.

“Hi.”

“Is that a tattoo?” She blurts, stepping closer.

“It is, yeah,” you hum, turning on the tap and wetting a bar of soap. It froths, bubbles growing between your palms as Emily bends a little to get a closer look, trying to discern the design beneath the mess of smeared ink and plasma. She can’t see much before you gently start washing it, rubbing small circles to take the excess gunk off of your skin. You let out a disgusted noise when ink transfers to your fingers.

Emily is still staring. You’ve mentioned wanting to get a tattoo a few times before, but it was always some sort of vague, throwaway comment you murmured with your lips on her hip bone, tracing the ink on her own skin. Everything was blurry—her attention, your voice, the notion of a design beyond simply wanting to get one. Something pretty, you’d say, and the vibrations of the words through her body were enough to clear her mind of anything else.

The tattoo finally comes into view. Your skin is raw around it, puffed and swelling, but there’s no denying it’s gorgeous. The ink glistens on your wet skin, curving intimately around your hip and cupping it like a gentle hand. Emily could mirror the same movement with her palm, only she could never get as close as fusing with your skin.

“Earth to Em.” You murmur teasingly. She looks up when you flick a few drops of water on her, belatedly closing her mouth as your eyes meet. “I’m guessing that means you like it?” You toy with your lip, teeth digging down on a grin.

Fucker.

“It’s pretty,” she says, embarrassed to find a rasp in her voice. Emily clears her throat, “It suits you, love. I’m, uh…just surprised, that’s all.”

“I finally knew what I wanted to get,” you shrug, washing your hands again before reaching for a roll of paper towels. “Didn’t want to wait any longer. I’d have told you, but you were busy. Besides,” you look at her through your lashes, “it evidently makes for a nice surprise.”

She desperately wants to wipe that smirk off your face. Preferably with her lips, but you’re busy, and she knows the demands of tattoo aftercare. Her eyes drop down to it again as you pat it dry, soaking up the water dripping down to the waistband of your pants.

“Evidently.” 

She’s already plagued with the urge to press her lips to it, drag her teeth over your skin and nibble bruises in the space between the ink. Suddenly she understands why you spend hours at her hip and lower back, wandering fingers hot on her skin as you traced along her tattoos. 

You tilt your hip and she imagines it in her hands, her nails digging in crescents, temporary permanence blooming above the stark ink that gets to stay with you longer than she will.

She’s only half answering when you ask her how the case went, how’d she eat, how’d she sleep, even though you’d called almost every night. Emily always tries to keep it vague, but this time it doesn’t even take any effort; her mind can’t focus, her thoughts as fleeting as smoke curling through the gaps between her hands, elusive. You place another sheet of film on your hip, slide your waistband up so that the tattoo is partially covered, and that’s when she somewhat regains her focus.

You’re smug as the cat that got the cream. Emily doesn’t particularly care, her back pressing against the sink as you slot into her arms, your mouth finally meeting hers for a kiss. Her hands splay over your back and gently squeeze, saying hello. She traces your spine, her fingers trailing down to the curve of your waist without permission. You smile into her mouth, the taste of your pride thick on her tongue as she gently thumbs the film on your hip, her eyes still full of the way the ink sneaks up above your waistband. Emily nips hard at your bottom lip, your laugh echoing in her ears as you pull back.

Her breathing is embarrassingly labored, catching in her chest and warming your chin in ragged chops. 

No place like fucking home.

“If you like that one,” you smile, idly tucking her hair behind her ear, “you’ll really love the one I have planned next.”

Oh, Jesus.

“What?” Emily’s throat dries. “Where?” Her nails bite into your flesh.

You run your hand down the side of your chest, fingers drumming just over your ribs. “Thereabouts,” you drawl, airy carelessness in your voice. 

Emily groans into her mouth. “I swear to god,” she murmurs, her grip tight as she pulls you in by the other hip. “You’re going to kill me one day.”

