#This is my third year doing it and I LOVE IR

[whosectype]

Art dump from my first few days at figure drawing boot camp!!!!

#This is my third year doing it and I LOVE IR #the sketchbook drawings were ones I did during my five minute bdeals when the model was resting hehe #ALSO the leafy dude is an oc of mine I’ve had for like 3 years #Actually created him the first time I did this camp teehee #My art #traditional art #figure drawing #doodles #This is 10 hours a day #and we aren’t allowed to sit while we draw from the model so my feet hurt a lil teehee

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 4: Love

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Here be the fourth chapter of the rework - you’ll all recognise this one! There’s some minor changes made to flow on with the previous stuff, but beyond that, it’s the OG third chap. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs​, my slap daddy lobster Ange, for reading through this chapter for me and making sure I’m not uploading total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, objectification of women, age gap.

Daemon supposes it is true what they say about Targaryens—that they are proud and violent and easy to incite to desire and madness. He lives up to the name, he supposes.

Now that his want has come to light, he cannot erase you from his mind. He withdraws to his chambers for the next few days, making his presence around the Keep as scarce as he can so that he might avoid you. The prospect of looking at you—your wide-eyed innocence, trusting open expression, still his littlest girl beneath all that ripening—and recalling the depths of his degeneracy each time he meets your eye seems an insurmountable task.

But a new issue arises. He finds he quite literally cannot rid the image of you from his musings, the enemy that is his own thoughts discovering some new wretched path to you in all he does to seek distraction. His books remind him of your love for old Valyrian histories and poetry, of sitting with him, a great tome spread out further than your little arms could extend and reciting the letters in a halting tongue. Training with the sword strikes memories of how you’d fiddle with the pommel of Dark Sister whenever you stood by him, alerting him to your presence far easier than his own eyes ever could. Attempting to govern a bout of cyvasse is utterly dull with only himself as an opponent, and—blast it all—prompts reminiscence of how you’d choose to sleep soundly in his lap as a tot, wet smacking mouth darkening the front of his doublet as he’d match minds against Viserys with only one hand free, the other keeping you chained to slumber with gentle pats to the bottom.

Resistance is fruitless. And so, he gives into the desire. For the first time in years, he unfastens his breeches and takes his cock out with the intention of spending in his own hand.

How mightily I have fallen, he thinks drolly, spitting in his palm, grasping his shaft and allowing his imagination to conjure the likeness of sweet eyes and full mouth and shapely breasts, a precious little gift just waiting for the right recipient to unwrap and play. He thinks of your soft little hands and soft little voice, how darling you would look with those same hands on his cock and your stare wide and trusting, whispering his name in naïve question as he coaxes you to his completion, gifting you a pretty pearl necklace for a pretty little girl—

“Fuck!” he moans, seed splattering over his fist.

It stains his breeches and drips over his boots, inspiring sudden gladness that he hadn’t thought to revisit Sirille’s whore or seek out another of his old haunts, for not bending some meaningless fuck over and exerting his lusts on a cunt worth mere coppers in coin. The speed of his release would have been thoroughly humiliating. Wiping his hand distastefully upon his shirt, he wonders at how best to resolve his growing problem.

It is a problem. How you have unmanned him! How insipid it is to long for a girl of seventeen as though he is some pockmarked, upstart lad of lesser standing! If he were dull-witted, his ire at himself might very well drive him to rail at you for the manner in which you’ve ensorcelled him. But doing so will not aid his particular malady.

The brothel…Perhaps the answer lies in the past. The instant he thinks it, he wishes he hadn’t.

No. He shouldn’t ruin you. He will not ruin you. Besides, you had been deterred rather than encouraged by even his lightest provocations, his half-hearted flirtation failing utterly. In the face of his veiled innuendos and covetous stares, you had retreated into yourself, pulling away and levelling him with that soft, reproaching little mouse-glare of yours. Any other maiden and he would double down, pursue until he had overrun them and given them little choice but to lift their skirts and let him steal away their virtue. Yet, this brings him distinct discomfort. He cannot abide the notion of despoiling you so ignobly.

Daemon wonders at the hesitation, for it had brought him little pain to do the same to his eldest niece. He considers that because it had always been his intention to shore up his own succession—by either wedding Rhaenyra or destroying her reputation, getting her out of his way—the thought of doing the same to you had never crossed his mind.

Hm. What can he do, then? Wait for this—this feeling—to pass? He is the blood of the dragon, true; and, like the flame from which those winged beasts were born, he burns hot and bright and stinging—until the flame flickers away, doused by the merest brush of air or touch of water. In moments of want, it becomes a need, something he would kill and die to possess, and then another obsession takes hold. Men of passion—men like him—are so rarely faithful to their fancies.

Alas, you are no ordinary woman; it stands to reason that his lust is no ordinary yearning. You are everything he has ever envisioned in an ideal bride. The right bloodline. The right family name. The right temperament. These things alone…

It does not even take into consideration the simplest fact—that, though time and circumstance has changed so much, there is nothing that can destroy his deepest affection for you, his sweet little niece.

No closer to devising his way forward, Daemon does what he can to evade encountering you. It is hardly an effort, for you seem to perpetually cycle between the same activities and yet, simultaneously, are nowhere to be found. He shuns the obvious places—the library, your Hightower siblings’ rooms, Rhaenyra’s solar, the courtyard, the garden—and even deigns to add the training yard and the kitchen to the list. Luckily, he seems to have either frightened you off or had simply chanced upon a rare occurrence in which you were discoverable.

After four more mornings, he is unsurprised to see you absent once more from your father's table to break your fast. You have missed the previous occasions, too. A sennight and a day had been more than enough time for him to decide that he detested these mealtimes. Quite obviously an attempt on his brother's part to foster unity between the squabbling factions in his family, he is usually faced with the choice of either indulging in the bickering of the children or pretending he gives a fuck about anything the Hightower woman has to say. Not that Her Grace has been particularly interested in engaging him in conversation. Instead, she carefully plays the part of ignorance, watching him from directly across the table with her beady little eyes each time he so much as moves. Loathsome bitch. She must have a magical cunt for Viserys to have managed to pump four of those wretched spawn into her.

This is why he is startled when Rhaenyra and Laenor enter with their two boys, followed swiftly by you and that idiot Cole. You have an air of irritation about you, as though you had been interrupted at your leisures when your elder sister had come to collect you for the first proper meal you would see in days.

The sight of Rhaenyra—as lovely a sight as it is—sends a weak thud of hurt through his chest. But it is the sight of you that inspires a far greater reaction.

You are no less striking in the morning light that streams in from the open balcony. Garbed in a short-sleeved gown of powdered blue and wild hair pulled back in a simple braid, the adjustments only serve to emphasise the parts of you that had changed in the ten years since he had last seen you. Half-convinced that his first meeting with you was an inexplicable fever-dream sent by the gods to taunt him, he is once more besieged by the sight of your rose-bloom lips, your bare throat—why the fuck do you not wear jewels to cover up all that exposed flesh, the sight is positively lewd—and charming little tits peaked in maiden's flirtation. The dress does little to hide your endowments from his rapacious gaze, for all its modest bodice and looser fit.

He does his best not to let his turmoil play out on his face as you move further into the room. Laenor drops into the empty seat beside him, narrowing his eyes in a manner that suggests he’s noticed where Daemon’s attention has been focused. The lad’s fair to suspect him—his exploits in the Stepstones hadn’t been limited to warfare, after all.

“Father, Daemon,” Rhaenyra greets, settling herself down next to her husband.

He finds the noted absence of greeting to the Hightower woman wildly entertaining. While it is not lost on her, the Queen has deigned to overlook the arrival of her once-best friend. Instead, she turns to survey her ailing King in an affectation of care. He decides it is only polite to return his eldest niece’s salutation. Rhaenyra smiles in response to his well-wishes, an acknowledgement of his words and nothing more.

"Good morrow, daughter!” Viserys says to his eldest, looking fondly down the table as his grandsons are settled in at their seats. His gaze moves to you. “Ah, child! We haven't seen you in an age!"

He has brightened in excitement at his first glance of you, and you smile sweetly at him as you pass by to press a kiss of greeting to your father's balding head.

"My apologies, Papa," you say to Viserys warmly. “I have been ever so preoccupied with my studies, you see. I did not wish to fall behind.”

“Studies, my girl? I had rather thought you were avoiding Lord Denys again!”

He has to grit his teeth at the mention of that idiot. What in the Seven hells is Viserys thinking, allowing a lackwit like the Rose of Highgarden anywhere near you? To think that he’d be willing to ship you off to so ordinary an existence as the Lady Tyrell. The blood of the Freehold, forced to mingle with farming stock. What dishonour!

At the mention of the lord, your earnest little stare transforms into a myriad of quick-vanishing demonstrations of your distaste for the man. Daemon is savagely glad to see it.

“That, too.” You beam when your father laughs. It is a most pleasing expression on your features, a guise that erases the lingering pensiveness clinging to you like a second skin—one that you should always bear.

Would that he could replace the gloom that reclaims you so soon after.

“Darling.”

Alicent frowns at him from her position at his brother’s side. She appears to have caught him looking, not that he cares overmuch for her judgement. It intrigues him that she appears to be addressing you. He had thought the family quite divided by old and new—and as Aemma’s last living child, that places you firmly in the former category.

She smiles up at you, gesturing you toward her. “Come sit by me.”

Clearly, his assumption is incorrect. You happily proceed around your father to sit in the empty seat beside the Queen, placing you next to the youngest one, Daeron. He can only remember the name due to its similarity to his own. You grin fondly down at the boy, and it is easy to imagine you doing the same one day with his own son. You ruffle his hair when he makes an exclamation of your name, disregarding the snide glances offered to you by the older two. Ah, that is more like it.

“What are you working on currently, sister?” Rhaenyra interrupts his musings from next to Laenor, wordlessly reminding young Lucerys to pause his chatter while eating.

His mouth upturns when he sees you brighten, stopping in the middle of selecting fruits and cheese and pastries to pile on your plate. The shame feels like a distant memory as he watches you, dish aloft in your hand while you enthusiastically turn to engage with your older sister.

“I have been consulting with Ser Lysan on writing a compendium of the Dothraki language,” you say excitedly.

Who the fuck is ‘Ser Lysan’? And what in the Seven hells is she doing learning Dothraki? Daemon’s brow raises sceptically as he mulls over the fact that you—a sweet little untouched princess—appear to have dealings with horse-fucking, barbarous brutes in the East.

“There is some debate as to how we will proceed,” you add, carefully side-eyeing the oldest of the Hightower boys as he snickers at your pronouncement, “as our letters do not correspond correctly with the phonetics of their speech. We will have to either take creative liberties or devise additional symbols to signify these sounds.”

Perhaps he has woefully underestimated you. You seem to possess an intellect that may well be formidable—at least when it comes to your philosophies and languages. A fascinating paradox of a girl, he thinks, to be so clever and unknowing all at once. For all your book learning, there is much about the world you lack understanding of. It is tempting to remedy this in the most depraved manner possible.

Not here. Not now.

“That sounds… interesting.”

Rhaenyra sounds anything but interested. Does anyone take interest in your pursuits? Anyone at all? Looking around the table at the uncertain faces of those you call family, it appears not. No wonder you seem so alone.

“Dothraki, of all the languages to learn?” he asks. “An interesting pursuit for a princess.”

You make direct eye contact with him, arranging your features into a facade of polite courtesy; it is closed off, withdrawn, and you return your plate to its place upon the table.

“I am learning, yes.” You absent-mindedly reach across the little one beside you to remove a silver-handled knife from the second-eldest boy—Aemon, is it not?—and place it out of his reach. It is a good call; he had been poking the surface before him with the tip, gouging small divots into the wood. You disregard his protestations, continuing your line of thought. “I would not claim to be proficient, however. It is a complex language, and I have not studied it for long enough to consider myself fluent.”

“It is a savage language.” The eldest of the Queen’s sons has an expression fixed in what Daemon can only assume is meant to be a look of disdain. As ugly as the boy is, the effect is rather lost on present company. “No wife of mine will occupy herself with such things.”

This one too? Unbelievable. It would make more sense to betroth you to your brother than to the Lord of Highgarden. If only the brother in question wasn’t so… pathetic. Pathetic now—but when he becomes a man, a true peril to any chance she may have at happiness.

He swallows back bile at the thought. However would you survive being bound to a sneering wretch who sought to stifle any joy you might experience, and all for the sake of control? It is too harsh a fate for someone so pure.

You frown softly, shoulders squaring off in your disapproval. “Just because their culture is different, Aegon”—ah, yes! No wonder he was such a disappointment with a name such as the Conqueror’s to try and fail to live up to—“does not mean they are savages.” 

His nose flares with the necessity of suppressing his own amusement. Such guilelessness; such gullibility! You really are too sweet.

“They fuck their horses, don’t they?” Aegon asks disparagingly, echoing exactly what he had been thinking only moments prior.

The younger boy titters beside him. You open your mouth to respond, brow wrinkled in affront, when the Queen cuts across you.

“Aegon! That’s enough!” she says sharply, and the boy abruptly withdraws, tucking his head down and quietly resuming his meal with a muttered apology.

As a lull falls across the remaining occupants of the room, all that can be heard is the scraping of utensils over dishware and the hissing remonstrations of the Queen to her eldest, whispered reminders of how princes ought to treat those they are courting. Given that the recipient is three places down from her—and you are, in fact, between them—her words are neither quiet nor tactful. Your head bows, lower lip quivering only once, pretending not to hear as you pick apart the remnants of food on your plate.

“An intellectual, my daughter is.” Viserys breaks the stillness with forced joviality, engaging him in conversation once more.

He had paid little attention to the spat—no doubt avoiding his fatherly responsibilities as he has done since time immemorial, long since used to ignoring the conflict that sparks beneath his very nose. Daemon is simultaneously fond and contemptuous of his brother, the years having done little to change the spinelessness so central to his personality as man and monarch both.

“Always learning something new,” the man says merrily, “always needing books and tutors to satisfy that mind of hers. She would be a maester of the Citadel, methinks, had she been born a man.” 

She would be Prince of Dragonstone if she had been born a man, Daemon snorts to himself, and I’d not need be sitting here with the Hightower bitch and her offspring.

“Papa!” A pretty flush reddens your exposed ears and the apples of your cheeks.

He trails the path of the blush as it spreads to your chest, most assuredly travelling down to kiss the shy swell of your breasts under that damned raised neckline. He has never hated an item of clothing quite so much as he does your gown.

“That Ser Lysan Marios of hers,” the King explains. “A man from the Free Cities, do you know? She was ever so delighted when I solicited his services.”

A tutor, then. But what is his place in your life? This is what Daemon wishes to know.

“He is a respectable gentleman,” Rhaenyra says, no doubt having witnessed his perplexity. “Though it’s quite amusing, really; for an old man like him, he is rather adept at making his way about the Keep unnoticed. You’d think someone with such poorly knees would be easier to find.”

He hadn’t truly believed your tutor to harbour untoward feelings for you, but relief suffuses him, nonetheless. An elderly man with weak joints could hardly muster the energy nor stamina to seduce his young charge—especially a burgeoning little nymphet like you, so reserved and restrained, desperate for release from the bonds of propriety. His gut tightens at the image he has conjured.

“We always leave a note, ’Nyra,” you say, your posy-petal lips frowning.

“And by the time I send someone to find you, you have moved off elsewhere.”

You hum an agreement, picking still at the remainder of your meal. Daemon spies the Hightower woman’s pointed glare over you, the quailing of the eldest boy. The lad clears his throat and turns to you.

“Sister. Would”—he pauses to clear his throat again—“would you… care to take a turn around the garden with me? At, er—the hour of the boar?”

How the fuck has he managed to make it worse?

Daemon almost preferred his snobbish spite over this pitiful attempt at flattery. If he’d been uncertain as to the boy’s success at winning you over, he’s not anymore. There’s scarce to be any maiden who would accept such a snivelling offer.

You appear rather baffled. “Oh. I appreciate the offer, Aegon… but I am afraid I have plans then.” A polite smile of contrition curves your lips.

Your brother does not like this. With a barely restrained sneer, he begins to respond. “But—”

“—I am intending to visit Athfiezar,” you cut across, placid as ever. “You are welcome to accompany me there, if you wish?”

The boy blanches. “No!” He says, shaking his head.

You make a soft noise of acknowledgement, allowing your focus to drift to the small one immediately beside you. And, with that, the conversation ceases entirely.

Rhaenyra was right in asserting her inability to pronounce the name of your feral mount. The guttural inflections in your honey-sweet voice speak to something wild and untamed, a spark of the magic that had brought his line to life so long ago.

“Interesting name.” Daemon is unable to help himself. You blink disconcertedly at him as he speaks. It is the second time in as many occurrences that he has seen your countenance alight with startlement at his address. A nervous little morsel, you are. “A Dothraki word, is it?”

He can only assume this. Based on his few dealings with the horde of savages during his time in Essos, the word sounds similar to the harsh utterings of the khalasar.

“Yes,” you say, a pleased look crossing your visage. “It means ‘love’.”

What a name for such a monstrous creature. A little girl christening her first barn cat, all soft skin and sweet smile and doe-eyed delight. You squint at Rhaenyra when she chuckles softly. It seems he isn’t the only one to have such a thought.

You turn back to him. “He does not take well to others, I fear.”

That is an understatement. From all his existing knowledge of the wild leviathan, from his experiences with the beast growing up, from tales he had gleaned from around the capital, from accounts of old acquaintances and the from gossip of his family, your dragon—the fucking Cannibal, and isn’t that a story he’d like to hear—was an utter lunatic, as unhinged and vicious as he always was. Except, it seems, with you.

“A right bastard, too,” Laenor murmurs under his breath, just within Daemon’s earshot. “Do you know how many Keepers we’ve had to replace since that thing came to King’s Landing?”

He can imagine. Dragon, livestock and human alike, the dragon had little care for what it slayed, seemingly fulfilling itself on the blood-and-gore high of butchery. The thought of laying eyes upon such a creature thrills him to the bone.

You levy him with an inquisitive look, head tilted slightly. “Would you like”—you hesitate—“would you like to meet him, Uncle?”

Only a fool could refuse a proposition like that. Not in the least because of the Cannibal—well, so few would ever have the opportunity to come close to the beast and live to tell the tale. Through you, it may well be possible that he would get that chance.

But, moreover, how can he say no to your timid, earnest entreaty, the proverbial hand of offering held out and just waiting for yet another rejection? Hope draws your brows in a pleading arch, lips wet and parted, and it calls to mind the face of a much younger you, far freer in begging for his attention. Who could possibly deny you?

His mouth settles the matter before his mind has decided.

“I’d be glad to,” he says, warmed by the sunny beam that stretches across your face, bringing bright light to your eyes and a merry flush to your skin.

It occurs to him then that he has just invited himself to an entire span of unaccompanied time alone with you. You—the object of his waking reveries, his darkest deliberations, his filthiest wants.

Perhaps this will be what finally drives him mad.

The wheelhouse ride is a revelation—and not quite for the reason he expected.

You are surprisingly easy to converse with; high praise, coming from him. He is not one to enjoy casual discussion, finding most people utterly insipid, especially those of suitable station. Princes and lords and magisters are always far too concerned with crowing of their riches to be of much interest—and the women are hardly worth engaging with unless it is to persuade them to drop their smallclothes and let him bend them over in some abandoned hall.

It might just be his fixation upon you that makes you so fascinating. He cares not for the reason. Instead, he chooses to enjoy the rarity of the moment, listening to you talk about the weather, the food, the changes made to the city since his departure.

“We have been getting an increase in grain from the Reach, I believe, in return for silks and spices from Driftmark,” you say, filling the transport with the dulcet tones of your pretty little voice.

He wonders at how you have come to know this information.

“Papa allows me to be his cupbearer during Small Council sometimes.” Pride overtakes your expression. “I am not present often, but it is nice when he asks.”

It is expected of Rhaenyra as the heir to attend in her youth, but no such presumption falls upon you. How interesting that Viserys has chosen to allow his second daughter to be involved in the running of the Realm, small a part as that may be! Daemon had not thought his brother observant of you in any capacity whatsoever. In this, he’s happy to be wrong.

When you arrive at the Dragonpit, your faithful guard-dog Cole is waiting for you, having ridden ahead to secure the location for his young charge. Daemon rolls his eyes as the knight offers you his arm, assisting you down the steps and to the ground. You gratefully thank the Kingsguard—he has to clench his jaw tightly to resist saying something snide at the look of slavish devotion on the whoreson’s face—and take out leather gloves of deep black, a stark contrast to the blood red of your riding habit. You wear the Targaryen colours exceedingly well.

“Now, Uncle,” you say seriously, turning to him. “I do not usually meet Athfiezar at the Pit, so it is imperative that you do as I say.”

It makes sense that the dragon seeks refuge outside of the Dragonpit. The beast did not seem one to willingly enshrine itself in chains. His brow quirks in entertainment at your command, a war general in the shape of a little girl with a woman’s body, but tips his head regardless.

“Of course.” He has no wish to die for the sake of pride.

The Dragonkeepers have already begun to shift nervously in the open, unprotected space. What follows illuminates him as to why. He is startled when you stop in the middle of putting your gloves on to place your fingers at your mouth and release a loud whistle. The sound echoes toward the cavernous entrance of the building before you and sets off a cacophony of ringing screeches and roars from within. He cringes as the blast of noise assaults his ears and wonders what in the hells you were intending by doing such a thing.

Suddenly, a low rumble resonates through the air. He casts around for the origin of the din, seeing nothing cresting the horizon. Out of nowhere, there is an unearthly shriek. A hulking black shape tumbles from the cover of cloud, rapidly gaining size as it approaches.

The Dragonkeepers bark panicked orders to each other, rushing to clear the space before his little niece. “Inkot selās! Inkot selās!” Move back! Move back!

Daemon wonders through a wave of sheer panic if he ought to follow the Keepers’ example and dive for shelter, dragging you with him. The dragon isn’t showing any signs of slowing down. It is now close enough for him to make out the grim scores of scars marking its head, the eerie verdigris orbs glowing ominously within its immense skull, the sheer musculature forming one of the largest specimens of Old Valyria alive today. The dragon is quite dissimilar to the other Targaryen specimens, he notes, stouter and stockier and yet more serpentine than the winged creatures the Conqueror had brought to Westeros some hundred years before. He wonders if it is true that this one is from a different lineage entirely. He had never gotten close enough to survey it before now.

The great lumbering thing alights upon the dome of the Dragonpit, crawling with surprising agility to the edge of the structure and peering down. It sends a clatter of rubble spilling from the sides of the great dome as it crackles under the weight of it. At the sight of the Keepers huddled behind dragonglass shields, curled to the ground in vain protection of themselves, the Cannibal opens its mouth and screams. It is a haunting, hair-raising resonation that sends chills down his spine and near freezes the blood in his veins.

“Athfiezar!”

His gaze, having been transfixed upon the most terrifying entity he had witnessed in years, shifts to you. You have stepped forward, seemingly without a care, arm outstretched and calling happily up to the reptilian brute. He is about to pull you back toward him when he observes what might be the most deranged, impossible scenario imaginable.

The dragon stops.

It stops.

“Kesīr māzīs, Athfiezar!” you call again, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet. Come here!

