MAN EATER!

PHAINON

[8kh]

updated july 18:

hey, guys! considering that this blog has a fair numbers of followers, i'll just use this to boost resources for palestine, congo, sudan. and maybe reblogs some fics i enjoy here for further reach. thank you so much!

original post is written below the cut.

hi! i’m moving blogs but i cannot announce the blog name. weeks ago, an irl found out that i’m writing fanfiction and they are also aware of this blog’s name. half my fault that this happened, but i didn’t disclose my blog’s url with them, i also hadn’t thought they’d go in their own way to search for it. now, i tried to be positive about this and told myself it’s not worth worrying about. however, this person and i had a bit of a falling out. i see them every day in school. and as someone whose major is in line with literature / writing in general, it’s often that our profs would ask us whether we read or write, which i always answer with a yes, without disclosing the nature of my stories. i write dark content. it’s a taboo to do so for some of us here in the community, so i couldn’t imagine what it would be if other people outside tumblr would know about this blog. i also don’t know this person’s blog url or if they have any, so i couldn’t block them. changing urls is also not an option as this blog has 8kh written all over it. this happened before, too, so i had to move blogs a couple of times. and i’m tired of people not respecting my boundaries. i don’t want to feel paranoid whenever i post something, i don’t want to feel like someone’s watching my every move in a space i curated for my own comfort. i hope you understand. thank you.

masterlist.

[8kh]

౨ৎ . ⊹.˚ WEST COAST // PANTALONE. “The ice shows no mercy. And so to survive, you decide to play with fire. Now, only one question remains: how does it feel to burn?”

tags + yandere. singer!reader. pussywhipped!pantalone. implicit smut. obsession. toxic behavior. huge cock agenda ( what’s new? ). cunnilingus. unprotected. fingering. creampie. undertones of cannibalism ( but it's more figurative, just thought i'd put a warning for those who feel icky w the trope ).

xoxo, hunter + for @vilsoo's ultraviolence collab! i’m so so sorry for this late entry!! school rly just did it for me but i’m glad to have finished this one and for you, vera, for giving me the opportunity to write something based off on one of lana’s song <33!! ++ i tried to research for a russian jazz song that’s both sensual and eerie but unfortunately failed in that department. it might be a li’l childish, considering the plot, to have used once upon a daydream but it captured perfectly the atmosphere i was going for!! ++ this is prolly my fave piece thus far LIKE if i die i want this printed inside my casket w me im just head in hands while sobbing i love pantalone sm !!

The ice does not forgive. And so to survive, you decide to play with fire. 

Vanity is your vice. Uttered by lips that swell with insecurities, such vice would one day be your downfall. Everywhere you go, derisions follow you endlessly, but they prove insufficient to take away the belief that you were born to be a star. Entrenched in your veins the unrelenting desire for glory, being at the top is all that you have ever known. 

People say such vanity would’ve been enough to evoke distaste from the archons. They’ve always alluded to the necessity of diluting your egoism, lest it comes as an offense to the gods.

“Archons have way too much in their hands to make me their problem. However, I suppose it remains likely: some people are simply born irresistible,” you’d always say with smoky laughter peeling your red lips.

The surge of validation and compliments, of course, are only uttered to nose out and tickle your good faith. Music as they are to your ears and fuel to your ego, you know better than to believe their credibility. Well aware of this, you are: because you remain the only person capable of delivering other people from the ramshackle they call life. 

You and your unparalleled voice. 

It’s an established fact that the sole reason why patrons frequent the lone inn standing on the outskirts of the city has everything to do with you. Many will take the time to hear, even just for a second, the voice they say was owed to the grace of the archons. Such comments have unfailingly seized you with bottomless antagonism; for you have since declared that your voice will not be yielded to some deity. 

Despite your perceived ingratitude towards the gods, you are not beyond benevolence and humanism. If you truly were the impious witch in gossip and rumors, you wouldn’t have stayed longer than intended in the same tavern for years. It has given you a roof over your head and food on your table, yes, but it doesn’t come close to the dreams you hold onto. 

However, you will not be a speck of dust forever. Someday, you will climb the ladder. And if ever one day the chance presents itself, you’d grab it with both hands and never let go. 

You merely have not thought that said chance would dangle in your face sooner than expected.

“It’s him! It’s really him!” squeaks the girl who plays the pianoforte in your performances. 

From your vanity mirror, you watch and listen with knitted brows as she and her friend squeal animatedly while jumping on their toes. With curiosity tugging at your attention, you turn around after closing the cap of your lipstick. 

“Who are you talking about?” The question is delivered with neutrality, and yet their excitement diminishes expeditiously into reticence. The sudden bitterness doesn’t bother you anymore, if not, it only fortifies your dominance. “Well?” You cock a brow, snapping your fingers altogether to urge an answer. 

“Lord Harbinger Pantalone is here!” the pianoforte girl yelps once more, her taciturnity finally melting into enthusiasm. “He’s here! In the tavern!” 

Turning slit-eyed, you lick the side of your lips. Pantalone; the name tastes like a fruit whose sweet juices are of incomparable delectability. A Harbinger, no less, in a commonplace tavern you have longed believed to be forgotten by the wealthy, is indeed a good omen which invokes unparalleled thrill. Perhaps he has heard about you, too. Would there be other reasons for his arrival if not to hear your voice? 

“Well, if that’s the case, we shall do our best tonight. Let’s perform a song befitting that of Lord Harbinger’s taste.” You turn to look, for the last time, at your face in the mirror, and the girls scurry off with hope brimming in their eyes. “This is it,” you whisper to yourself, peering at your reflection with a luscious smile, “Tonight, I climb the ladder.”

He isn’t just a mirage, not a figment of hungry gossip. Lord Harbinger Pantalone is seated on a single chair right in the middle of the tavern with his legs crossed and hands propped on his knee. There’s no other patrons besides him and his band of fatui; it’s as if they own the whole place.

On rare occasions, there would be a scatter of affluent customers in the tavern, most of them dressed in pearly silk and velvet laces, gemstones of different kinds dotting their hair down to their shoes. It’s impossible to not be in awe before an astounding display of wealth. 

A chance to see and examine a Harbinger is few and far between, but you ought to know that a Harbinger’s appearance will put any duke and duchess to shame, especially when the Harbinger in question happens to be the richest of them all. 

Without being disclosed, you know the fur that hugs Lord Pantalone’s shoulder is worth more than the whole tavern. Stones of variance adorn his rings wrapped around multiple fingers; you almost gulp at the sight of them, elegantly polished and twinkling even under the dim light. His spirit alone screams mora and nothing else.

He’s surrounded with bar keepers standing like strings pulled tautly, glimmering with hopes that he would grant them a crumb of his attention. It’s too bad, really, because his eyes are all yours the moment the spotlight sparked to luminescence. 

“What a pleasant surprise to have with us tonight the esteemed Lord Pantalone,” your voice is mellifluous when you speak; a peculiar tone of a singer who knows exactly how to utilize their artistry. “We sincerely hope that the night has treated you kindly, my lord. Please accept our token of good faith with this song.” 

Light crossed his glasses, and after a brief moment, his eyes were revealed. They seem to hold infinite tenderness; a lullaby lying beneath, urging you to get lost in its sound forever.

Silence reigns inside the tavern, for they know how much you loathe the idea of a soul speaking when it’s your turn to sing. As the girl presses her dexterous fingers on the keys, accompanied by the violin, you stand on the verge of oblivion; of submitting your soul wholeheartedly to the music. 

‘Dancing bears, painted wings

Things I almost remember

And a song someone sings

Once upon a December’

Savoring the sound of your voice while it creates a symphony with the instruments, you close your eyes slowly. Your heart did its flutters, only that its intensity is nothing like you have felt before; it bleeds euphoria instead of pain.

‘Someone hold me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully

Across my memory’

Once you open your eyes, you find Pantalone’s own fixed to yours. He’s nothing but a man hypnotized. You can see it plainly, the power of the spell you hold over him; a sadistic kind of magic he completely succumbed himself to. 

The instruments beat inside your chest; you have to clutch your heart with much finesse to assuage their rhythm.

‘Far away, long ago

Glowing dim as an ember

Things my heart used to know

Things it yearns to remember’

And so smiling woefully, you raise your delicate fingers as though reaching for him, for his own soul, offering a piece of your own with an ache that a thousand lifetimes cannot mend.

‘And a song someone sings

Once upon a December…’

No one dares breathe, not even you, who have drowned and swam your way up; that’s how it always has been, your voice kills and resurrects you at the same time. The curtains draw, embracing your sight with the darkness it provides after every performance. Between the little aperture just before it closes, Pantalone is the last thing you have seen. He’s unmoving while simpering directly at you. You cannot prevent the shiver that spreads throughout your body. That’s the look of a man who will tie his name onto every part of your skin.

His attention weighed heavily on your back, that even inside the comforts of the dressing room, it has managed to slip through the cracks of the door and settle in the air. 

The mirror tells you there’s nothing amiss, and you have never looked as beautiful as you are now. You quickly swipe another layer of red rouge on your lips when the door abruptly parted and the man himself burst through. The lipstick falls from your grasp, its pointy end smashing onto the carpeted floor with how rapidly you pivot to face Pantalone.

“My lord.” Your curtsy has retained its grace in spite of your nerves. 

He’s tall and looks out of place in the old and rickety room. Tall and graceful and exuding such exotic and virile scent which satisfies the noses of those fortunate enough to smell him. His eyes have caught the lipstick lying on the floor, and with a gloved hand reaches to pick it up. The smashed tip almost melted completely under his scrutiny, before he snaps his finger and a fatui scampers inside to take hold of the material before leaving the room again. 

“What’s your name, milaya?”

Milaya? The triumph from hearing his husky and honeyed voice call you with the endearment has spread heat over your cheeks. He did not summon you, like a man in his power would, but instead came to you of his own volition. 

You’ve spoken your name like a mysterious enchantment, gaining another smile from the Harbinger’s lips. 

“I have heard many renditions of the same song you performed, but your version is the most endearing of them all,” he enunciates. “What a flawless voice, indeed. I know a place where it would belong other than in this…” he carefully picks his succeeding words, eyes wandering around the small room with a lone sofa in one corner, a rack of gowns, and a single vanity, “... peculiar establishment.”