You stumble into her, laughing. “Good way to go, I think.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco@jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked@heartoreadallthequeerthingz

[thekinslayed]

Nobody Tell Daemon!

summary | When the family heirloom is nowhere to be found, you found yourself in the middle of the chaos in the Hightower-Targaryen siblings' apartment.

pairing | modern!aemond x gf!reader x platonic!targtower siblings (aegon, helaena, daeron)

tags | crack fic, mentions of sex, aegon is a sweaty liar, new girl-inspired, slightly succession-inspired, the targs hate each other but live in the same building

wordcount | 4.9k

note | my first attempt at a crack fic 😭 this was inspired by new girl s4ep6 'background check', which is my fav ep in my fav show! thought i’d write something fun this time bc i'm going to miss my chaotic little greenies <3

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated! (divider)

The warm tingle of the morning sun on your bare back made you purr like a cat, limbs stretching over the length on the queen-sized bed. Beside you, the light sprinkle of Aemond’s silver chest hair twinkled under the sunlight, ripples of defined muscle accentuated by the shadows cast. Underneath, his pale flesh had taken a pink hue after some of the strenuous activities you had partaken in when you awakened. On most days, your boyfriend would’ve sprung out of bed the moment the clock struck six thirty, but not today. After all, it was his day off. 

And on his day off, Aemond took his time… in between your thighs.

Laying on your stomach, you settled your chin on your crossed arms to look at your lover. The giggle that bubbled from your lips as you stared into his peaceful face couldn’t be helped, prompting him to crack open his good eye to look at you in question, brow raised.

“That was some good stuff, wouldn’t you say?�� you said, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively. He merely huffed a chuckle, slim cheeks dimpling.

“Fuckin’ amazing, babe,” Aemond replied with a satisfied smile, turning on his side to grab your waist. You squealed in delight as he maneuvered you onto your back. Attacked by kisses, and tickled by the growing stubble on his chin, it had been a while since mornings were this peaceful.

“Why can’t we ever have mornings like this?” you asked rhetorically, ending with a dreamy sigh as his wandering lips found their home in yours. He grunted in agreement, hips canting towards yours to make known the growing zeal in between his legs, ever eager to make the most of your morning.

The answer came in the sight that greeted you the moment you left his room.

Tangled in a crumpled heap of silver hair on the floor, Aemond’s brothers, Aegon and Daeron, were wrestling for the remote.

“Oh, come on, Aeg! I need to catch up on my show!”

“Fuck off, Cocomelon, MILF Manor’s on!”

With a heavy sigh felt in the Seven Heavens, Aemond turned to you with a deadpan face. “This is why.”

The other side of the apartment was in no better shape. A stuffy cloud of greyish smoke enveloped the open kitchen. In the middle of it, Helaena was making breakfast. Flipping a more than well-done pancake, and scrambling a bowl of eggshell-dotted eggs, their sister was unbothered by the ruckus, merely humming to herself. You exchanged a look with Aemond, who nodded at you with a wordless instruction to take over. 

“Morning, sweetie,” you greeted your dear friend, accepting the side hug she happily gave you. Peeking down at the ceramic pan, Aemond hid his grimace at the shape of the blobs of batter she was cooking up.

“Lookin’ good in here, Hel. Why don’t we lend you a hand?” he offered innocently, to which Helaena beamed up with glee. 

“Would you mind flipping that when it’s ready, Aem? I need to go feed the babies for a sec!” 

The moment Helaena turned to scurry off to tend to the numerous critters littered about in jars in her room, Aemond immediately tossed the blackened hotcake into the trash. It was somewhat impressive how his sister somehow managed to make it cling to a nonstick pan, but he dared not say anything. Meanwhile, you cracked some windows open to let some fresh air in, before rolling up the sleeves of Aemond’s old college hoodie to help out by cutting up some fruit. 

Soon enough, all of you managed to find your respective places on the island and finally start eating. It was nice, save for the boys’ banter that managed to have its own seat at the table.

“They’re hooking up with guys my age and their dads?!” Daeron exclaimed, a mixture of awe and slight confusion on his young face at his eldest brother’s choice of morning entertainment. 

“Yeah, bro, and you know what that’s called? Good. Fuckin’. TV. Not that lame superhero shit you’re always into,” Aegon retorted with a full mouth of food, specks of egg flying out of his mouth with every word. Even the ginormous mug engraved with the words ‘I <3 U WITH ALL MY B(.)(.)BS’ couldn’t hide the scowl of disgust on your boyfriend’s face as he sipped his coffee, the gaze on his good eye sharp on the two knobheads before him. 