Emitting a deep keening, its eyes split to you, pausing its rampage as it takes in the sight of you below. Daemon huffs an exhilarated laugh as the winged serpent cocks its head, pauses, and then begins scaling its way down the stone formation. It is heedless of the damage it is doing to the establishment as it tears its way through rock like parchment, wiggling down to touch down upon the ground before the mouth of the Pit. The beast is surprisingly light upon its feet for its sheer size, second only to the great she-dragon, Vhagar.

He can only watch on in amazement as you stride forward to meet your mount. The famed Cannibal bends its massive frame down so that you may lay your hand upon its snout and coo something tender and indeterminable from a distance away. The wyrm growls softly, slowly pressing itself against you as you talk. The Dragonkeepers have not yet moved from their protective stances, spaced out around the yard and cowering behind obsidian safeguards.

What the fuck.

And then, you are walking back toward him, an air of contentment unlike any he had witnessed about you emanating from your person and echoed in the radiant joy upon your visage. With your giant beast as a formidable backdrop, you look every inch a Targaryen conqueror. It is a most unexpected evolution in the child that had preferred to entertain herself by reading than by journeying to the Pit to see Syrax or Caraxes. The sight makes him breathless.

You are glorious.

“Kepus,” you say, reaching out to him. He is somewhat amazed to see you are the same person, the same girl with the same charming eyes and delicate features and alluring form, that you have not somehow metamorphosed into a goddess from ancient Valyria. “Would you like to meet him?”

His answer is immediate, wordless. When he grasps onto your hand, he notes that your grip is much firmer, more solid and more real than it had been the week before. You are in your element here, at peace within yourself and with the dragon feared by the entire world. You pull him gently with you towards the creature, unfaltering even in the wake of the chitters and low hisses it emits when it observes a newcomer heading its way.

“He will not hurt you,” you say kindly. “You are with me.”

The affirmation warms him. When you are a small distance away, you release his hand, stepping in front of him to murmur softly to your mount once more.

“Ñuha kepa bisy issa, ñuhus taobus,” you call mellifluously, once more extending your palms to stroke along the dragon’s head. It nudges you lightly, and you laugh in response. “Ziry ōdrikō daor.” This is my uncle, my boy. Do not hurt him.

There is an absurdity in hearing you kindly entreat this monstrosity as though it were a prize hound, born and bred to spend its days on the lap of a noblewoman at high tea. What’s more is that the wyrm appears to enjoy it, nuzzling into your touch like a kitten.

Athfiezar growls in warning as Daemon approaches, soothed only by the quiet humming you are making and the light affirmations of peace you are whispering. Shifting its weight around, it grumbles in irritated obeisance as it allows him near. When he is close enough to hear the beat of its heart, feel the waft of its breath on his skin, smell the typical scent of dragon stink upon the air, he stops and takes in the view. 

From this angle, he cannot see the beast’s hind legs, so vast is the length of its anatomy. The dragon’s powerful front legs and sinuous snake-like neck occupies his vision, the head bowed low to the ground in cooperation with its mistress’s will. Its sable scales ripple like onyx in the sun, flashing shades of coal and silver and gold as the light dapples upon their surfaces. The creature is maimed in several places, no doubt from its long history of aggression against its own kind, but the old injuries serve to heighten its aura of petrifaction.

It is a horrifying representative of its kind. It is everything he had ever adored stories about as a child. And it is yours.

“How is this possible?” he breathes, stepping closer to you. You glance back at him, mouth quirking gently at the expression of wonderment on his face.

You lightly entwine your fingers with his. When his eyes snap to yours, you tug him forward easily, placing his hand upon the Cannibal’s snout with your small hand laid on his own. He laughs quietly at the sensation of dragon-scale under his palm, a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief and sheer childish awe colouring his tone. For a man to lay his hand upon the Cannibal and live… It is the stuff of dreams.

“Raqnon jorrāeltas—hegnīr ūī zijot irughin. You stare wistfully at your mount. He needed love—so I gave it to him.

Though it is a relief to hear his ancestral tongue spill from your lips once more, a reminder that the years had not washed away all that is familiar, Daemon wonders if there is more to this unlikely pair than anyone had assumed. Both isolated, both starved for affection, both cleaving to each other for warmth and surety. The notion makes him unhappy.

My poor, lonely little girl… You never need be lonely again now that he had returned. 

He looks back up at the beast, Athfiezar the Cannibal, this wretched saviour of desolate maidens and broken dreams. The creature snorts, a puff of smoke jettisoning out of its nostrils in a sneeze. He jumps out of the way, startled. You giggle, laying your head fondly against its snout.

“Kara iksā,” he says. You are magnificent.

You smile as you look up at your dragon, your hand lightly caressing its colossal jaw—but Daemon’s eyes remain firmly affixed on you.

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[arcielee]

We gave our time to something undefined

Summary: Aemond receives a late night visitor. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Rhaena Targaryen Word Count: 2.7k+ Warnings: Kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, loss of virginity, and Aemond is still the consent king 👑. Author's Note: This is part 2 of Quietly, it slips through your fingers though I may do a third, as they have me hostage Gif edit by the wonderful @myfandomprompts. A big thank you to my beloved @aemondsbabe for being my beta reader and helping me hone my craft. Also ñuhon is Valyrian for mine, and sȳz riña is good girl, but I trust you all already know that one. 😈

Aemond was poised in front of the fireplace, dressed in cotton sleeping trousers and a tunic that was unbuttoned to his navel; his silver hair was slung over his shoulder in a low braid. A golden hue spilled from the hearth and washed over his practiced stoicism, his one eye trained to the flames that were crackling and curling around the blackened logs.   

His arm was stretched on the rest, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm to battle how his heart was still rattling against his ribs; his other was bent, fingers pressed into his prominent chin. He swore he could still smell the remnants of the heaven he had touched earlier, something that was both sweet and intoxicating, something that now consumed him wholly. 

He thought back to earlier that night, to after he had torn away from the small hall, his heated steps leading him throughout the corridors in a desperate search for an exit that would bring him outside of King’s Landing. He knew that Vhagar would be awaiting him, the she-dragon keenly aware of her rider’s agitation. Aemond longed to climb aback of her, to tear over the night sky, as if his ire could only be sated by dragonback. 

Or so he initially thought. 

He could not say what had stopped him—perhaps the low rumble of his nuncle. It pulled him to watch from the shadows as Daemon and his daughter, Baela, took their turns to growl at one another about the night’s events.

Rhaena was also present, also watching. 

She was a woman now, with the same quiet confidence Aemond recalled as he watched her observe her father and her sister. He noted that she did not meet with their bravado on display, but instead remained watchful; her head tilted slightly with a flicker of amusement across her lovely features. 

It reminded Aemond of Driftmark, all those years ago when everyone gathered to grieve, to pay their respects for Lady Laena. He was only a boy but still aware of the  heavy sadness in her eyes that absorbed everything around her. He recalled when her gaze fell to him, how it rooted him to the stone. Rhaena watched at his failed attempt to try and speak from his heart; she did not scowl, but merely held a clear curiosity for whatever he had to say. 

Instead, his tongue thickened and he  walked away, the grief unsaid. 

How quickly her expression changed later that night, how her lovely eyes burned with betrayal when he sauntered back, covered in ash, dragonless no more—

“—I know Dark Sister sings for blood,” and the taunting words brought Aemond back to see Baela  squaring off towards Daemon. At that same moment, Rhaena noticed him, as if she was drawn to how his blood now burned in his veins. 

Aemond stalked away, quickly and quietly, his ire rekindled. He thought of the patronizing expression that had shown in the lines of Daemon’s face. Arrogance will weigh the dragon down, his sister often sang; Aemond only scoffed at the thought.  

You have lived too long, nuncle.

He heard the footfalls echoing behind, though he did not think they would follow him out to the terrace. Aemond planted his palms to the cool stone of the balustrade, greeted by the sea breeze and the distant rumble of Vhagar. He then felt her presence, that same curiosity from long ago. 

You are lost, princess.

Aemond wished to frighten her, but she did not balk, but remained stance, facing him just as Baela had Daemon. Her gaze was unwavering, analyzing, almost desperate to see what was underneath. His fingers itched to show her, removing the eyepatch but even then she responded in a way that he never thought possible. 

There was no pity to be found, just a genuine remorse that left him shattered—the softness and the warmth of her lips against his marred side, his skin prickling from her touch. 

Back in his room, Aemond could feel the warmth emitting from the embers in front of him, or perhaps it was from the memory of what had followed that kiss, of how she fit against his chest, of how she looked up at him unabashed, unafraid, unwilling to leave him. 

His fingers flexed, balling back into a fist, still feeling the ghost pulse of her erratic heartbeat from the pleasure he had pulled from her… 

His blood simmered, but a soft tap on his door brought his mind back into his room. Aemond moved, a flash of silver to welcome the distraction. When he opened the door, Rhaena slipped in; she was quick to pull it closed behind her, her back pressing against the oak, breathless. 

His every nerve was alight as he drank in the sight of her–her deep breaths, the rise and fall of her chest, her lithe curves pressing the pastel silk of her nightdress and her skin peering through the matching silk robe hastily pulled over. Her silver locs had been knotted back into a long braid, accompanied with a pleasant scent of rose water. 

Her eyes held the same look from earlier, wide and glassy, uncertain but also unwilling to leave. 

Aemond swallowed. 

You came, he wished to say, but his arrogance won his tongue. “So soon, princess?” 

I had to see you, she did not reply, but instead her face shifted into a coy facade. “You told me to come find you if I wished to find satisfaction…” 

Her words ignited something within him and Aemond closed the space between them. His one palm grabbed her hip and the other moved to touch her jaw, gently tilting her head to claim her lips just as he had out on the terrace. Her trepidation from before was gone, now replaced with a warm familiarity as her tongue curled in rhythm with his own. 

Aemond hummed his pleasure and Rhaena pulled him closer until he melded against her, the surge of fire meeting fire with a burning desperation. She gasped softly and he deepened the kiss, drawing the air from her aching lungs. His leg shifted between her thighs with a pressure that made her mewl, softly, sweetly. It trilled the length of his spine, his cock throbbing against the seams of his slacks. 

He pulled back and reached for her hand, her fingers lacing as though they belonged in his grasp. She followed quietly as he pulled her towards the bed, a giggle spilling, gleeful. Then Aemond paused and turned to face her again; his large hands moved to cradle her jaw, holding her gaze, and her skin rippled with gooseflesh from the contrast of his gentle touch and the roughness of his palms. 

“This will only go as far as you wish it too,” his voice was low, his words tinged with a fear that she would simply change her mind and leave. 

But instead hope bloomed with the flutter of her lashes, her lips curling into a smile as she stepped closer to capture his lips. Her hands knotted into the loose fabric of his tunic and she pulled him closer still, smiling. Aemond thrummed from the taste of passion, tilting her head to savor the kiss. 

The silk she had been wearing was now a puddle at her feet, and Aemond discarded his tunic, his hands pausing at the waistband of his pants. He looked at Rhaena, watching her carefully, the black now swallowing the blues and the purples of his one intensive eye, an amber gleam flickering in the sapphire of his other. 

Her smile remained as she took a step back, resting on the edge of the bed. She did not look away from him as his eye trailed over her soft curves, admiring the golden glow of the fire on her brown skin, how it rose with the night air, her nipples pebbling in response. 

Beautiful, he does not say but instead swallowed to wet his throat. “That bastard does not deserve you,” his rasped confession wrenched from his lungs. 

Only then did she look at her hands resting on her plush thighs, and offered a soft hum in return. The boldness that had brought her to his room continued her motion, her hands reaching to grab the waistband of his slacks, her fingers precariously placed above the heady bulge that pressed against the crotch. 

He felt his blood roaring to stain his cheeks as her eyes washed over his bare body, trailing the silver scars now displayed, the lines that cut into his trim waist before she met with his gaze again. Aemond allowed himself a step closer, a heavy sway, moving between her parted thighs until he was close enough for her to softly touch his unmarred side, until he could feel her breathless whisper hot against his skin– 

“Then claim me.”  

And he burned with how each syllable dripped with the honey that spilled from her kiss-swollen lips. “Aōhon ynot sahās,” she said, her eyes locking onto him. 

Make me yours.

His hand covered her own, turning his head until his lips feathered the pulse of her wrist. “Ñuhon,” he growled against her skin, mine, and then he pushed forward until she melted into the mattress, lifting her legs and welcoming him into the cradle of her hips. 

His mouth was hot, ravenous, only allowing her a moment to breathe when he moved his attention to the curve of her jaw and to her neck. His teeth nipped at her skin, leaving dark plumes of color in his wake. 

He could feel her trembling beneath him, her head falling back with a gasp. “Aemond!” 

It was his siren song, those sweet sounds from the terrace. They remained with his steps that brought him back to his room, echoing in his mind until it curdled the marrow of his bones, a dull ache that knotted his lower organs. He wished to draw those same sounds but with his tongue; his hands pressed to open her thighs further, and he sank between them to place an intimate kiss that made her shudder in response. 

She was slick, a taste divine, and his tongue trailed between her folds until he felt her hands knotting in his hair. He feasted between her thighs with a hold that dimpled the softness of her skin, anchoring himself to her core. Aemond pulled her towards a new plateau of pleasure with his mouth, his tongue laving until she tried to writhe away. 

Her back arched with the expanse of her chest begging for air, her hands moving for fistfuls of bed linen to ground herself. Her lips parted with a wordless cry as his dexterous fingers curled within her. “Aemond,” she panted, panicked, but he touched her with familiarity, feeling how her every fiber sang for him: heart thrumming, muscles tensing, desperate for more. 

Aemond hummed against her cunt and the low vibration caused a soft cry, a pulse of her velvet walls around his fingers. “Sȳz riña,” he murmured, adding another finger that met with the tandem of his first. His tongue returned to carve through her sweet lips with an unrelenting pace that pulled her towards her peak. 

It shuddered throughout her, a sob spilling that Aemond moved to muffle with a kiss, his praises soothing against her lips: “Sȳz riña, sȳz riña.” He melted into her warmth, her body pliant and molded against him. His arms caged her to the bed and his cock twitched, the heat from her bare cunt calling and pulling him closer.

Rhaena squirmed beneath him, and he tried to lift his weight but her nails bit into his waist, stopping him. “Aemond,” she was breathless, almost begging. “Please, I–” but she faltered to find her words. He could feel her pulse still fluttering against his chest, and she swallowed thickly. 

“Aōhon ynot sahās,” she repeated, a desperation now touching her tone.

Aemond felt his heart seize in his chest, and he tilted his head for a gentle kiss. “We will begin slowly,” his voice rasped with his reserve, “I promise.” 

She nodded and he was careful to slot his slender hips between her thighs, his swollen cock heavy and pressing against one side. She sighed, and he looked to see her drunken smile splayed on her lips as he nestled against her. His arm weaved between to guide himself, and she tensed from the unfamiliar pressure, his swollen head sliding through her folds and lining with her entrance. 

A muscle ticked in his jaw with his concentration, his slow thrusts sinking into her warmth with a shuddering halt when his hips met with hers. Aemond then stilled, watchful, worried, seeing how her face was clouded. He moved to kiss her, his body shifting against hers, and she let out a small noise that he swallowed. 

“Rhaena…”

Her eyes fixated on him, and he felt the fire in her veins pressing towards the surface. Her head nodded yes, a whispered, “Kostilus,” please, and only then did his hips begin to move. Her tension began to fall away with his slow rut, his rhythm continuing. She mewled softly, canting her hips to meet the snap of his own, sparking something different, something deeper, and he felt her tighten around him.

Aemond hummed, and his pace quickened with the lewd sound of skin-to-skin. The heat curling in his core began to spread under his skin, a bowstring taut to nearly snap at the sound of her breathless cries, the pulsing of her velvet walls that pulled him after. 

He groaned, his hip stuttering, and his brow pressed to her own. He felt her legs wrapping around his waist and  looked at her. Rhaena combed her fingers through the silver hair that spilled from his braid, pulling him close for a kiss. 

“Stay with me,” his voice was low, blooms of red staining his cheeks. “Kostilus,” he added.

Please.

Rhaena kissed him with the promise to stay and only then did he pull away. He pulled on his slacks again, unbuttoned, and moved towards the wash basin to grab a clean cloth. Aemond turned on his heel and saw her, bashfulness now replacing her boldness from before, wrapped in the sheets. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with something he now understood.

Desire, thrumming with the ichor of Old Valyria that ran rampant in their veins. 

He moved towards her and a smile curled on her lips, her eyes falling to the sway of his hips and the silver patch that peered lewdly above the waist of his trousers. His hand reached to pull the sheet away while his other began to carefully wipe away his pearly spend. 

She sighed, different than before, now with contentment and a consideration as her thighs fell open to welcome him again. He burned under her sense of awe as she watched his hands move over her skin; Aemond murmured his questions and she promised she felt fine, catching his wrist and bringing it to meet her lips for a kiss. 

He pulled away a second time–the last time he swore–discarding the soiled cloth and pulling through his drawers to retrieve a silk scarf that had been gifted from across the narrow sea. He watched her hands move to wrap her hair and he shyly offered to knot it at the nape of her neck, pressing a chaste kiss there when he finished. 

With their earlier tension spent and staining the sheets, their exchange was now natural, a tethered bond that seemed to be planted on that fateful night of Driftmark. Aemond climbed beneath the covers and his hands could not leave her, pulling her until her back was flushed to his chest, fitting like a missing piece. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close enough to feel the thrum of his heart. 

Her voice was soft, breaking the quiet that had settled over them. “What will happen now?” 

His hum reverberated through them and he pulled her closer until his lips could touch her shoulder once, twice, following the curve and pressing against the soft spot under her ear, pressing contemplative kisses before he said: “Tomorrow I will petition the king for your hand in marriage.” 

Rhaena shifted in his arms. “What if he says no?” 

He nuzzled into her neck, smiling against her skin. “Vhagar remembers you,” he began, his breath tickling; she bloomed with his words. “If they say no, I will take you to Driftmark and we will have a ceremony anyway, just as our ancestors did.”

“But what–”

“But nothing,” his tone cut through, a gentle resolve, and he pressed another kiss to the nape of her neck. Rhaena relaxed against him. “Iksā ñuhon.”

You are mine.

Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @black-dread @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @lauraneedstochill @theobjectofyourire @troublesomesnitch @hb8301 @snowprincesa1 @namelesslosers @darylandbethfanforever9 @helaelaemond @qyburnsghost @niocel

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#we gave our time to something undefined #my titles are hozier lyrics still #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #rhaena targaryen #aemond x rhaena #rhaena x aemond #rhaemond

[inkykeiji]

i love it when i hear you breathing, i hope to god you’re never leaving

characters: dabi | todoroki touya, takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut and angst

notes: aaaah oh my gosh!!! i can’t believe this series is finally finished! this is the third and final part of my tag you’re it series. thank you so much to everyone who stuck with me and this series throughout these two years; you all mean the world to me and i hope you enjoy this final piece! as always, please heed the warnings below and stay safe!! | title credit: tag you’re it by melanie martinez

part one | part two | part three

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, toxic relationships, drug use and abuse, overdosing, hospitals, blood, verbal fights, daddy kink, minimal prep, size kink/size difference, degradation/dumbification with a dose of praise, rough sex, biting/marking, dacryphilia, a hint of mindbreak

words: 14.9k

synopsis:

What is real? What is right? Does it exist in concrete terms, or is it some sort of continuum? Is it easily sorted and separated, like pans of paint on a palette, or is it all muddled and bleeding together, like strands of paint in a glass jar, irrevocably intertwined as they dissipate in the water and impossible to separate in any way, colour of the tainted water morphing depending on the angle the light hits it at?

Does it even matter at all, when your brother is in the hospital and your boyfriend, no matter how implicitly or explicitly, had a hand in putting him there?

It’s been three weeks since yours and Keigo’s accidental meeting on the track, three weeks since you’ve been meeting privately, behind Dabi’s back, three weeks that you’ve gotten absolutely nowhere in terms of any sort of ‘plan’.

It isn’t either of your faults, you think. Your time spent together is incredibly limited, which makes it incredibly precious, and neither of you particularly want to spend it discussing the difficult stuff—your brother’s addiction, and how to deal with it.

“I can buy my own food, you know,” Keigo jokes as you sit down across from him, crosslegged, knees bumping against his own.

“I know you can,” you say as you hand him a small bento, stuffed to the brim with rice and yakitori. “But you don’t.”

“Well—”

“And you don’t make your lunches, either,” you continue dryly. “I bet you haven’t made a single lunch for yourself since I moved out.”

“I mean—”

“Buying lunches from the convenience store doesn’t count,” you add, and Keigo has the decency to look sheepish, huffing out a soft chuckle as he regards you wearily through his lashes, a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck.

“You know me too well, songbird.”

“I’d hope so, I’ve only known you my entire life.”

Another laugh tickles his throat, this time sweeter, gentler, and his gaze softens a little, fondness melting his ire, a dirty finger reaching out to caress your cheek. Your head tilts instinctively, nuzzling into his touch, and his smile spreads, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You know you must talk about all of that difficult stuff eventually, can feel it all piling up at the back of your consciousness, growing larger and larger, heavier and heavier, as it slowly encroaches on the future, but it’s been so long since you’ve just been able to sit together.

It’s been so long since you’ve been afforded the luxury of just basking in each other’s presence, of just enjoying each other’s company, of just existing together that it now feels as though you must cherish every single moment, unwilling to waste even a second on something so unpleasant, so complicated and full of pain.

What used to be so regular, so routine for the both of you has now become something to be coveted and protected, each of you reluctant to break the delicate peace thinly glazing something hard.

“Thank you for this,” Keigo says as he looks down at the box in his palms. “It looks delicious.”

“It’s not much,” you shrug as you tug open your own lunch box, eyes focused on your actions and avoiding his own. “But it’s better than nothing.”

“It’s perfect, and I love it,” Keigo says warmly, his hand on your thigh prompting your gaze to his. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you murmur as you place a hand over his, a small grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’m glad you like it. I mean, it is your favourite, after all.”

“It is,” Keigo nods before craning his neck a little, peering into your lap. “And, uh, what’s in yours?”

You can’t help the fond little snort that barrels up your throat as you look down at your own lunch, a crude version of one of those picturesque bento boxes you’d find on Pinterest, the seaweed faces all muffed up, the heart-shaped rice balls lumpy and uneven, the small medley of vegetables messy and overflowing.

“Dabi made it,” you respond softly, still smiling down at the food, index finger tracing the plastic edge of the container. “They always look ugly, but they taste surprisingly good. He tries his best to make them look cute, but…”

“He’s too rough.”

“He doesn’t know how,” you correct. “But it doesn’t matter, I love them all the same.”

Keigo hums to himself, chopsticks clicking together before they dive into rice. “And he makes those for you every day?”

“Every single day. Even when he’s running late.”

“That’s…Uh, that’s really thoughtful of him,” Keigo chuckles a little, the sound drenched in incredulity, head tilting slightly. “Honestly, I’m surprised.”

“You don’t give him enough credit,” you say lightly, attempting to keep accusation from seeping into your voice.

Keigo scoffs at that, eyes rolling with a shake of his head. Yeah, sure, he doesn’t give the guy who emotionally manipulates his baby sister and dangles drugs in front of his face like he’s some sort of fucking dog ‘enough credit’.

“I’m serious,” you continue, an edge sharpening your voice. “He does a lot for me, Keigo.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t.”

“Really? Because that look in your eyes is telling me otherwise.”