You have chosen to ignore the slight offense in his tone because of the truth it holds. But the underlying meaning in his statement is a different matter. He’d take you somewhere better than here; your knees melted and your deep-seated hunger for recognition growled in your guts. 

“Pray tell where, my lord? This peculiar establishment is all I’ve known of a stage.” To devour the opportunity is all that you want, but you feign ignorance nonetheless. 

Pantalone shuffles out his fur coat and places it on your shoulder instead while guiding you towards the mirror. Both of your reflections have created a striking image; him, leaning closer to the side of your face, and you in all your glory, standing beside him with pride. 

“Then, you are missing out on many opportunities, milaya.” His voice is silky in your ears, fresh mint whiffing at your nose and cool breath fanning your cheek; a caress in your heart, soft and sweet. “Allow me to show you the world.”

—

From then on, Lord Harbinger Pantalone has pursued you, and in the most selfish way you have relished in it unabashedly. Night after night, he patiently visited the tavern, renting the whole place for himself, to watch you sing and converse with you after. During said moments, you have opened up to him all that he wanted to hear, feeding his ravenous curiosity with scraps for an answer, as though teasing a child by giving away sweet candies piece by piece. 

You suppose he doesn’t appreciate the chase so much, which makes it all the more enthralling. Men like him are used to acquiring what they want whenever they want. Submission satiates their appetite more than a hearty repast. Nevertheless, his patience stands commendable. You wouldn’t have expected that he would carry on his visits after nights of futility.

“Why do you pursue me, my lord?” Being alone with him has given way to the question. It’s an open secret that the both of you have not yet attempted to talk about extensively.

“Surely, you know the answer to that, milaya,” he replies with an amused chuckle, leaning his chin on his closed hand with his pointer finger extending upwards. 

You return the chuckle with the same cadence and say, “Oh, I think I know. But would I be stepping boundaries if I desire to hear it directly from your mouth? Besides, I believe our answers are alike.”

“Why don’t you amuse me with yours?” 

It’s tricky to discern whether he uttered a question or a command. That’s how it is for him, you deduce, there would always be an air of authority despite his ever-smiling eyes. 

“If my lord wishes to hear it then I shall oblige,” you respond, flicking your eyelashes coquettishly. “You pursue me because of my voice.”

Because what other reasons are there? If there exists one, you would’ve still preferred to be chased around by a Harbinger for the thing that you pride yourself most. 

Pantalone’s generally unperturbed countenance has exploded at the seams in a series of merry laughter. However, the ebullient sounds bursting out of his mouth have unruffled your mien more than his. To say the least, you are bewildered, trying to find the reason for his gaiety. 

“Ah, milaya, you are truly and utterly charming.” He recovers his composure with ease and leans on the chair to observe you properly. “It’s true that your voice is seraphic. I can guarantee you, any man will fall on his knees for that reason alone. I would kill to have you sing for me every day.”

“But it’s not your reason, is it?”

“Not entirely.”

“Then, what is?”

All the mirth that his countenance bore has been effaced by solemnity. He slants toward your frame and takes your hand, rubbing your knuckles fondly as though underneath his touches are brittle bones he’s afraid to break. 

“I want to fuck you; fuck you so hard you’d miss me in your bones.” The nearest candles illuminate the planes of his face; shadows morphing in his favor to reveal how tormenting his eyes are in a state of silent devotion. 

In the confession, you have been turned inside out and the only boundary left between you and him are your heartbeats. He’s going to break your hands now— he’d break them and eat you whole. Not unless you withstand his teeth. 

“Bold. How adorable,” you whisper, looking down at his lips with eyes like the sharp edge of a knife. Taking your hands from his bone crushing grip, you stand up, turn your back on him to steady your breathing, and to regain control.

“I have forever to chase you, milaya, but I’m afraid my patience is running thin,” he declares and it echoes everywhere. 

You have slipped briskly into your own world, demanding an answer to the question: What more do you desire? Behind you stands the richest man in Snezhnaya, cutting himself open to reveal his hunger which only you can sate. What more could you want? 

And thus, the demand comes flowing from your rouge-stained lips like it is an unstoppable current, “I want to be your only woman.” 

One heartbeat later and Pantalone says, “Consider it done.”

“I shall have everything I want within a hand’s reach.”

He looks affronted, as though you’ve spoken a direct mockery at him. “Milaya,” he sighs vexedly, “give me some challenge.”

Unable to return an answer and overwhelmed by Pantalone’s confidence, you stare at him while endeavoring to measure his wealth and connection. It must be so great a degree that your mind finds it hard to comprehend. 

A softened look, like a soothing embrace, he cups and rubs the edges of your shoulder with his hands. Pantalone takes your chin, tipping it up so you can meet his eyes, and whispers, “You need not demand. Say yes to me now and the world is yours, milaya.”

—

When all you have ever seen growing up are dilapidated establishments, cramped dressing rooms, and termite-infested houses, guarantee that a mansion of opulence would tilt the proportion of the world as you see it. It’s hard to believe your eyes, and for a moment, you fear that everything you perceive is only a manifestation of an idle dream; that soon, they will vanish to be replaced by your dressing room in the tavern with its revoking ancient smell. 

Hectares and hectares of land, bordered with rich forest and meadows, Pantalone’s manor is located at a good distance away from Zapolyarny Palace and the heart of the city. It’s almost sundown when you reach its gargantuan and gilded gates, just before the promise of a brisk night falls over the land. A most unfortunate circumstance, you suppose, for the retreating sun has taken with it the beauty of the gardens leading to the main mansion. 

The wind has swept the scent of profuse azaleas into the carriage. From where you currently sit, you observe an abundance of peonies dotting the meadows along with violet pansies, the hint of winter evident in their varying colors. As you move deeper into the entrance, trees arch towards the carriage as if in greeting, their thick fronds protecting your way from the slips of dusk. 

“It’s more beautiful in spring but winter gives it another kind of charm.” Pantalone gathers your attention away from the reverie by squeezing your hand gently. You find yourself before a line of maidservants waiting servilely at the door once the carriage halts. 

Upon your descent, a middle-aged man leading the line of servants tips his head in recognition to Pantalone and you. 

“I hope the journey has been kind to you both, my lord, my lady,” he politely pronounces before carefully asking to guide you out of your coat. 

Rendered sheepish at the straightforward display of service, you remain taciturn for a moment. Surely enough, the people from the tavern used to prioritize your needs, too, but a stark difference remains when service is done on account of unmitigated respect other than it being half-hearted. 

“Mikhail, is there any news from the Palace?” Pantalone refers to the butler. Mikhail says something about an urgent letter from Zapolyarny which demands his lordship’s attention. Pantalone turns to you, whispers something about needing to attend to it first, and he will be with you right after reading its content. 

You nod absentmindedly, not particularly caring at all, for the sight of the main hall has tethered you in downright astonishment. From the intricate architecture, tall pillars, ornate chandeliers, to the spotless furniture, the main hall tells a great story of generational wealth that still beats proudly to this day. Your feet have brought you where the two-way staircases meet, in front of a huge painting of a man and woman; both dressed in a fashion that shamelessly exhibited their fortune. It must be Pantalone’s parents, you think, for the man had the same eyes as him, gentle and tender, while the woman looked exactly like Pantalone if he were born a girl. 

And then a wicked, wicked notion has occupied your mind. One day, this painting will be replaced by that of yours. Everything inside this mansion is yours, it’s just right to have your face where guests can see it and be in awe. 

Concealing your glee has taken great effort on your end; you cannot bear to release the manic laughter bubbling in your throat, lest the maidservants think of their new mistress as a lunatic. You turn around instead to look at the expanse of the hall and the land beyond. All of it is yours and what utter joy! 

—

After dinner, you and Pantalone have retired to the master’s bedroom located in the left wing of the manor, offering a picturesque view of the nearby stream and the meadows of peonies. The room is yet again taken out of a fantasy; you have never seen a bedroom of such splendor before. Your admiration for the lavish place is boundless, but the journey has sapped your zeal. 

“How was the dinner, milaya? Is the food up to your taste?” Pantalone asks while shuffling out of the layers of his clothes. “If there’s anything you want to eat, you can directly ask Mikhail if I’m not around. You are the mistress of this house now, and they are to do your bidding.”

“It is delicious,” you reply, feeling the soft mattress underneath your palms. “And I will keep that in mind, my lord.”

He swivels and with a few steps he’s already kneeling before you. “Pantalone is alright. You need not use any kind of formality around me.” 

Tension swiftly gathers to enclose both of your bodies when he begins to help you out of your shoes. His deft fingers have your ankle at an angle, and when he moves to massage the tired muscles, your dress slips down to reveal your thighs. A shivering breath, a trembling hand, and his lips find a delicate spot on your skin. 

Bliss is what you named it; a Harbinger on his knees for you, tracing your inner thighs with butterfly kisses, until he finds a treasure that has painted his cheeks red. Through the thin laces he laps at your cunt, slavering mess of a man with his greedy tongue. What a sight to behold. 

His head remains between your legs, hooking your feet up his shoulders, raining ravenous kisses down your pulsing folds. Unspeakably weak and tormented with unadulterated wanting, he slips his longest finger through your hole, pumping its length in and out while suckling on your clit. 

The elaborated canopy blurs from the pleasure. The fluffy sheets, pitiful fluffy sheets, crumpled and ravaged by your nails; an avenue to release the heat in your chest, to control the flutters in your lower abdomen. All in vain. You cannot stop it; you do not hold the power. 

Only he can alter the moment. Under his mercy, you lay down with your heart in your throat, releasing a kind of sound you will be embarrassed to hear come morning. Until it’s all that permeates the air, soiling the silence, but blazing his confidence nonetheless. 

It’s too much, it’s too much. Try as you might to keep it a secret, wanting the pleasure to continue much longer, your body betrays you as it trembles, back arching to chase zenith, cosmic dust behind your eyes and his name on your tongue. 

He gathers you up, you are in his hands, and with every kiss that whispers to you a vow so old, the vow of him loving only you, the earth beneath your feet rejoices in remembrance, and you melt into each other. 

You could have sworn he would be a tight fit; the length of his cock, with a huge cockhead crowning it, is more than enough to convince you that he wouldn’t fit. It’s not possible. He’s far too big. But then he peels your thighs open, placing his cock between your folds, rubbing the slit slowly, you almost begged him to enter you.  