You tuned out Aemond’s scolding as you were deep into your own conversation with Helaena, who had a chirping cricket balanced on her shoulder. You made sure to keep your steaming cup of matcha away in case the critter had any plans of jumping off. You loved Hel, but gods, did those things make your skin crawl.

The sudden ding! from Aemond’s pocket cut through the chatter of the table. With his attention shifted to his phone, you stole some of his bacon, watching on in curiosity as his brows furrowed in confusion. “Daemon’s having the whole building inspected?” he announced, making everyone turn to him in attention.

“Did he fuck someone in the building who gave him crabs?” Aegon quipped in a matter all too nonchalant that everyone had turned to him with an incredulous look.

“No. Mum said Dad’s dagger he left for Daemon in the will isn’t in the penthouse anymore. Asshole’s bringing in KLPD’s ‘best’ or whatever the fuck, some guy called Jason Lannister’s going to be up here doing the search. The Lion,” Aemond read off the text on his phone, before shutting it off with a scoff of disbelief. He muttered a few curses for his uncle under his breath before a flicker of realization struck his face, turning to Aegon. “Did someone in this building give you crabs?”

“N-no? Just heard it from uh, uh… the doorman!”

“Aeg, you know you’re a terrible liar, right?” you mused, eyeing the way his pale cheeks had almost immediately turned red at the sudden inquisition. Aegon was a sweaty, anxious liar who spent his teenage years nearly wetting his pants before he could pull out his fake ID at a liquor store. Any more prodding and his gray t-shirt would have been marked with sweat stains.

“Ha, you guys think they call him The Lion because he’s ferocious, and feeds on crime and bad guys as grub? Man, that’s cool,” Daeron remarked, shaking his head with an innocent satisfaction for making such an observation. You turned to Helaena to giggle in amusement, but she was staring off to the side, biting her lip while deep in thought. 

“The Lannisters are lions, Daeron. It’s their family sigil. You would know this if you didn’t spend all your time in middle school messing with your iPad with your snotty hands, you oaf,” Aemond retorted, making the youngest pout at the realization. You turned back to finishing your meal, paying Helaena no mind. It wasn’t uncommon to have her like this, often lost in her head that all of you knew to leave her alone until she was back to herself. 

Rising from his stool, Aegon made his way around the island to grab butter for his toast. “Slept with a Lannister once. Let me tell ya, boys, they are feisty!” the eldest bragged, punctuating with a feline growl that made Aemond roll his eye for the tenth time before noon. Butter dish in hand, Aegon padded over to the utensil drawer for a knife. “Why does the prick think we have it anyway? It’s not like we need anything from the rotten old ha— Oh, shit.” 

And there it was, between cheap IKEA spoons, packets of wooden chopsticks from takeout, and water-stained cutlery, sat the Targaryen family heirloom— the Valyrian steel catspaw dagger. It stood out from the wooden drawer like a sore thumb. Shiny, heavily embellished with a real stone of ruby that could pay off your student loans, and inscribed by what you were told were Valyrian glyphs; it was outright gaudy in your opinion. 

When Viserys Targaryen, a multi-media conglomerate and filthy-rich billionaire, passed from his long battle with cancer, he had stated in his will that each of his children was to inherit a portion of his riches. Their eldest half-sister, Rhaenyra, had been given almost half of their father’s wealth in money and property, as well as being the immediate successor to the family company, Dragonstone Corporation. For the rest of the siblings, the other half was split among the four of them, which was, frankly, chump change compared to what their sister got. The only consolation was that they were granted to keep any furniture in their dad’s penthouse. Not the flat itself though, that was for Daemon, as well as the family heirloom that no one else coveted but their uncle.

Now, did the Targaryens have enough money to settle themselves into a manor large enough that each of them could have rooms larger than their current living spaces? Abso-fucking-lutely. But Viserys had been sick for a long time, tethering at a hair’s breadth from death for years. At that time, he had expressed his dying wish of having his family close to him, despite their many, many differences and ill feelings. These hotheaded silver heads could hardly stand to be under the same roof with each other; as if Aemond’s missing eye wasn’t proof enough, but their father was more persistent to have his way. Hence, they had all been given keys to their own flats in one of Dragonstone Co.’s premier luxury buildings, the Red Keep. 