“Look,” Keigo sighs, eyes closing briefly with the slow exhale of breath. “I don’t want to fight with you. Not here, not now. Let’s just…Can we talk about something else?”

Silence rings in the air, dense as it weights the atmosphere, and Keigo’s tongue sucks on his teeth as he waits, a desperate attempt to keep his criticisms safe in his throat.

It isn’t like he doesn’t recognize all that Dabi does for you; he does. He sees it, even it if makes his chest burn and his eyes sting and his heart ache, even if he wishes he didn’t. He can’t exactly deny that Dabi takes good care of you—in some respects, at least.

But that doesn’t negate all of the bad Dabi commits, too.

That doesn’t negate the fact that he’s a criminal, that doesn’t negate the fact that he’s highly and convincingly conniving, that doesn’t negate the fact that, while Dabi may take good care of you, Keigo takes great care of you.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, after a few moments of tense contemplation, chopsticks poking idly at your meal. “Yeah, sure.”

Reticence saturates your features, eyes forlorn and despondent as they watch your motions with idle disinterest, and guilt unfurls deep in the pit of Keigo’s stomach, thick and sticky like tar as it seeps through his tissues, encasing the surrounding organs in its suffocating embrace.

Swallowing thickly, Keigo pushes forward.

“Uh, so. How are your classes going? Are you sure you can be skipping class like this every week?”

“Oh, sure,” you shrug, eyes still downcast. “I’m ahead in this class. Actually, I’m ahead in all of my classes. Um, I’m doing better than I ever have been before.”

“You are?” Keigo asks, eyes wide, and it’s hard for him to stifle the notes of surprise ringing high in his voice.

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Dabi really keeps on top of my schoolwork. I study every single night, all of my readings are done on time, I start all of my assignments early…” you trail off, chewing on the end of one of your chopsticks. “There isn’t really much else to do while—”

A frown laced with concern tugs at Keigo’s lips, his forehead wrinkling as he observes you carefully. “While what?”

“I—While Dabi works.”

“Works,” Keigo repeats slowly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about him.”

“Well now I do.”

“Keigo, please—”

“Does he take you out with him?”

“No!” you shake your head vehemently, voice glassy and thin. “He leaves me with Jin most of the time,” you say, defensive. “Jin is a friend—he owns the convenience store at the base of Dabi’s building, and, uh…”

“Go on.”

“And he takes me to The League a lot.”

“The diner?”

“Yeah, they…I mean, they have meetings there, and stuff,” you say slowly, unsure of how much you should reveal to Keigo, of how much you’re allowed to reveal to Keigo. “And so I—I just do my work while they do all that.”

“They?”

“His friends.”

“And what about your friends? Do you ever hang out with them anymore?”

“His friends are my friends,” you respond dutifully, though there’s genuine warmth in your tone, a sweet little smile cracking through the hard dejection coating your face.

“Songbird…” he begins slowly, eyebrows pushed together and forehead creased with concern, and you can hear it, can hear him gearing up to deliver one of his signature Big Brother Lectures, one of his I’m-Older-and-I-Know-Better speeches, piercing stare overflowing with worry dipped in disapproval.

“Look, it’s fine,” you say dismissively, a distinct note of protection ringing clear in your voice. “It isn’t like I really had any friends before anyway, not when I was too busy—”

Too busy taking care of you.

You kill the rest of the sentence before it can reach your tongue, but it doesn’t matter. He already knows exactly what you were going to say.

And he already knows you’re exactly right.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The time to broach the topic finally comes during the next week, after the two of you have cleaned out your simple bentos for the day, when you can no longer keep it locked up anymore, can no longer continue with this pretty facade no matter how nice it is, the winter wind whistling down the desolate subway tunnel, long forgotten beneath the grounds of the university.

“Let me check you into a program, or something,” you beg, beseeching eyes rapidly scanning his features, little fingers digging into his biceps, flexing in your fervour. “Let me help make you better! I want nothing more, Kei-nii, I swear.”

“I can’t go into treatment, songbird,” he responds, desperately trying to rid his voice of that frustrated tremor, to keep his voice even and calm. “You know I can’t. The moment they catch wind of my addiction, my scholarship is gone—”

“So!”

“—Along with all of the opportunities that had come with it,” he continues, eyes hard.

“Well I mean, can’t they cover it up or something?” You cry, distraught. “Your coaches, or the crooked sponsors who already know, the ones who keep this secret for you?”

Dryly, Keigo shoots you a glare. “It’ll be very difficult to cover up a sudden prolonged absence.”

Begrudgingly, he has a point.

“Well what, then?” you ask, whole body deflating, leaning against him in your defeat. “What’s our plan? You said we’d make one—to beat this, to make it all better, to make it all right again, but—”

“I’ll do it on my own,” he says resolutely, and his voice is so strong, so sure that you can’t help but believe him. “Okay? I’ll take a week—next week—and I’ll throw it all away. Flush it, pour it down the sink, do whatever I can to get rid of it for good, and then I’ll weather the withdrawal.”

“Really?” you gasp out, both hands clutching his arm in their excitement, wide eyes shining with potent hope as they search his face. “You—You’ll be okay doing it alone?”

“Yeah, songbird, really,” a thumb swipes across your cheek, eyes liquid amber as they gaze at you. “I can do it. For you.”

“For you, too,” you remind gently, Dabi’s words ringing out clearly against the walls of your skull. He has to want to get better for himself, baby, or it’ll never work. No one else can do it for him.

“Yeah, for me, too.”

And, for a moment, it appears as though he has done it. Two weeks later, he looks better, sounds better, feels better, curls shimmering bright and gold, cheeks rosy and full of health, muscles beginning to swell as they regain strength, twining themselves protectively around his sharp bones.

You’re so elated by his apparent success, so in awe of it all, that you insist the two of you tell Dabi right away, desperate to share the good news with your boyfriend.

But it isn’t a good idea, Keigo tells you. Not now, not yet.

“Dabi has to see it for himself—Dabi needs proof. Telling him prematurely not only outs our little meetings here, but I can almost guarantee it’ll be met with a hefty dose of doubt.”

Eyes lidded with carelessness, Keigo mimics Dabi, doing a surprisingly good job, his voice flat and apathetic, his stare bored and jaded.

“Yeah, sure, he’s clean for now. But will he be clean in a week from now? A month from now? A year from now?” Keigo shakes his head. “Dabi needs to see that I’m truly doing this, that I’m dedicated to doing this.”

You suppose that makes sense. And you don’t ever want to do anything to put your niisan in danger.

But you, God, you’re so proud of him, so proud of the progress you think he’s made, so proud of the commitment he’s displaying.

Maybe Dabi will finally allow the two of you to start meeting again, as soon as he sees the dedication Keigo has to getting better, you’re chattering on animatedly one afternoon, head resting dreamily on your big brother’s shoulder.

Maybe, Keigo shrugs.

Maybe not.

Because while Keigo is getting better, and slow progress is better than no progress, he isn’t exactly as clean as you think he is, and Dabi knows it all the same.

He masks it well, he thinks. The plan you had concocted together had been to choose a week where Keigo would finally quit, cold turkey, no assistance at all (because he adamantly refused it), and stay home ‘sick’ as the withdrawal took it’s vicious toll on his body.

And he did, for the most part. He did go through withdrawal, he did stay clean for a moment or two, but he didn’t stop shooting, hasn’t stopped shooting; not technically, not entirely.

He’s just shooting way less now, the dosage only a smidge of what his body was accustomed to. It barely gets him high, barely makes him feel anything at all—nothing more than a tingling, wispy warmth reminiscent of that unparalleled bliss he loved so much—but it’s better than nothing at all.

Dabi had been intrigued, impressed, it had seemed, by Keigo’s sudden urge to cut down drastically.  

“What’s up with you?” he finally asks, the third time they meet after Keigo’s so-called ‘purge’, the reduced dosage held securely in his rough hand.

“What d’ya mean?” Keigo murmurs distractedly as he cards through the money in his wallet, counting it under his breath.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Dabi snorts, shuffling the small packets in his palm, accentuating his words.

“Oh,” Keigo glances up, fingers stilling. “Uh, just trying to quit, that’s all.”  

“Quit?” Dabi blinks in shock or surprise, Keigo can’t be sure which. Sapphire rakes over his body, slow and methodical, a smile slithering across his face as his gaze drifts back to Keigo’s. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Keigo swallows, desperate to keep his voice calm. “I—I’m trying to do it slowly. Lower the dosage until my body doesn’t need it anymore.”

“You know, that’s not really how it works,” Dabi begins, suspicion bleeding into his voice, eyes narrowing as he regards Keigo with a sweeping gaze, fingers curling into a protective fist over the drugs. “Besides, that’s a slippery fucking slope, Keigo. Sure, you’re doing it now, but what happens when something triggers you, huh? What happens when you suddenly need a higher dose, just today, just this once, because you’re stressed, or sad, or whatever the fuck it is. Hmm? You need to have self-restraint made of platinum to quit in this fashion.”

Shrugging, Keigo looks away. “Yeah, well, I’m trying this first. If this doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.”

And he hates the way his words quiver slightly, hates the way his voice rings tinny and high with lies, with terror.

Tilting his head, Dabi hums, eyes performing another full-body scan of Keigo. “And why the sudden change of heart?”

“What?”

“Why now? Why are you unexpectedly deciding to quit now, instead of after all those instances of your sister begging you to quit; after I told you to quit how many times? What changed?”

Keigo’s palms prickle with sweat, and his hands ball into tight fists, a desperate attempt to halt the tingling, fingers flexing as they unfurl again.

“I—I miss her,” he manages to stutter out, blowing the confession from his mouth in a gust of breath. “And I, uh, I want to do this for her. Your combined pleads took a little while to set in, I guess,” he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling at the thin skin, feigning contemplation. “But I hear what you’ve both been saying now, loud and clear, and I’ve decided you’re right.”

“Really?” And although the question sounds genuine, something sharp and dangerous glints in Dabi’s gaze; piercing, penetrative. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He can tell Dabi doesn’t buy it for a fucking second, eyes attempting to dissect Keigo’s mind, to pry apart the tangle of tissue and neurons and synapses and peer inside for the truth.

But he can’t.

“Alright,” he says slowly, the word soaked in incredulity, as he exchanges powder for paper. “Good luck, then.

“Thanks,” Keigo says flatly, already beginning to back away, inching towards his car. “And uh, hey, don’t tell my sister.”

Dabi’s eyebrows push together, forehead wrinkled with confusion. “The fuck? Why not?”

“Because I want it to be a surprise, you know, when I’m fully clean. I don’t want her to know anything until I’ve made it.”

Dabi stares at him for a moment, another one of those invasive, assessing looks where he attempts to decipher Keigo through his expressions alone,

It’s only after Dabi’s car is long gone that Keigo can breathe normally again, heart abandoning its venture to shatter his ribs and flatten his lungs. His head drops in relief as the tension in his neck ebbs, his forehead pressed tight to the steering wheel.

He’s safe; for now, at least. He knows Dabi isn’t at risk of discovering yours and Keigo’s secret meetings, because you wouldn’t dare tell him and risk upsetting him—or, worse, getting yourself and your brother into some serious trouble—and he knows Dabi won’t tell you about Keigo continuing to purchase drugs from him, because you don’t ask—won’t ask, have no reason to ask, have no reason not to trust in your big brother’s truths—and Keigo trusts, for some inexplicable reason, that Dabi will not tell you about their questionable conversation today, not until he figures out what’s really going on, anyway.

And, sure, Keigo feels guilty lying to you, misleading you in such a manner, but it isn’t like he plans to keep this up forever. Besides, he’s nearly clean anyway, isn’t he? He may not be there in it’s entirety yet, but he is doing better and progress is progress, even if it isn’t as much progress as you’re giving him credit for. He will quit eventually, he swears it. He will kick the habit, permanently, he knows it.

He just needs a little more time.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It’s always the most inconspicuous things that do it, that set something off, that give something away, that indicate that something isn’t quite right.

The question comes late one night, after you’ve both finished cleaning up the small kitchenette, as Dabi’s putting away Tupperware containers.

It’s asked innocuously enough, imbued with a touch of genuine curiosity, voice muffled by the cabinet his head is currently buried in.

“Where the hell are all our bento boxes disappearing off to?”

“Uh,” you blink, mind taking a moment to register the question, the shock—and stupidity—of you’re failing to realize that this might be a red flag numbing your brain. “What?”

“Our bento boxes?” Dabi repeats as he stands, turning to face you, eyes performing a singular sweep across your face. “We’ve gotta be missing like, half of them now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Dabi scoffs. “I bought them specially for you. They weren’t fuckin’ cheap, and I know how many I bought.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly, chest beginning to tingle with adrenaline. “I—I don’t know, Daddy, I didn’t even realize we had any missing. Maybe I left some in your car?”

“Pretty sure I would’ve noticed dirty containers in my car if there were any,” he retorts dryly.

“Um,” you hum, desperate to keep your expression from giving you away—to keep your mouth from trembling and eyes from widening—features scrunching in mock thought. “Well, then maybe I left some at school! I’ll check with each of my profs throughout the week and see if they remember finding any.”

Skepticism shines bright and blue in his narrowed eyes, stare steadily holding your own. It feels as though he’s trying to dissect you with his eyes as his sole tool, to tear the skin from your face and split your skull and peer inside, searching for the answer he’s looking for, searching for the truth.

“This isn’t like you, princess,” he says slowly, each word a deliberate thought, handpicked. “You aren’t usually forgetful. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you respond instantly, the word barely more than a huff of breath. “Nothing, I just—Maybe I’m just stressed, you know? Midterms are coming up and all that, so…”

“There’s been a lot of maybes peppered throughout your sentences today. Is there anything you know for certain?”

You know he can tell, can see it shimmering in your eyes, gaping and alert; can see it wavering in your smile, artificial and stretched too tight across your cheeks.

A lie.  

“Hmm?” he presses.

Shoulders raising in a defeated shrug, you shake your head, sucking on your tongue. He scrutinizes you for another moment more, sapphire performing one final sweep across your features, slow and thorough, before he nods to himself—just once, a sharp and short motion—and turns away.

If there’s anything he knows for certain, it’s that you’re hiding something. The only question is what.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

“Are you sure this is really necessary?” Tomura’s asking as he exhales steady streams of smoke from his nostrils, regarding Dabi blankly through the haze, crimson eyes watching through lidded lashes while Dabi paces the length of his car—back and forth, back and forth, a restless panther waiting and ready to strike—in the dimly lit diner parking lot.

“Yes,” Dabi snaps. “They’re both acting too weird; it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“It’s missing bento containers and a guy who’s cutting down on his drug use, actually. It’s entirely plausible the two have absolutely no connection to each other whatsoever.”

“You don’t get it,” Dabi nearly snarls, stride halted to whip around and face his friend. “Alright? You didn’t see the two of them, their eyes…There was something odd, wrong, in their eyes. And their voices, too. They sounded, I dunno, fake.” False. Off. Tinny and artificial and quivering ever-so-slightly with the restraint of hiding something.

“Are you…Did you take something?”

“You know I don’t do that anymore,” Dabi seethes.

“Yeah, yeah, right, but I just thought…” Tomura trails off, shrugging, the cashmere of his sweater catching on the brick wall behind him. “Dunno. Thought the stress might be getting to you, or something. Thought a few lines might take the edge off, maybe, but you know how coke can make you paranoid—”

“I’m not high, Tomura. I haven’t been high since—”

“Yeah, I know,” Tomura rolls his eyes. “But you’re acting a little weird, that’s all. Agitated. Jumpy. Could’ve been a possibility, whatever.” Flicking at the cigarette resting on his knuckle, Tomura disregards the idea, tendrils of smoke curling delicately in the air between them. “I still don’t see the correlation between these events, though.”

“You don’t need to see the correlation, for fuck’s sake,” Dabi finally explodes, throwing his arms in the air. “You only need to help me.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” Tomura warns, something sharp slashing through ruby irises. “You may be my best friend and all, but I’m still technically your fucking boss.”

“Your dad is my fucking boss, actually,” Dabi corrects, smugness temporarily melting his frustration, an eyebrow raised in playful challenge. “But details don’t matter, this has nothing to do with work. This is simply one friend asking another friend for a favour.”

Running his tongue along the front of his teeth, Tomura stares at the man in front of him, contemplating. After a moment, he pushes himself up from his slouching position, a resigned sigh heavy on his chest.

“Alright, fine. But when this turns out to be nothing, I get to tease you for being a fucking lunatic.”

It won’t be nothing. Dabi can feel it in his soul.

And, as always, he was right.

“That fucking bitch!” Dabi screams when Tomura delivers the news outside of one of his father’s warehouses, features screwing into a wince as his best friend’s fist collides with the closest car window, glass shattering upon impact. “I knew it! I knew she was hiding something from me!”

Dabi’s had enlisted in Tomura to tail you for roughly five days now, documenting every single thing you do from the moment you arrive on campus to the moment Dabi—or one of Dabi’s friends—picks you up.

And on the following Tuesday, this Tuesday, he hit the fucking jackpot.

“How dare she! After all I’ve done for her, you know? After everything I’ve done for her and that good-for-nothing pathetic brother of hers…” Dabi shakes his head, tufts of ink bouncing violently with the motion before sharp teeth pull a cigarette free from a weathered cardboard carton, the corners worn and fraying. “And this is how they repay me? By sneaking around behind my back and fucking lying to my face about it? By disobeying the most important rule I’ve set?”

Scarlet oozes from his knuckles, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. His skin sparkles as unsteady hands pat his body in search of an opening, microscopic shards of glass still embedded in his skin. Trembling fingers pull a silver Zippo free from his pocket and whip it open, thumb missing the flint wheel twice, a growled curse rumbling in his throat.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Tomura says as he sits perched on the hood of his parked Maybach, a burger in his lap and grease shining on his fingers. A nod of his head motions for Dabi to come closer, soft palms cupping Dabi’s blood streaked hand and igniting the Zippo with ease, steadying the flame as Dabi leans in to torch his cigarette. “You were right. I can’t fucking believe it.”

“Of course I was fucking right!” Dabi roars through a dense shroud of smoke.

“So, now what?” Tomura asks as he nibbles on his burger bun. “What do we do?”

“Oh, it’s a we now, is it?”

“Would you rather it not be a we?”

“No,” Dabi responds through a begrudging frown. “Your help is valuable.”

“Thank you.”

“Honestly, I should fucking kill him for everything he’s done, for such disrespect,” Dabi seethes, nostrils flaring, that tense fury unable to hide the distinct crack at the end of his words. “I should bash his fucking skull against a brick wall.”

“Sure,” Tomura says easily, examining a piece of wavy lettuce before pulling it free and throwing it to the dirt floor. “He deserves to be dead. But what would she think? How would she react?”

“She’d be better off if he just wasn’t in her life anymore.”

“Maybe,” Tomura agrees. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she’ll never forgive you if you kill her big brother.”

“I could make it look like an accident,” Dabi says.

“You could try,” Tomura corrects. “But you know just as well as I do that staging accidental deaths is no easy feat.”

“He’s a fucking junkie,” Dabi says, as if this is obviously the answer to all of his problems. “Slip some fentanyl in his smack and bam! Dead within minutes.”

“She’d know it was you.”

“How?”

Tomura sighs, index finger rubbing at one of his eyes.

“Dabi, for as well as you know her, she knows you, too. Do you really think you could look her straight in the eye at her brother’s funeral and tell her you didn’t have a hand in it? While she’s sobbing over the man you despise so much, the man who has caused her so much suffering—who still causes her so much suffering—do you honestly believe your eyes or your voice won’t betray you?”

A growl rattles his ribs, facial features crunched together in a tight glower. Holding his blazing stare with ease, Tomura raises an eyebrow in question, smugness tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Fine, fuck,” Dabi finally erupts with an exasperated gasp, viciously turning away from his best friend and raking both hands through his hair, nails audibly scraping against his scalp as his fingers curl, tugging at the roots.

“Well then, what, huh?” he’s asking as he spins back around, voice straining under desperation, sapphire frantic as it searches Tomura’s face for an answer. “What? Because I’m all out of fucking ideas.”

“Threatening him might work.”

Dabi shakes his head. “I’ve tried that. I even took away his most precious possession. Nothing seems to get through this motherfucker’s head.”

“Well, not quite.”

“What?”

“Not quite. You haven’t truly taken away his most precious possession, have you?”

“Heroin?”

“Yeah, cut him off or something. He told you he was trying to quit, didn’t he? That he was on the way, or whatever. Why don’t you help give him an extra push?”

“And if he goes to find it somewhere else?” Dabi questions.

“My father will know,” Tomura’s lips curl up into a sinister smile, crimson eyes practically glowing. “And so will we.”

    ✰          ✰          ✰        

Dabi doesn’t go home. Dabi can’t go home; not like this, not with the way his heart rages against his ribs and singes his chest, not without losing his entire fucking mind on you and spoiling his whole plan.

Instead, he pays Keigo a much-needed visit.

The terror-tinged surprise that saturates Keigo’s features when Dabi turns up on the other side of his front door is almost laughable—in fact, Dabi’s sure he would laugh if his insides weren’t boiling in his own rage—Keigo’s body gone loose and pliant in its shock, making it exceptionally easy for Dabi to wrap a hand around his bicep and yank him through the doorway of that godforsaken house.

“Get in the car,” he’s saying as he shoves Keigo towards the Eldorado, buckles of his boots jingling daintily as his heels collide with concrete.

“What?” Keigo asks as he stumbles to a stop, the question nothing more than an incredulous huff of breath.

“Get in the car,” Dabi repeats, slow, calm, cold, stare holding Keigo’s over the roof of the car. “Or I will put you in the fucking car.”

The drive isn’t long—maybe a mere twenty minutes or so—but it’s to an area of the city that Keigo has never visited before; an area with cracked asphalt and orange caps littering the dead grass, an areas with sun-washed plastic slides and rusted swing chains; untended, uncared for, and forgotten.

Rocks pop beneath the tires of the Eldorado as Dabi pulls into what might have been, once upon a time, a park, the lot full of faded concrete with peeling white paint and thorny weeds sprouting up through the fragmented cement, the field an unruly tangle of jade with a chain link fence that leads to nowhere.

“Get out,” Dabi instructs. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Using his teeth to pull a cigarette free from a veiny cardboard box, Dabi begins to stroll along the warped fence, Keigo starting a little in his haste to catch up to him. The sharp twinge of metal slicing against metal as Dabi whips his Zippo open makes Keigo cringe, the harsh sound piercing the thick atmosphere.

“So,” Dabi finally says, puffing the word out with a heavy cloud of smoke. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

Frowning, Keigo blinks at him, eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion. “What are you—”

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me, Keigo. Not today. I don’t have the patience.”

The sentence, while flat, has an edge of warning to it, complemented by Dabi’s look of caution, thrown at Keigo through the side of his eye.

Chest deflating, Keigo slumps forward, head hung shamefully between his shoulders. “How’d you find out?”

“Does it matter?” Dabi stops suddenly, turning to face him. His tone is bored, almost indifferent in a way, but Keigo can see it: that restrained anger, wavering sapphire flames burning bright in his eyes.

Lips pressed together, Keigo holds his blazing stare, waiting for him to continue.

“Surely you must’ve known I’d find out eventually,” Dabi laughs a little, and it’s cruel, mean, mocking. “Surely you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep such a secret from me for very long.”