You have heard the tales about the Harbingers possessing an immense strength which is not of this world. Some whispers say they are monsters shaped in beautiful faces; demons living among humans. There’s some truth to the speculations, you think in retrospect; Pantalone looks ethereal, almost mythic, and he definitely fucks like a rabid fiend.

He repeats your name, as though on the verge of prayer, and he’s searching for another religion between your legs.

You drag your teeth along his shoulders and he sinks his own onto your skin; almost devouring each other’s flesh. Both of you are hungry, sickeningly hungry, that you need his heart between your teeth and he needs you inside his ribs. 

He finishes with a cry, gasping when it’s time to pull out, as though he doesn’t want to but withstanding a rapture like that is beyond him. Surrendering bitterly, Pantalone retires beside you, leaving instead a potent pool of cum seeping from your cunt. 

His hand, after the chaos of wanting, finds your face to plant a kiss on your cheek. Soft as a starlight, sweet as a promise.

“Milaya, do you have anyone in your life right now?

The question has taken you by surprise. Your eyes flit open, despite the exhaustion, and under the moonlight, they search for his face. 

“That’s odd.” You chortle weakly. “Shouldn’t you have asked before taking me to bed?”

He pulls you closer and tightens his arm around your body. “Well, I want to know whether I need to kill someone.”

You look at him, heart suddenly lurching down your throat and into the pit of your stomach. He’s blank-eyed and serious. “W… what do you mean?”

“Milaya, I am yours. What’s mine is yours. Isn’t it right for you to be mine as well? Body and soul?” Pantalone begins to caress your face while wearing that strange expression. It’s unnerving to see him like that; pale and ghostly in the dark. “Nevermind. You need not exhaust yourself from thinking. After all, you’re not going anywhere.”

—

Winter will soon kiss the warmth goodbye. In a few weeks, the land will be blanketed with white, the leaves will be replaced by empty branches, and only flowers of winter will survive the cold. The nearby stream will freeze, its waters will be too gelid to drink. Hearths will ablaze and conversations near the fire will keep the cold at bay.

You cannot help but be ridden with a sense of melancholy. Melancholy for your late arrival in the manor. There are only a few weeks before winter forces everyone indoors. And a long, long time will pass before spring will sprout from the soil and branches, before it will open the skies for birds to fly once more. You need to seize every last bit of heat; feel it on your face, bask in its embrace. 

“What do you mean I’m not allowed to go outside? You must be out of your mind,” you speak indignantly, nose flaring at the fatuus’ impertinence to block your way out of the mansion. 

He stands his ground regardless of the sharp glare you’ve thrown his way. “Lord Harbinger Pantalone’s direct order, my lady, is to keep you inside the house at all times.”

“Nonsense!” you shriek, patience dwindling. “He would not declare such an order. That’s madness! Mikhail!” 

Not a moment later, the butler stands beside you by the doorway, but he, in your shocking astonishment, will not convince the fatui to move aside and let you through. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Mikhail? Why am I not allowed outdoors? What am I? A child?” you bombard while gritting your teeth. 

“Lord Pantalone’s order, my lady. It will be insolent to disobey,” Mikhail’s answer while completely ignoring your outburst. 

You scoff, swallowing down a bunch of profanity. “Where is he? I need to speak to him.”

“I’m afraid his lordship is occupied as of the moment in his study, my lady. But I can take—”

“Take me there. Now.”

Your blood is in your head, boiling like water in a cauldron, as Mikhail leads you to Pantalone’s study. The fatui follow behind, as you ordered, so they can have a taste of their lord’s rage for simply disobeying your wishes. What impertinent fools! 

Mikhail knocks at the door while you stand behind him, itching with questions. “My lord, her ladyship is here to see you.”

After the approval for entrance, you burst through the door as though your chest will explode from vexation. Your dress shushes against the wooden floor by the stomp of your feet. Heat spreads across your neck and face, it’s almost unbearable. 

“Did you miss me already—”

You cut him off sharply. “Your fatui says you’ve given the absurd order of keeping me indoors at all times. Would you please tell them it’s a misunderstanding?”

Pantalone, seeing the gravity of the situation and your temper, motions for everyone to leave you alone with him. Your eyes turn razor-sharp while waiting for his explanation. He stands and leaves the stacks of letters on his desk, closing the distance between you. 

“It’s a fine morning for such an ardent temper, milaya.” 

You groan in impatience. “Just tell them it’s a misunderstanding and this temper will vanish.”

His brows fold in confusion. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d think he’s only playing tricks on you. However, carrying the same mien of last night,  he says, “It’s not a misunderstanding. You are not going anywhere without me.”

It’s loud in your ears; the beating of your heart as it falls in the pit of your stomach. Anger, confusion, and horror simultaneously strike you with profound intensity that your initial reaction has been a scream. 

“I’m not your prisoner!” you gnash. “I’m nobody’s prisoner and you have no right to dictate how I’ll live my life!”

Instead of a scream, Pantalone remains dead calm, scratching his cheek as though he cannot take you seriously. With both hands he cups your face, willing you to stare at the howling abyss in his eyes. “But you’re mine, milaya. Only mine,” he mutters mere inches away from your lips. “Surrender yourself to me. Not unless you want to return to that piss-poor tavern with rats and insects to hear you sing?”

With trembling lips, you gasp. You gasp but not a word manages to come out because he takes your silence as submission, and he kisses your lips for it. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you murmur to yourself repeatedly, fighting the horror and the urge to flee. Yet, a tear slips from your glassy eyes. 

And this is you playing with fire. Now, only one question remains: how does it feel to burn?

[8kh]

“Would you kill me, my love? If I betray you?” for the prompt thingy if it’s still open ^^ with any character you like ;)

Fyodor’s fingertips hover above the wooden chess piece— pawn. With absolute grace and consideration, amethyst eyes gaze back at you as he leans on the soft chair.

“My, my,” he rasps, head tilting to the side with his knuckles pushing against his cheek. “I have not foreseen such a question in the middle of a chess game.”

You laugh, toying with the chess piece in your delicate hand. For outsiders, the sound certainly resonates like a normal, amused laugh. However, for Fyodor’s ears, it is roses and silk; sultry with a drop of venom on its edge.

“Won’t you humor me, darling?” Your lashes flick gently, lips forming a smile. “Would you kill me if I betray you?”

Would— because you know that he can. Ending another person’s life does not keep him awake at night; it does not poison his conscience or the lack thereof. And yet the question repeats like a broken record, surrounding his head, consuming his thoughts the longer his eyes linger on yours.

Would he kill you?

Betrayal is the apex of imbecility, for both the traitor and the betrayed. Death is the only punishment for such a crime. If you were just another body in the throng, Fyodor wouldn’t even think twice.

However, you are not like many others. Not for the reason that you make everything you touch beautiful. It is the opposite. You cradle Fyodor with the heat of sin and devilry; you touch him with fire in your fingertips, burning all that is pretty to leave him with ashes and ruin. He takes you by the hand, allowing your claws to sink in and swallow him whole, because that’s all he needs, all he wants. To dance with the devil and be destroyed by you.

“Yes. I will kill you,” he finally says. “And then I will kill myself next.”

[8kh]

hi. your girl is now a degree holder <3

[8kh]

hello. your girl is now a licensed professional teacher <3

[deciqm]

blad.......

[8kh]

i heard ethel cain wrote sun bleached files for sunday yeah it's true

[stardustdusting]

chu <3

[8kh]

OH MY GOD YOUR BACK?!?!?! DUDE AND INTO GACHIAKUTA?!?!?!?! OH EM GEE HI IM SO GLAD TO SEE YOU BACK! EVEN IF NOT WRITING YOU WERE SO AWESOME!!! AND ARE!!! WELL WISHES AND I HOPE LIFE IS TREATING YOU GREAT!!!

-✨️

hi, nonnie!!! yes ive been watching gachi lately as well as reading the manga!!! the art style is so cool <333 i hope life's been good to u, too !!

[8kh]

hey guys do u have any sunday fic recs??? preferably without smut thank yew <3333

[eurodynamic]

KOMANO MANATO Zenless Zone Zero — 2.3 "Memories of Dreams Bygone"

[novaursa]

The Proof of Fire (1/3)

- Summary: A daughter of exile returns with a dead dragon’s heart. Fire remembers her name—and so does madness.

- Pairing: cousin!reader/Aerion (Brightflame) Targaryen

- Note: The timeline is all over the place.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @albekstime @human169

The sun was a dull coin in a washed-out sky, the air filled with the smell of sweat and steel. Aerion’s practice yard rang with the music of his temper—the whistle of his blade, the thud of his boots striking packed dirt, the sharp inhale before every imagined killing stroke. His hair had come loose from its tie, pale strands clinging to the sweat at his temples. He was beautiful in the way a flame was: too bright, too dangerous to touch.

Ser Humfrey Hardyng, the unfortunate soul chosen to train him that morning, had long since stopped pretending this was a spar. Aerion didn’t spar. He performed little rituals of dominance disguised as training. Each parry was too vicious, each feint a deliberate threat. When the blade’s flat clipped Hardyng’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, Aerion smiled—not from joy, but from that quiet, private sense of superiority that made every other man an audience to his own myth.

Then the courtyard gate creaked open. A squire entered, panting, clutching a folded parchment. Aerion lowered his sword, eyes narrowing.

“What is it?” His voice was like oil poured over fire—controlled, but volatile.

The boy bowed awkwardly. “My prince—word from the King’s council. A raven came this morning from the east. It’s about the girl—Princess Y/N Targaryen.”

The name was enough to still the yard. Even the clatter of armor from the keep above seemed to fade into silence. Aerion turned his head slightly, the faintest smirk curving his mouth. “The girl,” he repeated, voice soft, as though testing how the words tasted on his tongue. “My cousin.”

“Yes, my prince,” the squire said, eyes flickering between the prince’s sword and the exit. “It’s said her mother is dead. The King has called her to court. She’s to sail from Volantis within the moon.”

Aerion’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade until the leather creaked. “Dead, is she?” His tone was disinterested, but his eyes—those deep, feverish violet eyes—sharpened with something like hunger. “Then the exile ends. The last of the Flamebound returns to the dragon’s nest.”