Rhaenyra and Harwin were on the second floor, with Jace and Luke in a bachelor’s pad two doors down. Alicent was on the fourth, taking a smaller place of her own after her husband’s passing with her trusted bodyguard and oddly close companion, Criston Cole, staying in the unit adjacent to hers. Aemond and the siblings were situated in a spacious 4-bedroom on the thirteenth floor, the farthest away from anyone.

Technically, they were all still under the same roof, but it helped when the only time one could encounter their estranged kin was when they had the misfortune of being down at the mailboxes together, which was rarely ever. They always had the freedom to move out, but the Red Keep was a highly sought-after property, centrally located in the heart of King’s Landing. It afforded them luxuries not found in other places, a more than perfect location if only it weren’t for the fact that it ran the risk of bumping into their estranged, unmistakably hungover uncle walking his dog Caraxes at the private dog park. 

Their grief on their loss was brief, rather relieved with being free of the ghost of a father’s hold on their lives, but Viserys’ blatant favoritism had the siblings muttering ill wishes in his afterlife. You were there with Aemond on the day the children were called up to take their pick of the furniture in the penthouse, wide-eyed at the millions worth of designer, custom furnishings adorning the space. They were all given their respective colored stickers that they tabbed on their picks, yet none of them seemed to be enthusiastic about the whole ordeal.  No talk of some family heirloom was discussed as far as you were aware, rather busied with tugging on Aemond’s sleeve to urge him to place his claim on the toile de Jouy fine china that would go exceptionally well with the countryside cottage you were saving up for when you got married.

“Aegon, how many times do I have to say you can’t sell Dad’s stuff on eBay? Not the important ones at least!”

“Hey, it’s not me! You’re the one who’s got a crush on Daemon, you sure you didn’t take it to piss him off?”

The sound of the instant finger-pointing and bickering within the boys was deafening. No one seemed to have any recollection of taking the dagger back to their place, nor did they express any want for it. It seemed that Viserys left one last act of messing with his kids’ lives, a ghostly imbecilic stunt, especially when Daemon was threatening to sue for inheritance theft. 

Beside you, an anxious Helaena was biting her lip as you both watched the three sons butt heads in finding the culprit. The urge to spit out the truth was palpable, emanating from her slouched, mohair-sweater-adorned body as your eyes widened in realization. One worried look from her and you understood. After all, she was your best friend, you knew her like the back of your hand. 

“Okay! It was me!”

The arguments ceased at her exclaim, three and a half pairs of eyes turning to stare at her instantaneously. No one opened their mouth to voice their frustration, not when it came to Helaena. Alicent’s only girl rubbed a hand over her face in angst, fidgeting on the island’s bar stool as they all awaited her explanation. “I found it in Dad’s study when I was looking for the taxidermy beetles he used to have. It was on the shelf… and nobody put a sticker on it so I didn’t know!”

“That’s because Daemon’s made it pretty clear it was his since the dawn of time, big sis,” Daeron replied, scratching the back of his neck as they all pondered on what to do. 

“Why’d you even want this old thing, Hel? It’s ugly as shit,” Aegon commented, flipping the dagger on the counter with a frown on his face. 

Another frustrated groan left her lips, face planting on her arms while you tried to soothe her, shooting a warning look at the three boys still standing around the table. “I thought it was kinda nice to have! Like, you know… for charcuterie and stuff!”

“Well, why can’t you guys just talk to Daemon about it? It was an honest mistake! He won’t send his own family to jail… right?” you suggested, flashing a lighthearted smile that went unreciprocated by the four silverheads around you. Frankly, your words failed to convince yourself too, because if there was one thing you learned in the years you’ve spent with the Targaryens, it was that nothing ever got fixed with a simple conversation. They were all quick to anger, jumping at the first chance to butt heads when it presented itself. This was going to be tricky.

A resounding buzz from the unit’s intercom cut through the worried tension within the group, your stress multiplying when the snobby voice of Jason Lannister reverberated from the tiny box.