Maybe Keigo did. Maybe, on some deeply subconscious level, Keigo knew this would happen, knew this would be the end result no matter which way they tried to spin it, because it’s the only result it could’ve ever ended with.

Maybe not. Maybe Keigo was foolish—he has always had a streak of dreamer in him, after all—maybe Keigo was hopeful, desperate, that this would all somehow work out in the end, that the power of your love and your hope and your sheer, steadfast belief in him would enable him to magically quit, to kick the habit forever without any assistance or hard work at all—and everything would go back to normal.

He answers with a shrug, expression saturated in a sort of ambivalent confusion, and Dabi’s nostrils twitch.

“Fucking look at me.”

With a flexing jaw, Keigo’s head lifts slowly, his stare nearly dead, exhausted, but there are cinders of anger, frustration, maybe even hatred smoldering in those golden eyes, flaring as they meet the flames licking along Dabi’s pupils.  

They’re extinguished almost as quickly as they’re ignited, though, weak flickers snuffed out by the smug smirk on Dabi’s face, and his features sag under the weight of dismal weariness.

“Just...Whatever you do, don’t hurt her, alright? It wasn’t her fault.”

His voice is quiet, resigned, though it isn’t enough to mask the delicate tremor sewn into his words—something full of defeated fury, of disquieted frustration as Dabi comes stomping through his life with his big black boots and crushes it all to dust, burns it all to ash, breaks it all again, because that’s what he’s best at.

“Hurt her?” Dabi’s voice raises in sincere surprise. “You know I’d never.”

“I don’t mean physically,” Keigo clarifies, topaz solidifying in his eyes; hard, gleaming.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dabi dismisses with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Because she isn’t going to know about this at all.”

“What?” Keigo spits, eyes narrowing with sharp suspicion. “What are you—”

“Because you and I,” Dabi continues, speaking over Keigo, voice clear and strong. “Are going to make a deal.”

Blood turns to ice in his veins, frost lacquering his bones, and Keigo’s body freezes, the hinges of his jaw creaking as he forces the word from his tongue.

“A-A deal?” Keigo pants out, breath trembling slightly.

“That’s right.”

Something vicious glints in Dabi’s eye—something sharp and dangerous, half-submerged in sapphire—and his mouth stretches into an abnormally large smile, spread so deep and tight across his face it looks as though it’s been carved into his cheeks.

A gust of wind tangles in the bare branches of a nearby tree, bark knocking together, and Keigo shudders, the breeze like a million little pinpricks piercing his clammy skin.

“You want to get clean, right? I mean, you’re trying to get clean, aren’t you? On the way to being completely sober and all that; that’s what you told me, is it not?”

“Yes,” Keigo says slowly, cautiously, as if the letters are navigating a field of landmines, one wrong intonation and he could trigger a fucking explosion.

“I’m going to help you.”

Dabi’s voice has suddenly turned amicable, as if it’s been shocked back to life from the indifferent, bland anger it contained only moments ago, now vibrant with this control, gleeful with this power.

“Help me?”

“I’ll allow you to keep seeing your sister on one condition,” Dabi pauses, and Keigo’s too petrified to ask, rooted in place, breath held stagnant in his lungs. “From this day forward, you will never take another drug for as long as you live.”

And, just like that, Keigo’s whole world, teetering precariously on the point of a needle, comes toppling down.

“One single slip-up, one teeny, tiny mistake—one shot, one snort, one swallow and I can promise you, you will never see your baby sister again.”

Frantic topaz flies across Dabi’s face, rapid as it searches his expression for any indication that this isn’t real, isn’t true, isn’t happening. His thoughts flow in hasty conjunction with his gaze, frenzied brain working desperately to figure out an immediate loophole.

His breath is coming faster now, short, sharp, uneven huffs shoved from his mouth as panic claws up his throat. No. No. This can’t be happening right now—there’s no way this is happening right now, because he’s not ready yet. He’s not ready to give it up yet, not ready to face reality without it yet, the thought of his addiction being prematurely ripped from his palms inspiring another bout of thick dread to course through his veins, drenching any remaining flickers of anger.

Keigo tries to tell Dabi this, to explain that this is all happening too quickly, too suddenly, that he needs more time, just a little more time, he swears—but his voice whimpers in his throat, sentiments rendered nothing more than pathetic squeaks of breath.

“If I find out you’ve purchased even one tenth of a fucking milligram of any narcotic I swear to the good Lord himself, I will take your sister so fucking far from this country that she won’t even know where the fuck she is. Do I make myself clear?” Dabi pauses, allowing Keigo a moment to respond with a mechanical nod.

“And I will find out, Keigo,” blue eyes shimmer with mirth, that sharp glint practically glowing now, so strikingly brilliant Keigo has to look away, a malicious laugh rattling around in Dabi’s mouth. “I own this fucking city now.”

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The front door swings open with a vigorous flourish, the fork between your fingers slipping from your grasp and clattering against the warped hardwood floor.

“Gosh, Daddy,” you breathe, a palm pressed to your racing heart, a hesitant smile tugging at your lips. “You scared me!”

He says nothing as he stalks towards you, a large grin stretched tightly across his face, sapphire eyes shimmering in the low light, irises seeming to swirl with something akin to delight, darkened with delirium.

“What’re you—”

Calloused hands seize your face the moment they’re close enough, slim fingers hooked behind the hinges of your jaw as they drag you toward their owner. Sharp teeth suck your bottom lip between their edges, sinking into your soft flesh and keeping it captive as Dabi’s tongue caresses it in slow, fat strokes.

Copper floods your mouth, the strength of the bite forcing a squeal from your throat into his, Dabi’s tongue dipping into the warm heat to soak up your blood—to stain his own flesh with it, to suck it in and swallow it down, to keep it inside of him; a small piece of you, infused in thick sticky crimson that seeps through his tissues and into his soul.

“Hi, princess,” he breathes as his forehead presses tightly to your own, eyes so brilliant and bright with exhilaration it’s almost as if they’re glowing.

“Hi,” you can’t help but laugh a little around the greeting, your gaze searching his face in happy confusion as your arms twine around his neck, pulling your body closer to his.

Breathy little giggles laced with mania waft across your face as his palms find your ass, fingers flexing against the supple flesh before he’s hefting you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, ankles hooked and heels digging into the dips at the base of his spine.

And then, he begins.

It’s almost elegant, the way he twirls your clinging bodies around the tiny kitchen to whatever invisible, silent tune is playing within the walls of his skull—something that you are not privy to, something that has him feeling elated—narrowly missing the corners of cabinets and the edges of counters as he goes, movements fluid and effortless.

But it doesn’t matter that you can’t hear the melody, the song in his head supplemented by your intertwined laughter, the sweetest music either of you could ever ask for, notes full of amusement and affection as it encases your conjoined forms, blanketing the atmosphere and filling it with the warmth of love.

The front door is still hanging open, dull yellow light from the hallway spilling into Dabi’s small apartment and alighting it with a hazy glow.

“Dabi, Dabi, the door!” you’re laughing out as he whirls toward it, skillfully using the ball of his foot to kick it shut as he ends his performance with a graceful spin and slots you up against the surface, trapping you between the cool metal and his body.

“What has gotten into you?” you’re asking as your chests heave together, eyes searching his face for any indication of an answer, residual amusement still tinging your words.

“I love you, that’s all,” he responds simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I love you, and I’m happy you’re mine.”

“I am happy to be yours,” you say softly, a hand moving to brush a strand of ink out of his eye.

“Good,” he whispers, nose nudging yours slightly. “That’s exactly how it should be.”

The claim is sealed with his lips, over and over as they stamp their claim across your flesh using broken blood vessels and thick saliva.

His teeth are ruthless as they mar your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, leaving superficial splices across your soft skin, little slashes that weep blood. His lips are gentle as they kiss the blood away, murmuring affirmations of love into the wounds, strokes of scarlet staining his flesh.

Calloused hands explore the curves and contours of your body—the notches of your spine and the ridges of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts and the bends of your tummy, rough fingers dipping between your dress and your skin to tug at the material.

Daddy can’t wait but it seems, neither can you.  

“I need you, baby,” he nearly whines, pet name cracking in desperation. “I need you, I need you right now.”

“Take me,” you’re gasping, little hands pawing at his clothing, trying to pull him closer. “Take me, take me, I’m yours!”

“Get my cock out,” he’s demanding, your hands moving to obey before the order has fully left his lips.

It’s difficult, in the position that you’re in, to wiggle your hands down to his belt and pick away at the buckle, flakes of cracked white leather collecting under your nails as you claw at it.

But you succeed, of course, because you will always succeed when it’s him who’s asking, silver buckle clanking heavily as it hangs open and limp. A hiss of air rushes down your throat as one of your nails chips on the brass button of his jeans, but the injury doesn’t hinder you in the slightest, avid to please.

“Good girl,” Dabi’s purring as your dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock and finally pulls it free from the confines of his clothing. The simple praise inspires a dreamy little giggle, and you gaze at him, eyes lidded with lust and love, giving his cock a gentle squeeze before pumping it twice.

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, cobalt fading to navy as he crushes his lips to yours again.

It’s like he can’t get enough of you, like he’s been starved for you—your tongue and your attention and your cunt—for an eternity, calloused hands graceless as they ruck up your dress, fabric bunching around your hips. Removing your panties is deemed too time consuming, as is his usual method of tearing them to pieces, deft fingers shoving their way between your tightly pressed bodies to push the soaked lace aside, revealing your cute little hole.

It’s all so much, his tongue on your neck and his teeth in your flesh and his cock bumping against your ill-prepared hole, the whimpers spilling from his lips as his hips nudge forward with pathetic precursory mini-thrusts, the smoky sweet scent of smoldering hickory and spicy nicotine that’s invading your nose and mouth and lungs and brain like some sort of parasitic addiction: a haze that consumes your mind and body and soul, a haze you endlessly crave more of.

Everything aches as his cock splits you open, sensitive skin ripping while his cock carves itself into you.

“Da-Daddy,” you wail, head falling forward to bury your face in his shoulder, little fingers twisting in the tufts of hair at the base of his skull. “It’s—It’s so big!”

“Shh, shh,” he hushes you, but you can hear it, the sadistic smile in his voice, laced with a sick kind of pride. “Daddy’s almost in, you can take it for him, can’t you?”

You can, of course you can, he knows you can.

Usually, he shoves the whole thing in with one single thrust, hard and fast. But today he chooses to take his time, all of his previous urgency seemingly pacified the moment the head of his cock is inside of you, Dabi opting to savour every fucking inch as he pushes into your cunt, slow and steady.

It only prolongs the pain, fissured flesh tearing itself open more and more with each leisurely second that passes, and your head falls forward, face smushed tightly into his neck, the sweetest little whimpers spilling from your throat.

Tears burn your eyes as he finally bottoms out, heavy balls pressed flush to your bottom, your raw hole fluttering a little in pain, sending tiny stinging spears shooting through your gut.

“Look at that, huh? Such a good little whore for her Daddy, aren’t you?” he practically purrs, breath sweltering against your damp skin. “Crying like a little baby and acting like she can’t take it, when she fucking loves to take it,” he tsks, almost as if he’s admonishing you for such behaviour.

“Daddy,” you whine, the world garbled with spit, tears clinging to your lashes. A dull throb roots itself deep at the core of your body, beating in erratic rhythm with your heart.

“Go on,” he breathes as his hips begin to draw back torturously slow, tender cunt aching with the motion as his shaft grinds against the micro-cuts, velvet feeling as rough as sandpaper. “Tell me. Be honest, and tell me how much you love to take my cock.”

And despite how much it fucking hurts, his words inspire a small, dim spark in the pit of your stomach, veins beginning to tingle gently.

“I—I love to take your cock,”

“How much?”

The question is growled out through clenched teeth as he rams back into you with such force that it sends your body skidding up the door, head bouncing against the surface with the motion.

“So much!” you cry out instantly, eyes shut tight and face screwed up in pain. “So much, so so so much, Da-Daddy, I—”

“Open your eyes, princess,” he orders softly, your lids lifting to reveal brilliant sapphire gazing back at you, tremoring with excitement, with the power coursing through his veins, your Daddy already high and heady on the control he holds over you as you instantly obey. “Daddy wants you to look at him when you tell him how much you love taking his cock.”

Crystal teardrops roll down your cheeks, thick trails of salt water sparkling in their wake. Your nose twitches in your effort to calm down, to stop crying, a hitched affirmative stuttering in your throat.

His hips are pulling back again, unhurried in their movement as his bright gaze sears into your face, eyes unblinking and alight with twisted excitement.

“I love—I love taking your cock so much, Daddy, it—Ah!” you manage to hiccup out just as his hips slam forward again. With gritted teeth, your eyes close briefly and breathe out, slow and controlled, your throat stinging as you stubbornly swallow the tremble in your voice, a steely breathiness replacing it. “It’s my favourite thing to do, Daddy, wanna take your cock every day for the rest of my life, Daddy.”

“Christ,” he exhales, the curse infused with an airy chuckle, lips spreading into a grin, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you. “You’re so perfect, baby,”

Something warm and bright blossoms in your chest, ribs swelling with it.

“Jus’ wanna be good for you, Daddy,”

He laughs again, eyes darkening, something sinister glinting in his smile. “We both know that���s a lie,” he grunts as his hips rock again. “But that’s okay, because Daddy loves his perfect little brat so much. Besides,” he whispers, voice dropped to a smooth murmur as his lips caress your ear. “Brats are a helluva lot more fun than good girls, anyway.”

You aren’t given a moment to respond as his hips begin to piston, hard and fast and sudden, any answer to his remark morphing into a loud whine in your chest.

The pain has mostly faded now, any residual shocks promptly chased by flares of pleasure, cunt growing wetter and wetter with each drag of his cock.

Your chins slide against one another, slicked with thick saliva, and his front tooth catches on your bottom lip, hard enough to nick the flesh. Blood oozes from the wound instantly, but Dabi is sure not to waste a single drop, the tip of his tongue running along the fine line of scarlet and lapping it up.

Your mouth, licked raw and sliced up, doesn’t even hurt anymore, small cuts and bruised flesh buzzing as Dabi crushes his mouth to yours again, exhaling copper-tinged breath onto your tongue.

It’s all so potent, so intoxicating, so desperate as you gasp, viciously sucking air from his lungs into your own, gulping down his essence and holding it against your heart—bright and burning and blue, full of him—protected by a cage of ivory.

Your nails rip into his flesh through the thin cotton of his shirt, starved for him as they gorge on his shoulders, fingers digging deeper and deeper into the muscles with each ruthless piston of his hips.

He loves it, too, that thin, almost delicate streak of masochism that runs through his soul shimmering in the dim light as your vying hands force a deep groan from his chest, the sound vibrating in your mouth, rattling your teeth.

It’s so good, he’s so good, and you want more, because too much is never, and will never, be enough.

“More, Daddy, more, more!”

“My greedy fucking girl,” he pants, pupils cavernous and carnivorous as they devour your precious little expressions; the way your nose scrunches and eyes roll white and mouth hangs open, emitting sugary sweet sounds in hot little huffs of air. “So needy, huh? So fucking desperate for Daddy’s cock and Daddy’s cum, aren’t you?”

“S’all I want, Daddy,” you nearly sob, head nodding stupidly to accentuate your point. “S’all I ever want,”

“That’s all, yeah? That’s all that’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, isn’t it?”

“Jus’ wanna be your perfect lil slut, Da-Daddy!”

“Cum on my cock, then,” he demands, pace never slowing. “Show Daddy how good you are and cum on his cock.”

Each pump of his hips, each brush of his cockhead against that spot sends more sparks coursing through your body, little flares of ecstasy collecting in the crevices of your body and igniting a satisfying inferno that spreads through your veins, blood fizzing as it rushes through your body, alighting every nerve until it reaches the apex of your thighs, and then you’re obeying his order, cunt convulsing as you gush heat all over his thick cock, his title shattering on your tongue, shards melting into gasps of air.

The blaze has spread to your brain now, tissues melting to goo as the flames lick the walls of your skull, extreme pleasure the most potent shot of novocaine to your brain, everything gone numb, dumb, under its influence.

“Tell me,” he nearly whimpers, breathy voice fading into growl as it cuts through the thick haze. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You!” you cry instantly, the word fragmenting as he pounds into you. “You, you, Daddy, I belong to you, wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s, ever.”

“Mine,” he snarls, the word imbued with such brutal possessiveness it stings your skin, his eyes shining bright with the elation of owning something so special, with the comforting knowledge that it is yours and yours only. “Forever.”

“For eternity,” you mewl out, head nodding in quick little motions.

“You’re goddamn right,“ he rasps, hips starting to stutter. “Your cunt, your tits, your entire fucking body, it’s all—ah, Christ—it’s all mine. You belong to me.”

The proclamation is spit into your mouth just as his cock throbs, pumping you full of thick cum. Your thighs tighten around his waist, squeezing him closer, as if you’re trying to wring every last drop from his body, and he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft whimper vibrates in your throat the moment he begins to pull out of you, and Dabi laughs again, murmuring out pacifying remarks doused with condescension as he pushes back into your sopping cunt, carrying you toward the bed.

With grace and fluidity, he manages to maneuver your knotted bodies under the fluffy comforter, keeping his cock from slipping out of you even an inch. A sweet little hum of contentment spills from your lips as you snuggle into his neck, riding on the tails of a giggle, the precious sound seeping into his skin.

It sends a shock of warmth through his system, your intoxicating happiness like bubbles of sunshine in his blood, and he emits his own hum, deep and vibrating against your temple as he allows the clutches of unconsciousness close in around him, because you’re his, you’re his, you’re his.

Forever.  

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The early evening wind is cold but gentle as it plays with the hem of his shirt and the ends of his hair, softly caressing his bare skin as it passes. A shiver slithers up his spine, chills erupting across his flesh, and Keigo hugs his arms tighter, desperate to retain as much body heat as physically possible.

I’ll be surprised if you can keep up with this for more than a week or so, Dabi had hollered out the open window of his car as he backed out of the parking lot, voice overlaying the growling of the Eldorado. Go ahead, prove me wrong! Show me your pathetically weak self-restraint isn’t as pathetic as I think it is.

And then he was gone, leaving Keigo standing alone in the steadily setting sun, strokes of fuchsia tingeing his gold curls.

The walk home should’ve been sobering, Dabi’s threats and promises bouncing off the walls of his skull, their direness reverberating in Keigo’s very bones. The walk home should’ve scared him enough to quit for good, forever, used needles bestrewn across the dry, sickly yellow grass like some sort of cliché omen, men with bruised eyes and scabbed skin staring as he passed them, unbeknownst to the fact that he’s exactly like them, that he could be them, one day.

And it did. It did scare him.

But not enough. Not in the right way.

It starts with a small, almost tender tingle beneath his skin, something birthed in his chest, in his soul, maybe, complemented by the anxious fluttering of his heart and the haphazard racing of his thoughts.

It grows as they do, becomes bigger, stronger, fiercer, almost voracious in it’s need to be sated as it eats through the blood in his veins, as the tingles turn to itches turn to pricks—sharp, desperate, painful.

By the time he arrives home it’s bigger than he is; a dark, suffocating cloud that enshrouds his form, zaps of lightning striking his skin, urging him to act, to soothe the sting they leave behind.

He knows it’s dumb, even as he’s doing it. He knows Dabi will find out, knows Dabi’s words were not merely empty threats, knows Dabi can and will follow through on his promises.

He knows this threatens everything. He knows.

And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Because this has grown out of control. This has engulfed him in its sickly sweet embrace, has invaded every single nook and dip and crevice in his body and filled it with an insatiable longing for poison, has overridden all of his thoughts and all of his feelings, all of his judgements and all of his impulses and corrupted his very sense of right and wrong, of permanent consequence; eaten through it like some sort of toxic acid and left emptiness in it’s place.

Emptiness that needs to be filled.

Just once more.

Just once more, he promises himself, fingers trembling as they scroll through his contacts, looking fruitlessly for someone Dabi might not know. Just once more, and then that’s it, he swears to it. Just once more, and then he’ll kick the habit for good, he promises.

He just needs it just once more; needs to feel that comforting rush of warmth embrace his veins and twine through his blood, his nerves, his tissues and bones and organs until he’s drowning in it, a sick, sweet paradise that’s all for him, that’s all his.

Just once more he needs to feel the safety of his lover as it bursts through his system, a feeling of euphoria, of pure bliss that saturates every bit of him until it’s all he is, until it’s all that matters.

It takes too long, whole body quivering with desire by the time Keigo secures a reliable supplier after fishing through a chain of people, the sun long gone below the horizon, his only source of light leaking from one sad lamp in the corner of his living room, pooling around the base in a greyish-yellow puddle.

Chisaki is the guy’s name, a friend had informed Keigo. He’s got good shit, but it’s gonna cost you.

Keigo’s never heard of him before, and in his hunger fuelled haze of addiction he can only hope this means Dabi hasn’t heard of him either. He knows he’s wrong, knows Dabi knows everyone in this fucking city by now, but he continues to hope anyway, as if the very act itself will somehow change the outcome.

In the moment, though, it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t matter that Dabi will inevitably find out, probably sooner rather than later. It doesn’t matter that this next fix may cost him you, permanently snatched form his grasp and whisked away to a secret land. It doesn’t matter that this could be the singular most fucked up mistake he’ll ever make in his life.

It doesn’t matter, because his true love is on it’s way, and it’s going to make everything alright again, even if only for a few hours.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

Tomura would be lying if he said the call that comes a mere few hours after Dabi’s supposed meeting with Keigo is surprising.

In a way, Tomura wishes it was.

It isn’t from him directly, and Tomura’s sure Keigo truly has no idea just how far reaching his—and now Dabi’s—drug empire reaches.

Tomura’s also sure Dabi warned Keigo of doing this exact thing and, just as they had predicted, Keigo hadn’t heeded that warning nearly as seriously as he should have.

It’s a request from one of their men stationed all the way on the other side of the city, a man Keigo must’ve played a torturous game of broken telephone to contact, a man reporting an order of two grams of China white to the good part of the city, the safe part of the city, the rich part of the city.

“This isn’t within my jurisdiction; I don’t even know how this guy got my number,” he says nervously, and Tomura can almost hear him fidgeting. “So I was wondering—I mean, should I do the delivery myself? Or do you have some other guy who’s a little closer? Not that I mind,” the man rushes to assure, and Tomura chuckles.

“Don’t worry about delivery. I’ve got just the person in mind,” he promises the man before hanging up.

Normally, Tomura would never handle a delivery himself, but this is a special case.

“Dabi, he broke,” Tomura’s saying as he climbs into his Maybach, phone held tightly between his ear and his shoulder, keys jingling in his palm. “Two grams of China white.”

“Fucking pathetic,” Dabi spits, though Tomura can hear the faint notes of disappointment cracking in his voice.

“We knew it would happen,” Tomura shrugs. “We knew he wasn’t strong enough.”

“You’re doing the delivery yourself?” Dabi asks, voice high with surprise.

“Yeah, I…” Tomura trails off, chewing on his cheek. “I have a bad feeling.”

Dabi snorts. “A bad feeling? Since when are you superstitious? Since when do you give a fuck about any of our junkies—no, sorry, clients—at all?”

“Shut up,” Tomura snaps, and Dabi snickers. “Just have the shit ready, and don’t let her see.”

“Hit a nerve, did I? You goin’ soft for my girl?”

Tomura hangs up in response.