Ser Humfrey tried to speak, a cautious peace-offering in his tone. “Your cousin’s presence will please His Grace, no doubt. The bloodline—”

“The bloodline,” Aerion interrupted, laughter cutting the air like broken glass. “Do you think Maekar cares for blood? He trims it like hedges—prunes away what offends him, lets the rest grow wild.” He turned away, eyes drifting toward the pale horizon where the sea met sky. “But she... she’s different. She was born of the fire itself. You’ve never seen her, have you?”

“No, my prince,” Humfrey said, hesitant. “Only heard tales.”

“Tales.” Aerion smiled faintly, remembering. “When she was ten, she sent a portrait to court with one of her father’s letters. The courtiers whispered it was enchanted—her eyes followed them across the room. Even my father said she looked more like a Valyrian goddess than a mortal girl.”

He ran a thumb along the edge of his blade. “I saw her once—at a family funeral. She was twelve, maybe thirteen. She didn’t weep. Just stood there among the weeping fools, still as a statue, her hair bright as molten silver. I remember thinking that if the dragons ever return, it would be through her. Through blood like that.”

Ser Humfrey shifted uncomfortably. “She’s your kin, my prince.”

Aerion turned to him, eyes gleaming. “Exactly. My kin. The only one left who remembers what we were before this kingdom turned to mud and faith. The rest of them bow to septons, breed with sheep. But she—she was born to fire.”

He sheathed his sword with a harsh scrape, the sound punctuating his thoughts. “Tell me, Ser Humfrey. Do you think dragons mate with swine? Or with their own kind?”

Humfrey said nothing. There was no safe answer.

Aerion stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve read the old Valyrian hymns. The rites of binding. The twins in Essos understood what the rest forgot—blood calls to blood. Fire to fire. It’s no sin; it’s destiny.” He smiled thinly. “The gods—whatever mockeries they are—put her in exile to preserve her from decay. And now the King calls her home, to me.”

He walked to the edge of the yard, gazing toward the east. “They’ll think she comes for grief. But I know better. The old fire stirs again. She’ll see it when she looks at me. She’ll know what I am.”

The squire bowed, backing away like a man from a fevered prophet. “Shall I send word you received the news, my prince?”

Aerion waved him off. “No. Let them whisper it through the halls. Let every dull-eyed Targaryen daughter clutch her pearls and pray she’s not the one he names. She’s coming back. And when she stands before me, they’ll all see.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper, more to himself than anyone else. “The blood remembers.”

He looked down at his sword again, admiring his reflection warped along the steel. Then he smiled that thin, mirthless smile—the kind that promised both worship and ruin.

“Tell the King,” he murmured, “to prepare the throne room. The true dragons are coming home.”

The sea was a living thing that day, all rolling pearl and sighing foam, stretching endless beneath a sky the color of pale steel. The ship that bore you—The Maiden of Fire, a Lyseni-built vessel draped in red and black silks—cut through the waves like a blade. Every plank groaned with age, every sail carried the scent of salt and resin, but it was loyal to you, as were all aboard. The loyalists your father gathered in exile remained even now, long after his pyres cooled. Half priest, half fanatic, their eyes followed you with the kind of reverence that was just shy of fear.

You stood at the prow wrapped in a dark cloak lined with ash-gray silk, the wind teasing strands of your silver hair loose from their braid. You had your mother’s eyes—deep amethyst, almost luminescent beneath the sun—but none of her softness. The years in exile had carved patience into you like scripture. Every movement was deliberate, each word measured. There was power in stillness, your mother had taught, and more in silence than in speech.

The dragon egg lay inside a chest at your feet, swaddled in black velvet. It had never hatched, though your father had burned half his life trying to make it sing. Yet it remained warm—always warm—as though it remembered the womb of a dying world. Sometimes at night, you swore you felt it pulse faintly against your palm, as if something inside still dreamed.

You turned when you heard the steps behind you. It was Ser Rhaemion Velarys, one of your father’s sworn swords, the last of the old Valyrian line that had followed your parents into exile. He bowed his head slightly. His hair was white, his armor dull with age. “My lady,” he said. “We should reach Dragonstone within two days, gods willing.”

“Gods willing,” you repeated, your voice soft, but not mocking. “My father used to say the gods are deaf to dragons.”

Rhaemion hesitated. “Still, it would ease the men to see you rest. You’ve not left this deck since dawn.”

You smiled faintly, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “The sea does not rest, ser. Why should I?”

He inclined his head, accepting defeat as he always did. The loyalty in his silence was comforting.

At the far end of the deck, your handmaiden, Nyssa, was kneeling beside a brazier, feeding it crushed herbs. The scent—strong, resinous—rose in faint curls of smoke. “For the storm ahead,” she murmured when you passed her. “A charm against drowning.”

“Do you think the waves will obey your charms?” you asked.

Nyssa smiled, not afraid. “No, my lady. But the men believe it helps. That’s enough.”

Your eyes softened briefly. “Keep burning them, then.”

You descended into your cabin as dusk began to fall. The quarters were small but richly furnished: silk hangings embroidered with old Valyrian runes, a small altar to Balerion the Black Dread carved from volcanic stone, and on the table, your mother’s silver mirror. Its surface was darkened by age and smoke, yet when you looked into it, the reflection wavered as though the sea itself looked back. You touched the edge lightly.

“Mother,” you whispered. “You were right. Fire does not die—it waits.”

The ship pitched gently beneath you. Outside, the wind had picked up. You could hear the crew’s boots thudding above, the low chanting of the men at the oars keeping rhythm.

Nyssa entered quietly with a tray of food—steamed crab and wine dark as blood. She set it down, studying your face. “Are you frightened, my lady?”

You looked up slowly. “Frightened?” The word felt foreign. “No. I am only curious. I was born in exile, fed on ash and prophecy. Westeros is just a story to me. Now I go to live in it.”

Nyssa hesitated. “They say your uncle Maekar is a hard man. That his sons are proud.”

A faint smile curved your lips. “Pride is not new to me. I was raised among the ashes of gods.” You leaned back in your chair, the light from the lantern flickering over your face, making your eyes glimmer like coals. “Let them look and whisper when they see me. Let them remember what it means to be dragonborn.”

Rhaemion appeared again at the door. “The wind turns foul, my lady. We may have a storm before morning.”

You rose, crossing to the window where the first streaks of lightning danced on the horizon. “Good,” you said quietly. “Let the sea test me before I stand before kings. Fire and storm—that is how dragons are made.”

Outside, thunder rolled across the waves like the beating of vast wings. The crew whispered your name like a prayer as they lashed down the sails. And you, standing by the glass, felt the warmth of the dragon egg through the chest below your feet, pulsing faintly in rhythm with your heart—as though something inside it had heard the thunder and answered.

The morning the ship arrived, King’s Landing glimmered beneath a haze of heat and salt. The docks were lined with banners—black and red, gold and silver—fluttering lazily in the wind off Blackwater Bay. The city had been scrubbed of its usual filth for the royal procession: the fishmongers cleared away, the gutters sluiced with perfumed water, the dockside whores paid to stay out of sight. The smell of tar and brine still clung to everything, though, as if the sea refused to yield its claim.

The royal family waited beneath a crimson canopy that had been raised near the gangway. Prince Aerion stood slightly apart from the others, as he always did. His armor gleamed—black steel chased with dragon motifs—and a single ruby glowed at his throat like a drop of blood. To any other man, the heat might have been punishing, but Aerion seemed to drink it in, a creature too accustomed to fire to ever sweat.

Beside him stood his father, Maekar I, stern and motionless, his expression carved from the same stone as the keep behind him. Aegon and Aemon lingered in their father’s shadow, murmuring between themselves. The anxiety among them was strong enough to cut through the sea breeze.

Aerion’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the Lyseni-built ship approached, its hull black as obsidian, sails trimmed in scarlet. When he first caught sight of it, a faint smile touched his lips—something feral, half-reverent.

“She comes,” he murmured.

Aegon turned toward him, brow furrowed. “Try to look less like a mad prophet, brother. It’s only our cousin.”

Aerion’s eyes didn’t move from the ship. “Only our cousin,” he echoed softly, as though the phrase itself offended him. “You say it as if blood means nothing anymore.”

Maekar’s voice cut through the air. “Enough. You’ll keep your tongue civil when she arrives. This is no time for theatrics.”

Aerion bowed his head slightly, though the gesture was all mockery. “Of course, Father. Civil as the Seven demand.”

Aegon exchanged a look with Aemon that said all it needed to—gods, not this again.

The ship’s sails billowed as it neared the dock, ropes thrown, shouts echoing from sailors and dockhands alike. The Lyseni figurehead—an open-mouthed dragon carved from dark wood—loomed as the gangplank lowered.

When you stepped into view, the noise around the docks softened, like the sea itself had drawn breath. You wore a gown the color of shadowed embers, trimmed in silver thread that caught the sun with every movement. A light mantle fell from your shoulders, its clasp shaped like a dragon’s claw. Your hair was braided in the Valyrian style, coiled like a crown, and the breeze played through the loose strands that framed your face. You did not rush. Every step was deliberate, measured, the way your father once taught you—to move as if the world itself bowed to your pace.

Behind you followed a small retinue of Essosi retainers and guards, their armor lacquered black, their faces expressionless. Two carried a heavy chest draped in dark cloth—the one that held your father’s dragon egg.

Aerion’s breath hitched. His eyes were fever-bright as he watched you descend the gangway, his fingers curling unconsciously against the hilt of his sword. “She walks like flame given flesh,” he whispered.

Aegon leaned toward him, voice low. “If you start speaking prophecy again, I’ll push you into the bay.”

But Maekar was watching you with a colder kind of calculation. When you reached the docks, he stepped forward, bowing slightly in acknowledgment. “Princess Y/N Targaryen,” he said, his voice carrying. “You’ve been too long away from your kin. On behalf of the crown, I welcome you home.”

You inclined your head, your expression unreadable. “Your Grace,” you said, your accent touched faintly by Essosi cadence. “It seems even exile cannot keep the blood of the dragon from finding its way back to the fire.”

The faintest flicker crossed Maekar’s face—approval, perhaps, or unease. “Your father’s letters never failed to remind us of that.”

You smiled then, just enough to be polite. “My father believed in the old truths. He died for them.”

Behind Maekar, Aerion stepped forward. “And his daughter lives for them.”