“Good morning, this is Jason Lannister, a detective with the KLPD. I am here on request by Mr. Daemon Targaryen for an item he claims to have been stolen from your father’s penthouse. Your unit will be the first to be searched, I appreciate your cooperation.”

Seven Hells, of course, they were first. The Hightower side of the family definitely wasn’t Daemon’s favorite bunch, and there was no doubt that there was a huge possibility he could sniff them out in no time. Chaos ensued almost immediately, a mirrored panic prompting everyone in the house to look for ways to dispose of the damned knife. 

“Throw it in the trash!” Daeron suggested, opening the lid to the bin. Aegon, already perspiring down his forehead, shook his head vehemently.

“No, wait! Don’t let me see where you’ll hide it! The moment he comes in here, I’ll just yell trash!” he rambled, promptly covering his eyes with a hand and turning his back away. Gods, the pit stains on his shirt were already growing darker with sweat. Gross.

“Why don’t we just throw it out the window?” you pointed out, jabbing a thumb to the open window behind you. Helaena and Daeron both nod in agreement, voicing their thoughts on the idea.

“And stab someone in the brain on its way down? Not necessarily making it better for us,” Aemond grumbled, clearly the most stressed among the group. His good eye waved across the space frantically, thinking of ways of an alibi. There was no doubt the search would be thorough, and he wouldn’t put it past Daemon to order for their whole place to be turned upside down in the process. There was no way they could hide in their apartment, unless… 

The idea hit him like a brand-new light bulb, his features brightening as he contemplated. “What if,” he started, rubbing his chin in thought at such a bold plan. “What if we hide it at mum’s place?”

“Are you insane?! You’re seriously going to pin this on our own mother?” Daeron questioned, his eyes wide with bewilderment at his brother’s plan. It was a shitty plan, but they were running out of options.

“She’s at the lake house until Sunday, and they can’t search without a warrant if they don’t have her consent. We’ll just use the keys she gave us, keep it there, and when the whole thing blows over, we’ll secretly put it back in the penthouse,” Aemond explained, waving his hands around wildly. It was clear he didn’t agree with this plan either, but it was better than throwing the knife out and landing it on someone’s skull on accident. “If they find it there, we’ll ask Nyra for help. We’ll just have to trust whatever gross girl crush feelings she has left for Mum. She can deal with Daemon, can’t she?”

You all looked at each other, contemplating. Daemon hasn’t had a judge issue a warrant yet, so her unit won’t be searched while she’s still out of town with Criston and her brother, Gwayne. It was tricky… but it was plausible. Another buzz from the lobby urged you to decide faster, but as no one seemed to think of a better option it was determined. 

With a silent agreement from everyone, Aemond nodded, before taking the catspaw dagger and placing it in an old shoebox. He fished the keys his mother gave him, before disappearing out the front door. In the meantime, Daeron buzzed the detective into the building, while you and Helaena fixed up the damp, clammy mess that was Aegon. 

“I can’t handle this,” he whined, chest heaving. You were coaching him on what to say in case The Lion asked him anything, but his tongue was all in a twist from how anxious he was. Turning him around by the shoulders, a prominent sweat stain the size of Dorne covered the entire backside of his sleep shirt. Why the hell was his eye twitching so much?

“Oh my gods, you’re a mess! Here,” his sister urged, handing him the oversized, clunky sweater she had knit him for his birthday earlier this year. It was a bright yellow, with a forest green cartoon dragon embroidered on its chest, and fell just around mid-thigh. Helaena turned to you, exchanging a twin look of concern at the sight of him. Skin flushed, greasy, silver locks stuck to his forehead, clad in a bright sweater in the middle of summer. He kind of looked like the Michelin man in boxers.

“Relax, you’re going to be fine! We’re all going to be fine, right?” you reassured the room with a light tone of confidence, though the squeak in your voice all told them otherwise.

The longer Aemond took to return, things were starting to feel less fine. 