He can’t exactly explain it—or maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it—but something thick and ominous has been sinking in his stomach since he first received that call; something heavy and toxic and full of sticky ink, something that feels very, very wrong.

Tomura isn’t stupid, and Dabi isn’t, either. Two grams is way too much smack for an addict that’s been cutting back as drastically as Keigo has been.

He hopes Keigo isn’t dumb enough to shoot it all at once, but he knows the way addiction roots itself in the mind, warping the brain into something illogical, something incomprehensible, something that craves only one thing and nothing else, no matter the cost.

He knows the way addicts work, the way addicts think, and the way these thought patterns are amplified by emotional triggers.

And as much as he’d never admit it, there is a tiny part of him buried deep within his soul that wished Dabi had refused the offer; that hoped that Dabi would go back on his word, decide this wasn’t worth it, that they’d get through to Keigo in a different, less dangerous way.

But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

Despite the fact that it’s where every ounce of his smack has come from, Keigo Takami doesn’t know the name Shigaraki.

He’s heard you mention a man named Tomura in passing every once in a while—nothing more than a sentence or two, about how he picks you up on the days Dabi can’t, about how he shares your penchant for sugar—but he has no idea what the man looks like, or what his last name is, or the legacy said last name carries.

So when Tomura Shigaraki shows up on his front doorstep with a palm full of pure China white, Keigo is none the wiser.

It doesn’t seem to matter that this man is very clearly not the man he spoke to on the phone, not the man he nearly lost his mind attempting to chase down.

All that matters is that he’s got drugs, and he’s here.

Finally.

A smooth palm trembles as it shoves money into Tomura’s waiting hands, fingers eager and vying to have that powdery ecstasy between them.

Keigo doesn’t even care that Tomura doesn’t leave immediately after receiving payment—barely notices the man standing near his front door, watching with soured disgust as Keigo frantically readies his paraphernalia.

And that sinking feeling, full of heavy ink and acid, finally takes root in Tomura’s stomach as he watches Keigo pile a tiny mountain of heroin on his blackened, warped spoon, trembling hands careful not to spill even a single granule on his denim-clad thigh.

“Uh,” Tomura begins, unsure how to proceed, voice painfully flat. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“Nah,” Keigo mumbles past the rubber held between his tightly clenched teeth, not even bothering to spare Tomura a glance, hyper-focused on his actions. “This is what I always shoot.”

Tomura’s tongue is too slow, words fading to ghosts on his tongue, unable to trigger Keigo’s rational memory at all. Because then that brownish liquid is sinking into his veins, and his head is falling backwards, mouth hung open in pure bliss, and he’s gone.

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

It would be a lie if Dabi said that he didn’t expect some sort of update call within the next few hours.

It would also be a lie if Dabi said he expected it to be from the Goddamn hospital.

It isn’t exactly surprising that Keigo had chosen to put you down as his next of kin instead of your adoptive parents—his own flesh and blood, his only flesh and blood, his precious baby sister.

Vibrations quiver gently though the mattress, a low whine of protest slipping from your lips as you grope around with halfhearted interest for your phone, buried within the ridges of Dabi’s comforter.

The bright light of the screen outshines the small flickering television a few feet away and your lids squint in retaliation, vision temporarily blurred and face scrunched with concentration as you attempt to make out the bleary letters written across the top.

The hospital.

The words give you a jolt of pure adrenaline, whole body shooting up suddenly despite your sore muscles aching in protest, tingling adrenaline eating through the fatigue like an urgent corrosive, alighting your limbs, alerting your mind.

“Who is it?” Dabi asks with sleepy disinterest, gaze never leaving the television, slim fingers still tracing mindless patterns on your bare skin.

“The hospital,” you breathe, voice sounding faint and far away even though you can feel it distinctly vibrating within your chest.

Your mouth has gone dry, like your tongue is a thick swab of cotton, soaking up all the saliva from the corners and crevices of your mouth.

“What?” Dabi says, but you don’t respond, everything feeling numb, muted, muffled as your thumb taps the ANSWER button.

And then, everything goes blank.

You barely remember saying hello. You barely remember responding to any of the nurses questions—about your brother, your relation to him, your identity. You only remember a single sentence with startling clarity, something that rings loud and lucid throughout your skull, bouncing off the thick walls of bone and reverberating endlessly.

“Your brother has overdosed on heroin.”

It’s so simple, so straightforward, and yet your mind can’t seem to comprehend it, can’t seem to deconstruct and absorb those six simple words.

And then, everything goes blank again, brainwaves flatlining, rushing blood a strong, steady ringing in your ears. You can feel your body going through the appropriate motions, can feel the expected questions bubbling up your throat and past your lips, frantic, urgent, leaving an unpleasant buzz on your tongue—Is he alive? Is he stable? Can you come see him?—but you have no control over them, consciousness curling in on itself as it attempts to create sense from the situation.

How could this be possible? Keigo had stopped, hadn’t he? At least, that’s what he had told you, what he had promised you…And you had been stupid enough to believe him.

Because you had wanted to believe him.

You had wanted it to be easy and effortless, clean and concise, void of all the pain and intricacies and work that usually comes with achieving such a feat.

You had wanted, so desperately, for it to be the truth, for everything to go back to normal, just like that, in a mere instant.

A block of disappointment, filled with shame and glazed with guilt, sinks heavy and sharp in your stomach. It cracks as it hits the pit, contents leaking into the bubbly acid and causing it to roil.

He lied to you.

But he isn’t fully to blame, either. You should’ve known better, a tickle at the back of your mind chides gently. You shouldn’t have taken it at face value. You should’ve pushed harder, done a shred of investigation yourself to verify his claims, asked for more concrete proof than the sheen in his hair and the glow in his cheeks.

But you hadn’t wanted to.

Because you had wanted it to all be better instantaneously. You had wanted Keigo to prove all of Dabi’s words wrong, had wanted Keigo to show Dabi how incredible your big brother is, how vivacious your big brother is, how he can always do what he sets his mind to, no matter what.

How utterly, devastatingly stupid you were.

“Hey!” Dabi’s voice, full of concern and garnished with a touch of fear, finally slices through the thick mist that has encrusted your brain. “What’s going on? Baby, please, talk to me, tell Daddy what’s wrong.”

“Did you know?”

The question is small, frail, nothing more than a wisp of breath, so fragile it’s as if a tone any louder would simply smash it to bits.

“What?” Dabi frowns, eyebrows drawn in confusion, sapphire rapidly searching your face as you stare dead over his shoulder, unblinking eyes focused on the drywall, those lithe fingers wrapped around your biceps flexing, blunt nails biting your flesh nothing more than a faint pressure, flesh gone numb.

“Did you know?”

The question is stronger now, harder now, firm with resolution and conviction. Finally, your gaze meet his, eyes blazing with a shield of watery glass, so fierce that he flinches a little, features crunching in irritation at his own surprised reaction a second later.

“Did I know what?”

“Did you know Keigo was still using?”

For a moment, it falls silent, the gears in Dabi’s head turning, whirring, clicking into place, his gaze methodically scanning your face, blazing in his scrutiny as his mind cards through all of his options, potential scenarios and possible outcomes, categorizing them in terms of likeliness.

Then he’s cold, hands dropping from your body, features hardened into that carefully crafted mask of incomprehensible passivity.

“Since when? Since you began meeting with him secretly, behind my back?” Dabi pauses, but your expression does not falter, stare solid as stone. “Yeah, I knew. Of course I fucking knew.”

Sapphire burns into your face and your molars grind together, glaring back at him just as fiercely. Viciousness brews in your chest, boiling as it singes your ribs.

“You know, I could’ve helped you,” Dabi continues, notes of accusation in his voice, “had you just told me what was going on instead of sneaking around like that.”

“Oh, don’t start. Don’t try to make this about you and how you feel left out. Don’t try to make me the bad guy.”

“And, so, what?” he shrugs, raising an eyebrow in mock question. “I’m the bad guy because I continued to supply your brother with exactly what he asked for without having even an inkling of the lies he had been feeding you? If you had just told me, we could’ve tag-teamed him. We could’ve beat him at his own game. We could’ve won! And then, maybe, none of this would’ve ever happened!”

“I couldn’t have told you, and you know it!” you cry, voice burning veraciously in your chest, words blistering your tongue. “You—You wouldn’t have helped, you would’ve put an end to everything straight away and locked me up like some sort of—some sort of prize, never letting me out of your sight for a fucking second ever again!”

“No, you are just assuming that,” he seethes, eyes narrowed sharply. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is help you—help you both. Do you—Do you really think I’d have reacted that way instead of offering to help?”

“Yeah! I do! I’m not the villain here!”

“Neither am I!” he roars, eyes alight with blue fire, surging forward to grasp your shoulders.

A surprised yelp hiccups past your lips and Dabi tugs you toward him roughly, your chest pressed to his as he leans over your face, so close your noses nearly bump together.

“Y’know, it isn’t my fault your brother’s a fucking junkie, alright?” His grip tightens, painting his fingertips into your flesh in splashes of blue and violet. “It isn’t my fault he lied to you, just like they always do, because it’s more important to him to keep heroin in his life than it is to keep you in his life. It isn’t my fault you just assumed the worst of me instead of being honest with me, coming to me, asking for help!”

“What else was I supposed to assume, Dabi?” your nose twitches with the threat of a sniffle, the ghost of a sob, and you exhale harshly, a feeble attempt to halt it. “How was I supposed to know any different, when this is the way you’ve been treating me?”

“Everything I’ve done—every single fucking thing—was done to protect you, I can promise you that. I love you more than anything in this world, can’t you see that?”

His voice fissures on the last word, breaking under the weight of authenticity, but you do not yield, holding steadfast as you force your next question from your mouth, slight tremors running through your words as your body trembles in his hands.

“If you love me more than anything then answer me honestly. Did you supply him with drugs tonight?” The sentence tapers off into a whisper, those tears that you had held so stubbornly behind your lashes finally spilling over, strolling down your cheeks in pairs.

The silence is stifling, your breath held stagnant in your lungs as you wait, vying eyes searching his face for any shreds of clues and finding nothing but truth.

“No,” he finally responds, but his voice is kinder, softer. “How could I, when I’ve been with you all night?”

“But they were your drugs, yes?”

“Sweetheart, every drug in this city is my drug,” he chuckles a little at your naivety. “All I can tell you is that I didn’t give them to him tonight. Besides, the amount he’d need to OD is more than what I’ve been selling him.”

“But…But you…”

Agony cracks your words into sharp shards that pierce your organs, and you cough around the pain, both palms pressed flat to your chest as you try and hold your body together.

What is the truth? Is there even a truth? One correct, indisputable answer?

“I don’t—I’m—I can’t—”

A dense blend of anguish and confusion drapes across your brain, burning holes through your thoughts and rendering them incomplete, incomprehensible, a tangle of half finished sentences.

Because none of this makes any sense anymore, trust and truth shattered to pieces, scattered among skepticism and deceit.

What is real? What is right? Does it exist in concrete terms, or is it some sort of continuum? Is it easily sorted and separated, like pans of paint on a palette, or is it all muddled and bleeding together, like strands of paint in a glass jar, irrevocably intertwined as they dissipate in the water and impossible to separate in any way, colour of the tainted water morphing depending on the angle the light hits it at?

Does it even matter at all, when your brother is in the hospital and your boyfriend, no matter how implicitly or explicitly, had a hand in putting him there?

It seems as though you can’t inhale enough air into your lungs, organs shrivelling up and rejecting the oxygen your broken, uneven gasps send rushing down your throat. Your body crumples in a heap on Dabi’s lap, and the air around him changes instantly, its suffocating heaviness eradicated as love dipped in guilt devours it.

Ferocious sobs slash through your chest, ribs creaking beneath their force as your whole form stutters, heavy sorrow weighting your heart. It aches, each dull pulse procuring another wave of spiked anguish, and you suck a hiss through your teeth, furling in further on yourself in a desperate attempt to quell the pain.

Gathering your limp body in his arms, Dabi hushes you gently, your tears seeming to have melted his hard exterior, dousing the flames raging in his eyes.

“Shh,” he murmurs, a palm rhythmically smoothing over your hair as you weep into his chest, little fingers scrabbling against his bare skin. “Shh, it’s alright, I’m here.”

His soothing voice calms the turmoil in your chest, his tender touches dimming the chaos in your skull, and you snuggle into him, seeking more of his solace.

“Listen to me,” he pulls back, taking your salt-sticky face between his palms. “I love you, you hear me? I love you, and all I want to do is protect you. From everything. I’m sorry that this has happened. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to keep you safe, I promise.”

A pause, a moment for his words to brand themselves into the tissues of your brain, steady sapphire boring into your face, bright with sincerity.

“Maybe I didn’t do the best job, or make the best choices, but they were all with your—with our—best intentions and interests in mind,” he continues, the edges of his voice rough, eroded by emotion. “I’m trying with all my might. I love you more than anything. We’re a team, right? Let’s solve this together. No more secrets, no more lies, from either of us. You don’t have to do this alone, not anymore.”  

“Neither do you,” you mumble, words knotted in strings of spit.

He laughs, and it sounds wet, large hands cradling your head to his body again. “You’re right. Neither do I. So let’s make it better, together, okay? You and me, always.”

“You and me, always,” you repeat.

“Always, baby,” calloused fingers brush back strands of sweat-soaked hair from your forehead, lidded eyes watching his actions with fondness. “Now,” he whispers, a sad little smile on his face. “I think we have a hospital to visit.”  

    ✰          ✰          ✰      

The scent of Clorox burns your nose as you hurry down the dull white corridors, frantic eyes flying across each of the silver nameplates bolted to the wall outside each door until finally, you find the corresponding number the nurse had given you.

And although you knew the sight you were to be greeted with would hurt, you didn’t expect it to be quite so heart-wrenchingly gruesome.

Lilac encompasses his closed eyes, the tiny spider veins knotted across his eyelids a deep, sickening purple. Dried blood, well on it’s way to forming thick scabs, has pooled and oxidized in the lines of his lips, cracked open from dehydration.

Dim curls, matted with sweat and salt, stick to his forehead and his temples, their usual lively gold now dulled and void of their sheen. Sallow skin stretches across all his sharp edges—his knuckles and his wrists and his elbows and his collarbones—lacking that healthy, radiant glow Keigo had always seemed to emit before.

It’s hard to look at him like this, veins and nostrils hooked up to a tangle of clear tubes and whirring machines, the steady beep of his heart in direct juxtaposition to the erratic thumping of your own.

Nausea swells in your stomach, acidic bile burning up, up, up your esophagus, but you swallow against it, teeth clenched as your force a deep, calm breath out your nose.

“Is this the all-time-low you kept talking about?”

You don’t look at him as you speak, gaze still captivated by your feeble big brother, the question trembling with muted anger.

“Yeah,” Dabi says quietly. “This is it.“

This is it. This has to be it; there’s no where else for him to go from here, except into the ground—and that’s forever.

Your voice rouses Keigo, golden eyelashes fluttering open to reveal bloodshot topaz, filmy gaze taking a moment to clear before it focuses on you, recognition shocking clarity into his brain.

He exhales your name in a small, weak huff, fingers twitching against the threadbare bedspread, as if he yearns to reach out for you, to grab you and pull you towards him and never let go.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place, feet bolted to the floor, veins filled with something colder, sharper, than ice.

It’s Dabi who gives you the nudge you need, his gentle touch torching the frost coating your body and jumpstarting your limbs, finally allowing that familiar presence of your big brother draw you in, as it’s done so many times before.

And then you’re running to him, crossing the sterile room in a mere few strides and flinging yourself down on his hospital bed, arms latched tightly around his neck, face buried against his chest.

He’s saying something, you can feel his words vibrating against your cheek as his frail arms wrap around your waist, but it all sounds muffled to you, nothing more than a steady, hazy stream of his voice, sentiments drowning in your own ragged breaths and vicious sobs.

Those large hands skim across your form, patting and grabbing and kneading as if they can’t believe you’re here, as if they can’t believe you’re real, as if you’ll disappear from their grasp the moment they aren’t on you anymore.

His touch causes something to break, cracking wide open at the core of your soul, so deep, so dark you’re terrified it might swallow you whole. Your body crumples under the strain, curling into the warmth and comfort your big brother provides—that only your big brother can provide, that your big brother will always provide, no matter the circumstances.

Everything hurts, and you cling tighter to him, fingers twisting in his thin hospital gown as claws of despair shred your lungs and tear at your stomach, desperate to be felt, acknowledged, known.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Keigo croaks, his voice dense with spit. “It’s okay, it’s okay, niisan’s here, it’s okay.”  

Those roaming hands clutch you tighter, pressing you close to his heart and promising to keep you together, to keep you whole as those talons threaten to rip you apart. Nothing can hurt you anymore—not here, not now, not with Keigo wrapped around you.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like this, cuddled up in your big brother’s arms as silent tears leak from your eyes, his lips pressing routine kisses to the crown of your head as you cry, but it’s long enough for Dabi to leave, smoke, and then return, the scent of nicotine twined around his body, his reentrance bringing a whiff of it with him.

Finally, you lift your head, swollen eyes blinking slow and sticky, Keigo rendered as nothing more than a wavering blur through through the thick tears coating your vision.

“You can’t...” you begin, words fading to ghosts in your throat, weighing heavy and bitter on your tongue. “This has to stop, Keigo. We can’t just...We can’t just sit around waiting and hope it gets better on it’s own. We need help. You need help.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice grating on his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you’re murmuring out, pacifying palms rhythmically running over his matted curls, a fresh bout of tears shining in your eyes. “I’m just happy you’re alive, Keigo.”

“I should’ve never lied to you,” he whimpers, face screwed up as if the words are painful, barbed on his tongue. “I just—I wanted you—”

And, really, that’s it. He wanted you. He didn’t just want you to be proud of him, nor did he just want you to stop worrying so much. He wanted you, all of you, to himself again. He wanted you, safe and sound and at home, where you should’ve been all along, where you’ll always belong.

As it turns out, he’s just as selfish as Dabi.

“I know,” you whisper. “And I want you; I want you to get better, I want my big brother back.”

And it hurts to hear that, your voice so raw, so honest, cut open with a sharp razor as emotion spills out and washes over him in burning waves, his eyes glazing over as his bottom lip twitches.

“I miss you, Keigo. I miss all the things we used to do together, before this—this monster that you’re grappling with took root. I miss getting ice cream from that mom and pop shop a few streets over; I miss going for bike rides as the sun set, and I miss stargazing at the park after it sunk; I miss it all. Don’t you?”

The question cracks on your tongue, more tears dripping down your cheeks as your eyes search his face, begging him to see your sincerity, begging him to say yes, genuity written into the creases of your forehead.

His own tears, caught so artfully by his long lashes, finally break free from their confines, streaming in pairs across his hollowed face. Because, yeah, he does, he misses those moments more than anything in the world—because, really, nothing else matters more than those sweet little memories made with the one person he loves most, the one person he loves more than anything or anyone else.

Not even heroin.

“You can do it, Keigo. I know you can. You’re so—” A hiccup cuts you off but you swallow past it, powering on, voice thick with love, care, belief. “You’re so strong, niisan; you’re the strongest person I know, and you’re a hell of a long stronger than this addition, I’m absolutely sure of it.”

Both of his hands grip one of yours with such force it’s a marvel his sharp knuckles don’t slice right through the thin skin stretched tight and taut across them. You place your other hand atop his, dainty and gentle, thumb running across his flesh in soothing motions.

“I don’t want to watch you kill yourself slowly,” you tell him, resolution firm in your voice. “And I won’t. I won’t do it, niisan. Not anymore.”

Blood drains from his face at your statement, skin gone from sickly to ashen, and his body goes rigid, hands still as stone in your palms.

“Is this goodbye?”

“No,” Dabi cuts in before you can question him about what the heck that’s supposed to mean, coming to perch on the parallel edge of Keigo’s bed. “This is we’re here to help.”

That sentence should bring a rush of much-needed relief gushing through Keigo’s veins, loosening his tight muscles and unclenching his jaw and relieving the stress that has snuggled into his very soul. It should make him feel revitalized. It should make him feel elated.

But it doesn’t.

Because Dabi’s eyes are hard, and while his gaze is fiery, it holds no warmth, the flames of contempt blazing in his irises contradicting his flat words. A rough palm clamps itself over Keigo’s collarbone, a poor imitation of friendly, and Dabi leans forward.  

“Make no mistake,” he murmurs in Keigo’s ear, just loud enough for him to hear, the force of his grip tightening to bone crushing. “I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for her. Don’t you ever fucking forget that.”

Keigo’s shock must be evident on his face, shining in his eyes and trembling on his lips, because Dabi smirks—a small quirk up of his lips, arrogant and self-satisfied—before he pulls back completely.

This is the second time Dabi has surprised him, in all of Keigo’s years of knowing him. This is the second time Dabi has proven to him that he is, in come capacity, capable of thinking about people other than himself—even if Keigo’s sure this decision isn’t entirely separate from Dabi’s own agenda.

And while Keigo still can’t convince himself that Dabi has your best interests in mind, it’s abundantly clear that he has some of your interests in mind, this singular action speaking volumes.

Because Dabi rarely, if ever, goes back on his word; it’s a well known fact at this point that his threats are never empty threats, always containing some sort of meaning, some sort of promise, and that thought sends spikes of ice shooting up Keigo’s spine.

If you notice the odd interaction between the two of them, you don’t say anything, a gentle squeeze bringing Keigo’s dumbfounded attention back to you.

“I have some news,” you begin softly, a small, sad smile on your lips. “I’m coming back home.”

That belated elation finally floods his veins, warm and tingling as it rushes through his body and eradicates all of the desolation Dabi had just instilled in him, a genuine smile breaking through the hard trepidation coating his face.

“And Dabi’s coming with me.”

The bright happiness that had blossomed in his blood dries up instantly, veins shrivelled and parched, panic and despair bolting through his body like sharp spears of lightning, and Keigo’s expression withers, face screwed up with a certain sourness before it droops, giving in, giving up, features weighted and grim as he nods his understanding.

“Compromise,” Dabi says, and while his voice is amicable enough, something sharp glints in his eyes, something sinister tugging at his lips.

Still, it’s something. It’s a start. And Keigo will take anything he can get.

Compromise. Compromise.

Keigo supposes he can live with that.

#dabi x reader #dabi smut #bnha smut #mha smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya smut #takami keigo x reader #tw:toxic relationship #tw:minimal prep #tw:drugs

[fruitcoops]

If you wanted to write grumpy logan and finn/leo lovingly making fun of him until logan is no longer grumpy, you would do it so well and I would love it

Fic O'Ween Day 7: Pumpkin Spice, for the Cubs :) Kudos and thanks to @noots-fic-fests and @lumosinlove for fest details and characters!

“You’re so cute when you’re grumpy,” Leo hummed, nuzzling into the soft fluff of curls above Logan’s ear. A wordless grumble answered him and he smiled. “Like a kitten, getting all puffed up.”

“—fucking—taxes, mon dieu—”

Cranky French interspersed the muttered undercurrent. Leo wasn’t worried; Logan got loud and direct when he was angry. This was nothing more than the usual fussiness. “I made muffins.”

“—witchcraft fuckery—”

“With cranberries,” he coaxed.

Logan aggressively scribbled out a line on his notepad, but Leo felt him lean closer.

“You’ve been here for two hours, cher.”