Your eyes met his for the first time. It was like two flames touching—recognition, curiosity, and a hint of danger. Aerion bowed low, though the gesture carried the weight of performance. “Cousin,” he said, his voice soft as silk. “It’s been far too long since dragon blood met dragon blood in this city.”

You studied him a moment before answering. “Then perhaps it has forgotten what to do when it does.”

Aegon coughed into his hand to hide his laughter. Maekar’s gaze hardened. Aerion, however, only smiled wider. “Oh, I doubt that.”

He extended a hand, offering to guide you toward the waiting canopy. You did not take it. Instead, you turned slightly, eyes on the chest being carried behind you. “I would not leave my father’s legacy unattended.”

Aerion’s gaze flicked toward it, hunger barely veiled. “The egg,” he murmured.

Your tone cooled. “The relic of a better age my father dug out of Valyrian ruins. One that men have forgotten how to honor.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed he might say something reckless—something that would burn through the civility Maekar demanded. But instead, he straightened, offering a thin, almost courtly smile. “Then perhaps, cousin, we might remind them.”

You met his stare without flinching. “Perhaps.”

The moment lingered, taut as a drawn bowstring, until the sound of trumpets broke the tension. The procession began its march toward the Red Keep, the banners catching the wind again. You walked ahead beside Maekar, the dragon egg’s chest borne behind you, and Aerion followed close, his eyes fixed on the back of your neck like a starving man watching smoke rise from a feast he could not yet touch.

High above, the bells of the Sept tolled slow and heavy, and the people of King’s Landing whispered as the forgotten daughter of the Doom-touched twins passed through their streets—unaware that the fire she brought home was already catching.

The streets of King’s Landing steamed beneath the noon sun, the air thick with the scent of tar, horse sweat, and crushed flowers. The city had turned out in force—merchants and beggars, children perched on crates, septas fanning themselves beside sellswords pretending to be guards. The procession wound through the capital like a vein of fire, its banners—black and red—snapping against the wind as the bells of the Great Sept tolled their slow, hollow welcome. You rode in the center, astride a pale mare draped in dark silks, the embroidery catching light like threads of living flame.

At your side, Aerion rode close enough for his knee to brush the edge of your stirrup. His horse was restless beneath him, mirroring its master’s impatience. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you since you stepped onto the docks, and he didn’t bother to pretend otherwise now. Every word he spoke was soft, deliberate, as though spoken into your skin instead of the air.

“You’ve changed less than I imagined,” he said. “I remember you smaller. Sharper, perhaps, but not less dangerous.”

You turned your head slightly, your expression unreadable beneath the thin silver circlet resting on your brow. “You must have an excellent memory, cousin. We met twice in all our lives, and both times you looked at me as if I were a vision.”

“Perhaps you were.” His tone was velvet over glass. “Visions linger. Flesh fades.”

You didn’t reply. The crowd pressed closer, cheering, though it was clear most of them had no idea who you were—only that you were a new curiosity in a city starved for spectacle. Children threw rose petals at the hooves of your horses. Somewhere behind you, Aegon was laughing with one of the guards; ahead, Maekar rode beneath the royal standard, his back rigid, his voice low as he spoke to the knight beside him. When he finally turned his attention to you, his expression was a careful blend of courtesy and scrutiny.

“I remember your father,” he said after a long silence. His voice carried easily over the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. “Prince Vaeron was a brilliant man, in his way. Too brilliant, some would say. The sort that forgets brilliance burns hotter than the rest of us can bear.”

You watched the road ahead, but your voice was steady. “He believed flame was meant to purify, not comfort. He thought the line had grown soft.”

Maekar gave a small, humorless laugh. “He said as much to my face before he left. Told me the dragons would not return to a family that prayed to septons instead of stars. I thought him mad then. I still do.”

“Madness and vision are siblings,” you said softly. “He only chose the wrong one to love.”

Aerion smiled faintly at that, his eyes glinting. “I think I would have liked him.”

Maekar shot him a sharp look. “You would have burned with him.”

Aerion’s reply came smooth as silk. “Better to burn than to rot.”

The king’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing further. The procession passed under the shadow of Aegon’s High Hill, and the Red Keep rose above you like a wound in the sky—red stone, towering spires, the faint shimmer of heat where the sun struck its walls. It had always looked to you less like a castle and more like something that had been grown rather than built, as though the rock itself had been taught to bleed.

“Your mother,” Maekar continued after a pause, his tone softening. “Princess Vaeryna. I remember her more gently. She had a strange calm about her. Even when your father raged, she would only look at him and he would fall silent. I pitied her.”

You turned your gaze toward him finally, your eyes cool but not unkind. “Do not. She pitied none of you.”

Maekar blinked, uncertain whether he’d been insulted or instructed. “I suppose she found her peace in exile.”

“Peace is for the faithless,” you said. “She found silence. There’s a difference.”

The king regarded you a moment longer, perhaps trying to decide if you were your father reborn. Then he looked away. “She raised you well enough, at least. Let us hope your presence reminds this court what our name once meant before it became a jest.”

Aerion’s lips curved slightly. “Oh, she’ll remind them, Father. In ways you can’t yet imagine.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “And what way is that, cousin?”

He tilted his head, the ghost of a smile at his mouth. “The way fire reminds the air it can still burn.”

You didn’t answer, but the faintest flicker of amusement touched your eyes before you looked forward again. The Red Keep’s gates loomed closer, iron and gold entwined in the shapes of coiled dragons, their eyes glinting with rubies. The guards saluted as the procession passed through, the sound of their pikes striking stone echoing like the toll of distant thunder.

As you rode beneath the archway, the cool shadow fell over you, the sea breeze fading into still air heavy with incense and memory. You exhaled slowly, feeling the pulse of the dragon egg through the silk pouch beneath your saddle. It was warm—almost hot—against your thigh, as though it, too, had waited years to cross this threshold.

Aerion leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Welcome home, cousin.”

You kept your eyes on the great stair rising before you, the stone shimmering with heat, the banners rippling above like tongues of flame. “Home,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “We’ll see what kind of home it becomes.”

And with that, the procession climbed toward the Red Keep’s gates, two dragons walking side by side, and the court of men behind them too blind—or too wise—to decide which of you would devour the other first.

The great hall of the Red Keep glittered like a furnace that night. Gold and crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their light scattering across the armor of knights, the polished goblets, the dark silk of banners bearing the three-headed dragon. Every inch of the place had been staged for spectacle—Maekar’s idea of hospitality, a feast to remind the realm that even estranged blood could be brought home under the crown’s blessing. Servants moved like shadows through the throng, refilling cups, replacing roasted peacocks with swan, pouring wine thick as garnet. The smell of honey, meat, and smoke hung heavy in the air.

You sat near the high table, the position Maekar had deemed appropriate—close enough to honor your return, not so close as to seem dangerous. Your gown was dark crimson, trimmed in silver thread, your hair drawn into a coiled braid crowned by small rubies that glimmered whenever you turned your head. The dragon egg had been sent to be locked away in the royal vault to Summerhall, by Maekar’s decree, “for protection,” though you suspected it was as much a gesture of control as concern.

Aerion, of course, had claimed the seat beside you. No one had dared to challenge it. He was dressed in black velvet, his collar clasped by a brooch shaped like a dragon swallowing its own tail. He had said little during the opening toasts, content to watch the room with that detached amusement that always made courtiers uneasy. His attention, however, never strayed far from you.

He spoke softly, just above the din of conversation. “It’s strange, isn’t it? They cheer for you now, the same way they did when they thought your father was mad. Time is a fickle redeemer.”

You sipped your wine, the metal of the goblet catching the light. “Or memory is a forgiving liar. They don’t remember him; they remember the scandal. Madness makes for better stories than vision.”

Aerion smiled faintly. “And what was he, to you? Madness or vision?”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Both. He was a man trying to become a god and burning for it. I suppose that’s the closest any of us can get.”

He studied you for a moment, expression unreadable. “They say he died in fire. Is that true?”

Your voice dropped, quieter than the music rising from the minstrels’ corner. “He built a pyre for the egg. Said he had found the right words, the right hour, that the blood of his body would wake it. My mother tried to stop him. He kissed her hand and walked into the flames.” You paused, fingers tracing the edge of your goblet. “The egg didn’t hatch. The fire went out before dawn.”

Aerion’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “And yet you brought the egg here.”

“It’s what’s left of him,” you said simply. “And of what he believed.”

He leaned closer, his voice almost a whisper. “You know, I think he wasn’t wrong.”

You looked at him then, really looked—the fever behind his calm, the flicker in his eyes that was too familiar. “You think no one ever is when they burn brightly enough,” you said.

A slow smile curved his mouth. “Fire isn’t meant to be reasonable.”

“Neither are men who worship it,” you replied.

He laughed softly, tilting his head back, unbothered by your edge. “I missed this court for nothing but the sound of honesty. You have it like a weapon. You’ll need it.”

“Why?”

His tone shifted, suddenly sharper beneath its silk. “Because Maekar will not let you stay long in this hall as you are. You’re a reminder—too pure a line, too unsettling a past. He’ll find a husband for you soon, some dull noble with a title and no spine. He’ll send you to some cold castle and call it duty.”

Your gaze flicked briefly toward the king, seated two chairs away, speaking stiffly to one of his lords. “You speak as if he’s already chosen.”

Aerion’s smile was thin. “He has. He always does. It’s what he did with Daella, with Rhae. Better to bury the dangerous ones under marriages of convenience than risk their blood catching fire.”

“And what would you do, cousin,” you asked, voice low, “if you were the king?”

He turned his head slightly, his eyes gleaming like molten glass. “I’d build the fire higher.”

The music swelled, laughter echoing from the lower tables where the knights had begun to drink too freely. A serving girl passed behind you, filling your glass, and Aerion’s hand brushed yours as he set his cup down. The contact was brief but electric, charged with something unspoken.

“Careful,” you murmured without looking at him. “You’ll start rumors.”

He smiled against the rim of his cup. “Let them talk. They’ll do it anyway. I’d rather they speak truth than whisper lies.”

Maekar’s voice rose then, calling for a toast to “the return of family, the restoration of honor.” You raised your glass with the others, the wine glinting like blood in the candlelight. Across from you, Aerion’s gaze caught yours over the rim of his cup. There was something in it—recognition, warning, temptation.