Sat on the couch tightly together, you all were stiff as cardboard as The Lion explained the customary steps of a search. Your eyes shifted to the door every minute, anxiously waiting for your boyfriend to return. None of you were suited to face a man like Jason Lannister, whose eyes studied all of you like a predator waiting to prowl. “This isn’t a formal search, since, of course, your uncle has been issued a warrant by a judge yet. But since all tenants of the home are here, consent can be authori—”

“Brogues!” Aegon suddenly shouted, prompting all eyes to turn to him. Jason tilted his head in confusion, and all three of you resisted the urge to bury your heads into your hands. “Uh, y-you’re wearing brogues,” he said, clearing his throat. A shaky finger pointed at the decorated, brown leather shoes adorning The Lion’s feet, followed by an attempt at a nonchalant smile that looked more like a grimace. You subtly pinched his thigh, silently urging him to get it together. 

“Hm? Oh, yes! Thank you for noticing them, Mr. Targaryen,” Lannister replied, a tinge of bafflement still decorating his tone. “Anyway, as I was saying…” He continued to explicate the procedure, pulling out a small notepad and a pen from his pocket before beginning his search. 

Before he could start, the front door opened to reveal Aemond, who was unaware of the presence of an officer of the law standing in the middle of the living room. His hand ran through the messed up strands of his hair, while his mouth also ran a mile a minute blindly. “Okay, I know that took so long but the twins were on the elevator and I had to take the sta–” Springing up from your seat, you cut your boyfriend’s words off by slamming your lips onto his to shut him up. You might have exaggerated the kiss to keep it believable, but it took Aemond a second to piece two and two together when you pulled away.

“Detective Lannister, this is my boyfriend, Aemond, who just came from, uh, the gym.” The Lion’s brows furrowed at your words, blue orbs flickering to the Adidas slides the silver-haired man was clearly not wearing to lift weights at the gym. Aemond cleared his throat, composing himself, before straightening his back to stand taller.

“Yes, I like to run… barefoot. Better for your feet!” he lied, throwing you a look that made you smile at him sheepishly for such a terrible excuse. Things were going south at a breakneck speed, and would only continue to go downhill when The Lion announced he would begin his search.

The detective soon pulled on a pair of latex gloves, taking nearly an hour to examine each nook and cranny of your home. Drawers were pulled open, rooms examined and closets bared, the dagger was nowhere to be found. Relief started to waft through the four-bedroom apartment, but your success was shortlived when the blonde Lannister soon announced that after his search he would all question you individually, starting with Aegon.

Shit.

The sound of the bedroom door closing almost had the eldest collapsing, body seriously overheating in a mix of dread and fear as Lannister stood before him.

“Now, Aegon. I know you have seen this dagger in your dad’s home before he passed. I want you to tell me everything you know that could help with finding it,” he said. Aegon racked his brain to think of a lie, any lie, but his tongue refused to utter any word that held no ounce of the truth of the heirloom’s actual whereabouts. He recalled the stuff you had taught him to say.

I haven’t seen it since I was a kid, detective.

I’m pretty sure Daemon already has the dagger.

I don’t know.

“I wear latex gloves on my feet once a week to moisturize them.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but his brain refused to stop wiring out actual truths about himself in an attempt to sway the detective’s attention away from the topic at hand. “I had my first kiss at a movie theater when I was 15. We were watching Forrest Gump, and I was snoggin’ all three hours of that film. It was awesome,” he continued, letting out a small chuckle at the memory. The Lion’s brows must be stuck in its furrowed state now, with the absolute nonsense that greeted him the moment he stepped foot into their door.

“What are you talking about?’ the detective asked in absolute bewilderment.

“I’ve had a lot of sex. A lot. I’ve probably gotten a lot of girls pregnant, for all I know. Oh! You wanna see my son Jaehaerys? He just turned five!” Aegon had reached into his pocket to grab his phone, but Lannister had thrown up his hands in exasperation with a sigh. 

“Okay! I think I’m all done here. I will have to take a look at your mother’s place after this.”

“Y-you can’t do that, she isn’t home!” Aegon stammered, panicking at the prospect that their strategy was going to fail and their mother would be locked behind bars for their mistake. 

 “Oh no, I was informed just this morning that she was on her way back.”

With his words, Aegon just about fainted the moment The Lion swung the door open to leave his room.