He pressed a flat palm between Logan’s shoulders, rubbing gently over the tight muscle and warm skin beneath his shirt. It was one of Finn’s, he thought—a faded thing from the Strand in the pretty red that made his eyes pop. It might have been a gift from some point in their college years, but that was unlikely. Logan had always preferred petty theft from their closets to actually owning anything he liked.

Logan groaned under his breath and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m going to commit felonies against the IRS.”

“Very American of you.”

“Get out of my apartment.”

“It was my apartment first,” Leo smiled into his temple, and sealed it with a kiss. “C’mon. Muffin time. You’re hangry.”

“It’s not my fault you can’t do your own taxes.”

“I can. It’s just that I have a boyfriend who offers to do them for me.”

Logan snorted. “Do you?”

“Mhmm.” He wrapped his arms around Logan from behind, bending slightly. “He’s real smart, too. Capable. Knows how to do math.”

“What a dreamboat,” Logan deadpanned.

“Yeah, you got it.” He was still tense in Leo’s hold, but it softened when Leo pulled his hat off and kissed the top of his head. “I have a thing for nerds.”

“Boo. Go away, I need to finish this.”

“You’re sure you don’t want a muffin? They’re still warm.”

“Not hungry.”

Liar, liar. “Alright. More for me, then.” He nipped the shell of Logan’s ear. “I’ll tell Harzy he’s got free reign.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Leo rolled his eyes and hoped Logan felt it. “Taxes aren’t due until April, baby.”

Logan’s pen gave a prompt clack. “Ouais, and if I put it off until then, you won’t see me for four days. Let me drown in my spreadsheets, please.”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

Logan grumbled something like never makes me happy, but if he wanted to continue making himself miserable, Leo couldn’t really stop him. He had already offered muffins; what more could he do?

He had only partially been telling the truth, anyway. One batch of the muffins was done. It was just that he tended to get excited when fall hit, and ravenous when hockey season started, and every recipe spontaneously doubled in his hands like a cornucopian miracle. Some people kept special daylight lamps around. Leo had a five-pound bag of Craisins and a free afternoon to go absolutely ham with the last bit of sunlight energy he could throttle from October. They all had their own methods of dealing with it.

He only burnt his fingertips a little while prying a muffin from the tin and popping it into his mouth in one bite, and considered that a win.

An hour passed without much change. Leo measured, Logan worked. Leo mixed, Logan groused. Leo doled out batter to (perfectly-lined) muffin tins, Logan scribbled away at his notepad and beat Google Calendar into submission. Finally, as the third tray went in, Leo watched him stand with a groan worthy of an octogenarian and wander stiffly down their short hallway. He smiled to himself and set the oven timer. The work would be done soon enough. If he popped a show on and got comfortable on the couch, he might even be able to tempt Logan away from his numbers into a pre-dinner snuggle.

Whistling echoed from the hall outside, followed by the jingle of keys. Finn was already kicking his shoes off when the door opened, clicking his tongue to the rhythm of whatever played in his earbuds. His face brightened when he saw Leo. “Sup, Butter?”

“Heads up.” A muffin sailed through the air and Finn caught it, barely. “Tremzy’s cheating on me.”

“Wh—” Finn gave a hard blink and glanced over his shoulder. “Is this—I’m going to walk out and come back in again. Wrong apartment. Sorry, cheating? Logan Tremblay? Are we talking about the same person? If you’re talking about me, I’ve made sure that joke is overdone.”

“Her name is Microsoft Excel, and she’s got to be stopped.”

“Oh.” Finn’s bafflement became a regretful nod as he joined Leo by the sink. “His first love. I see the problem.”

“He turned down muffins.”

“Damn, this guy sounds lame. Need a new boyfriend?”

Leo kissed his sideways grin and flipped the water on. “Not currently looking to fill that position, but I’ll keep you at the top of my list.”

Finn’s arms folded around his waist and gave a gentle squish. “You should let me do that, babe.”

“Just rinsing.”

“Hmm.” He felt a kiss through his shirt. “Been cooking all day?”

“Mostly. Reg called this morning and I’m going out with Bliz and Cole at five.”

“What, I’m not invited?” Finn asked with false offense.

“Goalies only,” Leo said with even falser sympathy.

“Reyes isn’t a goalie.”

“Well, we like him better.”

Finn’s indignant noise was stifled by a mouthful of muffin and Leo laughed, jumping at the light pinch to his hip where his shirt rode up. He let Finn shoo him away from the sink with a dishtowel and waited by the counter instead to admire the way he shoved his sweater sleeves up to his elbows.

The bathroom door opened and Leo watched Logan make his way back to the table, all grimaces and stretches, with a final jaw-cracking yawn as he fell into his chair again. The neckline of his shirt was damp, like he had washed his face. He took no notice of the sneakers by the door or Finn at the sink.

“Hey, Lo,” Leo called. “Gotcha something.”

“An accountant?”

Like you’d let anyone else handle this. “A treat.”

“Thought you made muffins.”

Leo caught Finn’s smile out of the corner of his eye and shut the faucet off, passing him the towel. “Nope, different treat.”

“What is it?”

“Guess.”

“Uh…” Logan trailed off, tapping his pen against the notepad. “I don’t know, what?”

“C’mon, humor me.”

“Give me a hint.”

Leo bit his lip against a smile and hooked his finger in Finn’s waistband, guiding him away from the sink. “Pumpkin spice.”

Finn had to turn his face into his shoulder to muffle a snort. Leo pressed three fingers over Finn’s lips, not that it would do much. Ahead of them, Logan’s shoulders relaxed. “You got me coffee? That’s nice of you.”

“Try again.”

“What—uh, bread. Pumpkin bread.”

“Sweeter.”

“Cake?”

“Sweeter.”

“…doughnuts?”

“You like it more than doughnuts.”

“Is it…like, Halloween candy, or something?” Logan sat back from the table and lifted his arms to adjust his hat; Leo caught Finn around the waist and hefted him off his feet, then plopped him with great ceremony into Logan’s waiting lap.

“Oh, hi there,” Finn laughed.

“Coucou.” Logan’s eyes crinkled with the force of his smile and he ducked his laughter into Finn’s neck. “Pumpkin spice, eh?”

“Apparently.” Finn shuffled into a more upright position and slung his arm across Logan’s shoulders, toying lightly with his mussed curls. “A little birdie told me you’ve been up to no good. Taxes, scowling, refusal of muffins.”

Logan’s cheeks darkened with a blush. He cast Leo a guilty look. “Sorry.”

“There’s a heavy punishment for neglecting baked goods,” Finn informed him. “We have to take you into custard-y.”

“Get off me.”

“And you have to pay a fine of a hundred kisses before five o’clock.”

Logan’s eyebrows rose with interest—his loose hold around Finn’s waist tightened. “Stay on me. Quoi?”

“This is serious business, Mr. Tremblay.”

“Who gets this payment?”

“Well, it’s a half-and-half deal.” Leo didn’t know how Finn kept his face so solemn. “Half to the lawyer—me, obviously—and half to the baker who was so cruelly slighted in this afternoon’s incident.”

“Do I have to pony up all at once, or can I make…” Logan nudged up against Finn’s cheek, a dimple just barely forming. “…a down payment?”

“I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“Hmm.” Their kiss was soft enough to make Leo’s breath stutter in his chest—just a whisper over Finn’s bottom lip that had him chasing more. Logan bumped their noses together. “Spicy.”

Finn all but melted into his chest. “You know it.”

Jade eyes darted over and fixed Leo in place. Logan cast a quick up-and-down look over him, then propped his chin on Finn’s shoulder and gave a small, close-lipped smile. “That baker better get over here so I can give him a piece of my mind.”

The countertop was oven-warm when Leo leaned back. “How much are we giving to charity?”

Logan blinked. “Seventeen percent.”

“What’s seventeen percent of fifty?”

“Eight and a half.”

Leo stepped forward and braced his hands on the back of the chair, bracketing Logan’s head. “Tip your local bakeries, Tremblay. You owe me fifty-eight and a half kisses.”

Confusion blossomed into the kind of smile Leo lived for. “Let’s call it an even twenty percent. I’m feeling generous.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

#leo knut #logan tremblay #finn ohara #cubs #oknutzy #coast to coast #sweater weather #vaincre #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #fluff #pumpkin spice #fic o’ween 2023

[gatheredfates]

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who reblogged something from you! get to know your mutuals and followers (ू•‧̫•ू⑅)♡

Aww, I love positivity asks! I can't say mine are in any way profound, but:

My loved ones. Cheesy, I know. Shout-out to my partner who does have a Tumblr account but refuses to be perceived because I know he'll read this and appreciate the fact I didn't tag him. I've been asked before how on earth I've been in a relationship with one person for over half my life and that's simple: I fell in love with my best friend. 💖 Also huge shoutout to @riftdancing who will be perceived because she's the platonic love of my life and, without her, I would not be who I am today. These two have seen me at my literal worst and stuck by me — I love them to bits! There's also my FC members/close friends @lightwrought / @gaygentofchaos / @whirlwyrm / @snakemoltsiren / @swingbeard / @dragons-ire / other people I have missed and/or wouldn't like to be tagged but know you are included because I love you. IF YOU KNOW YOU KNOW. Also everyone in Seafloor!

Music. I've always loved music, but I really only got into music and listening to different things later in life! Sleep Token fundamentally altered my brain chemistry and I will thrust them on anyone who will listen (start with Sundowning through to Take Me Back to Eden if you want the whole ~experience~ but Jaws is also a good separate introduction). I've also come to love Crywolf, Ashnikko, Bad Omens, as well as old faithfuls like Red, Evanescence, Halsey, etc.

My cat. She's not really my cat, but she adopted me. Ratticus le Catticuses the third of her name; brat cat, rat cat; little goblin; my little baby girl, love of my life. (Her name is Lucy).

Graphics design/creativity. I make it no secret my favourite part of my irl work is when I can make a brochure/pamphlet/poster. I don't profess to be an absolute master in it, and I'm entirely self-taught, but there is something about making something better. It's the same with GPOSING and the like. I don't do it often, but my edits are there. There are people in the community that use the little dividers I put together in Canva. It makes me happy!

My current mental health/personal journey. I'm in a really good spot mentally. My diagnosis has changed my life, and I was already on a good trajectory with my personal mantra/outlook on life prior to it. A few years go I was extremely depressed/anxious, I had a lot of trauma/paranoia around my spaces, and acted in ways I'm not proud of. I've reached out and reconciled a lot of it, and it's allowed me to engage with this community and my personal projects in a manner that's healthy and engaging for me. I was in a spot of ~drama~ recently (which I won't get into — that's another personal choice I made to keep things between relevant parties) and, rather than freaking out and thinking everyone hated me... I just dealt with it. I took all sides, formulated my opinions and blocked the people I didn't want to deal with. I was SO proud/happy with myself — I still am! It's not world-ending like it used to feel and that's so freeing for me as someone who used to be a chronic people-pleaser/conflict averse. I still want to try to be the latter, but I really believe the manta of 'be kind, take no shit'. It's done wonders for my happiness.

This got really long, I appreciate anyone who got to the bottom! I'll send these out to ten people from my permanent interaction call because I think that's nice. Thank you @disciple-of-frost for sending this in!! ✨

#｡･ﾟﾟ･ — sea speaks #｡･ﾟﾟ･ — sea answers things

[pompadourpink]

Les temps du présent

Le présent de l'indicatif/présent simple

The indicative present is used to

describe what one is currently doing (présent d'énonciation): je travaille - I'm working (as we speak)

describe a fact (présent de vérité générale/historique): les chats sont des animaux - cats are animals

describe an ongoing fact that started in the past (présent duratif): il pleut depuis hier - It's been raining since yesterday

describe the scene (présent de description): le soleil est caché aujourd'hui - the sun is hiding today

describe a habit (présent d'habitude): je cours tous les dimanches - I run every sunday

describe what just happened (présent de passé proche): je viens d'arriver - I just got there

describe what is about to happen (présent de futur proche): je suis là dans une minute - I'll be there in a minute

give an order (présent d'injonction), alternative to the imperative present: tu rentres tout de suite ! - You get home immediately!

make a story feel real (présent de narration): il y a six ans déjà que mon ami s'en est allé avec son mouton. Si j'essaie ici de le décrire, c'est afin de ne pas l'oublier. - It has been six years since my friend left with his sheep. If I try to describe him here, it is so that I will not forget him. (Le Petit Prince)

express a possibility (présent d'hypothèse): si tu es gentil, tu auras un cadeau - if you're kind, you'll get a present

La conjugaison

First group (-er except Aller): je marche, tu marches, il/elle/on marche, nous marchons, vous marchez, ils/elles marchent

Second group (-ir with -iss- in the plural forms): je finis, tu finis, il/elle/on finit, nous finissons, vous finissez, ils/elles finissent

Third group (everything else): typically je cours, tu cours, il court, nous courons, vous courez, ils courent; long -oir verbs: je veux, tu veux, il veut, nous voulons, vous voulez, ils veulent; -indre/-soudre verbs: -s, -s, -t, -ons, -ez, -ent; other -dre verbs: -ds, -ds, -d, -dons, -dez, -dent; -ttre: -ts, -ts, -t, -tons, -tez, -tent; -rir, -llir: -e, -es, -e, -ons, -ez, -ent

Auxiliaries: je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont + j'ai, tu as, il a, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont

N.B. Many third-group verbs are irregular because they used to be two different verbs (ex: Être comes from both Essere - to be and Stare - to stand) that eventually became one and consequently have two bases and can have up to five stems. Always double-check for different, stems, extra letters, accents, etc.

Notable exceptions:

A vowel -i- cannot be between two other vowels in the first and second person plural so it will turn into -y- (vous croyez, nous voyons)

In -cer and -ger verbs, the first person plural changes to allow for the correct pronunciation (nous lançons, nous mangeons); c > ç, go > geo.

In -aître verbs, only the third person singular keeps the accent (elle naît).

Le présent progressif

The progressive present is an emphasized version of the enunciation present and is therefore used to describe an ongoing action that started recently and is actively being done as the narrator is speaking.

It is built by putting together the subject, the verb Être conjugated in the indicative present tense, the adverbial locution "en train de" (in the progress of), the infinitive form of the verb of action, and possibly an object.

Je suis en train de manger, j'ai bientôt fini - I'm eating, I'm almost done

Est-ce que tu es en train de travailler? - are you working?

Nous sommes en train de faire nos devoirs - we are doing homework

Le conditionnel présent

The present conditional is used

to express a wish: j'aimerais retourner en Italie - I'd love to go back to Italy

a suggestion: tu devrais partir tôt - you should leave early

a hypothesis: il pourrait rentrer demain - he could come home tomorrow

to casually share one's opinion: je n'aimerais pas qu'on me dise ça ! - I wouldn't like it if someone told me that (can be a way to aggravate a situation)

to ask something politely: je voudrais un café - I'd like a coffee

to refer to the future in the past: elle a dit qu'elle arriverait tard - she said she'd arrive late

La conjugaison

Conjugating the present conditional is easy for the first two verbal groups: just add the terminations to the infinitive of the verb. If the verb ends in -e, remove it: prendre > je prendrais. Fun fact: you can build the imperfect tense by removing -er- for the first group and turning -ir- into -iss- for the second.

First group (-er except Aller): je marcherais, tu marcherais, il marcherait, nous marcherions, vous marcheriez, ils marcheraient

Second group (-ir with -iss- in the plural forms): je finirais, tu finirais, il finirait, nous finirions, vous finiriez, ils finiraient

Third group (everything else): typically: je courrais, tu courrais, il courrait, nous courrions, vous courriez, ils courraient; auxiliaries: je serais, tu serais, il serait, nous serions, vous seriez, ils seraient + j'aurais, tu aurais, il aurait, nous aurions, vous auriez, ils auraient

Main irregular verbs: auxiliaries + aller - j'irais, devoir - je devrais, pouvoir - je pourrais, recevoir - je recevrais, savoir - je saurais, tenir - je tiendrais, venir - je viendrais, voir - je verrais, vouloir - je voudrais

N.B. Make sure to not mix it up with the simple future tense, they're similar!

L'impératif présent

The present imperative mood can only be conjugated in the second person singular and the first and second person plural. It is used

to give an order: viens ici tout de suite - come here right now

a suggestion: appelle-le tout de suite, non ? - maybe call him now?

a plea: s'il te plaît, pardonne-moi ! - please, forgive me

to ban someone from doing something: ne touche pas à ça ! - do not touch that

La conjugaison

Warning: it often looks like the indicative present - without a subject. If so, in the second person singular, the verb will require a final -s only if the current final letter is a consonant. Certain verbs cannot be conjugated, like vouloir.

être: sois, soyons, soyez; avoir: aie, ayons, ayez

va, allons, allez; finis, finissons, finissez; marche, marchons, marchez

N.B. Pronouns can be added: a reflexive verb will come with a tonic pronoun and a dash in a positive sentence: Lave-toi !, and a direct object pronoun in a negative sentence: Ne te vexe pas !; when referring to a portion -en: Prends-en un peu ! (an -s will be added for the liaison to be possible), and to a place, -y: Vas-y !

L'infinitif présent

is the neutral form you find in dictionaries: courir, marcher, prendre

is found after prepositions À, De, Pour and Sans: c’est sans dire, viens à la maison pour dîner !, on part sans perdre de temps

is found after a conjugated verb: il voulait partir tôt (the second verb can be the first element of the sentence: courir nous fatigue)

expresses an order, advice, prohibition: frapper avant d’entrer

expresses anger, surprise or a wish: m'excuser, moi ? plutôt mourir !

expresses doubt in an interrogative sentence: que faire de ce garçon ?

Le participe présent

The present participle works like an adverb and either expresses an action that happens at the same time as another action, that is possibly the consequence of that action, or describes the subject. It is built by removing the termination of the verb and replacing it by -ant.

Les employés possédant une voiture peuvent se garer dans la rue - the employees who own a car can park in the street

Étant déjà en retard, je décide de courir - being already late, I decide to run

N.B. To get the right pronunciation or avoid a mix-up with an adjective, it can be necessary to modify or add letters when building the present participle. For example: convaincre > convainquant (as convaincant is the adjective), diverger > divergeant ([ʒ], as divergant would be a [g] sound).

Movie: La Piscine - Jacques Deray, 1969

#temps #basique #conjugaison

[as-amemory]

I Could Drive You Crazy

Pairing: Éomer x OFC (unnamed)

Summary: She drove him crazy, with her little mannerism specifically crafted to irritate him, to get a rise out of him, for it was then, in that sweet spot before he starts to boil, before his true ire took over, that they find themselves in the heated throws of passion.

Warnings: NSFW, explicit, racism against Dunlendings (if thats a thing? I don't know, I'm new here), unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: less than 2k.

Setting: Aldburg, Rohan - some years before the War of the Ring.

Notes: This is the result of me ovulating and having no outlet as well as a song-bug stuck in my ear: I Could Drive You Crazy by Sierra Ferrell. Basically its a song about being crazy and I thought that might make for an interesting character to pair Éomer with, since apparently I enjoy watching him suffer. I'm not yet ready to name this OFC. I kind of hate her but I want to play with her a few more times and see what mischief she can get up to first before I decide if she needs a permanent residence.

I'm probably going to the small section of hell they specifically reserve for the sickos who deface Tolkien's works with such vulgarity. Enjoy!

Hay Fever threatened to take him fully yet she barged through the door as if he hadn’t complained to her that morning of an oncoming headache. She loved to do that. Ignore his every word and then act surprised when he was upset with her for having to repeat himself. Rare did he share his feelings with others, rarer still that he was forced to repeat himself. Not as Third Marshal of the Mark, Lord of Aldburg. People listened when he spoke. She did not. 

“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she says, voice full of spite. He hated when she called him by his name so casually. He never particularly cared for the triviality of titles. It matters not to him how he is referred to, as long as he first gave leave to call him by his given name, yet she takes the privilege without even bothering to ask permission.

She eyes the hound dogs sprawled at his feet with contempt. She did not like that he allows the dogs to reside inside the confines of his home. They belong in a kennel, outside. “They look as though they will devour me.” 

This was his home. It would do her well to get used to seeing them laying on the floor. He sits back in his seat appraising her, the judgment seeped deep in her dark eyes. She is of mixed ancestry, there is no doubt of that by looking at her. Carrying enough blood of the Dunlendings to mark her differently. A mark of his resentment towards her. Resentment that blossomed into hate, the sweet fuel to their more rousing escapades. 

“I should let them.” The threat comes out harsher than he intends, the start of a cold restricting any tenderness from escaping his throat. 

Tossing two halves of an uneaten pheasant on the ground the dogs swallow it whole in one bite. He had taken his supper in his room that evening, not in the mood to dally with the residents of Aldburg. Typically the seasonal Hay Fever did not affect him but the heavy spring rains had caused an influx of new weeds to run wild in the fields causing him to feel less than ideal. Currently a pain bloomed behind his eyes and at the base of his throat, leaving him in no state to make friendly conversation. Yet here she is, when he had specifically ordered the Doorward not to let anyone into his rooms. 

She could drive him to insanity with her blatant disrespect of him. He did not know why he kept her around. They had nothing in common and his list of grievances against her was long in number, dating back almost a year prior, growing longer still.

Showing up late to a personal invitation to go riding, acting as though they had never agreed to a time and certainly not a place of meeting. She had once offered to cook him supper to which he almost choked on the bones swimming in the stew. Had ruined a hunting trip, scaring away all the animals with her incessant humming. A tune which was stuck in his head for almost a fortnight. There was no fishing to be had with her, requiring more patience than whatever little she possessed. Yet time, and time again, him found himself tangled in sheets of his bed with her, or roughly pressed against the edge of his desk in the solar, partial to the idea of being caught, or in the hayloft above the stables, straining so deliciously tight around him as she rode - 

He teeth grind at the sight of her, fluttering about his room, touching this and that, moving it slightly away from its original spot as she talks about her day. 

“I found a lovely bolt of cloth that would make a fine dress.” She has picked up the crystal paperweight from his desk, peering at it as if she is speaking to the paperweight and not him. 

So it was money she wanted? He should have known better than to think she was checking on his well being. He lifts his chin, waiting for her to meet his eye. She would have to ask him directly if she desired any coin from him but she continues to pick up random items just to set them down again, completely ignoring him. 

“Come here.” His patience has grown thin. He will not ask her twice yet she looks at him as if he should be the one crawling on his knees to be near her. As if he should hand over his purse just to be allowed the honor of being in the same room as her. 

When he does not concede to her silent petition she nods her head in appreciation to his stubbornness. A sly smile curls on her lips as she approaches him, already lifting her dress to better seat herself on his lap. 

“I don’t know what I ever liked about you,” he says gruffly as she straddles him. Pushing aside her skirts he unties the laces of his trousers. He would have his due of her before this Hay Fever set in fully. 

She laughs mockingly at that. “You love me.” 

“I don’t think I do.” He nips at her lips and she smiles ruefully. Skirt pulled around her waist he is able to easily palm the wet folds of her labia. “You seem to like me,” he draws out, pushing the heel of his palm into her sensitive nub, eliciting a delicate gasp from between pink parted lips. He takes the opening to kiss her fully when she otherwise does not particularly enjoy the intimacy of a long drawn out kiss. She surprises him by matching the energy, eagerly molding her lips against his. Rutting down on his hand and along his ever hardening cock causes a gasp of his own to escape his mouth and into hers. His eyes closed briefly at the contact. They had last laid together only that morning. Was he so fallible to her that he could not even keep from gasping out like an inexperienced adolescent? 