When the toasts ended, he leaned in again, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “Do not let him sell you into silence, cousin. Dragons do not stay caged. If he tries, I will burn the walls down myself.”

You set your goblet aside, unflinching. “You’d burn everything,” you said quietly. “Including me.”

His smile was slow, reverent, and mad. “If you are fire, you’ll survive.”

The hall roared with applause for Maekar’s speech, but the sound was distant to you now—just the dull hum beneath the steady pulse of something older, something dangerous. You turned back toward the feast, your expression composed, your heart steady. And across the table, Aerion Brightflame watched you as though he’d found the only thing left worth worshiping.

Two moons passed before Maekar’s patience wore thin. You had been a quiet presence in his court—too quiet, perhaps, for his liking. You didn’t scheme, didn’t flatter, didn’t weep gratitude for your restored “place among kin.” You simply existed, poised and inscrutable, haunting the Red Keep’s halls like the ghost of a bloodline too pure for comfort. When courtiers spoke to you, they left the conversation uneasy, as if they had glimpsed something vast and indifferent staring back through your eyes. That was enough to remind Maekar that you were not a niece he could domesticate—you were an inheritance he could not control.

The summons came one morning over breakfast, delivered by a steward with his gaze lowered. “His Grace commands that you travel to Summerhall,” he said, the words practiced, polished. “He wishes you to rest there until matters of the court are settled. The retainers you brought from Essos will accompany you. The King insists upon your comfort.”

Comfort. You had smiled faintly at that, the kind of smile that never reached your eyes. “Tell His Grace I am grateful for his concern,” you said, and dismissed the messenger.

By dusk, the courtyard was filled with the sound of hooves and the murmur of loyalists preparing for the journey. Nyssa stood by your carriage, her arms crossed, watching the servants load your chests. “He wants you gone,” she said simply.

“Yes,” you replied. “But not lost. For now.”

The wind carried the faint scent of smoke from the city below. You looked toward the Red Keep’s towers, catching a glint of black and red where the royal banner fluttered. Somewhere behind those walls, Aerion would be seething.

And he was.

Aerion’s temper had always burned quick and hot, but now it smoldered in silence as he paced the marble corridor outside the council chamber. His boots struck the floor in loud rhythm, the sound echoing off the walls. He’d already argued with Maekar once that morning, to no effect. His father had dismissed his protest with that infuriating calm he used when he wanted to remind his sons who wore the crown. “Your cousin’s presence here is… distracting,” Maekar had said. “Summerhall is quiet. She’ll find peace there.”

Peace. The word had tasted like ashes.

“She’s not a threat,” Aerion had insisted. “She’s blood.”

Maekar’s gaze had been steady, cold. “Blood is the most dangerous thing in this family.”

Now, left to brood, Aerion stalked the corridor like a caged animal, his hands flexing at his sides. Servants made themselves scarce; even the guards avoided his path. When Aegon found him, the younger prince had the sense to stay a few paces away.

“You’re going to wear a trench into the floor,” Aegon said lightly, leaning against a column. “If you pace much longer, they’ll start calling it Brightflame’s Path.”

Aerion stopped, turning on him with a look that could have cut glass. “Do you find this amusing?”

“Not particularly,” Aegon said, shrugging. “But it’s better than the alternative, which is listening to you rant at Father again. You know how that ends.”

“She’s being exiled under another name for it,” Aerion snapped. “Summerhall—‘for her comfort.’” His mouth twisted around the words. “Do you know what that means?”

“It means Father’s doing what he always does,” Aegon replied. “He’s trying to keep peace. You can’t fault him for wanting stability.”

Aerion laughed—a short, harsh sound that made Aegon flinch. “Peace is what you call fear when you’ve given it a crown. He wants her gone before his chosen suitor arrives. Some soft-blooded lord from the Reach, I heard. A man with the temperament of porridge. He’ll give her a title, a castle, and breed her until her name means nothing.”

Aegon’s expression sobered. “You don’t know that.”

“Oh, I know,” Aerion said, his voice low and fierce. “I see it in his eyes when he looks at her. He’s afraid of what she reminds him of. Of what he buried when he sent her father away. He’d rather marry her to the mud than see her catch fire.”

Aegon hesitated. “You care too much for her, brother.”

Aerion turned sharply. “I see her for what she is. The rest of you are too blind to understand it. She’s the last echo of the blood we were meant to be. The fire her father sought didn’t die with him—it burns in her.”

Aegon exhaled, looking away toward the courtyard visible through the arched windows. “You speak of her like she’s a god.”

“Perhaps she is,” Aerion said softly. “And gods deserve temples, not cages.”

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the distant cry of gulls over the bay.

Finally, Aegon said, “If you defy Father again, he’ll strip you of more than favor. You’re treading too close to ruin.”

Aerion smiled thinly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ruin is the only honest destiny left to dragons.” He began walking again, slower this time, more controlled, though his voice carried a quiet venom. “Let him send her to Summerhall. I’ll find her soon enough. Fire can’t be banished by distance—it only waits for wind.”

Aegon watched him go, a chill running through him despite the heat that still clung to the air.

By dawn the next morning, your carriage was already on the road, the Red Keep a fading silhouette behind you. The land opened wide before you, and the mist over the fields burned away with the rising sun. You didn’t look back, though you felt the weight of something following—the kind of watchful presence that distance couldn’t dissolve.

In the quiet between hoofbeats, Nyssa leaned forward inside the carriage. “You’re thinking of him.”

You kept your eyes on the window. “I’m thinking of the fire my father left behind. Some embers never die, no matter how far they’re carried.”

Behind you, in the halls of the Red Keep, Aerion Brightflame stood at a window overlooking the departing road, his reflection harsh against the glass. His fingers drummed lightly against the sill, the beginnings of a plan forming in the silence.

If Maekar thought Summerhall would keep you from him, he’d soon learn that distance was no cure for devotion—or for madness that burned in dragon’s blood.

The air at Summerhall was thick with heat that day, the kind that shimmered above stone and dulled sound into a slow hum. It was a place meant for peace, or the illusion of it—broad courtyards veined with sunlight, walls the color of pale gold, and fountains that murmured endlessly as though to drown out memory. You had been there a moon already, long enough to recognize Maekar’s version of kindness for what it was: distance dressed as protection. Your chambers overlooked the rose gardens, though nothing about them had ever felt like home. The courtiers stationed there on the King’s order treated you with careful reverence, the servants spoke your name only in whispers, and the loyalists you’d brought from Essos kept to the shadows of the halls, watching, waiting.

That afternoon you were writing—letters that would never be sent—when the sound reached you. Hooves, hard and fast, echoing up the slope of the hill. The steady rhythm of disciplined riders, not merchants or messengers. The quill stilled in your hand. Nyssa, seated near the window, turned sharply toward the noise. “Those are not Summerhall’s guards,” she said. “They ride with banners.”

A heartbeat later, one of your loyalists—a tall, grim man named Corren—burst through the door, his dark armor dusty from the courtyard. “My lady,” he said, bowing briefly. “Riders approach the gate. They bear the sigil of House Targaryen. A small host—two dozen at most, but heavily armed. No herald sent ahead.”

Your pulse steadied, slow and deliberate. “And who leads them?”

“Prince Aerion,” Corren said.

For a long moment, you said nothing. The fountain outside continued its quiet music, utterly at odds with the sudden tension that filled the room. Nyssa muttered a curse under her breath. “Of course it’s him. He’s either come to start a war or to light one.”

You rose, smoothing the fabric of your gown, crimson silk shifting like poured flame. “Both, possibly. Prepare the hall. If he’s come this far uninvited, I won’t greet him from behind a door.”

By the time you reached the courtyard, the riders had already dismounted. The sun caught the edge of Aerion’s armor, turning him into a flash of living metal. He’d come in black plate, unpolished but engraved with the faint outline of coiled dragons, and his cloak bore the red three-headed sigil of your house. Dust streaked his boots and gauntlets, but his bearing was too deliberate for weariness. Behind him stood a handful of knights—hard-eyed men from the Crownlands, bound more by loyalty to him than to the throne.

The gates were open, but no one had dared to sound the horns. Summerhall’s steward lingered at the edge of the courtyard, uncertain whether to bow or flee. Aerion looked at him briefly and dismissed him with a single glance before his gaze found you.

“Cousin,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the still air. “I hope my presence hasn’t startled your peace.”

You descended the steps slowly, your guards flanking you but hanging back once you reached the last stair. “Peace doesn’t startle,” you said. “But it does notice when armed men ride through its gates without invitation.”

He smiled faintly. “Then I’ll consider this notice served.”

Nyssa’s whisper brushed your ear. “He’s mad to come here like this. Maekar will hear before the sun sets.”

“That’s precisely the point,” you murmured back, then lifted your chin. “You’ve ridden far, cousin. I take it this isn’t a social visit.”

Aerion’s eyes burned like candlelight—bright, restless. “A social visit would insult us both. I came because I heard your peace was about to be disturbed. A suitor, isn’t it? Some perfumed wretch from the Reach, if the whispers are true. My father’s little gift to you.”

You studied him for a long moment, your voice calm. “You’ve heard much for a man forbidden to meddle in such matters.”

“I hear everything,” he said. “Especially the things my father wants hidden. He would have you traded like a trinket, bound to some low lord who can’t even speak your tongue, to smother what he can’t understand. I won’t allow it.”

A soft laugh escaped you, low and edged. “You won’t allow it? Tell me, Aerion, since when do you command the crown?”

He took a step closer, his tone shifting from arrogance to something more dangerous—conviction. “Since it forgot what it means to rule by dragons. You think I rode from King’s Landing for defiance? I came because I remember who you are. Who your father was. The blood that built this house doesn’t kneel to marriage contracts.”

Your loyalists stiffened at his words, hands resting on sword hilts, but you raised a hand, stilling them. “You rode through three provinces to deliver a lecture on heritage?”

“I rode through three provinces to remind you you’re not alone,” he said, quieter now. “You think Maekar sent you here for your comfort? No. He sent you away so the court would forget you. So I would forget you.” His eyes narrowed. “He should have known better.”

The courtyard had gone silent except for the wind stirring the banners. You met his gaze evenly. “And what do you expect me to do, cousin? Defy a king? Refuse his will and start a scandal before his court?”