You couldn’t have imagined things taking a turn for the worse, but it most certainly did tenfold. Alicent had barely set her Louis Vuitton weekender bag down before The Lion was already prowling through her home, with a displeased Daemon Targaryen arriving to keep a close watch. If Viserys’ brother was suspicious of his nephews and niece stealing his heirloom, he was especially convinced that their mother would have it. You all stood in her kitchen holding your breaths; an anxious, huddled mess silently praying to whatever being in the sky that nothing would be found. Even Nyra had made her way to her estranged friend’s unit, voicing her belief that Alicent would not have taken the catspaw dagger. 

Your prayers went unanswered when The Lion emerged from Alicent’s walk-in closet, carrying an old Ferragamo shoebox that contained the hefty, Valyrian steel weapon. Daemon’s chuckle was as wicked as a witch’s, clearly triumphant with finding something to penalize his brother’s widow.

“This is absurd! I did not take that thing from the penthouse, or anything at all!” was Alicent’s defense, but Daemon was having none of it.

“Oh save it, Alicent. You couldn’t wait to get your hands on my brother’s possessions after he’s left you so little, could you, red?” he sneered, pointing an accusing hand into the woman’s face. Criston Cole pushed Alicent behind his back in defense, puffing his chest menacingly to dare Daemon to try anything. Yells and insults echo throughout the apartment, with threats of jail time thrown about to make things worse.

“This is bad, this is bad,” Daeron muttered, biting his fingernails down to stubs as he watched on. You turned to Aemond, whose good eye was widened to the size of a dinner plate as he watched his plan turn to shit.

“Do something,” you urged him, pulling on his wrist. He was stuck in place, mouth gaping like a fish.

“I…” he stuttered.

“I can’t take it anymore, I’ll just come clean,” Helaena spoke up, stepping away to admit her fault. Before she could voice her guilt, the sound of a steel handcuffs being unhinged was a shrill noise, and with it, a sweaty Aegon broke out into a sob.

“No, Mummy!” 

In a blink, he crossed the room to cling to his mother, shielding him away before the detective could put her in cuffs. Alicent’s face broke out into a look of surprise, then to disgust at the damp hold her son had her in. 

“Mister Targaryen, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside,” Jason ordered. Aegon looked at his siblings, a shocked Aemond, an anxious Daeron, then to a guilty Helaena. With a sigh, the eldest stood straight, swallowing down his pride and mustering his courage. 

“It was me,” he lied, taking everyone in the room in shock at his admittance. “I took it because… I wanted something of Dad’s to remember him by. I mean, Nyra, you got everything else, I thought it didn’t matter if I took something smaller like this. I was just keeping it safe in Mum’s closet.”

You exchanged a look of surprise with the siblings, somehow feeling impressed at his display. The execution was flawless, and it even had their half-sister wearing a look of guilt at his words. Aegon dropped to the floor, stomach down onto the carpet with his hands behind his back, despite the look of perplexion around the room.

“Alright, officer. Take me downtown to the pound. I only hope my end will be kind.”

“I can’t believe Aeg’s sweaty ass got us out of trouble, even guilt-tripped Nyra to hell,” Daeron snickered, before taking a swig of his beer. The sun was only beginning to set, the remnants of the midsummer breeze carrying a tinge of humidity in the night air. You all lounged about the rooftop, passing around ice-cold beers while Aemond was manning the barbeque. 

After the whole ordeal, Rhaenyra managed to talk their uncle out of wanting to sue Aegon. With hushed whispers and an oddly intimate caress on Daemon’s cheek, their brother was free to go. His little speech made her feel bad for him, and frankly, everyone else was more than over dealing with his anxious, sweaty mess. The Lion soon left their mother’s apartment, Daemon had his dagger back, and Alicent showed her thanks over a bottle of wine with Rhaenyra along with some other activities their kids didn’t want to start imagining.

“For what it’s worth, I’m proud of myself for doing the impossible today. I think I make a pretty convincing liar,” Aegon said, wearing a proud look on his face. The second son scoffed at his words, approaching the table with a plate of grilled meats. He took his seat at the edge of the lounge bed you were lying on, stealing a swig of your beer.

“Congratulations. You have as much willpower as the two-year-old daughter you’ve forgotten about,” your boyfriend snorted, before being tackled off his ass and onto the ground by the eldest. You watched on in amusement, shaking your head at their antics.

You’ve learned many things in your time with the Targaryens, but one thing was always for sure, there was never a dull moment with any of them.