She bites down on his lower lip. Hard, drawing blood. He hisses his resentment through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into her side. He hated when she did that. This she knows. She remembers that particular detail about him, yet could not remember the name of his first horse or his favorite fishing spot. More than anything she loved to know what he hated.

She is trying to get a rise out of him. Make his boil, just a little. The sex was always better for it. 

“Minx,” he growls against her mouth. Taking hold of his cock he spreads the juices of her pleasure along the length, lining himself up with her entrance. Greedily he flicks his hips up into her without warning. She laments her pleasure, loud for all to hear. The Doorward, no doubt, will not be expecting reprimand from him, not when he can so clearly hear the results of his mistake. 

Wiggling against him she tries vainly to adjust to the size difference but he holds her in place, fingers digging into her sides. He wishes that he wasn’t so incorrigible. That he wasn’t so tempted by her teasing. That he could withhold himself from acting out so rashly. Maybe like that of his older cousin, whose poise and sense of propriety had always come with ease. Yet he falls for her time and time again, fucking her exactly as she enjoys. As he enjoys. 

Letting his eyes linger on her undulating body he sets his jaw to keep from baring his teeth at the pressure of her rolling hips. If only she rode horses as good as she did him then she might be worth her weight in the saddle. Yet for all her withering she is shit astride a horse. It was that cursed Dunlending blood, tainting her ability to be anything but subpar.

A whimper escapes her lips, and he smiles cruelly, at least she suffers, same as him. She rides him slow, a painful pace that leaves him groaning. His only respite from her torture is his thumb circling her clit. She might know everything he hated but he knew exactly what her body loved. Specifically how to milk an orgasm out of her that would leave her seeing stars. It starts slow. Small circles to bring her to attention, and then an increase of pressure as blood engorges to the area. Her breathing hitches in her throat. Like the cat that caught the canary, he smiles at the sight of her. A harsh thrust of his hips, he fills her fully causing her pace to falter. The careful placement of his thumb halts, watching the confused look cross her features as her incoming orgasm slips out from under her. 

His name is a growl on her lips, a slight warning. “Éomer.” 

That he could take his name from her lips. 

She knows the game he plays, the same one she taught him all those years ago. His thumb picks up pace with her rolling hips. He cradles her neck with his free hand. Skin hot, beneath his touch. A sheen of sweat is building along her hairline. He traces the curve of her collarbone and down her chest, across to her nipples, hard beneath her bodice. She is almost as sensitive here as she is between her legs, her hands clench around his shirt trying to hide her rising ecstasy. His nostrils flare, eyes trapped on the expanse of her face, carefully watching for each small indication of her pleasure. 

Turning her head she tries to hide from him but he quickly has her jaw clasped between his fingers. He would see her. Shaking her head she waves off his touch, attempting to cover her eyes behind her hand, like a child hiding in plain sight. He clicks his tongue, taking her hand in his and after some struggling binds them both in his clasp behind her back.  

“Go on then.” He flicks his chin in her direction. Her pace has all but stopped, hesitantly she finds it again, knowing full well that he now possesses all the power. The power to dish out pleasure as he saw fit.  

Yet her rolling hips are more powerful, more exaggerated than before, causing him to grimace, lest he call out her name. She would love that, revel in his undoing. He steels himself with a deep breath through his nose. A ragged breath from her lets him know she is close again. He slows his thumb, wondering if she’ll cry out, plead with him to give her what she wants. 

“Éomer.” His name, like a prayer on her lips, is soft and sweet, and he knows he no longer possesses the control he once touted. 

Letting free her hands, he pulls her in close until her head rests against his. He can feel the warmth of her breath as he takes his pace, thrusting into her. She has brushed away his teasing thumb, replacing it with her own skilled fingers. A shuddering breath and she tightens further around the length of him. She cries out loud enough that he is certain they hear her in the Great Hall. He is still thrusting into her as she convulses hot and heady around him but he soon follows suit, letting his release run him fully with a loud groan of his own. 

Panting, she rests her head against his chest, forehead sticky with sweat it clings to the thin fabric of his shirt. She does not cuddle. She never has lingered in his arms as they slowly drift down from their high. She slips off his lap and he shutters at the sudden loss of contact, hands gripping the armrests of the chair. 

By the time he has regained his senses enough to stand she has relieved herself and wiped clean his seed dripping down her thighs. Maybe a good romp was the cure to any oncoming ailment. He drowns the last of his ale, eyeing her as she smiles prettily for him under dark thick lashes. So demure and pliant, when only moments earlier he was ready to have her thrown from his room for her uncouth behavior.

“You spoil me, my lord,” she says coyly. He bites back a scoff. 

Her gaze is taken with the leather purse heavy on the corner of his desk. A slight nod of his head and she promptly reaches across the expanse, showing off the long lines of her body, and that of the soft curves she knows he loves to grab hold of during their coupling. Deftly, her fingers dip inside the pouch, taking out three coins. 

“This should cover the cost.” Her gaze darts to him, searching for any subtle hint of permission that she could take more but he is hard set against giving her indication. Already she pushes the bounds of his generosity. 

“And one more,” she purrs softly, plucking a fourth coin out. “As insurance to return to you.” 

He rolls his eyes, knowing well she will only return when she pleases not because she feels indebted to him. Offering a low curtsey, she mumbles her thanks, letting his gaze linger on her, on the low cut of her dress. Her bosom all but swells out of the strains of her bodice. When did such a salacious style come into fashion? Surely his sister did not expose herself so scantily in Edoras? He bites his lip, thoughts of his sister quickly pushed from his mind replaced instead by the women so humbly lowered before him. Already he feels a slight twitch of his groin. 

She rises, satisfied with her display of deference. A Haunting smile on her lips, she glances at the hound dogs splayed out on the rug. 

“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she instructs as a final goodbye. Out the door he is certain she can hear his mocking laughter following her.  

#I probably got his voice entirely wrong #but I had fun writing this #eomer fanfiction #Eomer x OC #Eomer x OFC #Eomer smut #lotr fanfic #lotr smut

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Flashback

Summary: You reflect on your "relationship" with Frankie and running into him for the first time after finding out he lied to you.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem. Reader

Wordcount: 690

Warnings: angst, lies, unplanned pregnancy, infidelity

A/N: This is my attempt on fixing a plot hole lol Also this is now a series? Though like every series I write, no plan, just vibes

Part of the (Ir)replaceable series

The letters on your counter were mocking you. 

Frankie’s letters. 

In the whirlwind of running into him (and his wife) yesterday you neglected to process the words she had said. That came after you had distracted yourself by painting the nursery. 

“It's kinda nice knowing someone is pregnant at the same time as me”

She was pregnant too?

Was that the reason Frankie…

No.

He lied to you. For months. You would not make excuses for him. He had sex with her while being with you, even though he had said they haven’t been intimate in almost a year. 

Lies. 

But maybe the explanation was in one of those letters. The letters that seemed to be screaming at you to read them. 

It was the next morning and you had just gotten dressed. Your appointment with the lawyer was in three hours and you still had to drive to the city. 

Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to grab your purse and walk out the door. 

Because of the fucking letters. 

Sucking your bottom lip in you nervously drummed your fingers on the kitchen counter. You had a lot of time to think last night. 

Maybe you needed to see him again, to realise what was happening, that you were having a baby with a married man.

There was a petty part of you that just wanted to let your lawyer take care of things. You imagined Frankie having to try to explain why he was getting letters from an attorney. There was an even more petty part of you that wanted his wife to find out. 

That his wife did not find out about the two of you in the past was a mystery to you. 

Frankie had spent so much time with you. He came to your place after work. He spent at least two nights every week at your place. How could she have not known?

Then again you did not have all the information. And he sure knew how to work his cock to make someone shut up. 

You shuddered in disgust. 

You didn’t know what Frankie told her. You did not know if everything Frankie told you had been a lie. 

When you agreed to go out with him for the first time all those months back, he had told you about his separation. That married life wasn’t how he imagined it. 

Frankie and his wife had gotten married after only knowing each other for a week. 

You remembered the conversation as if it had happened yesterday. 

“You know when you meet someone and think fuck I don’t want to be without them anymore? It was like that with her. She’s funny and kind and… Fuck… I don’t know what went wrong. She just… she’s not the person I fell in love with anymore.”

Frankie was on his third beer, venting about his failed marriage. 

And you?

You were at your limit. 

“Do you have any idea how I felt when you came back married all of the sudden?” you asked him. His brown eyes looked at you confused while he frowned. 

“How you felt?” he asked carefully. 

“You don’t even remember…” you rolled your eyes. 

“The date,” he whispered, his lips parted in realisation. 

“Yeah. The date you took me on three days before you and Santi left, the date where you kissed me good night and told me that you’d call, only for me to find out you’re married 10 days after,” you shook your head, your fingers peeling the label off your beer bottle, your eyes focused on this task instead of looking at him. 

“I’m such an asshole,” he huffed and you looked up, sighing. 

“Yeah. You are.”

Sighing you rubbed your fingers over your forehead. 

He was the asshole. 

Not you. 

Okay at least he was the bigger asshole in this scenario. 

That’s why you continued to ignore the letters as you grabbed your purse and walked out of the door. 

But before you drove off you chose to be the bigger person and send a text to his number.

Meeting with lawyers because of my baby today. Expect mail soon.

#my fic #Frankie morales #Frankie Morales x fem. reader #Pedro pascal #francisco morales #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction

[the-real-housewives-of-waterdeep]

Alchemy 410, Chapter 4: Catalysis

SUMMARY: Illyth Arabana and Gale Dekarios can’t be in the same room without wanting to throttle each other. Can they survive being lab partners in their fourth year alchemy class?

Gale and Illyth are slogging through the most tedious part of their project but Illyth can barely stay awake.

RATING: M

PAIRING: Gale/OC

TAGS: Enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, pre-canon, academia, alchemy, lab partners, slow burn, height difference, eventual smut, a couple of nerds fall in love

WORD COUNT: 1.3k

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Gods, this is taking forever,” Illyth groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she watched the pale pink fluid drip through the buret and into a flask below. The titration was a tedious, painstaking process. It required consistent attention, as there was no room for error. There was a chemical indicator in the fluid dripping through the buret tube that would turn the solution a faint robin’s egg blue when chemical equilibrium was reached. If the titration went on for a moment too long, the potion would be ruined and the process would need to be restarted.

The pair were in Gale’s dorm room once again. It was their third attempt that month to successfully titrate the potion to its equivalence point, having failed twice already. The two of them squabbled about whose fault it was that prior attempts were unsuccessful, but culpability did not change the fact that if they could manage to get the titration correct, they would still need to reproduce the results twice after that.

“Why haven’t we found a more efficient way to do this?” Illyth complained. “Who in the hells has time to sit here like this?”

“You do, apparently,” Gale snorted. He was leaning against the foot of his bed, squinting at an Alzhedo language textbook and scribbling notes onto a piece of parchment next to him.

“Clearly,” Illyth replied, trying to stifle her ire. Her patience was running thinner than usual and she was struggling to stay awake. With midterms approaching, she was operating on a serious sleep deficit. Because of her and Gale’s respective schedules, the only time they could meet was later in the evenings when Illyth’s fatigue was more difficult to ignore. She drew a deep breath and sighed, blinking a couple of times to clear the haze of exhaustion.

Behind her, Gale muttered under his breath as he flipped back and forth between the parchment and the textbook.

Illyth smirked to herself. “Having some trouble over there, prodigy?”

“Shut up,” Gale sneered, shooting an irate glance at Illyth, who chuckled in response. She turned the stopper on the buret and looked back over her shoulder at him.

“May I take a look?” she asked, turning to face Gale. “As a student of arcane linguistics, I believe I may be able to assist.”

Gale huffed in a mixture of embarrassment and resignation. “Fine.”

Illyth blinked hard, trying to refocus her bleary eyes. She scooted over next to Gale and peered down at the assignment in front of him. Her eyes flicked between the textbook and the parchment. The book was about the history of the Genasi in the Old Empires, written by a sage from Calimport. Illyth was familiar with the author after taking this class last term.

“Gods, this is my least favorite book,” she grumbled. “Its grammatical structures are so awkward.”

Gale watched as Illyth ran her delicate fingers along each line on the page, tracing the sentences and muttering under her breath.

“Ah, yes, so,” she began. “Assuming you have Professor K’han’ar, which I would imagine you do since he’s the only one who insists on making people read this, he wants you to provide a timeline of the events leading up to and following the Spellplague their impact on Genasi society, but this is a trick question of sorts because Genasi lived in isolation until the Spellplague.”

She turned her attention to the notes Gale scribbled on the parchment beside him. She hummed in recognition as she scanned the page. “Your tenses are all over the place,” she remarked. “May I make a couple of suggestions?”

Gale shrugged and gestured passively to the parchment. “Be my guest.”

Illyth smiled softly. This was a rare opportunity for her to showcase her skills. She picked up the quill and sketched a chart at the top of the page that outlined the different tenses.

“Luckily, Alzhedo doesn’t have irregular verbs, unlike Elvish or Draconic,” Illyth commented. “This chart might help, though. I made it last term.”

Gale picked up the parchment and nodded approvingly. When Illyth laid the information out so plainly, the tense differences were much clearer to him. “This might be quite useful,” he said. His deep brown eyes met Illyth’s wine-red eyes and he smiled earnestly. “Thank you.”

“Mm-hm,” Illyth hummed, returning to the titration. She opened up the stopper once again.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The rhythmic dripping had a hypnotic effect on Illyth, whose fatigue was only worsening. Her eyelids began to sag and, despite her best efforts to stay awake, she was beginning to doze off.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Her neck slackened and her head lolled to the side. She jolted awake with a gasp, attempting to regain control over her exhaustion. Worriedly, she looked to the titration and sighed in relief, seeing that the robin’s egg blue neutrality indicator had yet to develop.

“Allow me to take watch,” Gale said. “If you go on much longer like that, the potion will be ruined. Again.”

Illyth snorted under her breath, considering arguing back to insist that she was fine.

“Alright,” she relented. Illyth scooted away from the alchemy instrumentation and traded places with Gale to lean against the foot of the bed. It felt like an admission of weakness and failure to allow Gale to take over, but there was no concealing that she was too tired to continue.

Her eyelids fluttered shut once more, but Illyth was too exhausted to realize that she was dozing off.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Gale could hear Illyth’s soft snoring behind him as he watched the titration. She’d fallen asleep immediately. For all of her toughness and resolve, she was vulnerable now. Her posture was soft and at ease and her lips parted as she slept. Gale smiled to himself and shook his head at the obstinance of his lab partner. Even in her exhaustion, Illyth still felt the need to prove herself, to show him how capable she was. Gale couldn’t deny that their intellects complemented each other, but Gods she was acerbic. Nobody challenged him in the way she did, a trait that intrigued and irritated Gale in equal measure.

The potion took on a faint blue tinge and Gale immediately stopped the titration. He examined the liquid in the flask and swirled it around, appreciating the perfection he’d achieved. He took note of the changes in volume between the buret and the flask and recorded the measurements on the data sheet that Illyth made.

Gale sighed contentedly. They were only a third of the way done with the potion brews, but he felt a sense of satisfaction in finally achieving a perfectly neutral solution suitable for consumption. Gale eyed the instrumentation and glassware in front of him, pursing his lips in determination. There had to be a more efficient way to produce this potion. Perhaps if he toyed with the process a little longer, he could find a way. Even though his eyelids were growing heavy with sleep, the challenge of discovery was too compelling to ignore.

Gale lit another candle and started the next potion brew.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Illyth awoke with a start at the sound of soft mumbling nearby. Early morning sunlight filtered through the windows, covering Gale’s dorm room in a soft, warm glow. She blinked several times, trying to clear the bleariness from her eyes.

She scanned the room, trying to get a sense of where she was. She didn’t recall having fallen asleep in Gale’s dorm room, but she did recall changing places with Gale to let him watch over the potion titration. Yet, there she was on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She assumed that Gale laid the blanket over her when he realized that she’d fallen asleep. Illyth smiled to herself, taking a moment to appreciate his gesture.

Three pale blue potion bottles sat on the makeshift lab table, corked and ready to consume. Illyth reasoned that Gale must have stayed up until the wee hours of the morning to finish the potions.

Gale was curled up with his head resting on the table, snoring and muttering in his sleep. He didn’t stir when Illyth draped the blanket over his shoulders before she left.

Whatever he was dreaming of, it was making him smile.

#bg3 #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fic #baldur's gate #Gale #gale baldurs gate 3 #gale fic #gale romance #gale x oc

[vacantgodling]

I can't think of a specific question, but I'd love to hear anything about Godeater ! That wip scratches a very specific itch in my head it's very satisfying <3

hi after 80 years i’m finally answering this teehee 💀

something i haven’t fully talked about is how The Under mirrors The Upper.

like The Sun, The Waning Moon is “guarded” from those who would sneak to snuff out its power. however, the waning moon doesn’t have as much power as the sun, so not many go after it; leaving the “guardians” of the moon more freedom to do as they please.

the guardians of the waning moon are the 6 SINS; some of the first demons to defect from the upper after lucifer. the most powerful of the sins is avarice or “ava” (greed) and i’ve talked about him a bit before (and i love him) but i don’t give the other sins as much attention so let’s talk about them!!

also as a side note the sin gluttony doesn’t exist. why? cuz ava killed him :))))))

anyway tho:

(1) IRE (the SIN of wrath) -> she/her

ire is the resident hot head of the sins and the second shortest, taller than ava by a mere inch. she wears her hair in spiky ponytails, half red, half purple, and while she has a bad attitude she actually avoids cursing and tends to insert nonsense words into her speech when she gets really upset. she loves sweets and cute things but hates when people call her cute. very much a “that’s cute i want to break it” energy. she’s the third strongest of the sins but the most likely to whoop some ass bc of aforementioned anger issues LMAO.

(2) HUBRIS (the SIN of pride) -> he/him

literally the most flamboyant fag on planet earth i’m not even joking. he’s a diva and a model; tall and pretty with long hair and thick lashes. he’s overconfident but also loves to hype other people up, and can be extremely dramatic, his emotions a constant whirlwind. he cares about people very very deeply and always wants to lend a helping hand or ear to those in need. he’s actually the second strongest of the sins but is perhaps the least likely to use his powers. he hates blood and gore but if you really manage to push his buttons (he keeps them secret so it’s less likely) then he’ll tear you (the bitch) apart :3c

(3) PASSION “SION” (the SIN of lust) -> they/them

sion is team parent, the second eldest of the sins (younger than ava by a tad) and always looking after the rest of them as though they were their children. they’re very patient and mature and seem almost conservative in their appearance… though what they get up to in their own time is between themself and their partners lmao. despite being lust, like ava is greed, lust extends to a variety of different things and their thirst for companionship, care or affection runs deeper than only surface level sex. if they want something they want it in every way they can attain it. ava considers the two of them the most alike; very unassuming but carnal in every sense of the word :)

(4) APATHY (the SIN of sloth) -> he/they

the most similar to his calling card of the entire bunch, apa tends to be the most lowkey of the sins. he’s the most likely to stay behind and watch over the waning moon, and while he isn’t always a napper he does prefer a sedentary life. he does hibernate tho i need to figure out when and how, and to compensate stays awake 24/7 without needing sleep when he’s not in hibernation mode. low fi beats, music, and pillows are his jam.

(5): COVET “COVE” (the SIN of envy) -> they/them

cove is the youngest of the sins and has a big inferiority complex in being so young. they don’t have as much power as the other sins, and their childish ways do get the others to look after them quite often and they just want to be wise and powerful already. secretly they do enjoy the attention and enjoy being babied which is something ava and hubris tease them about a lot much to their chagrin, and they usually have a monopoly on sion’s time; the two of them go everywhere together. as they continue to gain exposure to the waning moon’s light hopefully they too will become just as powerful a sin as the rest of them :3

#s: god eater

[batmansymbol]

I hope this isn't a weird or too random question (and if it is, feel free to ignore ofc!) but I was wondering if you had any advice for someone thinking of writing full-time? The obvious question is, of course, can one make a living from it even if they're not like Stephen King or GRR Martin or something? Do you have any tips from your experience that you would have found helpful when first starting out? <3

Hi, sweet anon! Not weird at all. I'm happy to chime in with some (long) thoughts.

Firstly, yes! Authors can make a full-time living from writing even if they're not GRRM &c. I know a number of full-timers, and some of them aren't even NYT bestsellers.

As a caveat, I know very little about the indie/self-publishing space, so the following is based on my experience in traditional publishing.

I spent around 2-3 years writing books full-time. I no longer do that, and don't plan to return to it unless I have a big commercial breakout. It was just a never-ending parade of financial stress. It's hard even to give "tips" because so much is out of your control -- but if you're considering trying to write full time, you should definitely know what you're signing up for.

Here's an average situation for a non-bestseller trying to full-time it:

Let's say you've published two books, and your third is on the way (awesome!). For your first two novels, you got advances of $40,000, but maybe they've only sold 15k copies apiece -- not enough to "earn out" your advance and start making new money. So, you're not making a cent off your older books. Probably won't for years.

Let's say your book 3 is supposed to publish in June 2025, and it sold for more than your last books: $75,000. Pretty good! Advances are usually divided into thirds these days: 1/3 on contract signing, 1/3 on delivery of the fully edited manuscript (D&A), and 1/3 on publication. So that makes a $50,000 salary this year, yes?

Kind of. Right off the bat, your agent gets 15%, so that would make a $42,500 salary. A little tighter, but still seems doable. Also, you need to make estimated tax payments to the IRS. So, let's ballpark your taxes at $7,000, state and federal, which you'll pay in installments throughout the year.

Contract negotiations take a few months as usual, and let's say in April, you get the first payment: your first $21,250. Nice.

Unfortunately, your editor's swamped, and 2 months go by before they send you edits. When you get the letter in June, you're like -- shit, this is a more extensive revision than I thought. You start rehauling the novel, but after your month-long deadline passes, it's still not right. You take another six weeks before you're happy. It's now September.

Suddenly money is very tight. You got $21,250 in April, but since then you've paid $5,250 in estimated taxes, and every month you pay $2,250 in rent, health insurance, and food. You were supposed to have your second payment already, because the contract's estimated D&A date said September. But you still need to do line edits. You now have $2,500 in the bank. You are very aware that this will last a little over a month.

Your editor gets back after a few weeks, having loved your revision, and has sent you line edits. Thank God she didn't want a second round of bigger edits. But it's now October. You rush through the line edits, turn them in after a single jam-packed week. You have $250 in the bank. Your D&A payment is now due.

A week goes by. Where is the payment? You email your agent. She badgers the publisher. They say the payment will be sent through in a pay run next week, so after agency processing, it'll be with you in early November.

You have $75 in the bank. You start putting everything on your credit cards. Then your utility company makes a direct withdrawal from your checking account. You wake up to an overdraft notice and zero dollars in your account. Holy shit, you think, why did I choose this career. November hits. You are late on rent. Maybe you should start drawing from your retirement account, which you put $5,000 into, one time, three years ago?

When your payment arrives, you're not happy so much as ready to cry with relief. You start paying off your cards and sending late, embarrassed Venmos to your friends. You can finally stop declining invites to hang out because you have no money.