Aerion’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You were born a scandal. Everything about you reminds them of what they fear. You don’t need to defy him—you just need to exist. The rest will take care of itself.”

Nyssa stepped forward then, unable to restrain herself. “Prince or not, you had no right to come unannounced. You’ve jeopardized her standing and your own. When the King hears—”

“He’ll rage,” Aerion interrupted smoothly, eyes still on you. “He’ll send ravens and guards and threats. Let him. By the time his suitor arrives tomorrow, I’ll be the only one standing at her side.”

You looked at him, your tone measured but unyielding. “You’ve overstepped.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’ve never been good at waiting while others decide what happens to the last dragon worth following.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Finally, you turned toward the steward. “Prepare quarters for the prince and his men,” you said. “If he’s to disrupt Summerhall, he might as well do it under my roof.”

Aerion’s smile deepened, something dangerous flickering beneath it. “Generous as always.”

“Don’t mistake generosity for trust,” you replied, starting back toward the steps. “You’ll dine in the great hall tonight. Until then, stay out of my way.”

He bowed slightly, his voice soft but unmistakably sure. “As you wish, cousin. For now.”

As you disappeared back into the cool shadow of the hall, Aerion turned his face up toward the sun, eyes narrowing against its glare. Behind him, his knights stood silent, waiting for orders that hadn’t been spoken yet.

By the time Maekar’s chosen suitor reached Summerhall the next day, he would find not a quiet estate but a storm waiting—one born not of politics or ambition, but of fire that refused to stay buried.

Summerhall slept uneasily that night. The hour was late, the moon half-shrouded by cloud, the halls wrapped in that particular kind of silence that only comes before something changes. The fires in the braziers had burned down to embers, throwing restless shadows against the stone. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, an owl called once and was answered by nothing. Inside the keep, Aerion Brightflame moved like a trespasser through his own bloodline’s history.

He carried no torch—only the dim light of a small oil lamp, its flame cupped low as he descended the narrow steps beneath the western tower. The air grew cooler with each turn, heavy with the scent of dust and iron. He knew this passage; he had seen it before in Maekar’s keeping. His father had called it “the vault,” though it was little more than a chamber of relics—a tomb for things too dangerous or too sacred to destroy.

When he reached the final door, Aerion drew a small key from his sleeve, the one he’d taken weeks ago before leaving King’s Landing. It fit the lock perfectly. The hinges groaned as he pushed the door open.

The vault was lit only by the single lamp he carried, the light spilling across shelves of forgotten treasures—Valyrian steel fragments, scrolls sealed in wax, an old ceremonial helm blackened by age. And there, at the center of the room, resting upon a stand of obsidian, was the egg.

Even in shadow, it seemed to breathe. Its surface was veined with gold and red, faintly luminous, as though some slow heart pulsed beneath the shell. The warmth of it reached him before he even touched it. He set the lamp aside and extended his hand, hovering it inches above the shell. Heat curled against his skin, not searing, but alive.

“So,” he whispered, voice low, almost reverent. “This is the last of them.”

He had seen dragon eggs before—cold, lifeless relics sitting in the halls of his family who kept them as trophies. But this one was different. It thrummed faintly, an almost imperceptible rhythm that matched the beat of his own pulse. When he closed his hand over it, the warmth deepened until it felt like the thing was listening.

“I know you,” he said softly, half to himself. “You’re what he died for. What she dreams of. What they fear.” His thumb traced one of the red veins, following it to where it met a golden swirl near the top. “You’re not dead. You’re waiting.”

The voice that answered him was quiet but sharp. “I’d ask what you think you’re doing, cousin—but the answer seems obvious.”

He turned, slowly, the egg still cradled in his hands. You stood in the doorway, your hair loose over your shoulders, a dark cloak thrown hastily around your nightdress. The lamp beside you threw a halo of orange light that caught in your eyes, turning the violet to molten color.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said lightly, though the intensity in his gaze betrayed the lie. “Thought I’d keep an old friend company.”

You stepped closer, your expression unreadable. “You shouldn’t be here. That’s not yours.”

He smiled faintly. “Everything with fire in it belongs to both of us.”

“Is that what you tell yourself before you steal?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Aerion said, lifting the egg slightly, as though to show it off. “I reclaimed it. Maekar locked it away to make sure it never woke. I thought it deserved better than to rot in a vault.”

You stopped a few feet away, the heat from the egg brushing your skin. “It’s not meant for you.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “Then tell me, what is it meant for? To gather dust? To sit cold while its line forgets what it is? Your father died trying to wake it. You’ve guarded it your whole life, but never dared to touch it as he did. You keep it alive and starving at the same time.”

You frowned, voice low. “You think you understand it because you feel warmth on your hand? You play at prophecy like a child plays with flame. My father thought fire would make him more than man. It only made him ash.”

Aerion’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight, unblinking. “Then perhaps he simply wasn’t enough.”

The words hung between you like smoke. You stepped forward suddenly, snatching the egg from his hands before he could react. It was heavier than you remembered, its heat biting into your palms. “You forget yourself,” you said quietly.

He stared at you, a faint smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “No. I remember too well. You keep telling yourself this thing belongs to the dead, but look at it. It responds to you. Do you feel it?”

You hesitated despite yourself. The egg was different. The warmth that had once been faint now pulsed stronger, deeper, like a heartbeat beneath your skin. A shiver ran through you before you forced your hands to still. “It’s nothing,” you said.

Aerion stepped closer until his breath brushed your cheek. “It’s not nothing. It’s what we are. Everything Maekar fears. Everything he’ll bury if we let him. And you—” he reached up, his fingertips grazing the edge of your cloak “—you’re the only one it answers to. You think that’s a coincidence?”

You met his eyes, your tone razor-sharp. “You sound like my father before the fire took him.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” he said softly. “Maybe that’s what it takes.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The egg pulsed between you, casting faint reflections across the obsidian walls. You felt the same strange pull you had the night your father died—an echo of something vast and wordless, older than either of you.

Finally, you tore your gaze from him. “Get out,” you said quietly.

Aerion’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head in mock respect. “As you wish, cousin. But don’t pretend you didn’t feel it too.”

He brushed past you as he left, the air behind him still hot where he had stood. You waited until his footsteps faded down the corridor before setting the egg back on its stand. The warmth lingered in your palms, pulsing faintly, impossibly alive.

You caught your reflection in the glass of the lamp—eyes bright, almost glowing. For a moment, you wondered whether Aerion had seen the same thing and whether, in some terrible way, he had been right.

The silence that followed did not feel empty. It pressed close, thick and expectant, as if the walls themselves were listening. You stood alone in that dim chamber, the lamp flickering beside the obsidian pedestal, shadows sliding across the shell of the dragon egg like restless ghosts.

The air was warm—too warm—and you realized after a moment that it wasn’t only the egg radiating heat. It was you. Your pulse thudded hard against your throat, and when you lifted a hand, you could see the faint shimmer of sweat along your palm where the light touched it. The heat felt alive, crawling beneath your skin like something waking.

You exhaled slowly, forcing the tremor out of your breath. Aerion’s words echoed, unwanted: It responds to you.

You stepped closer to the egg again, your reflection fractured in its curved surface. It wasn’t quite red or gold, but something between—like sunlight through blood. You remembered the stories. The ones whispered since you were old enough to understand their shape.

The Doom-touched twins, they called your parents. Born beneath a storm of red comets that painted the sky like bleeding stars, delivered on Dragonstone in a night that smelled of sulfur and salt. Maesters wrote that the air itself had trembled, that the fire in the great hearths burned blue until dawn. Some said the twins never cried, only looked at each other and smiled—like they already knew every secret that mattered. The septons had taken that as a curse. The old blood took it as a sign.

You had been born seventeen years later in a city that was already dying, under a sky choked with smoke from the burning quarter of Volantis. The flames had reached so high that the towers along the Rhoyne glowed like molten iron. They said the fire burned for three days, that it stopped only when the river rose to swallow it. And when your mother held you for the first time, the midwife claimed your skin was so warm it steamed in the night air.

Your father had smiled then, you were told, the only time anyone ever remembered seeing him smile. “The line unbroken,” he said. “Fire remembers its own.”

And yet you had been the only child. Your mother had carried others—each one lost before the third moon of pregnancy. She had said once that the blood of their kind demanded balance, that two like them could not bring forth many. The gods—or the dragons, depending who told the tale—allowed only one living child to hold what they were without being consumed. You had grown up surrounded by relics and ashes, worshipped and imprisoned in equal measure. Your mother had called you her echo, your father his proof. Neither had asked what you wanted to be.

Your fingers brushed the egg’s surface again, feeling the warmth surge under your touch. You thought of your father’s voice in the last days before the end—the same tone Aerion had used tonight. We were never meant to live as men do. We were made for fire.

You had hated him for those words once. You had watched him walk into the flames, leaving you and your mother with nothing but the ruin of his faith. And yet, here you were, standing before the same fire, listening for a heartbeat that wasn’t supposed to exist.

The light flickered.

A faint tremor ran through the floor—so subtle you might have imagined it. You drew back instinctively, staring at the egg. The veins that crossed its surface pulsed once, a brief flare of crimson before fading to their usual dull glow. Your breath caught.

“...no,” you whispered, half to yourself. “You’re just remembering him. That’s all.”

But the warmth didn’t fade. It deepened. The air thickened, a shimmer of heat distorting the edge of the lamp’s light. For a heartbeat, the faint scent of ash filled the room—clean, sharp, like air after lightning.

Your eyes narrowed, pulse hammering. “Father?”

There was no answer. Only the faintest sound, almost below hearing. A crack, like something stretching in its sleep.

You took a step closer, your voice barely a breath. “What are you waiting for?”

The glow beneath the shell flared again—brighter this time, a heartbeat, unmistakable. The light bathed your hands, your face, the whole chamber. Somewhere above, you thought you heard the faint groan of stone—the keep itself shifting, reacting. The lamp flickered violently, then went out.

Darkness swallowed the room except for the faint, pulsing red-gold light that bled from the egg.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The warmth climbed up your arms like liquid fire. You heard it then, soft and alive, from somewhere deep inside the shell—an answering beat to your own.

The first crack came like the splitting of ice.

You drew in a breath. The glow flared again, brighter now, the heat rolling off it in waves. Behind you, the corridor stirred with movement—your loyalists, your servants, perhaps even Aerion—but you didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Your hands hovered inches above the trembling shell.

Then came another sound, faint but certain: a thin, high note, like air escaping from a dying star.

The light exploded outward.

[haddockkkk]

the goat

[8kh]

i don’t think u understand how fast i ran here when i saw the notification that u posted something like….it was INSTANTANEOUS. ive been wondering how you were doing so often, all this time you were gone and i just hope you’ve been well <3 and i really really miss talking to you💔💔 i just wish i had another way of reaching you aside from tumblr so we can chat more often :( ur still one of my favorite mutuals ever. i still reread your works too.

hi, my love!! im so sorry i haven't been around for a looong time. the last year of uni rly took all my time away from tumblr bcos i had to do student teaching internship and i was so buuuusy. i also didn't have ANY inspiration to post anythingggg and it didn't help that i forgot my tumblr password for the godjo account im so hurt to this day lmao <///3 thank u for thinking abt me, sweets !! i miss u a lot :((((((

[8kh]

i just know his zipper is hanging on for dear life bcos of that massive cock

[8kh]

hi. your girl is now a degree holder <3

[sylure]

— p l a y f i g h t w i t h : endo yamato, umemiya hajime, kaji ren, suo hayato x f!reader

content warnings: a lil bit of nsfw/suggestive, a lot of adoration

a/n: i mean we all knew endo's would be dirty

— ENDO loves to tease, annoy, and challenge you. He does it all just to get a pinch of attention without actually having to beg for it. So, instead of peacefully unwinding together after another hectic day, he leans in to blow raspberry kisses on your neck and soft puffs of air against your ear. But your little pushes against his chest and mumbled threats of his name in protest, once his actions get a little too annoying, just aren’t enough to satisfy him.

You don’t look at him, don’t glare or pout, and getting ignored by you is just not his cup of tea. So he turns to his last resort. His hands around your waist seem innocent until you feel his fingers move against your sides and steal the first giggle out of you. Your complaints get overlooked because your laugh is too endearing, and he can and will get lost in torturing you. Watching you writhe and whine beneath him is simply a beautiful sight.

Yet the situation gets heated as soon as you try to repay his favours and tickle him back. Endo actually uses strength, mostly because he enjoys seeing you struggle and get a little riled up. He’s the type of tickler who absolutely loves to tire you out until your muscles hurt and you struggle to breathe. It makes him feel good in a weird way when you give up fighting and turn pliant. Those teary orbs of yours are absolutely adorable, and he could never hide his devious grin once his hand cups your cheek, feeling just how hot your face has become.

“You’ve got no clue how pretty you are, all messy and panting for me, princess.” He mostly uses this dirty trick to make you forget what you were actually doing before he disturbed your peace. You’re always a lost cause the moment you look into his eyes, anyway.

Tickle fights with him will 100% turn into make-out sessions, especially when you’re already so fixated on him. And make-out sessions will 90% of the time turn into more.

— UME now, Umemiya is a bit of an oddball. He knows he’s strong, you know he’s insanely strong, everyone does. And here the same man pretends to be a victim to your ministrations, as he allows you to kneel above his body and tickle him.

“You’re really—” your own panting interrupts you as you continue torturing him, “really letting me win like that?” Umemiya looks almost helpless beneath you as your fingers continue to mess with his breathing, making him jerk and try to cover his body protectively—but never once trying to simply grab your hands. He’s beautiful like that: bright red cheeks, cute dimples decorating his handsome face with his laughter intoxicating bouncing off the walls. And you can’t stop yourself from egging him on. “The others were so right, you are totally whipped for me,” you nearly lilt.

Now this, this will bring that certain gleam to his eyes as he bites back his laugh to finally make a move on you. Pinning you beneath him in a matter of seconds, wrists encased by his long fingers while you can already feel his free hand travel along your body and beneath your clothes. “I simply tried to be nice…” he pants, grin widening as he watches you squirm. “But you don’t seem to like it when I’m nice to you.”

The soft peck to your forehead is the final tender treatment you receive before Hajime is relentless in tickling you, ignoring your pleas and cries and supplying you with the best ab workout you’ve had in a while. You cry full tears of laughter when he finally takes pity on you.

— KAJI unfortunately gets too caught up in the act. It’s really like he’s experiencing withdrawals without a candy popped in his mouth. Passionate and so awfully easy to rile up, you really push his buttons in all the right or wrong ways. There is no chance for you to get him to ease up once you’re at his mercy. He’s relentless in his actions, tickling you until your sides hurt and your laughter sounds like a hiccuped mixture of pleas and giggles.

You barely got any chance to tickle him in the first place, but here he goes on and on. It feels like his fingers are digging into your ribs at this point. Only the repetitive cry of his name makes him finally ease up, yet he holds you in place as his hands smooth over your sensitive skin. “You’re horrible, you know that…?” It’s the little whine in your statement that brings a fake pout to Kaji’s lips as he blinks at you innocently. “Weren’t you the one having an attitude?” he murmurs right beside your ear before placing a surprisingly tender kiss on your cheek and bumping his nose with yours.

You share deep eye contact once you finally get over your little tantrum, a soft smile resting on his lips while his hands dip lower along your waist until he reaches your hips and squeezes you gently, yet demanding. Gradually pushing your body closer against his, he gleefully watches you as he reveals the influence you have on his body.

“God, you’re horribly horny, you know that?” you groan as you try to seem indifferent. If only you weren’t holding onto him like this. Your own fingers admire the flexing of his bicep, fingernails digging into his muscles as a guilty little moan escapes your lips and your legs wrap around hips.

Kaji only chuckles and hums, his lips already moving along your neck. “Speaking as if you're an angel, hm?”

— SUO noticed that you were unusually quiet today, and despite your assurances about you being fine, your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. So, he made it his mission to cheer you up—he really misses your sweet laughter. He starts by hugging you from behind, his arms enveloping you warmly while gentle kisses are placed along your shoulder.

But just when you start to relax in his embrace, his mischievous plans set into motion. His fingers begin to explore your sides, tickling you with a deliberate lightness that catches you off guard. You jerk in his hold and gasp his name, your body tensing up in surprise.

You try to fight both your laughter and his relentless tickling as you wriggle to escape his grasp, but it’s futile. Soon, your resistance crumbles and your giggles erupt uncontrollably, filling the room with a joyous sound. Suo can’t help but grin, relishing the feel of your body so close to his and your laughter vibrating against his chest.

Eventually, he will stop on his own accord, deeming you distracted enough. He turns you around swiftly, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs gently caressing your soft cheeks. “Your laugh is too cute,” he admits softly, “A sour day shouldn’t ruin my pretty girl’s mood.”

You would have never assumed so when you first got to know him. But he can be cheesy—yet you also love him just like that. You nod in agreement, your eyes sparkling as he showers your face with soft kisses. “Tickling me when I trusted you to hold me is a really mean move, you know?”

Suo flashes you a charming grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “One of the dirtiest moves in the history of mankind,” he replies, voice low and playful. He gives you one last tender kiss and continues to stroke the apples of your cheeks, affection evident in every touch.

[fatm93]

Hello,,

My name is Fatima Alanqar, I am 30 years old, and my husband Bilal Dader is 33. We are parents to five children: Yazan (12), Fadl (11), Zina (10), Rajaa (7), and our baby girl Basma, who is just a year and a half old.

My lovely family

Donate to Support Fatima's Family in Gaza After Heartbreaking Tragedy, organized by Fatima Alanqar

Hello,, My name is Fatima Alanqar, I am 30 years old, an… Fatima Alanqar needs your support for Support Fatima's Family in Gaza After H

We live in Tal AlHawa, Gaza. In the early days of the war, we were forced to flee our home after it was completely destroyed by occupation forces with fire and missiles. Our car was also burned down to a heap of metal, and all our clothes were burned too. We have been displaced 17 times, each time escaping death by a miracle. We walked long distances on foot with our children who struggled to keep up, driven by fear to escape danger.

After years of effort and construction for our house, then one day and one night everything vanished

My children's mental health has been shattered. They have suffered immensely from fear, displacement, and homelessness, with barely enough food and water to feed a small cat. They have endured carrying water over long distances throughout the day, surrounded by destruction, rockets, and shrapnel. They were deprived of continuing their education, despite being top students.

One of those times when we had to sleep in our previously destroyed house, a missile landed on us and, by God’s grace, it did not explode.

My children have been deprived of the food they love and need for their bodies and minds to grow, enduring constant fear and terror day and night for 10 months without any peace or rest. We also contracted many diseases, including hepatitis and skin infections due to the lack of water and hygiene supplies in overcrowded shelters and sometimes in our destroyed home :( . We were also forced to stay completely still for periods ranging from 3 to 7 days due to the ongoing siege, drinking contaminated water out of fear of the tanks around us.

Our car was not spared from the bombing either

The children's rooms were completely burned...

Some members of my family were martyred, and others were injured. Fear, crying, and sadness fill the place.

We once had all the comforts and basic tools for a decent life, but now we have lost everything. We cook our food over open fires despite the exhaustion and heat, and we barely manage to get flour, water, and firewood. Yet we remain resilient in northern Gaza despite the bombing, hunger, and severe shortages of water, medicine, and necessary supplies.

And now, that's all we have

I was even forced to wean my year-and-a-half-old daughter due to the lack of milk :( .

We are displaced and homeless, continuously moving from one place to another until this dreadful war ends.

My heart breaks for her.... :

We are in desperate need of your help. We invite you to contribute to this fund to save my family and provide us with a safe shelter, food, water, and healthcare for all of us. Please share our story with your friends and family to raise awareness and support. Your words and prayers give us the strength to endure these difficult circumstances.

Your donation, no matter how small, can make a big difference in our lives. We rely on your support and standing by us during this tough time. Together, we can restore hope and safety for Fatima and her family.

Donate to Support Fatima's Family in Gaza After Heartbreaking Tragedy, organized by Fatima Alanqar

Hello,, My name is Fatima Alanqar, I am 30 years old, an… Fatima Alanqar needs your support for Support Fatima's Family in Gaza After H

With deepest gratitude from your faithful friend,

Fatima and Family

[fatm93]

Vetted by link here

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[fatma93-gaza]

Help pleae 🙏

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