And by then it's November, and you're realizing that you really need to be thinking about your next book. If you were working smart, you got a jump on it earlier in the year, when your editor was late with your edit letter. Let's say you wrote an entire first draft back then, between January and June. (Which, to be clear, IS fast for a novel, do not believe the ridiculous standards of writing speed you see online.) If you now take six months to mold that first draft into actual art, then send it to your agent next May, and she wants changes, and you submit in July, and it sells after an average couple months on submission, you won't get your next contract payment until January, 2026.

ARE YOU ANXIOUS YET?

The above scenario is ordinary. An editor having a delay on an edit letter for a month or two, or an author getting stuck and running over deadline for a month -- that stuff is barely worth commenting on.

And there are all sorts of other bumps in the road. Let's say the publisher has turnover in the contracts department. Immediately, that'll be a delay on your signing payment. I've waited 6 months for a contract payment before. I've waited months for a simple email reply from an editor because the company was going through layoffs.

Add more people into the process, and it gets slower. Are you working on IP, let's say a novelization of a TV property? That team might take months to get back to you even on your proposed outline. Working with a freelancer or cowriter? Add weeks or months to every step. In publishing, you spend half your life waiting. You know what doesn't wait? Rent, taxes, and health insurance.

Anon, this is the shoestring, desperate kind of full-time author existence. If you're doing a little better -- still midlist, but better -- you might have earned out one or more of your backlist titles. That means you'll get additional royalties twice a year, usually April and October. That will help.

Or maybe you're a super-fast writer who's always, always juggling multiple contracts and shooting drafts in and out of your door. That's a decent way to make a healthy living as a full-time author, but you'll need to complete multiple books a year, for sure.

This is why I have a survival job half the week that pays my rent. The stress is still there, but it's less frequent and less intense. Honestly, given my sales figures, which are (checks notes) bad, I'm lucky to get to keep doing this after five novels. Because the biggest looming threat is that if you don't break out, editors will start shutting the door immediately because of your lack of established audience.

The only really reliable way to pay your bills is to break out. Then if your editor leaves your publishing house, and you get reassigned, and that pads 3 months onto the editing process, or whatever, it doesn't matter. You'll have actual, substantial royalty payments twice a year. Your advances will always be over six figures. You can live a normal life where you're not staring into the murky distance, wondering when some payment is going to soar out of the night and into your terrible bank account.

Or ... you can just get a day job. And you will get paid biweekly, reliably, on SPECIFIC DATES!!!, forever. When I tell you this shit was life-changing for me. Good God.

Obviously the biggest problem in this whole post is the bit where I wrote "every month you pay $2,250 in rent, insurance, and food," and worried if I was, in fact, lowballing that amount. What a broken world!

Anyway. Best of luck with the writing, anon -- no matter what your experiences in or around the industry, I hope the work itself continues to feed your soul.

RR

#reply #publishing #advice

[tencionssyouor]

(THIS IS ONE MY LMK OC!..SHE WAS MADE MONTHS AGO BUT I DIDN'T HAVE THE COURAGE SO---) 🌪.

Name:Lai Winder

Age:13-16 years old

Race:earthy spirit(wind bender)

Home:Megapolis, Wind clan

🕷.

Skin:Dark tan smooth skin

Hair:Black hair, dye dark purple behind her hair and dye purple tips on the bangs.

Style:Tide up to braided pigtails behind her head, with bright shade purple ribbons.

Eyes:Amethyst eyes

Body type:Skinny,small cheeks,long bones,

Height:165cm

Weight:32-34kl

🎧.

Family Deceseant:From Guinjin

Grandfather:Shou Li

Life:He's the first master to master the wind bending, by Fuhn Fuhn.

He mastered his skill and fought with anyone who would do any crime to hurt the clan.

He was in Arragened marriage with a woman of high society.He had one son named Quan. Their marriage lasted for 3 years before the woman died of a sickness.

He was remarried with another woman,her status being a commoner. They never had any children by consummate of marriage. By the status he provided with his first wife status, his son gained to be a high soldier.

His son married a young lady who they loved each other. They had 4 children.

With the traditional line of the wind clan, their program for the next leader wasn't by blood, but by spiritual called connection.

And that happened to be the second grandchild of the wind masted, Shou li.Lai being 5 years old when she was put over the duty when she would lead the clan. Lai was trained by her grandfather on how to master the book of spells that got to be left in generations.

She lived outside of the wind clan with her grandma wich they were sent to Megapolis. There her grandma was provided with taking care of Lai. She met her best friends on the kindergarten when she got attach to them.

🤍.

Family surmane:

Father:Quan Hin(Hector)

He's 42 years old man, who serve on the military for years. Kind, proud and supportive parent.

Mother:ShouLa(Monica)

She's a 39 years old woman, who works on her small shop haircut,she's a loving, caring and hardworking parent.

Older Brother:Danis(Denis)

He's 18 years old, he's on his third year of high school, and also in the gang of the school led by his sister Lai.

Younger brother:Brandon

He's 6 years old, he's troublemaker, kind and impulsive boy.

Younger sister:Kim

She's 4 years old, sweet, innocent and playful kid.

🎤.

Carer:

After Lai devastating news that Red son didn't want to see or hear her ever again, never acknowledge her feelings for him, Lai felt something eating her inside, like someone has drained her emotions to feel anything, leaving her on that rainy evening to look for Mei to help her with the samadhi fire.

Lai left the megapolis after that accident, to take a break. Lai came back to her clan, and stayed for 3 months.

Lai discovered her talent of singing and performing.

She got into a music company, where her songs and her took big fame quickly. But she always hid her face with a helmet while performing to not wanting be revealed as Lai, she always used another nickname of being known as Winder.

🧷.

Relationship:

Best friend:Susu 8/10

Susu has been a close friend if Lai since they were kids, Lai and Susu were always there for each other. Lai saw Susu more than a friend. And cared deeply for her.

Best friend:Mei 9/10

Mei and Lai have an amazing dynamic, they're outgoing, rebellious and keen on about social medias.

Mei as everyone knows its the star, and Lai is on the background.

Mei is the one who ride a motorcycle, La and Mei time to time woukd hang out late at night ir have sleepovers,Lai is more a Inginier, she work and fix Mai motorcycle, since Lai father used to work when he was younger as a Inginier.

Friend:Mk 7/10

They're kinda the same, they give the same sibling energy that you would suspect.

Crush:Red Son 8/10

When Lai first met Red son, she wasn't scared of him,they met as first friends in a awkward meeting,

Their friendship got more conflicted by the season 2 and 3.Around the season 4 specials,in the end of the beach party,we could see Lai and Red son share a side hug shoulder,and seen them sitting close.

Besties:Jiao 10/10

Jiao is one of Lai mist trusted friend,they're adventures,flirtatious and in the mood to do their adventures.They share a big spiritual connection that they had for years now.

#lmk #lmk oc #my ocs #lmk red son #lmk red son x reader #tumblr fyp #fyp

[happy-and-sad-moments]

English/Spanish

Hello everyone, I'm C! I love invader Zim, and I had been thinking about an Au about the series for some time. The truth is that my English is not that good, but I will try to explain the story.

In this universe everything is technically the same, Zim arrives, Dib always tries to stop him, and Gaz is a sweet little grumpy gothic. Years go by and no one is a kid anymore (except Zim, he wasn't a kid to begin with).

then, with the characters in their third year of high school, an accident occurs. In one of the fights between Zim and Dib, because yes, they don't stop being brats who only think about fighting, Dib hits Zim's PAK very hard, so hard that he ends up fracturing it.

As Zim tries to repair it in his lab, he finds some suspicious files in the PAK's memory. When he decides to review them, he realizes that they only do dead weight in his programming, so he decides to delete them. But at the last moment he decides that it would be better to just move them out of the PAK.

At the exact moment the files are transferred, Zim goes into a kind of standby mode. This causes him to miss school for a few days, and this alerts Dib, who decides to go "find" him…which is really just going, breaking down the door, and yelling "¡¿what are you doing?!" and there he finds a green bug sitting on the ground like an old sad puppet :(

After a few days it doesn't seem like he's going to react, so Dib just comes along and eats whatever edible he (Zim) keeps in the fridge whenever he can. After a week the computer gives a strange message: "Restoring original file”…

And this is where the revelations begin! I don't want to delve into this, I have like 4 pending tasks and I haven't started any, I still wanted to write this. I only know that this is my way of explaining why The Tallest have not killed Zim and why Zim is "a defective or just defected or whatever the grammar is”.

—————————————————————————

—————————————————————————

hola a todos, Soy C. me encanta ‘Iz’, y ya tenía tiempo pensando en un ‘Au’ sobre la serie. La verdad es que mi inglés no es tan bueno, pero intentaré explicar la historia.

En este universo todo es técnicamente igual, Zim llega, Dib intenta detenerlo siempre, y Gaz es una pequeña y dulce gótico gruñona. Los años pasan y ya nadie es un niño (excepto Zim, el no era un niño para empezar).

Luego, con los personajes en su tercer año de secundaria, ocurre un accidente. En una de las peleas entre Zim y Dib, porque si, no dejan de ser mocosos que solo piensan en pelear, Dib golpea muy fuerte el PAK de Zim, tan fuerte que termina fracturándolo.

Mientras Zim intenta repararlo en su laboratorio, encuentra algunos archivos sospechosos en la memoria de PAK. Cuando decide revisarlos se da cuenta de que estos solo hacen de peso muerto en su programación así que decide eliminarlos. pero en último momento decide que sería mejor solo moverlos fuera del PAK.

En el momento exacto en que se transfieren los archivos, Zim entra en una especie de modo de espera. Esto hace que falte a la escuela por unos días, y esto alerta a Dib, quien decide ir a "buscarlo", que en realidad es solo ir, derribar la puerta y gritarle "¡¿qué estas tramando?!” y ahí se encuentra con un bicho verde sentado en el suelo como si fuera una marioneta vieja.

Después de unos cuantos días no parece que vaya a reaccionar, así que Dib solo llega y se come todo lo comestible que guarda (Zim) en el refrigerador cada que puede. Después de una semana la computadora da un aviso extraño: “Restableciendo archivo original”…

¡Y aquí es donde comienzan las revelaciones! No quiero profundizar en esto, tengo como 4 tareas pendientes y no he comenzado ninguna, aun así quería escribir esto. Solo sé que esta es mi forma de explicar por qué los más altos no han matado a Zim y por qué Zim es "un defecto”

Si sigues leyendo esto, quiero que sepas que agradezco que hayas leído esto ✨🥹

#iz draw #iz zadf #iz zadr #zim iz #iz dib membrane #iz dib #iz au #invader zim #out of the cage AU #OutOfTheCageAU #oftc iz

[angelasscribbles]

Mother in Law Hell: A Drabble Me This Story

Series: Drabble Me This

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings for series: Riley x Liam

Rating: R

Warnings for this chapter: Language

Word Count: 2,154 Once again, I have way exceed the word count for a drabble. Sorry/not sorry lol.

A/N: This is in no way designed to start an argument about bottle v breast feeing. The main problem here is Riley, as the mother, getting her wishes ran over.

My other stuff: Master List.

@twinkleallnight:

The ask: Riley and Liam marry. Connie dies... But Regina who has been so supportive till now starts playing double game with Riley. Riley tries to tell Liam. He doesn't understand. Creates lot of misunderstanding between them leading to the fallout. How do they fix it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Riley had always gotten along with Regina, but something changed after Constantine died. Regina grieved for a while, as was expected. So, Riley let a lot of the barbs and snide comments slide, chalking it up to grief. It got worse when she got pregnant. And as her belly grew bigger, the barbs got deeper.

“Are you sure you should be eating that my dear?”

Riley paused, sandwich halfway to her mouth and blinked at her mother in law, “What?”

“I mean, is that pastrami?” Regina shuddered a little, “Maybe I can have the kitchen make you a nice salad.”

Regina flagged down one of the maids as Riley protested, “N-no, thanks. The baby needs the protein.”

Regina tsked, “My dear, I’m just trying to help! You’ve gained so much weight! I mean, really, is that any way to keep the eye of a king? I never let my figure go, not in all the years Constantine and I were together.”

Riley sat the sandwich on her plate as she stared at the older woman in shock, “Regina, I’m pregnant!”

“That’s really no excuse to let yourself go, is it?”

Riley’s hand went protectively to her belly, “First of all, I have preeclampsia and half of the weight I’ve gained is retained water! Second of all, my doctor was concerned that I wasn’t gaining enough weight in the first trimester because of how bad my morning sickness was! Third, Liam is a loving and devoted husband, and your insinuation is just gross! And fourth, seriously, weight shaming, especially a pregnant woman, is just…just….”

“What’s going on?” Liam asked as he entered the room.

“I was just having a snack and Regina started trying to body shame me about my weight!”

“What?” Liam looked at Regina then back to Riley in confusion.

“Oh, dear, no. I was just giving her some tips on healthy eating. I only want the best for the baby, after all!”

“No, that’s not-“

“It’s ok, dear,” Regina patted her arm on her way out of the room, “It’s the pregnancy hormones that make you overly sensitive!”

“Liam! She was being horrible! You believe me, right?”

Liam looked at his wife sympathetically, “Of course I believe that she hurt your feelings! But I’m sure she didn’t mean to! She can be…brusque from her years of ruling.”

“Yes, but her suggestions weren’t even right! She criticized my food choices and said I was letting myself go!”

“She doesn’t understand, she never experienced pregnancy herself. We’ll get her some literature about healthy eating during pregnancy if you want.”

She looked up at him and he was so sincere, she decided to let it go. Maybe he was right. Regina was trying to be involved, right? But shouldn’t a former queen have more tact? Riley couldn’t push away the feeling that she’d been cruel on purpose.

“Hey.” Liam sat down and pulled her into his arms, “How about I have the kitchen make you a chocolate milkshake? You love those! And it’s full of protein! Then maybe we can sneak off to our room for a midafternoon rendezvous? Hmmm?”

She giggled as his nose nuzzled into her neck, letting go of her ire. It would be okay.

But it wasn’t. It only got worse after the birth of the baby.

Riley returned from the hospital to find their apartment inside the palace had been redecorated, with hideous paintings that looked like they had been molding in the attic for years.

Regina was waiting for them when they entered the living room, “Welcome home!”

“What the hell happened in here?” Riley asked.

“Oh, I wanted to surprise you!”

“But…where is my stuff?” Riley had worked hard to decorate the apartment, to make it feel like home, a true retreat for their family, a place to get away from the palace and the demands of public life.

“Oh, it’s in storage, but I’m going to have it hauled away. It was so tacky, don’t you think? You’re a mother now, you need to think about the fact that you’re raising the heir! These portraits are our history! You won’t be able to teach her what she needs to know because you aren’t from here, so I thought this would be a good start!”

“Liam!”

Liam embraced her, “Here, let’s get you settled in. We can sort this out later.”

“The bedroom, Liam, I want to go to the bedroom.” She was shaking with anger, no way she could sit in that living room while Regina was still in it.

“She meant well.” Liam told her.

“No, she didn’t. Get rid of her and get rid of that shit on my walls! I want my decorations back, Liam, the ones you and I picked together!”

“Of course, love.”

“And you need to tell her to stop overstepping boundaries!”

“I think she just wants to be involved. She’s still grieving my father, she never had children of her own, Leo is gone, we’re all she has.”

“She has Madeleine and Adelaide!” Riley fumed, “Let her go stay in Krona!”

“Riley! We can’t send her away! We’re her family!”

Once again, Riley was forced to let it go.

But the final straw came when Riley woke from a nap to find Regina feeding the two month old crown princess of Cordonia from a bottle.

“I thought we were out of expressed milk.” Riley said.

Regina rolled her eyes, “Oh dear, I don’t think she’s gaining enough weight on your milk. You’re too sickly and weak, you’re not strong like a Cordonian woman. I sent the butler out for some formula.”

“What?! No! You know that we’re exclusively breastfeeding!” Riley felt tears prick her eyes.

“Well, that’s your mistake dear. It’s why she’s not sleeping through the night. She needs something more substantial in her stomach.”

Riley’s eyes tracked across the counter, landing on a box of baby rice cereal, “Did you put cereal in that bottle?”

“Just a tablespoonful. You can thank me when she sleeps through the night.”

“Get out!”

“What?”

“Put my baby down and Get. Out. NOW!” Riley roared.

Regina jumped, Ellie started to cry.

“See what you’ve done, you selfish little bitch?” Regina hissed, “All you care about is yourself! That’s why you came between Liam and his father at the end of his life! My husband was dying but did you care? No! All you cared about was casting him as the bad guy to clear your own name so you could manipulate Liam into marrying you!”

“What?”

“You heard me! You came in here with all your American ideas and modern values and seduced him with sex and inappropriate behavior! You’re not fit for the throne, and you’re not fit for my son! He’ll see that soon and send you packing back to America!”

Riley couldn’t stop the hot, angry tears streaming down her face as she stumbled to the door and yanked it open, “Marco!”

“Yes, Your Majesty?” The young guard looked tentatively back and forth between the women.

“I want her to put my daughter down then I want her out of my sight, and I never want her back in here! I don’t care if you have to lock her in the cells to do it!”

Marco took in the sight in front of him and resolve washed over his face as he moved toward the queen mother. He knew who he worked for, and it wasn’t Regina.

“No need to be so dramatic.” Regina handed the baby to the nanny who had come running at the sound of crying. “I’ll go. But Liam will be hearing about this!”

After Regina was escorted out, Riley took her baby from the nanny, kissing the top of her head as she gently rocked her, “It’s ok, it’s ok, baby, momma’s so sorry she yelled.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, I didn’t know-“

“It’s not your fault, Callie.” Riley sniffed, “Just, go get Marco for me, okay?” 

Callie left the room and returned with Marco. The young guard asked, “Is there something else I can do for you, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, there is. I need you to send a message to my husband and then I need you to send up several butlers and a couple of maids right away.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Marco replied as he backed out of the room to do her bidding.

As soon as he could get free, the king responded to his wife’s summons.

Liam walked into mass chaos.

Riley’s breasts ached; Ellie wouldn’t latch on. Riley’s breasts were so full she couldn’t get the pump to form a seal so there was no relief to be found there. Ellie was screaming because her tummy hurt, she was pulling her little legs up, grunting in an effort to poop. The royal doctor had just left, saying Ellie was constipated from the cereal and to try a little apple juice in a bottle, but diluted because her digestive system really wasn’t ready for that either. Riley was leaking milk from both sides and crying from pain, frustration and anger. Her face was red and streaked with tears, the front of her shirt was soaked as rivulets of milk ran from both breasts.

There were two maids scurrying around the apartment and three butlers carrying luggage and baby items from the bedroom and nursery out the door.

Even the nanny was crying.

“What the hell is going on?” Liam exploded.

Riley wiped her face on her sleeve and stood, “What’s happening is that Regina did it again, Liam, only a thousand times worse and I already know that you’re going to excuse her behavior no matter what I say! Even though I have witnesses!” She swung her arm in the nanny’s direction.

“Why are the butlers taking luggage and baby equipment out of here?” He demanded as his head turned to track their activities.

“Ellie and I are going to stay at Valtoria.” Riley said sorrowfully.

“For how long?” He yelled.

“Forever.” She replied quietly, her voice rising steadily as she spoke, “You dismiss all my concerns when it comes to Regina! You don’t listen, you don’t believe me that what she does is intentionally mean! I can’t take it anymore! I won’t put my child through it!”

“Wait.” Liam’s face paled, “You’re…you’re leaving me?”

“Yes. I love you, Liam, desperately. You are welcome at Valtoria anytime, but I can’t and won’t spend one more night under the same roof as Regina.”

Desperation laced his words, “Riley, no! You can’t leave me!”

“You can just spin it as me wanting some alone time with the baby. I’m sure the PR department will come up with something believable, so your public image isn’t tarnished.”

Liam’s mouth fell open, “You think I’m worried about my public image?”

She wiped at her face again, “Aren’t you?”

“No!” He grabbed her by the shoulders, “I’m worried about losing my wife! I love you, Riley, with everything in me! I can’t live without you! I don’t want any of this without you! I’ll abdicate right now and fuck Cordonia all to hell!”

“Liam, you can’t abdicate, that’s crazy talk!”

He slid down to his knees, right in front of the staff, taking her hand in his, “Please don’t do this!”

“I don’t want to!” Fresh tears fell down her face, “But I don’t know what else to do!”

His features hardened as he rose to his feet, “I do.”

Liam raised his voice, “Everyone stop! Alec! Marco! Get in here!”

All activity ceased as the king barked orders, “Put everything back where you found it! The queen is not leaving, my daughter is not leaving!”

He watched as the staff scurried around, carrying luggage and baby items back into the bedroom and nursery, then he turned to the two guards he had summoned, “Go find Regina, and escort her from the premises.”

“Your Majesty?”

“You heard me. Take her to Krona, or wherever she wants to go, but she can’t stay here. We’ll send her things later, wherever she ends up. Go! Now!”

The guards jumped and hurried out the door to carry out their orders.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what she did?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He took her in his arms again, “You wouldn’t be this upset for nothing. I’m sorry I didn’t listen before, didn’t take it seriously. I need you to know that no one is more important to me than you and our family. Okay?”

She smiled through her tears as she nodded, “Okay.”

“I love you, Riley Rys, you’re my life, my heart! Can you ever forgive me?”

“I forgive you, Liam! You were just trying to be a good son.”

“I’d rather be a good husband, and a good father. I know where my priorities are.”

She collapsed into his arms and cried tears of relief.

Riley never saw Regina again and she lived happily ever after.

#drabble me this #angelasscribbles #trr #choices #the royal romance #the royal romance fanfic #choices stories you play #liam rys #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #mother in law

[ratbefriender]

9 people you want to get to know better

Tagged by @13eyond13 thank you!! 🥰

1. Three ships

I absolutely have to mention the only two I've shipped with actual intensity and love in my heart, Lawlight from Death Note and Harrykim from Disco Elysium. And the third mention goes to Ronance (Robin and Nancy) from Stranger Things, which came close to giving me that feeling 💞

2. First ever ship

That's a hard question... Probably was from H*rry P*tter, but to be honest I didn't ship like, Hinny or whatever with nearly as much intensity as I shipped Ron with my own OC that I played in the HP roleplay community that I was in during my early teenage years. Ron's player became a friend of mine because of it. Now THEY were THE REAL OTP. No one will ever compare. I miss you, Lianne. None of you have any idea how iconic my OC Lianne was.

The first place could also go to BBC Johnlock... or to Hollstein from the webseries Carmilla... it depends... I'm not sure which ship I would say actually got me invested into shipping for the first time skjsjkd

3. Last song

Yesterday I played I Remember by Saint Saviour like a thousand times because it reminds me of one of my writing WIPs!

4. Last movie

I think my last movie was the Avatar sequel asgksjk. I watched it in 3D with my dad and he loved it.

5. Currently reading

I'm reading The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss which I borrowed from my dad <3

6. Currently watching

I recently finished the show Severance (very good) and it left a hole in me that, for some reason, I feel can be filled by rewatching Succession. So I think I'm gonna go do that soon!!!

7. Currently consuming

Nothing ❤️

8. Currently craving

Nothing either 💕 I truly have no idea what to respond to these ones

Tagging 9 mutchuals who I hope I'm not annoying 🥺 @loversgotalittledagger @thesoupisburning @haterloverliargirl @rita @hahnsplatinum @lightyaoigami @doityourselfbombs @kos-ire @femalecynic Do it if you want to!

#I always feel a little self conscious with these memes like sorry for having liked HP and for not listening to cool enough songs #but thank you again for the tag Bloz <33